NORIEGA, November 12, 1990

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I noticed, during many years of teaching, that the personalities in a group always remained the same. The names and faces changed, but the problems and solutions did not.

I once watched a TV movie about a revolution in a Central American country. The first scene was set in the crowded office of El Presidente. He was trying desperately to organize the palace guard and defend himself against assassination by the mob of howling peasants in the courtyard. El Presidente screamed to his Security Chief, “Disperse the crowd!” The scene faded to a shot of the charging mob. The camera then moved to the face of the young leader of the revolution. He said to his aide, “The tyrant must die!”

The film continued for a couple of hours, Scene after scene showed the revolutionists slowly moving toward eventual victory. Victory is won! The last scene showed the new El Presidente seated at the now dead tyrant’s desk. The peasants are again in the courtyard, noisily celebrating and looting. He said to his aide, “Disperse the crowd.”... Fade to credits...

Central and South American countries have repeated this story line so many times that it is almost boring. I taught in the American School in the Panama Canal Zone during the early sixties. I had learned, at an early age that success as the leader of any group depends on knowledge of the makeup of the group.

I began a study of Panama and its people. At first I found few surprises. Then some strange things began to surface. In a Spanish speaking country the names of those in power were not Spanish. The names were English and

Middle European.

The name Boyd seemed to dominate everything. Signs were everywhere trumpeting the presence of the United Fruit Company. I knew that the United Fruit Company had historic ties to the Dutch Shell Oil Company. I also know that messing with Dutch Shell was an International “no—no.” Its surviving enemies were few.

“Just because Jesse James went around robbing banks and killing people, doesn’t mean that he was all bad.’ I read that in a book somewhere. Maybe we have been a little harsh on poor old Manuel Noriega. After all, his apparent crime was passing drugs and drug money. I suppose it’s true, and that means that he shares the blame for destroying the lives of countless Americans. Maybe he was just trying to stash a few millions for the time when a new El Presidente removed him from office. Even so, we paid the price and we’ll make sure we get our pound of flesh from him.

I can’t help but also wonder, though. Maybe his efforts “messed” with the “profit picture” of the United Fruit Company, vis a vis Dutch Shell. I can see the scene now.

Mr. Boyd, of United Fruit, went to Mr. Bush and said, “This Noriega is really tearing things up. I got tons of bananas rotting on the docks at Colon because of him. You’re going to have to do something about this.”

Mr. Bush, being a good businessman, said, “I’ll handle it.”

Who knows what evil lurks in the minds of a frustrated capitalist and an ambitious politician?

APOCALYPSE, January 13, 1990

In my time, I have watched some really bad movies. The worst of the lot was a Viet Nam war movie, “Apocalypse Now.” Apocalypse means, as much as anything, that time in the future when “good” overcomes “evil.” I wanted to see the movie because I hoped to learn more about that strange conflict that took the lives of some fifty—thousand Americans and, in the process, tore our country apart.

The movie was so bad, because it did such an outstanding job of bringing to light a very disturbing idea. When the final credits were flashed on the screen, I wanted to run screaming from the theater. I did not want to believe the truth I had learned.

The story line was simple enough. A Special Forces Colonel with a reputation as a ruthless organizer was sent into the jungle to harness a “wild bunch” of local guerrillas and then lead them in destroying attacks on the Viet Cong. The Colonel does his thing, which makes the previous actions of the guerrillas look like Boy Scout jaunts. The guerrillas in turn become enchanted with their new leader and their improved “body counts.” In fact, everyone gets caught up in a frenzy of bloodletting, and the whole thing slips out of control. Each and every person starts to do exactly as they, as individuals, see fit. The idea of group interest disappears. The result is anarchy.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the big bosses have gotten themselves in a “snit” because their “fair haired boy” will no longer carry out their illegal orders. They realize that the time has come to clean up their mess. They send another young, clean cut, untarnished Special Forces officer into assassinate the Colonel. The young man goes into the guerilla camp, finds the Colonel, and

“blows him away. He then returns to home base, promotion, and glory.

From what I have read about Viet Nam, we often used it as a very expensive training ground to develop combat skills for our officer’s corps. I don’t know that it was intended this way, but the result was the same. Viet Nam authors readily agree that service in the bush almost guaranteed promotion. No service — no promotion.

If you put three people in an isolated room and leave them alone for a while, a strange thing will happen. In just a few minutes, one of the three will begin to take charge of things. One of them will begin to control what the other two do. What begins to happen may very well be in the “best interest’ of the group. If will, without question, be in the “best interest” of the new leader. This presents a problem, and raises a question. How does the group control the leader without sacrificing the benefits of leadership?

This, then, is the lesson of “Apocalypse Now.” As members of a social group, we have a choice of two roles. We can be the leader or the led. If we are not strong enough or are not interested in being the leader, we must then make one of two other choices. We can stay in the group and try to control the leader, who is always corrupt, or we can break away from the group and live according to our own self interest. This means that we either submit to corrupt authority, which is called civilization, or return to anarchy, which is called barbarism. There is no middle ground.

In any event, the group will always win. If you “buck” it, the group will destroy you. If we try, we can control the corruption of the group. Sometimes we feel like the great Nez Percs Warrior, Chief Joseph. He had been chased by the “white eyes” for many months and fought great but losing battles, Exhausted, he finally gave up. He

said to the “white eye” Chief, “I will fight no more, forever.” He took his starving tribe and marched off to the prison reservation.

MIZZ CHAMBERS, January 16, 1990

I have attended many high school graduation exercises. I have enjoyed most the time just after the ceremony as the graduates gathered to shine in their new found maturity. I remember one of these times during my years in Tennessee. A pretty young lady walked up to her senior English teacher and said, “Mizz Chambers. How come I ain’t got nary A in English?” Mizz Chambers just looked at her. For those of you who don’t speak Tennessee, “nary” means “not any”.

The politicians and do-gooders are giving the schools and school teachers a bad time about America’s poor educational system. I was employed as one of these teachers for many years. My main ambition, during this time, was to find a job teaching school. Some of the time, I was not at all sure what I was doing. I was convinced that whatever it was had little or nothing to do with the idea of education. I watched as America’s schools changed from a respectable way to make a living into a kind of “zoo,” opened each school day to entertain and occupy the time of the nation’s children.

From time to time I stated my opinion: that the schools had serious problems which needed immediate attention. The “powers that be” often informed me that my thinking resulted from “good old days” remembering, or “pie in the sky” hoping. One principal informed me that I hadn’t learned how to “prioritize” things. I couldn’t find that word in my “old time” dictionary. I was once told, “You don’t have to worry about that. Just make sure the Band is ready for Friday’s Pep Rally.”

Proper education is an exercise in learning how to think and act. How to be something. Our attempts to reach this goal are failing miserably. Those who are supposed to do this job are many times ineffective because they don’t have

control of the educational machinery.

Whenever we have a problem, we are faced with at least two kinds of solutions to that problem. We can do something right now to get the “monkey off our back,” or we can try to figure out why we have the problem in the first place. Then we might be able to keep the problem from “popping up’ again. If Johnny can’t read, we can put him in a remedial reading class. We better find out why Johnny didn’t learn to read in the first place.

We need to change the focus of our educational camera. The “powers that be” are spending most of their time trying to run the system, not on how well the system can educate our children. Before we can do anything that makes any sense, we need some answers to some very basic questions.

What needs to be learned? What can be learned? By whom? At what level? In what time frame? We need to give our teachers control over what happens in the classroom. The teacher needs to find answers to the questions and then be allowed to apply solutions without interference.

Where do we find these teachers? America’s classrooms are full of them, just waiting to be allowed an opportunity to teach.

There is no other way to improve the education of America’s children. Spending more money is foolishness. Making the school day or the school year longer is a waste of time and energy. Moving the pieces around and changing labels smells of politics. Our children are too valuable to be used as pieces in a political game.

One of the famous old Greeks spent his time chasing around town with a lamp, looking for an honest man. I think that

this same man said, “All you need for a school is a log, with a teacher on one end and a student on the other.”

MINIMUM WAGE, January 20, 1990

In the spring of 1940, I began working at my first “real” job. I was fourteen, and the job was part—time. I worked after school and on the weekend in an ice cream plant. I was paid fifteen cents an hour, and all the ice cream I could eat. They even let me carry ice cream home. Like all jobs, it had problems.

I spent my time dipping trays of vanilla popsicles into a vat of hot chocolate. This meant that I had to inhale the chocolate vapors for hours at a time. At the end of the shift, I found that I was too sick from inhaling the chocolate to have much interest in eating any of it. I kept at it for a reasonable time and then took on a newspaper route.

The Congress passed a law in 1938 which became the model for the idea of “minimum wage.” Either my first job was not a part of this program, or the plant had figured out a way to get around it. The minimum wage at this time was about $.35 an hour. You could buy a new four door Ford with a radio for $750. A dozen eggs went for $.35 in the city market. A four room and bath house on a nice lot sold for $1500. The interest rate on the mortgage could be found at 3%.

A little study and figuring will show that both pay and prices have risen about ten times in the last fifty years. You can buy a decent car for $7500. Eggs are cheaper at $.80 a dozen. House prices have gone up twenty—five times and the interest rate has tripled. The minimum wage has not risen ten times. In fact, in the last fifty years, the young, unskilled worker has lost ten percent of their earning power.

I used to ask students how much they thought an employer at the local “fast food” restaurant would offer them to come to work. They usually answered, “minimum wage.” I always disagreed

with them, and then tried to explain how business works.

The businessman is going to offer whatever it takes to hire people to do what needs to be done to make a profit for the business. That’s called Capitalism. When there are more people available to work than there are jobs, the pay will be low. When there are more jobs available than there are people to fill them, the pay will be higher. This may well be the minimum wage. The businessman has no interest in going to jail. The businessman has only one idea in mind. What does it take to make a profit?

The company that “donates” a scoreboard for the local football field is more interested in public relations that in promoting football.

The problem with all of this is that many of today’s young, unskilled workers find it impossible to make enough money to live decently as independent citizens. Young couples, both working at minimum wage, cannot find affordable housing. Many young people feel that businessmen are not giving them a “fair shot.” Some don’t work at all. Some don’t work when they get to work. They can’t see the point. Critics will be quick to scream, “They want you to give them something for nothing.”

Many of the young people are doing the best they can. They are working at their top skill. Everyone is not a Donald Trump. It seems to me that a young person who is willing to give “an honest day’s work for a fair wage” should be able to afford food, clothing and shelter. The young people that I talk to don’t expect T—bone steaks, Gucci shoes and Cadillac cars. They just want a chance to live in a decent way.

Donald Trump just junked his 282 foot luxury yacht and is building a new 400 foot yacht. It doesn’t make any sense to

me.

THE KING IS DEAD, January 20, 1990

“The king is dead. Long live the king.”

This shout went up in European countries for centuries whenever the old king died and a new one took his place. I’m sure the countries found good use for their kings and queens. They kept artists, sculptors, poets, writers and musicians working at good paying jobs. Every now and then when things got dull, the king could start a little war. Then the peasants were allowed to park the plow and go shed a few drops of blood for their lord and master. I suppose some of the peasants found that dying in battle was better than plowing the south forty.

Then came the Industrial Revolution. The kings and queens started to get in the way. They had a bad habit of telling people what to do and how to do it. Those castles didn’t come cheap. The peasants were used to being bossed around and didn’t complain very much. The factory owners and bankers began to see the whole king idea as a “big drag.” The king found out that they were making more money than he, and demanded a bigger “cut.” The “big bosses” decided that the kings were going to have to go.

These gentlemen recognized the fact that if you started “messing” with the king, you were likely to lose your head. They came up with a master scheme to get around this unwanted fate. They would get the peasants to do it for them. Their scheme was to tell the peasants that if they just got rid of the king, all of the land and all of the wealth of the land could be divided evenly amongst them. They shopped around for a name for this scheme and came up with a “zinger.’ “We’ll just call this mess Communism.” All the fat cats slapped their fat bellies and said, “Let’s go for it.” They knew that there was no way that it could work, but it might get rid of the kings.

The peasants bought the idea. They started in on the kings. They chopped their heads off. They shot them. They hung them. They stabbed them. They butchered their families, so there couldn’t be any new kings. Sometimes they were nice and just threw the king out of the country.

They tried the Communism thing for a while, but it didn’t work very well. Some people kept ending up with more than their share of the wealth and didn’t do much work. The new “powers that be” figured that what was needed was a little supervision. The central government would take charge of everything and decide who got what. They called this new “scam” Socialism. It worked better than some of the old ideas. The peasants began to get a larger “share of the pie.” Some of them didn’t have much more than black bread and cabbages to eat. That was a lot better than nothing to eat. The old problem kept sneaking it. Some people were doing little work and getting more than their share of the wealth.

The peasants meanwhile had learned an amazing thing. If you had a little bit of money, you could use it to make more money. This idea, they learned, was called Capitalism. Sounded good to the peasants. When the Socialist bosses began to interfere with the peasants’ little money making schemes, the peasantry became totally upset.

“And the walls came a tumblin’ down.”

There is a lesson to be learned here. All of you “fat cats” out there in America. Pile up your loot. Build your 400 foot yacht. Stash your millions in a secret Swiss bank account. You had better make sure that the peasant gets a decent share. Your heads can roll, too. The king is dead. Long live the Almighty Dollar.

LAW AND MORALITY, January 22, 1990

King Richard the Lionhearted took his sword and torch and cut a path through Eastern Europe that left thousands dead and homeless. He was leading a Crusade headed to Jerusalem to remove the “heathen” from the Holy City. This was in the “good old days” of the Middle Ages. If you think “SWAT” teams are tough, you should have seen the “heat” in those days. A man could find himself dangling at the end of a rope just for lifting a wallet or two while strolling through the crowds at the local fair. These hangings were always public affairs and attracted large crowds of the local peasants. Would you care to guess what the High Sheriff’s major problem was at these sporting events? If you thought of pick-pocketing, you were right on line. Some people never seem to accept the fact that they have a serious problem.

If you were asked to describe this behavior using one of four words, you might discover that you had another problem. Was it a moral problem? A legal problem? An ethical problem? Maybe it was the result of some very weak policy. The way we use and misuse these words can cause confusion. People sometimes interchange them as if it didn’t make any difference when you said what. An act can be quite legal and totally immoral. A moral action can be considered unethical. The policies of a group can be immoral, illegal and unethical. Which is what?

Morality means that you do the right thing according to your beliefs. For Christians and Jews, the Bible pretty well sets the standard. Some of the “heathen” Eastern countries declare that it is immoral for a woman to appear in public without a veil. Ethics are agreements between members of a group about what is right and proper for the members of that group. Legality is a statement of enforceable rules, which members of a

group must obey or go to jail. Policy is basically the direction a group is going to take to arrive at a certain goal. Sometimes these ideas run into each other, but they are seldom interchangeable.

Joan of Arc didn’t like the way things were going in France and set out to straighten things up a bit. The next thing she knew, she was standing in the middle of a pile of burning straw. Her arsonists proclaimed that the act of setting her on fire was an act of morality on their part. They assured everyone that it was legal, ethical and followed current policy. Joan learned the hard way. Don’t “mess” with the power structure.

If you buy something at the local discount store and are not satisfied with it, you can usually take it back and get a refund. The store is not legally required to do this. The store’s policy is to do whatever can sensibly be done to keep the customer happy and returning to the store with more spendable dollars.

When doctors and lawyers decide that it would cheapen their image to advertise for business, they are involving themselves with the idea of ethics. When a gang of “bikers” insists that its members show due respect for a funeral procession, they are declaring an ethical value.

I can think of no better example of moral behavior than the idea expressed in the Bible. “Love thy neighbor as thyself.” I’m not sure whether it is moral or immoral to buy something at the flea market for a dollar, knowing full well that I can resell it in the next half—hour for a hundred dollars. There are those who would say that “that’s business” and “business don’t count.”

I do get upset when someone tries to tell me that a policy is a law. Smoking in the non-smoking section of the restaurant

may be impolite, but it’s not illegal.

THE CON, January 23, 1990

The movie was all about “Minnesota Fats,” one of the outstanding pool players of all time. He had just outshot a young “pool shark,” who had tried to outsmart him. “Fats” says to the young man, “Never try to ‘con’ a ‘con’ man!” Then the bad guys broke the young man’s fingers.

When I was a young man, I learned that it was pretty much a waste of time to argue with most people. They were usually convinced that their position was a good one. They were also prepared to defend that position with violence. Having little interest in either pain or losing, I looked around for a solution. I decided that the best thing to do was to try and outsmart them. This is not as easy as it sounds. The young man above learned the hard way.

The object of the game is to get the job done without having your fingers broken. The very first thing to do is figure out exactly who and what you’re dealing with. The kind I like to work on are the ones who think that they are clever, encourage these poor souls. Try to get them to think that they are really “putting it to you.” Next, decide what you want to accomplish. Make sure the “prize is worth the game.” Make sure that the result is satisfactory to the target. Don’t kid yourself. This is a contest.

A contest has winners and losers, but that doesn’t mean someone has to have either their feelings or their person hurt in the process. The very best “con” leaves everyone happy and satisfied. The experts will insist that this whole idea is nothing more than “good leadership.” It’s “con-man-ship.” Some “con men” make very basic mistakes. They’re not satisfied with winning. They want everyone to know what they are doing. They talk and carry on so much that the target becomes the marksman. Never tell the

target what you intend to do.

The line in the movie, where the hero tells the villain that, “You can run, but you can’t hide...” always brings groans of disapproval at our house. I like to think in terms of the supposed motto of the Kennedy clan. “Don’t get mad. Get even.” Never say something like, “The next time I see you I’m going to turn you every which way but loose.” The next time, he’ll bring his brothers and his cousins and turn you around a few times. Clint’s “Make my day!” is special.

Always try to somehow agree with the target’s position. This can sometimes be difficult. If you want to win, you’ve got to make sacrifices. How do you respond to, “Any boy that’s making all A’s in school has got to be a sissy.”

I use a three pronged attack. First, get a “handle” on the problem. Next, figure out as many possible solutions as you can. Then try something. If it doesn’t work, back off and try something else. Don’t give up. Keep hacking away.

Sometimes it takes years, but sooner or later, they all cave in. Many times I look for problems that don’t even exist but could “pop up” at a bad time. Then I do something to “nip it in the bud.” Does that sound silly and confusing? It may well be both, but it sure works. Don’t always let “sleeping dogs lie.” They might wake up and bite you.

If you’ve done a proper job with your little game, no one will know that a game has been played. They may see results. They may approve or disapprove. They won’t know how it happened. Then you get an “A” in “con-man-ship.

I’ve got just as many problems as the next fellow. Sometimes when I’m at home alone and have to fix my own meal, I eat and then carefully clean up the kitchen. I don’t want anyone to know

what I’ve been up to.

Some would call that devious. Most of those would be bachelors.

POLITICIANS, January 27, 1990

You can watch a lot of garbage on TV. If you’re patient though, something worth watching and remembering pops up. Several years ago I watched a pretty good one about politics in our Nation’s Capitol.

One of the “good old boys’ was trying to explain the political facts of life to a brash young man who was acting like a “tempest in a whirlwind” on the road to “self destruct.” The old guy says, “A politician’s first job is to get elected... his second job is to get reelected.” That made a lot of sense to me. A politician who doesn’t have a job in politics is not really a politician. He’s just another voter making political noises.

They call it the House of Representatives. Who is it these people are supposed to represent? They sure can’t represent everyone. People have such different wants, needs and concerns, that no matter which way the “good old boy” jumps, he’s going to end up making someone mad.

Does he represent the best interest of the Public? Does he represent the “movers and shakers?” Does he represent the “fat cats?” There is no way that he can cover it all. How does he decide what is in the “best public interest?”

If a Politician manages to create great benefits for his home district, and in the process also manages to set aside a few bucks for his old age, what do you do? Do you throw the crook in jail and replace him with a “young turk” who has not yet learned the “art of the deal?”

I have been told that there are some very special people running loose in politics. They are called Statesmen. I have never been able to figure out exactly what that was supposed to mean. It seems to be

connected to the idea that these ‘saints on Earth” act only for the common good. I’ve never met or seen one of these people. I suppose they may be out there somewhere.

Was Huey Long a politician, a statesman, or one of the outstanding thieves of the Twentieth Century? I’m not prepared to put a label on him. Huey brought Louisiana into the Twentieth Century. I suppose Louisiana would have made the trip without him. At the time, it desperately needed help.

Huey wasn’t one to sit around moaning and groaning about how terrible everything was. He looked things over and then jumped up and went to work. Huey built schools and hospitals. He built nice straight roads and turned on the electricity. Some unkind souls are quick to point out that Huey lived “high off the hog” at the same time. In any event, Huey must have done something that wasn’t in the best interest of somebody. They shot him. In broad daylight. Right in the middle of the State Capitol building. Actually they shot him in the stomach. Huey died from severe lead poisoning.

There’s a lot of talk about “corrupt politicians.” If we’re talking about the guy who started out walking to work and ended up owning half the state, I can understand what they mean. Where does “corruption” start?

I once had lunch with a “big time” politician. I paid the bill. He didn’t object. I expected to be able to call him on the phone if I needed help. Was that an act of corruption on my part? Was that politician corrupted by my bribery of a free lunch? Who gets to decide where the line should be drawn?

I think Mark Twain said it best: “I don’t know why we complain about the politicians so much. It seems to me that we send them to Washington to split up

the graft. As far as I can tell, they are doing a pretty good job of it.”

ST. JOE’S, February 3, 1990

In the spring of 1936, I found myself in the not so gentle grasp of the Sisters of the Holy Cross, at a place called Saint Joseph’s Home and School for Boys. This was one stop in a series of foster homes and institutions that was a part of my “raising up.” I always felt that, for some reason, I was more trouble than I was worth, so they just bounced me back and forth like a smelly basketball, There were seventy-five boys at Saint Joseph’s. We lived, ate, slept and went to school there.

The school part of it fascinated me. The Sisters fussed and fumed and became very upset if we didn’t work like beavers and turn in perfect school work. That suited me fine. I enjoyed the work and saw no point in doing anything less than perfect papers. Some of the boys thought it was all a bunch of nonsense. They struggled to do passing work and were visited daily by the Sisters’ wrath. The Sisters were not above and beyond “lopping” a poor student “upside the head.” I couldn’t understand why the other boys didn’t just go ahead and do the work. It was easy.

The next thing I knew, the good Sisters were hauling me all over town to take tests. Mostly, I thought the tests were fun, although some of the questions seemed stupid. “If a train is going East at ninety miles an hour and another train is going West at ninety miles an hour, what will the speed of impact be?” Who cares? I was sure glad that I wasn’t on either train. The Sisters would introduce me to other people in long flowing robes, and say things like, “This is our Jimmy. He made a combined score of 896 on the Skiderowski Cognitive Evaluation.” Whoop-de-doo! Everyone would ‘ooh” and “aah” and then pat me on the head. I figured that it must have something to do with dogs.

After I finished the eighth grade, the

people in the long flowing robes sent me to a special “prep” school, They didn’t bother to tell me what “prep” meant, but they did tell me that I had to keep my grades above 90. No problem. I memorized everything they threw at me and “spit” it back at them on demand. I even understood some of it. That wasn’t quite good enough for them. They shipped me out to a better school in another state. I really liked the new school. Especially the World History class. Its teacher and I became good friends. I had to take special tests at the end of the year. I almost “aced” the World History test. The one question I missed was a true-false that listed the granting of the Magna Carta as 1251 instead of 1215. Then I was off to visit more people in long flowing robes, and there was much “oohing” and “aahing” and patting of the head. I still couldn’t figure out what the connection was between “acing” tests and being treated like a puppy dog.

This sort of thing kept repeating itself for years. Finally, when I was about thirty, I figured out that I was a “special” person. I began to understand that I had gifts to offer, and responsibilities because of these gifts. For the first time in my life, I began to feel like I was something of value. For thirty years I had spent my life fighting everyone and everything. Now, I discovered that I didn’t have to be mad any more. I felt good.

Why didn’t someone tell me that sooner? What were they afraid of? Why did they care so little?

My wife’s mother was a “dear soul,” but somewhat impatient with my active mind. I will always remember one of her questions. “If you’re so darn smart, why aren’t you rich?” Beats me!

OLD AGE, February 7, 1990

The mother prepared a wonderful birthday for her five year old son. What with one thing and another, the young guests did not make it to the party. The child became very upset and said to his mother, “Everybody hates me. Nobody likes me. Guess I’ll just go out to the garden and eat worms.”

As a senior citizen, I often get this same feeling. There is no way for a young person to understand how an older person thinks or feels. The young have some strange ideas about their elders, They seem to think that when someone reaches that “magic” time of “old person,” they suddenly lose their ability to think clearly and act sensibly. They don’t seem to understand that after many years of living and doing, older people have learned a few things. Some things aren’t worth the time and effort it takes to complete them. Some things are going to work out the same way no matter what is done.

I hear a great deal of conversation about the value of taking advantage of the skills and knowledge of senior citizens. No one seems to be real serious about doing this. The focal point of business is profit. Old folks can cause a problem here. They are no longer willing or able to work sixteen hours a day seven days a week. They are not involved in a struggle to “make their mark.” They have already “made their mark.” They no longer have the energy and strength to “go the extra mile” that business expects of its employees. Business needs to look at the “long view” and find employees that will grow with the firm and move into leadership positions. Good profit dollars could “go down the drain” if the “old fellow” decides, over the weekend, that fishing is better than working. All that time and money it took to train him would be wasted. It’s a puzzlement.

Our lawmakers in Washington D.C. aren’t thrilled with the idea of older people staying in the work force. The retiree who takes a little job to help with his Social Security check can easily find himself in a position where he has to pay extra taxes on what is supposed to be the result of his life savings. He may have to send some of his Social Security dollars back. He can end up keeping only thirty or forty cents on each extra dollar earned.

When the Senior Citizen finally drops out of the work force and begins to spend time doing “all the things I never had time to do,” he finds that he has lost the sense of being a part of the “real world.” This is a normal part of living and, for most, not a problem. Being a part of the “real world” can cause a lot of unwanted aggravation.

The children of the old folks have become adults and are struggling mightily to survive in this “real world.” This means that their time and energy is limited. They come to visit when they can. They come to our house to talk and rest and relax and be reminded of the “good old days” when life was simpler and their major problem was “taking out the garbage.” We “old folks” don’t have a great worry about the young lawmakers messing with Social Security. They may be young, but they know a good thing when they see it.

Being old is a good time. It’s nice not to have to worry about “making it.” It’s good to realize that these “worthless young’uns” turned out pretty good. Maybe “we” did do something right.

“It’s a long, long way from May to December and the days grow short, as we reach September.”

ASSUMPTIONS, February 10, 1990

Some short time ago, I found myself sitting in the doctor’s office. My stomach felt like two knights were charging each other with spears and consistently missing their targets. The bright young doctor gave me a complete examination and then told me that, in his opinion, I had a couple of very active ulcers. He had enough nerve to suggest that my problem was being aggravated by drinking twenty cups of coffee a day. He gave me some pills to take and told me to come back in three days if the pills didn’t help. Wait just a cotton-picking minute. He seemed to be saying that he wasn’t at all sure that my problem was ulcers. I asked him. He replied, “Doctors seldom are completely certain about an illness. We make educated guesses. It’s sort of like being out in the woods and hearing a ‘clippety-clop’ sound coming down the trail, It’s probably a horse. It could be something else, but unless you’re in Africa, it’s not likely to be an elephant. In any event, the smartest thing to do is move out of the way.” That made sense to me. I stashed my coffee jug, took the pills, and in a short time began to feel better.

We have a habit of making assumptions about things and people. We like to classify everything according to appearance and situation. This makes good sense. We have to rely on past experience and assume that a horse is a horse and not an elephant. The problem arises when we refuse to let any new information change our mind. We can make some serious mistakes this way.

“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”

The ancient Greeks attacked the Trojans in their walled city. The Trojans stood on top of their thick walls and “kicked butt.” This made the Greeks very unhappy. They were supposed to be the “kickors” not the “kickees.” The Greeks built an

enormous wood horse, filled its insides with their best troops, hauled the horse up to the walls of the city of Troy and then took off. The Trojans had gotten a little “big in the head” by this time. They knocked down part of their wall and wheeled this “prize of war” inside the city. Night fell. The Trojans partied. The Greeks came out of their horse. The sky, by the dawn’s early light, was filled with the smell of dead Trojans and smoke and flame from the gutted city of Troy. The Greeks had a reputation for being tricky. The Trojans should have known better.

During the early days of World War Two, our Air Force sent a flight of bombers to make the first air raid on Tokyo. It was to be a long flight. Four million planners got together to work out the details. Everything needed to come off without a hitch. The bombers were to take off from an aircraft carrier, overfly Tokyo, drop their bombs, fly on to China, land and be whisked away to safety by Chinese rescue crews. It was a good plan. As military things go, the mission went very well. There was a small problem. Someone made an assumption.

When it’s Sunday in the good old US of A, it’s Monday in China,

The great day was set. The four million planners assumed that the Chinese would know that Sunday was Monday. The Chinese didn’t think of it. Some of the rescue crews showed up a day early. The whole rescue part of the mission became somewhat confused. Several young airmen died because of it.

Mark Twain had many things to say. Most of what he said made good sense. I like this one. Mark Twain had become ill. Rumors had begun to circulate that he was dying. Some reports indicated that he had in fact died. Mark Twain recovered and went back to speechmaking. For a while he began his speeches by saying, “Recent reports of

my death are highly exaggerated.”-) —

LYING, February 14, 1990

When I was a young man, I could lie with the best of them. I had gotten into the habit of lying just for the sport of it. I lied, when the truth would have served just as well, or even better. My wife’s mother overheard one of my classic displays of talent as I tried to lie my way out of something I didn’t want to do. I had been on the phone with a school superintendent who had offered me a job I didn’t want. I didn’t want to “close the door” on future opportunities, and I was trying to escape gracefully.

As I set down the phone, my mother-in-law opened up on me with an explosion of anger, “You should be ashamed of yourself. Why didn’t you just tell the man no? Remember! If you don’t tell lies, you don’t have to remember what you said.”

Unlike some, I loved and respected my mother-in-law. She had been more a mother to me that my own. I thought about the advice she had given. The more I thought, the more sense it made.

If I tried to pretend that from that date, I never told another lie, I would be lying again. I’ve told some “whoppers.” I did however make up my mind that I was going to try very hard to be more honest in dealing with people. I would try to give honest answers to honest questions. Sometimes even the truth can be a kind of lie.

I once went to a teacher’s meeting with a thousand or so other teachers and listed to a “big time” college professor give the assembled teachers his view on the causes of the failing educational system. According to this “expert,” the teachers were all horrible people, who knew nothing about teaching. We needed to follow a new approach to teaching... His approach. We listened to this pompous idiot ramble on for an hour and a half. After his speech ended, a small group of

teachers gathered ‘round the podium to get a closer look at this “stuffed shirt.” He began to question us. He turned to me, looked down his nose and asked, “How many students to you have in your school?” I looked up my nose to his perch and replied, “About half a dozen.” He continued, “What kind of school is it that has just half a dozen students?” Now it was my turn. I knew I had him. In my best country style, I drawled, “Well. Like most I guess. We have a bunch of young’uns come to the school building each morning. I wouldn’t call many of them students.” Mister “Big Shot” turned on his heel and stomped off. Some would say I was being a smart-alec. I was sure trying my best. Some would say I was lying. Some wouldn’t. Truth is sometimes in the eye of the beholder.

Adolph Hitler and his gang of thieves and murderers thought that lying could be used to control events. They came up with a thing called “the Big Lie.” Their view was that a lie told often enough and screamed loudly enough would soon be accepted as truth. They didn’t worry about the consequences of their misdeeds. Der Freuher said, “No one will question the winners. If we lose, it won’t make any difference. All of the good Germans will be dead.”

Why is it that when a politician gets caught playing “footloose and fancy free” with the law of the land, his first reaction is to scream that other politicians are “out to get him.” That may be true, but it doesn’t make his deeds less criminal, He keeps screaming all the way to the “hanging.” Justice is not that blind.

I prefer trying to be up front and straight with people.

You have to be careful though. Some people don’t like to hear the truth. They react with violence.

DRUGS, February 16, 1990

I have a small sign on my desk that reads, “People who think they know it all are especially annoying to those of us who do.” I keep it there to remind me not to get “big in the head.” I was blessed with more brains than I have any use for. I learned early that I could take those brains and some cash money to the restaurant and get a cup of coffee. No cash money, no coffee. I enjoy sorting out information, throwing the “garbage” out, and looking to see if anything is left over. Most of the time, what’s left doesn’t make much sense to me. Therefore, I wonder.

I wonder how the use of drugs got such a “death grip” on America. I don’t have a problem understanding the appeal of a drug “high.” I understand how people can get “caught up” in the use of drugs. My mind is clear in knowing that an addict will do anything to keep supplied with their “drug of choice.” I don’t understand how we, as a people, allowed ourselves to be trapped in this mess. I have read and thrown away thousands of words which attempt to explain it. They never help me to understand how we got into the “drug scene” in the first place. People look at a “fad” and decide whether to accept it or reject it. Why did so many decide that using drugs was an acceptable way to find their destiny?

Before I start sounding like a “holier than thou,” I need to say that as a young man, I looked at the idea. I looked. I tried. I rejected. I have always felt that if I were going to survive, I had to control the people and things around me. With drugs, I lost that sense of control, Control was more important than the pleasure of drugs,

In the late thirties, marijuana was the “drug of choice.” I didn’t use it. I didn’t know anyone who did. I heard that musicians liked it because it helped them

control their sense of timing. There was a movie about the evils of smoking marijuana. It had a “nude” scene, and all the young boys wanted to see it. I didn’t see it. They wouldn’t let me in.

During the Second World War, all infantry troops carried a first aid kit which contained a quarter grain of morphine and a supply of Benzedrine tablets. I didn’t use it. The other “grunts” didn’t use it. It was for emergencies. Being shot or going several days without sleep was not considered an emergency. Morphine was the normal treatment for wounds, but we let the Medic use his supply, and saved ours. Innocent we weren’t. Just cautious,

We drank anything that we could beg, borrow, steal or make, if it had some promise of alcoholic content. We did not use “hard drugs.” Nembutal was passed out freely to those of us who had a problem with sleeping. It was a real problem. I managed to come up with several hundred capsules. Mixing these with occasional cans of beer kept me about two feet off the ground for a month or so. When our orders came to board ship for the Okinawa invasion, I threw my “stash” in the creek. Survival demanded control, and I had no intention of dying over a few capsules.

One gloomy evening at Sugar Loaf on Okinawa, I disputed a piece of real estate with a very angry Jap. We stood face to face and “shot it out,” He wanted to control my “space.” I won. In the process, I slowed down a 7mm slug from his rifle. In the long evacuation routine, I was given several “hits” of morphine. I didn’t return to reality for about ten days. The morphine terrified me. I didn’t have enough control to pick up a glass of water without help. That cured me.

I want to know about the things that are happening around me. I want to be a part of the world. I don’t need drugs. Why

does anyone?

BOSSES, February 22, 1990

When I was a boy, we used to play a game called “King of the Hill.” We played the game on our front porch. The idea was that one of use became “King of the Hill” by vote of the others. The “King of the Hill” got to stand on the front porch and look down its steps to the mass of peasants groveling on the ground below. The peasants in turn would try to charge up the steps and throw the “King” bodily of f the porch onto the ground. Then a new “King” would reign. Everywhere I look, I find adults still playing this game. The big difference is that the adults don’t play nice. They lie, cheat, steal and, from time to time, resort to deadly violence to get their turn to become “King of the Hill.”

Some were “blessed” or, depending on your viewpoint, “cursed” with being born “King of the Hill.” Some didn’t have to struggle to get there. Some don’t know what it means to be threatened from below. Most of us, though, had to start at the bottom and fight to find our little “place in the sun.” We’ve all encountered many stumbling blocks along the way.

It was during the sixth grade that I discovered Horatio Alger Jr. Horatio got to be “King of the Hill” by writing books about struggling to be “King of the Hill.” His heroes always lived the same story. A young boy is being raised in poverty and neglect. This bright “lad” decides that he is going to better his “lot in life.” Slowly, step by step, he begins to work his way toward the top. He is always completely honest in his dealings with everyone. He worked hard. He went the “extra mile.” He helped the weak and needy. He “stuck to it.” He always became “King of the Hill.” Unfortunately, it seldom works this way.

This story line assumes that all people are capable of becoming “top dog.” Thankfully, everyone is not a Donald

Trump. There wouldn’t be anyone left to do the work. There would be no one left to boss.

The big problem with most workplaces is that the money paid to get the job done is not enough to attract people capable of doing the job well. The result is that people of lesser ability are constantly knocking each other in the head trying to survive and maybe even “get ahead” a little bit. This leads to a great deal of frustration and an occasional suicide.

If the boss needs a new supervisor, he must look at his available employees and try to pick the one who has the best chance for success. This does not mean that he has a qualified person available. He may choose the person who has a reputation for coming to work sober and doing a decent job after he gets there. What else is the boss going to do? He must choose from those available. His “profit picture” tells him that he cannot afford to shop around and offer a few extra dollars for the right person.

I am not at all surprised that many of our large corporations are going bankrupt. I am less surprised that most government groups fail miserably in getting the job done. I know how they promote people. Their system guarantees disaster. If they have three people available for promotion, they will pick the middle level person to promote. The upper level person is a threat to the existing “King of the Hill.” He must be controlled or “moved out. “ The lower level person is given a pat on the back, a larger desk, a small raise, and encouraged to “keep up the good work.” The middle level person is going to “play the game” and rise until he becomes “King of the Hill.” He is not a threat. He will do an acceptable job. After this system goes a few steps up the ladder, the top of the system becomes smothered with mediocre personalities

Remember!! The boss may not always be

right but the boss is always THE BOSS,

CULTURE, February 23, 1990

“You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.” I’d like to change that, I was born a peasant; raised a peasant; have lived my life a peasant; with any luck, I will die a peasant, I have lived and worked over a good part of the world. I have more education than I can possibly use, I have been blessed in my retirement with a decent income. I have some very rich, well educated friends. Some of these people act and speak in strange ways. They don’t speak “American” any more. They have become “cultured.”

These friends do all of the “culture” things. They claim a deep and soul searching interest in art, music, literature, drama and fine food and wines. You’ll find them on committees to do such things as “Saving old John Broomerfitche’s whiskey still as an historic monument,” Maybe they aren’t just “putting on airs.” I’m not convinced.

When they talk to me, I don’t understand what they’re saying.

Check these jewels out.

They’ve been to an expensive restaurant for a lobster supper. “The lobster was made especially interesting by a slightly saccharin yet assertively spicy sauce.” I know that I’m being “put on.” Why didn’t they say something like, “It was so good, I ate ‘till I was about sick.”

Another couple went to hear a concert of classical music. I didn’t know whether they like the music or not. The comment: “The Schubert (pronounced Shoe-bare) was awe inspiring. Underneath all of the grandeur and joy, we could sense a melancholy. It had a bittersweet quality.” I made a good living for forty years teaching and performing classical music. I don’t try to describe it. I just enjoy it. It makes me feel good.

One friend described a scene in a play (excuse me, drama) he had seen. “When a young girl in the play is raped, she eludes her assailant and comes running down the stairs, suddenly she stops and gazes awe-struck at the flowered wallpaper. Inspired by this vision of loveliness she immediately gains strength and hope to continue bravely on.” How in the world did he arrive at this conclusion from watching a girl fall down the stairs? Maybe she just tripped and was happy to regain her balance.

Even the “Rockers” can get “uppity.” Check out this comment from a youngster who had just paid $20 to have his hearing permanently damaged. “They played straight AOR rock ‘n’ roll. It was built for arenas. You know. The kind people raise lighters for.” I don’t have the foggiest notion of what he was talking about. I’m sure there are those that do.

I really love to hear “snobs” discuss modern art.

“The cohesion and multiplicity of colors demonstrates man’s emergence from the depths of despair and enhances the realization of his ultimate fate.” What really happened was: some drunk staggered into a half dozen cans of paint and spilled them on a piece of canvas,

My impression has always been that these people think that acting and talking “cultured” makes them superior to us peasants. They do and say these “cultured” things not so much because they are really “into them,” but rather because they think that it’s necessary if they want to become part of the “upper crust.” Someone told them that these things raise them above the “masses.” They believed it.

“For all these things were made by fools like me. But only God can make a tree.”

My apologies to Joyce Kilmer,

GOOD OLD DAYS, February 28, 1990

Old grand-dad swore and be durned, “I walked five miles in a blinding blizzard to get to school. I was glad to get the chance for a little book ‘laming’.” The old boy was probably speaking the truth. I get the feeling that the gladness he felt was based on the fact that he managed to make it to the school building without freezing to death. I began teaching in the “Hills of West Virginia” at a time and place where people were paying their doctor bills with a dozen eggs or a bushel of corn. The school buses ran only on the “main” roads. I had students that walked three miles, “rain or shine, sleet or snow” to the bus stop. My “good” band students carried their horns home each evening to practice. If they thought they were doing anything special, they didn’t mention it. Seldom did the weather cause the schools to close. Were those the “good old days?”

You’d better believe it. They were good old days because I was young and energetic. My mind was filled with an explosion of learning and doing. My soul was so full of the love of music and teaching that I went to bed late and got up early so that I could spend as much time as possible “living the good life.”

Did I have any problems?

I sure did.

My two younger children had serious health problems. We stayed a dollar away from being “broke” most of the time. I had to struggle to find time and money so that I could finish my education at the University. I’m still working on that. I was still trying to figure out who and what I was. There was still a joy to the whole thing. I was amazed that people would pay me money to do something that I would have done for free. A married man with children can’t afford to work for free.

Each generation in its youth makes its own “good old days.” When the older generation looks back, most of them realize that the good times outweighed the bad times. We realize that we really did do some things right. We wish, not so much to be young again, but rather that we again had the energy and strength of those early times. We realize that the “shades of night are drawing fast” and we become sad. We are not really angry at the shortcomings of today’s young. We are sometimes upset because we don’t want them to waste a moment of their most precious time.

One of my early West Virginia bands received an invitation to march in the Inaugural Parade for the newly elected Governor. It was to be on a typical West Virginia January day. We loaded up in the early morning of a gloomy, cold Monday and made the hundred mile bus trip to the State Capitol. As we waited for the parade to begin, we struggled mightily to keep the instruments from freezing over. The temperature set at fifteen degrees. We marched along a broad river, over which a strong wind gusted continuously. We marched like “Storm Troopers” and played our hearts out. At the parade’s end, we huddled in a close group in the warmth of the Capitol building and rubbed each other’s arms and hands to restore circulation. After an enthusiastic welcome by the Governor, we re-boarded the buses and rode the long trip home in a blinding blizzard. Was this a “good old day?” I think so.

Mark Twain is my hero. He said, “What a shame it is, that youth has to be wasted on the young.”

“When day is done, and shadows fall, I dream of you. When day is done, I think of all the joys we knew.”

THE SYSTEM, March 7, 1990

“We have met the enemy and he is us.” Thus spoke the Great Pogo in a comic strip of yesteryear. Out there somewhere lay the mysterious “they.” “They” are responsible for all our trials and troubles. “They” invent the silly laws and rules and all of the things which control our daily lives. “They” are us.

A brilliant judge once said, “A law is only enforceable if the people are willing to have it enforced.” We often make the mistake of believing that because a thing is being done, it must be good and just and right. That’s usually true, but not always.

Would you believe that most students will cheat on a test? I recently read in the paper that some experts have decided that it’s true. Who ever heard of such a thing? Are we expected to believe that the moral fiber of our youth has sunk to such disgraceful depths? The writer didn’t seem to know how this latest degradation had started. He sort of felt that it might have something to do with making better grades!! Why else would a student cheat? I suspect that this writer believes that college sports are amateur events.

As a teacher, I always knew that I had almost absolute control of the grades on a test. I could flunk everyone or pass everyone, or decide how many A’s, how many F’s, and how many in between. “Write what you know about the sex life of the African Tsetse fly.” “Who is buried in Grants Tomb?” I was a very poor test giver. I always wanted everyone to make an “A.” I gave easy tests. “If a whole note receives four counts, how many counts does a half note receive?” I always thought that what a student did and thought was more important than what they wrote on a piece of paper. No matter what I did, the good students made good grades and the poor students

made poor grades.

My own experience with taking tests has been an unhappy one. I usually studied and knew the material well enough to make a good grade. I was never sure, though, that my answers would be good enough for the teacher. I was never sure that the questions were going to have much to do with the ideas we had covered in class. I considered the whole thing to be a “cutthroat” competition between the teacher and me. Did I cheat? Sometimes, but not very much. Did I feel bad about cheating? Not even a little bit.

The mysterious “they” have told us all of our lives what we must do to be “good,” and when our behavior is “bad.” How did “they” get to be boss? I wonder if “they” aren’t just trying to keep us under control and guarantee that “they” stay “King of the Hill.” I don’t understand why it’s wrong to try and outsmart the teacher on a test. They’re trying to outsmart me. When should I take a serious attitude with a test that is full of meaningless garbage and “trick” questions? Let them test me on the value of what I think, not on what “they” want me to think. Let me show them by doing, what I have learned,

Watch out for the mysterious “they.” The rascals will get you if you give them a chance. We must always be ready and willing to challenge the “system” and question what it asks us to do, just because it says something is good or bad doesn’t mean that that is “gospel.” It may be good. It may be bad. It may be neither. It may just be. We need to remember that the “system” is “we. “

“They” are “we. “ “We” are “they.” Pogo had it straight.

Don’t be afraid to ask, “Why?” You don’t have to be mean about it. Some of the other “theys” will resort to violence if you challenge them. George Orwell wrote

that, “Big Brother is watching you.” You’d better believe it. “Big Brother” just hopes that you’re not paying attention.

GIVING UP, March 4, 1990

“I am tired and sorely wounded. I will lay me down and rest awhile. Then I will rise and fight once more.”

I took my trusty felt marker, wrote this on a sheet of ditto paper, and thumb-tacked it to my bulletin board. It’s one of Bill Shakespeare’s ideas. I hoped that my students would read it and think about it some. They never asked me about it. They did read it. I watched them. From time to time, I’d see one read it, take a deep breath, exhale, and head for the door. That was the whole point, and it made me feel good. I read it each day. Strangely, it always brought tears to my eyes. Then I felt immediately better. The “head” doctors call it “catharsis;” a releasing of tension.

We all have those days when things “pile up” on us. Nothing works right. We lose our “cool” and lash out at others in a frenzy of frustration. We say and do things that we regret forever. That’s when we need to “lay me down and rest awhile.” You can even do it standing up. Stop “cold” and take a deep breath.

I recently made contact with an older sister. Our family had broken up over fifty years ago. Our trails crossed a few times, but we never really got to know each other. She came to spend the weekend and we talked for hours about our lives. Near the end of the weekend she said a very strange thing to me, “I thought that you hated me.” Why would she think that I would hate someone I didn’t know? It takes enormous amounts of energy to hate someone, or love someone. It’s too precious to waste on unkind things. I told my sister that we should let the past take care of itself, and spend our energy on the “nows.” We agreed that we would try to do better. It was time for her to “rest awhile,” let the wounds heal, and then begin again.

One of the latest “gimmicks” in the world of work is a thing called “stress management.” An expert comes to your workplace and tells everyone that they should take time during a hard day to stop and relax. They tell us that we need to relieve built up stress. They then show you ways to do this. I went to one of these sessions.

The gentleman had us all lay down on the carpeted floor, put our index fingers together, close our eyes, think of a cool waterfall, and think the words “oom” and “aam” over and over. I did as he asked, and went promptly to sleep. I don’t think I was supposed to do that. I felt much better after I woke up. Maybe he had read my little sign.

There was much talk about the stress of modern living and that we had to learn to handle it. I wondered why we hadn’t spent the time trying to figure out why the stress existed in the first place. I wondered what mistakes we had made in the past to create a Twentieth Century that was so full of stress that we had to hire experts to show us how to live with it.

Life, at its very best, is a “hard row to hoe.” It’s important for us to keep things sorted out and allow ourselves to look at the good things that happen. Much that is thrown at us is pure “garbage.” We need to throw it in the garbage where it belongs. If we allow ourselves to be caught up in the “nothings” that fall on us each day, we’ll find that we don’t have the strength to “rise and fight some more” no matter how much we “lay me down and rest awhile.”

Just because some “idiot” tries to ruin your day by “raining on your parade,” doesn’t mean that you have to let him get away with it.

“Lord grant me the strength to change the things I can; accept the things I

cannot change; and the wisdom to know the difference.”

It’s time to “rise and fight some more.”

PARENTS AND SCHOOLS, March 10, 1990

Watching the experts try to fix the blame for the poor condition of America’s schools is like watching a basketball team warm up. One of the players gets a hand on the ball and immediately passes it on to the next player, who just as quickly gets rid of an unwanted object. The plain truth of the matter is that the “system” isn’t working. I think we need to find a new system.

One of the favorite “whipping dogs” of the “experts” is the children’s parents. They tell us that, “If the parents did a proper job of training their children at home, our schools would be full of students ‘chomping at the bit’ to get on with the race for a ‘quality’ education.”

There is no question that parents did a better job of training their children in the “good old days” when just one parent worked. Most of today’s parents are not lazy, ignorant, non-caring robots. They’re doing about the best they can, and not having a whole lot of luck. They’re sure not getting any help from the system. Parents are encouraged to “participate in the school process.” This means becoming a part of the “life” of the school. Try it. If you want to learn what being “snubbed big time” means. The last thing the system wants is a mob of interfering parents running around pointing out weak spots in the system.

The teachers blame the administrators for overloading them with rules, regulations and paperwork. The administrators blame the teachers for their lack of teaching skill or they blame the state for overloading them with rules, regulations and paperwork. The favorite “song and dance” of everyone is that the system is short on money. Their answer to this is to hire another administrator for “financial management”.

The list of blame goes on without end. It’s time to stop pointing our fingers wildly about. We are going to have to stop patching our leaky educational boat. We are going to have to tell the “experts” to “butt out.” We are going to have to insist that the schools start doing a proper job or “hang it up.” Anyone who starts making these kinds of noises is going to run into a “wall of flak” so thick that they will wish they’d stayed on the ground. The other choice is to “hang it up.”

There are some things we can do to improve matters without getting lynched. We need an enforceable “truancy” law. Parents must become responsible for getting their children to school each day. Students, who are not in class because of laziness, doctor, dentist, beauty, shopping, hunting, fishing, visiting, and a thousand other meaningless excuses, are making the teacher’s job near impossible.

Once we get the students in class, the school is going to have to insist that they stay in the classroom. Students might just as well be absent if they are not going to stay in the classroom after they get there. Some schools have become advanced “Social Clubs.” The students meet in the morning and then spend the rest of the day doing everything but staying in class. I once had a student who had seventy excused absences from my class during the school year’s 180 days. I was instructed to give the student an A for the class, The students leave class for athletics, music, clubs, pictures, field trips, errands, to work on school publications, prepare for school social events, and occasionally to go to the bathroom. Some might even sneak out for a “smoke.”

Going to class might be boring, but it sure beats ignorance,

MEMORIAL DAY, March 13, 1990

“Onward, Onward; rode the six hundred. Into the valley of death.”

This poem by Rudyard Kipling, although written in the last century, could be about events that have been occurring since the beginning of civilization. In our idiotic attempts to put comfortable labels on everything, we have chosen the word “war” to describe this exercise in stupidity. Every now and then we gather up our young men and send them out in the middle of a field to slaughter each other. We somehow convince these innocents that they are to fight and die for a “cause greater than themselves.” Many times the ones who go and die quick are the lucky ones. Those who remain alive at the end of the “blood game” have to live with what they saw and did.

I managed to survive three years of the Pacific War in World War Two. I have a little piece of yellow, red, white and blue cloth with four little bronze stars impaled on it. This means that I was in four battle zones, and managed to get away without “buying the farm.” I have a little piece of purple cloth to remember the time I “zigged” when I should have “zagged” at Sugar Loaf on Okinawa. I also have memories that make it almost impossible to breathe when they flash across my mind; even after almost fifty years. I was never a hero. I was what some people like to call a “grunt.” That means I slept in a hole in the ground and ate “slop” when I could get it.

I recently made contact with a group of my old “buddies.” We were members of an elite unit called the First Marine Raider Regiment. That meant that we got to slip in behind the Japanese lines and see how much trouble we could cause. I was well suited for the job. I was seventeen years old, and ready to “whip” anyone in the world. In November of

1943 I was promoted to Private First Class. I was one of three hundred and two “ready for duty” Raiders, out of a group of a thousand that had started the summer with a raid one hundred and fifty miles inside Jap territory. I remember a place called Bairoko. We managed to get ourselves boxed in by a very large, angry group of Japanese Imperial Marines. They taught us exactly what is meant by the word “tough.” At one time, it seemed that we had more on the ground wounded than we had up and fighting. We backed off. We took all of our wounded and dead with us.

If you try to talk to a veteran of any “real” combat, you will find that they won’t say much about any of it. One of their problems is that to talk is to remember, and to remember is to give rebirth to words like pain, fear, horror, love for your fellow “grunt,” exhaustion, hunger and thirst. I am no different than they. I can write, because as I write I am alone and can stop and breathe deep, and then go on. I think that it is important that each new generation learns something of the meaning of “to kill or be killed” without having to experience it “mano-a-mano.”

Perhaps you know someone who has returned from one of our many “little wars,” I think the most noticeable group of our time is the mass of returned men from Viet Nam. Their war was different than my war. We landed on an island and drove the Japanese into the sea at the end of the island. Then we got to rest a while. In Viet Nam, they drove and pulled back; and then they drove and pulled back again. I don’t pretend to understand it. I just know that when I see a “vet” from Viet Nam, he seems to be haunted by a ghost that doesn’t invade my fifty year old nightmares.

In any event. Be patient. Don’t try to understand. You can’t.

USING MONEY, March 18, 1990

In one of my early college courses, I studied the idea of speechmaking. For the final test each of us made a speech in front of the student body. A United States Senator had, in earlier times, taken this same course. Each year the Senator offered a nice cash prize for the best speech. I decided to win that money. The college was a “church school” and preached mightily against all of life’s sinful pleasures. It was especially tough on “booze.” I decided that speaking against the enormous profits made by legal “bootleggers” would give me a good shot at winning the prize. After a little research on the “booze” business, I could see that these gentlemen were into really “big bucks.”

If a man invests money in a business, he is certainly entitled to a fair return on his money. If you and I put a little money in a savings account, the bank will pay us interest for the privilege of using our money. We don’t have to do any work to earn this money. We can just let it sit there and grow. Sounds like a pretty good idea to me. It’s called Capitalism.

My research for the speech began to turn up something a little different than this. I found the records and history of one of the largest whiskey producers in the U.S. of A. These gentlemen had built their factory, set up their “stills,” paid everyone who did any work a good salary, provided limousines for the bosses, taken every politician in the country out for a free lunch, set aside money for all possible needs, and were still making twenty—five or thirty cents on every dollar they had “put up.” The whiskey people are not alone in this beautiful money game.

The problem with all of this is that they were making this extra money without doing any extra work. They had already paid for every imaginable expense.

Everyone had gotten their “cut.” They had really weird things set up, like “Retrograde Revenue Contingency Fund.” That meant they had money set aside for “hard times.” They had paid millions in taxes. Uncle Sam loved them.

I couldn’t figure out why their dollar was worth more than my dollar. How could they earn four or five times as much with one of their dollars than I could with one of mine? I was never able to figure it out. A friend of mine commented acidly, “Them that has... gets.” I figured that maybe they could even it up by paying the peasants a little more, and lowering their prices a bit. The experts are going to talk about things like “return on investment” and “research and development” and “risk management.” Nonsense!! They covered those things before they paid the taxes.

The grocery stores are always screaming that they only “make a penny” on every dollar they take in. I think they employ “creative” bookkeepers. I’m sure their “books” will stand up in a court of law. I don’t believe them. I was wrong once before.

I “high priced” engineer was called in to repair the boilers at a factory. The factory was “shut down” and losing a thousand dollars a minute. The engineer walked up to the main boiler, looked at it, and “whapped” it with a wrench. The boiler “kicked in.” The factory got a bill for $500. The factory demanded an itemized statement. It came back: $1 for “whapping boiler. $499 for knowing where to “whap.”

You know, I won the speech contest. I had the thing down cold. Half of the student body was ready to march on the nearest liquor store. The Senator presented me with a check and shook my hand. He also reminded me to remember him in the coming elections.

I did.

FATHER’S DAY, May 15, 1990

I had been called up for service in the Korean mess. I found myself stationed safely at a Marine Air Base in North Carolina. Since I couldn’t march in a straight line, I was given the job as Librarian and announcer for the Wing Concert Band. All I had to do was keep the music straight, and introduce each song at their weekly program. Talk about “soft duty.” I was ashamed to wear the ribbons I had earned. But I did anyway. My bride of the previous summer had stayed with me until she became “heavy with child.” We both agreed that she should go home where she could be comfortable with loved ones and await the coming of the new “king of the hill.” I had already decided that it would be a boy.

Our baby girl was born on a bright May morning, and the telephone company immediately went on strike. Western Union decided that this was a pretty good idea, and then went on strike at the same time. I was never able to make the connection between the shutdown of the basic communication system of the whole U.S. of A. and the birth of our baby girl. The result of this breakdown in the system was that I didn’t learn of this miracle in my life until a day later.

Like it says in the novels. “The baby was a sickly child and everyone feared for its life.” It was some kind of problem with her kidneys. She didn’t need many diaper changes. We drove the fifty miles to a special clinic for a couple of months, and finally got her soaking diapers like a normal child. From that time on, she grew like a weed. A bright, beautiful child who filled our home with joy.

I took a job as Band Director in a mountain village of West Virginia, and settled in for my first real teaching job. In the late fall my wife informed me that once again we had a chance for a new

“king of the hill.” Our son was born in the middle of a mid-summer thunderstorm.

It turned out that the second child had more problems than the first. We were young and innocent and assumed that doctors and hospitals always did the right thing. We didn’t question them when they talked about “birth defects” and “birthing problems.” We just picked the dying child up and headed for the “special clinic” again. No sirens. No flashing lights. Just a scared young couple in a battered old coupe who hoped to find a miracle.

The clinic was run by a middle aged couple who had spent years as medical missionaries in the backwaters of China. Now they were saving lives in the backwoods of America. The Mama-San doctor took the baby to a vault-like room that contained nothing but oxygen. Slowly but surely the baby took on new life. We spent the first years nursing the man-child and feeding it a special formula because he could not digest milk or regular food.

We sold the baby crib and the blankets and diapers and all of the things that parents amass to make sure their babies get a proper start in life.

I was invited to teach Music at the American School in Panama. We took our two children, now nine and eight, and headed for the Canal Zone. When we arrived, we were immediately told that all Americano couples who came to Panama either became divorced or had a new baby. We chose to have a baby. Well, not exactly. The following summer the third and last of our children was born, exactly on my wife’s thirty-seventh birthday. The third time was the charm. The baby was perfect. She was a pride and joy to the four of us. A bright and lovely child with impossible brown eyes.

Her first understandable word was

“refrigerator,” spoken as she pointed to the secret hiding place of our ice cream “stash.”

LITERACY, March 24, 1990

I’ve learned a great deal from going to High School Graduations. At these times, I like to roam around and look and listen. I noticed a young graduate walk up to another young graduate, hand her diploma to her friend, and ask, “What does it say?” The student wasn’t joking, and I’m not making up a “tall tale.” You’d have to figure that this young lady was holding a piece of paper that would prove to all concerned that she had passed the courses required for graduation from High School. You would also have to figure that she could not read the writing on the Diploma. I’m sure the experts would call her illiterate.

Illiterate is a really “scary” word that has been bounced around for the last quarter-century. One of the dictionary definitions of the word is “unable to read or write.” When I read in the paper that one-third of all Americans are illiterate, I didn’t believe it. I studied up on the idea a little bit, and discovered that these people aren’t talking about not being able to read or write but rather being “functionally illiterate.” This means that they are able to read and understand the material their eyes see on a day to day basis. It means that they are able to write the things they need to write to survive in the “real world.”

I think that I am functionally illiterate. I get by well enough, but it’s not because I understand. I’m a good bluffer. I also figure the other person doesn’t understand it any better than I do. I don’t understand Income Tax forms, Insurance contracts, instructions sent by any government agency, sales contracts, the way they do or don’t figure interest, or the instructions on toys that need to be assembled on Christmas Eve. I don’t understand what a politician means when he writes in a Newsletter that he is opposed to any new taxes, and then at his first opportunity votes for an increase

in an “old” tax.

I bluffed my way through eleven years of college. I didn’t understand enough of what they were talking about to make any difference. I was a good memorizer, and a good test taker. I always handed in near perfect term papers, which I usually copied from other places. The normal reaction from my college teachers when I asked for more information on something that was confusing was either, “If you have to ask, you don’t belong in this class” or “It’s the student’s job to ‘dig out’ the information he needs.” I always suspected that they didn’t know the answers either.

I cannot believe that the young lady mentioned before couldn’t read or write. I believe that she was “functionally illiterate.” I suspect that she could go to a strange town and find a new address. I’m certain that she could tell the difference between a grocery store and a drug store by looking at the outside. I’m completely convinced that she needs serious help if she is going to hold her own in the “real world.” Each of us has our limitations. I wonder if this young lady had already learned as much as she could? If so, our social system has another serious problem.

I think we need to put together a language for the “common man.” Surely, no matter how simple we made it, some would still be “left out in the cold.” So much of our over-complicated language is used simply to confuse and overpower this “common man.” We don’t need sentences like, “My negative profit spread sheet indicates obfuscatory clearance on current negotiable instruments.

Just say, “Man, if I write you a check, it’s gonna bounce.”

LAWNMOWERS, May 23, 1990

My wife’s father was a mechanical genius. He could look at a strange motor or engine and get a picture in his mind of exactly how the “innards” of the thing worked. Just by looking and listening he could pinpoint the problem and the cure for a sick machine. He was also impatient with anyone who committed “machine abuse.”

During our summer vacation trips to the family home in West Virginia, I spent a lot of time working with him on his many projects. He had rigged a lawnmower that did everything but water the grass. I got to mow. Grandpa got to supervise. On occasion, I would push myself into a corner and then back off, pulling the lawnmower with me. This was a serious mistake. Grandpa informed me that the lawnmower was not made to run backwards. It seems that this act of abuse put a terrible strain on the workings of the machine, and would surely shorten its useful life. That made sense to me. I changed my ways so that he wouldn’t turn me in to the SPCM. That’s “The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Machines,”

For years, long after Grandpa had gone to “that great machine shop in the sky,” I treated all machines like a new born baby. I carefully read the manuals that came with them, and did exactly what they told me I was supposed to do. No matter what I did, the machines refused to work with me in a decent way. They wouldn’t start. They wouldn’t stop. They kept falling apart. Pieces fell off of them at the worst possible time and place. If I had given the blood I shed on them from cuts and mashed body parts to the Red Cross, I would have been declared a National Hero. Something was definitely wrong here. I began to suspect that Grandpa might have a hand in it. He could be worse than the SPCM. Any scientist worth his salt will tell you,

“That’s absolute nonsense.” You’d never convince me.

In any event, I had a problem to solve. I gave it my best intellectual approach. Sometimes I “snuck up” on the machine, hoping to catch it not paying attention. At other times, I just stood and talked to it, like an equal, figuring that a friendly approach might “con” it into doing its job. My son, who was a “management” major in college, told me that was the latest “good management” idea. I even used the Marine Corps approach. “Listen sucker. If you don’t get your stuff together, I’m going to crank your butt up and drive you into the river.” I kicked some of my machines a few times.

Nothing had any effect on the machines. They either refused to work at all, or they did things that no sane man could toler-ate. I finally asked myself, “How did Grandpa make these stupid things work?” Slowly, but surely, the truth dawned on my grease smeared mind, Grandpa knew what he was doing. His ability to understand the inside of a machine made him its Lord and Master. He knew what to do before the machine started acting up. I didn’t,

I found one of his old books on “Small Engines” and sat down to study it. After ten minutes I put the book gently back on the shelf. I couldn’t get past the first paragraph. I don’t speak or read Russian, but I can look at the words and make a little sense out of it. The book on machines must have been written by an alien from another planet. “The forces occur in bodies at rest and the motions of rigid bodies...” Surely they jest.

I admit defeat. The machines are my master. I am grateful if they work at all. If they don’t work, I take them to the shop and renew the mortgage on my house. I guarantee you one thing. If I push myself into a corner with the lawnmower, I pull it backward. What do I care if it dies fifteen

minutes early?

4Th OF JULY, March 30, 1990

I sometimes think it may be time for another American Revolution. The first time around, the citizens of the American colonies got all fed up with being bossed around by George III, King of England. The English government was passing laws and levying taxes from a distant place and sending soldiers across the Atlantic to make sure the Colonists did as they were told. It didn’t seem much concerned with the wants and needs of the Colonists. The Colonists in turn screamed loud and long, but the King just sent in more troops and started shooting up the place. The Colonists got all upset and started shooting back. George didn’t like this even a little bit.

Most of the Colonists were just looking for a fair shake, and tried to work things out, but nothing worked. A group of them sat down at a table and decided to break away clean. After a great deal of “blood, sweat and tears” they came up with a “paper” which told the whole world exactly where they stood. They declared that they were no longer a part of England, but from that time forward a new Nation. We know this paper as the Declaration of Independence.

It’s interesting to read through this paper. It’s revealing to see what they had all been so upset about. It’s refreshing to see what they planned to do to solve the problems. It causes one to wonder about how successful we’ve been with their solutions.

“All men are created equal.” Who can quarrel with that idea? It’s not the moment of creation that causes a problem. It’s how we treat each other as adults that decides the truth or falseness of this idea. If they mean that a person who lies, cheats and steals to make a fortune is the same as the one who simply does their best each day and barely gets by, I don’t agree with the

idea. It further states that all Americans have the right to “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” I think we have done pretty good on this one. We have a shameful background in our treatment of minorities, but no one seriously challenges the right of any American to live out their “three score and ten.” We can pretty well decide who we want to be, and how we want to get there. We can live anywhere in the country we choose. Well, most anywhere. I’m not convinced we would be welcome at the White House. I’ve made a living as a Marine, a fixer of pens and pencils, a musician, a teacher, a salesman, and even worked for the High Sheriff for a while. We can each choose and follow our road to happiness, just as long as it doesn’t deny someone else the same right. It helps to stay within the Law.

“Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.” We have a bit of a problem with this one. A pretty large group of people seem to think that if you don’t agree with what the Government does, you have the right to ignore it. We elect Representatives to speak for us and confirm our consent. I have a problem with that sometimes.

When I hear that Senator Snodgrass voted money for a new bridge in Senator Stuffitt’s district because Senator Stuffitt voted money for a new bridge in Senator Snodgrass’ district, I wonder if that’s what the Ancients had in mind. I call that “pork barrel” politics.

The experts will, of course, say that I don’t understand that “wheeling and dealing” is the life blood of politics. That’s my problem. I do understand. It’s like a birthday cake. It really is good when all of the ingredients are put together properly. I like the icing better

than the cake. A cake that is all icing and no batter is no cake at all. It’s just a glob of whipped sugar that in the end will do more harm than good. It’s still better than George the III and his band of Redcoats.

ETHNICS, April 3, 1990

It seems to me that in today’s world, most of the decisions that are being made are based on our feelings about things, rather than the simple truths that might solve a problem. I am reminded of the deadly logic of Mr. Spock on the “Star Trek” series. I don’t even want to think about living in a world controlled by a “Spockian” master. Somehow we need to find a better “balance” between our feelings and what it takes to have a “better world.”

During the war, I was a member of a group of raiders who snuck, by night, behind the Japanese lines and “knocked off” a small Japanese supply base. I’m sure this was an aggravation to them, but I don’t think the Japanese High Command worried about it very much. We, though, the conquering heroes, “had a ball” looting the place and playing with the Japanese equipment.

We found a king of flat bed tractor, cranked it up, and drove it recklessly all over the place. The weird thing about this tractor was that everything on it was backwards. We laughed and ridiculed the “stupid” Japanese, who didn’t even know who to put a machine together. These “fools” were going to conquer the Eastern world?

The more we fooled with the machine, the more we realized that the thing did its job very well. In fact, it did some things better than our own equipment. We began to ask ourselves questions. Is it possible that the “eye-glassed midgets” might be smarter than they looked? Is it possible that backwards might be better than forwards? We had chased them out of their camp. Were they sitting out there in the jungle “cooking up” ideas to kill us that we had never considered? The party ended and we doubled the perimeter guard. We weren’t frightened, but decided that

being cautious made good sense until we found out what surprises these “bandy legged idiots” might have. They had a “bunch.”

We remain completely sure that “our” way, “our” thought, “our” culture is the only possibility. We bend over backward in our attempts to give the “other” an equal opportunity to survive in “our world.” We refuse, though, to accept any “other way” as a thing of value. We need to always question our values and be on the lookout for something good from the “others.” We need to have a common culture that will allow us to live the “best of lives” in the “best of worlds.”

We have doubled the perimeter guard a thousand times to keep out anything that is different from our “tried and true” social system. We spend billions of dollars a year trying to make “others” a part of this system, but only according to our rules. We need to find a way to put it all together without destroying anyone’s “way of life.”

Life a stream eating away at its banks, we are doing some things every day. I sense that we are moving in a direction which places more importance on differences, than on superiority or inferiority. We are not yet ready to accept the idea that backward might be as good as or better than forward. Most of us think that driving on the left side of the road, as the British do, is a pretty dumb idea.

Why would people from India prefer starving to death rather than roasting a “Sacred Cow” for supper? If I ordered my wife to walk behind me when we went to town, she would probably kick me before we moved three steps. If all the “furriners” would learn to speak proper American, we could understand them. Why do so many Americans wear their baseball caps backwards?

BORROWING MONEY, May 11, 1990

Buying the things we want or need can often be an uncomfortable experience. If we don’t have enough cash to pay for the thing “up front” we get to sit down and talk to the credit manager about making monthly payments. At this point, things generally go from bad to “this guy is going to take me for my shirt.” Most of us don’t trust the “money lenders” any farther than we could kick them.

These characters have a reputation for smiling and “skinning” you to the bone with the flash of a contract. Some of them don’t smile, though. They look at you grimly, glumly and suspiciously, as if to say, “I know that you’re a ‘deadbeat’ and a ‘cheat,’ but I’m going to talk to you anyway.” Meanwhile, he’s trying to figure out what rate of interest you’ll stand still for.

The best thing to do is make up a bunch of numbers that somehow might relate to the question at hand and throw them at him as fast as you can. You might “fake him out” a little bit, and come up with a “softer” deal. I’ve learned that most credit clerks don’t have any idea of what they’re doing, They know how to read charts and punch computer keys and come up with the right numbers, but they don’t know what any of it means.

When I was very young, I learned how to fix pens and pencils. I became very good at it, and decided to go into business for myself. I moved to a town that needed the service badly, rented a house, and went to the local bank to get some “start up money.” The fat old man I talked to looked at me as if I had a Tommy Gun in my hand and was asking the tellers to “clear out the cash drawers.” He looked down his nose at me and grumbled, “Young man. What do you intend to use for collateral?” When I asked for an explanation, he said, more or less, that if I signed over to him something worth a

hundred thousand dollars, he would loan me a thousand dollars. I could then pay him back in easy monthly installments until I had repaid him two thousand dollars. I told him thanks but no thanks, and went to work at a five and dime.

As time went by, I borrowed a little money from a few friendly finance companies. I stopped that when I found out they expected me to pay them an extra twenty cents for every dollar I borrowed. If I kept the money more than a year, I had to pay them that twenty cents again each year.

About that time, old Uncle Sam stepped in and made these people start using APR. This turned out to be a better way to look at what we were paying to borrow money. In the old way, if you borrowed $100 at 6 per cent interest, you were given a piece of paper that said you had to pay back $8.33 a month for twelve months. That meant you would pay back $106. Looks fair to me. The problem is that as each month goes by and you pay more and more money in, you no longer owe $100 at the beginning of each month, but you are still being asked to pay interest as if you did owe $100. It turns out that you are paying pretty close to 12 per cent interest. The Feds called this APR idea “truth in lending.”

Some people say it means Annual Percentage Rate. Others insist that it means Actual Percentage Rate. If I’m going to be robbed, I’d rather see exactly what’s going on than be pushed in a crowd and have my pocket picked.

“It is better a borrower than a lender be.” The borrower has the cash in hand. The lender has to figure out a way to get the money back. “Ma! Hand me the shotgun.”

BEAT THE SYSTEM, April 10, 1990

As a very young recruit, at the beginning of the Second World War, I attended the University of Parris Island. Most people refer to it as “boot camp.” I call it a University because I learned more there about life and living than I did at the eleven colleges I attended. They taught us how to look at a situation, “size it up,” make a sensible decision, and then act without hesitation. They taught us to not talk about “doing,” but “do.” Right now! They taught us that where your survival is concerned, “all is fair.” They taught us how to be sure that we had the things we needed.

One of the first things I remember learning was, “never steal anything with a serial number on it.” The group I was with made some prize “hits.” We once, with the help and leadership of the Battalion Chaplain, stole a piano from an aircraft carrier. We needed one for Church services. The Navy caught up with us though and made us bring it back. We had violated “pilfering” rule number one. The silly piano had a serial number on it.

I never saw a system I couldn’t beat, if I wanted to spend enough time and energy on “cracking” it. Usually, the more parts there are to a system, the easier it is to “crack.” I like to “beat the gate” at public events. I take a legal pad and walk toward the gate scribbling madly. Every now and then I stop and look straight ahead, make a note, and then continue toward the gate. When I get to the gate, I don’t hesitate. I just stomp on through, head down, scribbling like a demented reporter. I’ve never tried this on anything “big time,” but it will work for most local events.

One of my really boring classes in college had to do with the laws that decide how schools can be operated. It was too boring for the teacher. One night the

teacher told us that his assistant was going to teach the class. The young assistant was very bright, very enthusiastic, very well prepared, and more boring than his “boss.” He rattled his speech off from memory and I could almost see his computer brain working. You could tell that he was telling us things he had read in books. I half expected him to say, “In Dr. Jablonski’s book, on ‘Methods for Countering School Dropouts,’ it says on page 719, paragraph three, sentence five, that... .“

The young man’s performance was a work of art, but it had absolutely nothing to do with helping to solve the problems of running a school. The class was made up of teachers who looked like they’d been around a few school buildings. When the young man asked for questions, they “tore him up.”

Like the County Coroner doing an autopsy, they took his statements one at a time and jammed them “down his young throat.” They weren’t trying to be mean. Some had worked all day and driven many miles in the hope that some help would come from this class. They couldn’t afford to challenge the teacher. He’d gone of f for a long “coffee break.” They took their tiredness and disappointment out on the defenseless assistant. The young man didn’t know how to react to something that wasn’t covered in one of his books. For once, I kept my big mouth shut. I did enjoy watching the slaughter.

After fifteen or so minutes, the young man lost his “cool.” He blurted at the class, “You people think you’re funny. Anyone can prostitute anything.” I think he meant that you could cheapen and make fun of anything.

It’s not how smart you are that counts. It’s not how much you know that counts. What really counts is how well you can react to the thousand challenges you must meet each day. As they used to say

in the Marines, “Sempre Fidelis! I got mine, now you get yours.” Or words to that effect.

UNTITLED, July 18, 1990

During the course of a lifetime, we Americans spend a pile of our hard earned dollars at the friendly neighborhood car dealers. I don’t have nerve enough to sit down and figure out how much of my money has ended up in the hip pocket of some fast talking car salesman. Just because I’ve spent a lot of money for the privilege of driving to the store for a gallon of milk instead of walking doesn’t mean that anything is wrong with the idea. That’s what makes the good old U.S. of A. a land of opportunity. There’s money to be made, for those that have the “chutzpah” to hustle for it. I’ve made a few bucks myself selling things. I never sold anything that I wouldn’t be willing to buy myself. I never sold anything at a price that I wouldn’t be willing to pay myself. I’ve turned down a few selling jobs that were just a step or two away from being highway robbery.

If a store is buying “squidgets” for fifty cents apiece and then selling them to the American housewife at a dollar apiece, the store owner is going to make a comfortable profit on the deal, I think that is a wonderful way to fulfill the American dream. Running a business is expensive, and the “squidget” seller might end up with a dime to go to another store and buy a “bloogin” or two. That’s called Capitalism. I love it!

I can’t figure out why a car dealer has to make three to six thousand dollars on a twenty thousand dollar car. I can’t figure out why a car salesman is entitled to a thousand or two just for selling you that car. The car dealers will tell you that I don’t understand how the car business works. Ask them for a copy of their Balance Sheet for last year and watch them get insulted in a hurry. Ask them for the ratio between investment and profit, and then run for the door. You’re about to get thrown out. I’ve been guided

back to my “clunker” at a few places.

My wife and I drove to the big city a short time back. We thought that we’d stop by a couple of dealers and look at the new vans. The newspapers say that car sales are down somewhat from last year. It’s about time for the new models to come out. Sometimes you can get a pretty good deal at this time of year. You have to be realistic though. If you buy an “old” “new” car after the “new” “new” cars come out, the resale value of the thing goes down about thirty percent before you drive it off the lot. So you better plan to keep it a while. After a half dozen years or so, the price will straighten out some. It’s just after the first year that it loses so much value,

We drove into the dealers and parked our pick-up in front, where the salesman could see what we might be trading. A young salesman came out and patiently showed us all of the vans on the lot. We had a problem. The young man would not tell us the price of any of the vans. He gave us some “probably abouts” and some “arounds,” but we couldn’t get him to give us an exact dollar amount. He wanted us to go inside and sit down and talk it over. I wanted to know what I was getting into. It was my understanding that Federal Law requires the dealers to have the factory stickers on all of the cars. These people didn’t have stickers on the vans we liked.

The dealer finally dumped five salesmen on us, trying to get us to agree to buy a van, without telling us the price of the van or the exact tens of the deal. They wanted us to drive a van and then talk a deal. I wanted to find out how they did business before I did anything. The five of them finally, gently and politely, edged us toward the door. We were glad to escape with our scalps.

A lawyer at the Department of Consumer Affairs told me that car dealers are

required, by Federal Law, to have a visible sticker on each new car. When the say “Forget the sticker. Let’s dicker,” they mean it. Thanks a lot, Bubba! I think I’ll keep my “clunker” for a while.

EXPECTATIONS April 17, 1990

Most of us expect too much from the other people in our lives. We expect the Postal Clerk to know all of the rules and regulations of the Postal Service. If they knew that much, they might be able to fix it. We expect the grocery clerk to know exactly why tomatoes cost so much. We expect the “Troopers” to leave the 70 mph speeders alone and go chase the “bad guys.” We expect doctors to take one look and come up with a “miracle” cure. We expect government to build new roads without raising taxes. We even expect the IRS to send us forms that make sense. I believe that we should “be the best we can be,” but I think we also need to “get real” with some of it.

Billy Joe quit school in the sixth grade to go help his daddy on the farm. Times were hard, and it was either work or starve. Billy Joe spent the rest of his life working the fan. He was very good at it. He studied the farm problems and caine up with better ways to solve them. His neighbors and friends came to depend on him for good farming advice.

One fine day, the County Road boys came along and paved the dirt road in front of his farm. It looked pretty good. Then they sent him a hefty tax bill for the paving. It didn’t look very good. Billy Joe said to himself, “What in thunder is going on here. If I wanted a new road, I’d build it myself. I don’t need any County people to do my work for me. How can they do this?” He soon found out.

He found out that he had helped elect the County Commissioners by voting for them. In doing this, he had asked them to run the County business and do what was best for the County. They didn’t need to ask his permission. He’d already given it. Billy JoeEXPECTATIONS

decided that he would get one of those jobs and •be able to have something to say about what happened. The pay wasn’t bad either.

Billy Joe threw his “hat in the ring,” paid his filing fee, had seventeen fish fries, gave forty—three speeches, and got himself elected. His campaign slogan was, “Before I send a crew around to pave the road in front our your house, I’ll call you on the phone.”

When it came time for the first meeting, Billy Joe put on some new Levis, a clean pair of socks, slicked down his hair, and headed for the Court House.

The first item was a plan to build a “waste disposal” plant. A parade of engineers, chemists, accountants, lawyers, three preachers, and a hundred and six environmentalists laid enough words on the group to start a new library. Much of what they said didn’t make a bit of sense to Billy Joe. They were using words he’d never heard. “Ecosystem,” “genetic proliferation,” “amortization,..” He realized that he was in over his head. He had learned early not to panic when things got tough.

After the talk was finished, he was supposed to vote on the idea, Billy Joe “kicked back” in his chair, lit a cigar left over from the birth of his last grandchild, and tried to look wise and knowing. He looked at the clock on the wall and decided that when voting time came, he would vote yes if the second hand was going down, and no if it was going up. Let the talkers rave on.

If the idea of “local” government is going to survive, we need our Billy Joe’s. We have no right to expect them to be “expert” with all of the County business. The odds are good that they are

2EXPECTATIONS

going to do the best they can with the information at hand. We need to find a better way to get them this information.

Maybe we could use a translator like they do at the “summit” meetings. When the chemist says, “The effluent will permeate the ecosystem, instigating piscatory demise,” then the translator says, “The runoff will kill all the fish.”

Billy Joe wouldn’t have any trouble voting on that one.

3#30 4/17/90 Revised 6/21/90

EXPECTATIONS

Most of us expect too much from the other people in our lives. We expect the Postal Clerk to know all of the rules and regulations of the Postal Service. If they knew that much, they might be able to fix it. We expect the grocery clerk to know exactly why tomatoes cost so much. We expect the “Troopers” to leave the 70 mph speeders alone and go chase the “bad guys.” We expect doctors to take one look and come up with a “miracle” cure. We expect government to build new roads without raising taxes. We even expect the IRS to send us forms that make sense. I believe that we should “be the best we can be,” but I think we also need to “get real” with some of it.

Billy Joe quit school in the sixth grade to go help his daddy on the farm. Times were hard, and it was either work or starve. Billy Joe spent the rest of his life working the f an. He was very good at it. He studied the farm problems and came up with better ways to solve them. His neighbors and friends came to depend on him for good farming advice.

One fine day, the County Road boys came along and paved the dirt road in front of his farm. It looked pretty good. Then they sent him a hefty tax bill for the paving. It didn’t look very good. Billy Joe said to himself, “What in thunder is going on here. If I wanted a new road, I’d build it myself. I don’t need any County people to do my work for me. How can they do this?” He soon found out.

He found out that he had helped elect the County Commissioners by voting for them. In doing this, he had asked them to run the County business and do what was best for the County. They didn’t need to ask his permission. He’d already given it. Billy JoeEXPECTATIONS

decided that he would get one of those jobs and be able to have something to say about what happened. The pay wasn’t bad either.

Billy Joe threw his “hat in the ring,” paid his filing fee, had seventeen fish fries, gave forty—three speeches, and got himself elected. His campaign slogan was, “Before I send a crew around to pave the road in front our your house, I’ll call you on the phone.”

When it came time for the first meeting, Billy Joe put on some new Levis, a clean pair of socks, slicked down his hair, and headed for the Court House.

The first item was a plan to build a “waste disposal” plant. A parade of engineers, chemists, accountants, lawyers, three preachers, and a hundred and six environmentalists laid enough words on the group to start a new library. Much of what they said didn’t make a bit of sense to Billy Joe. They were using words he’d never heard. “Ecosystem,” “genetic proliferation,” “amortization...” He realized that he was in over his head. He had learned early not to panic when things got tough.

After the talk was finished, he was supposed to vote on the idea. Billy Joe “kicked back” in his chair, lit a cigar left over from the birth of his last grandchild, and tried to look wise and knowing. He looked at the clock on the wall and decided that when voting time came, he

would vote yes if the second hand was going down, and no if it was going up, Let the talkers rave on.

If the idea of “local” government is going to survive, we need our Billy Joe’s. We have no right to expect them to be “expert” with all of the County business. The odds are good that they are

2EXPECTATIONS

going to do the best they can with the information at hand. We need to find a better way to get them this information.

Maybe we could use a translator like they do at the “summit” meetings. When the chemist says, “The effluent will permeate the ecosystem, instigating piscatory demise,” then the translator says, “The runoff will kill all the fish.”

Billy Joe wouldn’t have any trouble voting on that one.

3#31 5/17/90

BIRTHDAYS

I think I may be part Chinese. I’ve checked into it, and can find no proof that I am somehow descended from Confuscious, or better yet, Ghengis Khan. Maybe there was a Chinese maid somewhere along the line and I am a tenth generation descendant of a Chinese War Lord. That would be really great. I’ve always been fascinated by things Chinese. I like to think that I think like I think Chinese think. I have Chinese eyelids. I would love to have a name like Breeng Chu Teh. You don’t mess with someone with a name like that.

The Chinese celebrate the idea of life and living. When a new child is born, it is in year one. Maybe the year of the Dragon. Any child born in the year of the Dragon has to grow up to be a person of power and influence. It says that in a book I read on Chinese customs. After a year passes, the Chinese baby is considered to be two. Just think of that. The Chinese teenager gets a driver’s license a year early.

I have never understood why we

place so much importance on birthdays. How did they decide that when someone reached a certain age, ZAP! A miracle takes place. A new page is turned, and one heads, straight as an arrow, for the next age barrier. I think birthdays are a fine way to keep track of the passage of time. They are wonderful excuses for having a party and getting gifts. I just don’t see how we came to believe so strongly that age told us something important about people. We run amok through the days of our lives, convinced that certain steps in the race mean we have to change the way we run.

When the child reaches five, it’s of f to kindergarten. You have no choice in the matter. Either put the youngun’ in school, or go to jail. I guess you have to have a rule about it or some would never get around to starting. Then, as each birthday passes,B I RTHDAYS

the child must move ahead one grade. Doesn’t make much sense to me.

In some religions, a child reaches the “age of reason” on their seventh birthday. ZAP! They can tell the difference between right and wrong. They can make responsible decisions. They are expected to pick up their dirty clothes, make their own beds, and take out the trash. Other religions move this “rite of passage” to thirteen or fourteen.

I do agree that one birthday is special. Number thirteen. Suddenly we find that this darling child that did pretty much as he was told and listened to our words of wisdom with rapt attention, has a mind of his own. Not only is the child making decisions without talking to us first, he has nerve enough to believe that these decisions might be better than ours.

As the young person moves out of the “teens” and into young adulthood,

things really begin to pop. Suddenly, it’s time to vote; to move away from home; to choose about drinking and smoking; and hunt for a mate. I understand that some of these thoughts begin at two. At twenty-one, the former child is on his own.

The rest of the birthdays pass without much fanfare. Thirty is the end of everything for some women. They have just seen the first hint of “crows feet” around their eyes. At forty, “poppa” decides that the size 31 trousers are not comfortable, and buys his new suit in a 36. At fifty, all sales clerks call “momma” ma’am, and listen carefully to what she has to say about piece goods.

When sixty-five rolls around, you are expected to stand quietly out of the way and not interfere with the progress of the world. You couldn’t keep up with it if you tried.

Everyone will be there soon enough.

2#32 4/24/90 Revised 6/26/90

BAD BOY

I was a very bad boy. I had a bad attitude. A Catholic Sister once poured a jug full of Holy Water over my head, hoping somehow to exorcise the devils from my wretched soul. It had no effect.

My strong point was to react to any threat with violence. It made no difference; man, woman or child, I did my best to destroy them. I was expelled from school in the fourth grade for “knife fighting;” in the tenth grade for assaulting the school principal with a rock; and on the first day of the twelfth grade for offering to rearrange the Geometry teacher’s face.

I played trombone in the school band while in the tenth grade. I had an ongoing battle with another player over who was going to sit where. We got into it after school one day. The principal carried a walking stick and used it on us to try to halt our little discussion. I objected and came off the ground with a rock. I “whacked” him on the head with the rock, and then ran for home. The High Sheriff arrived in short order with a warrant. He informed my mother that she could either get me out of the state, or let me go to jail.

Momma knew about a “little old lady” who ran a home in West Virginia. The lady “specialized” in discarded children. I was gone with the morning wind.

I found myself in a group of twenty boys. All were either abandoned children or had been certified “incorrigible” by some authority system. In other words, it was a house fully of bad boys. The “little old lady” weighed in at about eighty-five pounds. She might have been five foot tall. The point is that she ruled us with an iron will. She did it alone. No backup. Her best tool was a bony finger in your face and a two hour lecture onBAD BOY

“not following the ways of Satan.” No one had guts enough to defy her. She laid the “word” on us. “If you don’t work, you don’t eat.” She meant it.

No matter what you said to her, the usual reply was, “You can’t make me mad.” We couldn’t figure out what that meant. Her favorite, though, was, “You can’t make Music and cause trouble at the same time.”

We had a very good harmonica band. We practiced every evening, and

went throughout the state giving concerts to raise funds. The “little old lady” called it, “Doing the work of the Lord.” We believed her. In the Spring of ‘42, we were invited to play at the National Folk Festival, in Madison Square Garden in New York City.

We set out on the trip in our battered old bus and rolled downhill out of the mountains to Washington, D.C. We played at Constitution Hall for the DAR, and started uphill for New York. When it came time to eat, the “little old lady” marched us into a restaurant, walked up to the manager, and said, “Will you feed my children?” We didn’t miss a meal.

We marched into the middle of the Arena at the “Garden,” dressed in a “country” style. We stared at forty—thousand noisy spectators. They ignored us. The lights went down to a bright spot and we began the first few bars of a sentimental tune, “When Day is Done.” The crowd noise stopped like a drawn nightshade. We new that we “had ‘em.” For the next fifteen minutes we played our incorrigible hearts out. The Garden remained silent, and then like the ocean’s tide at dusk, a murmur of applause, It grew and swelled until it overwhelmed us.

2BAD BOY

After the concern was over, the “little old lady” gathered us ‘round her and said, quite simply, “You have done the Lord’s work.”

What magic took place here? Not much really. The “little old lady” cared for us. We cared for her. The forty-thousand in the Garden knew that they had been a part of something very

special.

3#33 5/18/90 Revised 6/26/90

LABOR

I figure that Johnny Carson has been making about $5 every time he takes a breath for the last several years.

According to a secret formula that I made up over a cup of coffee, that seems true. I will gladly send a copy of this formula to anyone who sends me a request for same, plus a SASE and the price of one Johnny Carson breath. I know that’s pretty high, but I’m just as good as Johnny. The Declaration of Independence says so. Would Ben Franklin lie?

The young man carefully took his push broom and swept the parking lot at the local “fast food” shop. I watched him work and could easily tell that he was “into” it. He swept a little; then backed of f to look at his work. Sometimes he shook his head in disapproval and redid a spot. Then he moved on. The manager came out to have a look—see. I could tell it was the manager because he didn’t have on a silly looking hat. The manager gruffly ordered the sweeper to hurry on with his work. The sweeper grunted politely and continued with his work of art.

How much is this work worth? He seems to be doing his best. Should he quit this lousy job and go to college; study Communications; and get a job at $5 a breath like Johnny? Maybe he likes his job. Maybe he can’t “handle” college. Maybe he thinks Johnny Carson and his kind are overpaid idiots.

In that case, the “fat cats” will be glad to tell you, he deserves what he has. No more. A job at minimum wage. Who cares that he can’t support a family and a home on that pay? If Johnny was willing to take a pay cut to $4.75 a breath, the system could double this young man’s pay.

I better hush, or J. Edgar Hoover’s ghost will be all over my case.LABOR

I stood patiently in the men’s section of the “ritzy” department store. I

needed to find the little boy’s room. In a Hurry. I waited to ask the clerk for directions. I noticed a large sign, printed in bold red letters, “Special Sale. Tailor Made Suits. Reduced to $750.” I’ve seen the time when you could buy a brand new car for that kind of money.

I wasn’t there to buy a suit. I already own a suit. It does everything I expect a suit to do. It’s good for weddings and funerals and an occasional christening. It should be good for my funeral. Might as well get full wear out of it. I paid $100 plus the tax for it, I felt guilty for a week.

I wonder what the real difference is between my suit and this tailor made one. I’m sure it has better material, fits better, looks nicer, and has Johnny Carson’s label on the inside breast pocket. It won’t do anything my suit won’t do. I can use the extra money for something important like an electronic computer chess set.

I wonder how much Johnny pays for a suit.

Karl Marx has gotten a really bad “rap.” He spent years trying to uncover a sensible relationship between those who actually do the work, and those who provide the money to get the work done. A couple of “hucksters” read his work and heard opportunity “knock at the door.” They said to each other, “The peasants will buy this dreck. Let’s go for it.” The peasants bought it, fought for it, died for it, lied for it, and tried to live with it. They couldn’t make it work.

2LABOR

According to Marx, the cost of a suit should depend entirely on what it cost to make and deliver the suit to the consumer. That meant that no one got to make a few bucks on the deal. Johnny Carson couldn’t collect $50 for a twenty-five cent label. Of course, I’m going to have to sell you my prize cow for what it cost me to raise it. I can’t charge you extra because it has a pedigree a half a block long.

I think I’ll stick to good old 135 of A Capitalism. Hand me a broom!

3#34 8/14/90

OIL

We fuss a great deal about the high price of gasoline. It does seem like a lot of money to pay out for a gallon of water that’s been poisoned with chemicals. We like to chase about the countryside though, and as the old folks used to say, “Them that wants to dance has to pay the fiddler.” The price isn’t really all that bad. The old folks will also be glad to tell you that in the late thirties you could buy the stuff for twelve—fourteen cents a gallon. During the last fifty years, inflation has raised most everything about ten times. In 1940, a school teacher made well under $2,000 a year. Now the same job pays well over $20,000 a year. It all seems to balance pretty well.

In 1859, a fellow named Drake punched a hole in a Pennsylvania hillside and stood back to watch the black crude gush a fountain. I’m not sure that he did us any favor. The World has not been the same since,

We have become totally dependent on the “filthy crude.” Most of the political and economic decisions of the last seventy years have been based on the need to control as much oil as possible. In the process, we have killed off close to a hundred million of our brothers and sisters. We use all kinds of high sounding words to justify our lust for oil. “For God and Country;” “To defeat the Imperialists;” “Holy War;” “To prevent World Communism;” “The Revolution of the Proletariat.” Then everyone sends their young men out to slaughter each other on some insane battlefield.

During the Second World War, Portugal was a neutral nation. That meant they were free to deal with any

side which allowed them to make a few extra bucks. They made it big time. A friend of mine was a high paid “muckety—muck” for one of the large oil companies. His main job was to ship oil to Portugal for hisOIL

bosses. The Portuguese in turn sold the oil to whoever had the bucks to buy it. Mostly, the Germans. The oil went in German tanks and ended up being mixed with the blood of young Americans.

The Japanese have to import every drop of oil they use. In the early thirties they decided to go in business for themselves and started out on a military conquest of the Far East. They went to places like the Dutch East Indies and stole every oil field they could get. The Dutch were pretty upset about this, and complained to Franklin D. Franklin D. felt that we needed the oil more than the sons of Nippon and he got really upset. He told the Japs to “chill out” or we wouldn’t sell them any more scrap steel and other goodies that we had and they wanted.

Hirohito got all his Generals and Admirals into the main Pagoda, sat down on some rice mats on the floor, drank a little saki and decided that if Franklin was going to play hard ball, so would they. Zap! Pearl Harbor! I’ll have to admit that the Japs were “in a tight.” They had reserve oil supplies to last just twenty-eight months, and no way to replace them.

Most people think that the Germans invaded Russia because they were upset with the Russians. Not true! The Germans would have loved to steal the whole country. It would have looked good on their resumes. What they really wanted and needed for their War Machine was the huge oil fields around

the Black and Caspian Seas. Russia would have been a bonus.

Every time a couple of Arabs get into an argument over some oil bearing real estate, the good old U.S. of A sends in ships, aircraft and troops to settle things. We need to find a sensible way to settle the oil mess or shut down all of the machines. I’m

2OIL

not too sure that we wouldn’t be better off anyway. I don’t want my grandsons dying in the middle of a desert trying to steal some Arab’s oil well.

3#35 8/15/90

KSP vs. TIPS

It stood in the open on a small hill, I was somehow reminded of a giant bulldog guarding the hill for its master. The North side of the building was pushed toward center by a maze of two by sixes, in an effort to bring the building back in plumb. It was a very large house. It was deserted. I stood and looked at it, and tears filled my eyes. My mind drifted back fifty years.

A crowd of about forty gathered around the remains of what had been, in the late afternoon, a sturdy old frame farm house. Now it lay in an ugly pile of burnt timbers and smoldering embers. Of f to one side stood a one—armed old man talking quietly to a little old lady. She was in her early sixties; maybe five foot tall, maybe eighty-five pounds sopping wet. She glared at the burned house, looked briefly towards the Heavens, and turned to the one-armed old man. He nodded, and the little old lady stepped forward to talk to the children.

She stood with her hands on her

hips and spoke gently, “The Lord has seen fit to take our home. We will rebuild it. Ten times as strong. We will build it on this rock, and we will face it with stone. We have no money, but we will begin now!” She reached down and picked up a charred shingle, and threw it aside. The one—armed old man and the children followed her example, and worked through the chill November night until the dawn.

It was near the end of the Depression, and times were still hard.

KSP vs. HRS

The one—armed old man had lost his arm in a saw mill accident.He knewtimber, and he took

the boys to the woods andshowedthem howto fell giant oaks

and hew them into rafters,

studs and joists. A half-blind old stone mason came and guided the boys to the surrounding hills to blast, shape and face sandstone blocks to sheathe the new house. A skinny, bent—over carpenter came to show the boys how to put the whole thing together. Everything was done by hand, without the noise of machinery or the putrid smell of gasoline.

The girls cooked, cleaned, washed clothes and took care of the smaller children, The little old lady stood with hands on hips and watched everything. Sometimes she walked up to a child and spoke a quiet magic message. Always the child then looked more alive.

The Ohildren were all castoffs of a society struggling for its own survival. Many had been in trouble with the law. Others had simply been discarded like old sheets. The little old lady took them all in. She fed them, clothed them, and prayed with them. She asked only that

each child do his share to help the group survive. She ruled with an iron fist, and no one dared defy her. The group disciplined itself with the muscle of the older children.

I was one of those children. It took five years, but we built our house. For a while we lived in log cabins without plumbing or electricity. We bathed in the nearby river. We ate the food we grew in the fields. Navy beans, pickles, sorghum molasses, corn bread, onions, and whatever we could beg from the local merchants.

2KSP vs, HRS

In later years, when “good times” returned, the little old lady began to pile up more money than bills. One day the State people came out and told her she was doing it all wrong. She was told to build a fire escape for the new building, hire a dietician, find a permanent Health Nurse, and to stop working the young children in the fields.

After fifty years of caring for a multitude of children, the little old lady gave up and turned the house and farm over to the State. Now the house stands deserted, like an extinct dinosaur.

The little old lady died years later. She was still watching everything and still caring. She was ninety-six.

I’m sure HRS would have “had a cow” about her ways.

3#36 5/12/90 Revised 6/27/90 THE BUS

My wife and I recently drove to West Virginia to the old homestead. The “fickle finger of fate” pointed our way, and we found ourselves stranded without our trusty van. Using the old timer’s problem solving method, we sat down to figure out a way to get back home. We decided that if worst came to worst, we could walk it out. We walked over half of Europe a few years back, and thought we might have a few miles left in the old bones. Walking would take about a month, so we discarded the idea. A relative offered to drive us back, but that set up a series of reactions that would make it more trouble than it was worth. We checked out the airline “bit.” Those smiling gentlemen wanted a couple of month’s rent. The rent—a-car people were almost as bad. Most of them wanted us to return the car to the pick-up point. That would have been a good trick. We had about decided to buy

another car, drive it home and then resell it, when we decided to check out the Greyhound people.

Surprise-Surprise! Not only were the busses running in spite of the strike, but they had a sensible schedule that would get us home in about the same time it would take us to drive it. We drive slow and stop a lot. I dreaded asking the ticket agent about the fare, but plunged in recklessly. Surprise—Surprise! The gentleman told us that since they were just starting up again, plus the fact that we were two “Ancients,” we could have the tickets at a special price. The cost would be about seven cents a mile. For both of us! We can’t drive it for that. We bought the tickets,

We arrived at the bus átation on a mild, May, Sunday afternoon, more than ready to begin our great adventure. We expected to see a ring of pickets howling for the blood of the terrible “scab” ticket agent. Instead, we found a nice old gentleman carefully washing his truck.THE BUS

He stopped and we went into the Bus Station where he checked our luggage and went patiently over our travel schedule. We then had a seat and waited for the bus. Tick-tock, tick-tock. The silly bus was late. It was half an hour late. We boarded the bus and settled in the two right front seats. We intended to supervise the driving. The bus just sat there. The driver went off and came back with a bucket of fried chicken, sat in his seat, and began to eat slowly. He told us that we had to wait for connecting busses. Tick—tock, tick-tock. Finally, everyone arrived and we were off. The driver missed his first turn and had to back up a block. From that point on, things went smoothly and we had a very enjoyable trip. Our drivers were pleasant and very good at their job.

When we decided to take the bus, we didn’t think about the strike. We asked one of our drivers what it was all about. From what he told us, it sounded more like a bunch of kids arguing over who was going to be captain of the team, than anything that needed a strike to settle. It was more of the old “I want a bigger piece of the pie.”

At several stops we did see pickets. They didn’t exactly howl, but their language wouldn’t have made it at prayer meeting. They didn’t seem real serious to me. Mostly they stood around in small groups, hooted and shook closed fists at the “scab” drivers. The drivers ignored them and kept their eyes and minds on their jobs.

It was a long hard trip for a couple of old “fogeys.” We were glad to get off the bus at journey’s end. We rode the bus for a couple more nights in our dreams.

2THE BUS

What about this? Those busses can hold more than forty people. Our average load was about a dozen. We run our cars with from one to six people at a time. I think that there is a pretty good environmental point here.

That bad old ozone layer is getting thicker by the minute.

3#37 5/14/90

SMALL TOWNS

If someone offered to sell me a “big city” for $24 worth of beads and cloth, I’d buy it but I sure wouldn’t want to live there. I’d just rent it out, get rich, and watch the poor souls who lived there suffer. I’ve lived in and visited some of our thriving big cities. About all I got out of the stay was a splitting headache. Too much noise. Too much smell. Too much running madly about doing nothing. I’d rather walk about lazily doing nothing.

I live forty miles down a lonely country road in the middle of a National Forest. When I leave the city after business or a visit, I usually say, “Well, I guess its time to head for the swamp.” It’s not really a swamp, but there are places which are wet enough to swallow your car if you stray from the beaten path. There is just one main road that runs through my county. You have to cross a small bridge to get into it, and then another small bridge to get out of it, twenty miles later. There are other roads used by the “locals,” but if you don’t know them you could end up nowhere. Going from East to West, you’ll find a caution light eight miles it. Eleven miles further is our pride and joy - a genuine traffic light. It changes to a caution light at nine in the evening. Please slow down as you go through. You might miss the first decent breath of fresh air you’ve had in a long time.

Our county is about seventy miles long and twenty miles wide. Most of it is owned by either good old Uncle Sam or a giant Paper company. That doesn’t leave much room for people, but we have a little shy of four thousand folks who manage to live fairly normalSMALL TOWNS

lives. News travels fast and continuously. Sometimes I get the feeling that I’m living in the middle of a live Soap Opera telecast.

We have our own school with students and everything. On a Friday evening in the Fall you might just as well go to the Football Stadium. Everyone else is there. Last year the Coach described the team, “We may be small, but we’re slow.” We win enough games to keep it interesting. We even have a pretty good little country Marching Band. What it lacks in talent it makes up with

enthusiasm, We love ‘em all. They are our children.

We don’t have a lot of money, and it’s difficult to keep up with all of the new ideas that pop up. In recent years we have brought in a Family Doctor, a Dentist and a Pharmacist. We don’t have a hospital, but we have dedicated Emergency Technicians who will take the ill and the hurt to a clinic in the county to the West, or fifty miles to a hospital in the “big city.” If we need it, a Life Flight helicopter will fly in and do the job.

We have a Bank with an air conditioned lobby. We have a state prison filled with bad guys. Our Sheriff can light a match with his .357 at fifty yards. One of our leading citizens is so rich that he just keeps a closet full of money and grabs a handful on his way to work. Our politics are typical “Deep South.” People get elected more on the basis of whose turn it is than “wheeling and dealing” in back rooms filled with cigar smoke. The system works pretty well most of the time. Every now and then they “goof up.” Big time.

We’ve got as many problems as the next town. We have as many solutions as the next town. We get along pretty good.

2SMALL TOWNS

Where else would this conversation have any meaning?

“Sheriff’s office, can I help you?”

“Yeah, this is Bubba. If Billy Joe is working, tell him to stop by Little Jack’s. Mary Sue is at it again.”

The dispatcher knew exactly what to do.

3#38 5/19/90

COLUMBUSWe don’t hear much about Spain

anymore. At one time, it was really “king of the hill” as far as countries go. It

seems that the Spaniards did everything but stay at home and “mind the store.” When they weren’t off someplace stealing gold to ship home, they were chasing about the high seas sinking the other fellow’s ships. One of their favorite targets was the Queen of England’s merchant ships. The good Queen didn’t like this at all, and told King Phillip of Spain to “buzz off.” King Phillip had never learned that an angry woman is best left alone, and sent his entire Navy out to aggravate the Queen some more. She promptly sent the Spanish fleet to the bottom of the English Channel. After that, things were never the same for Spain.

For awhile there, Spain had things going her way and had managed to rip off about a third of the New World. Now, several hundred years later, we are still trying to deal with the effects of this mad adventure. Almost every Central and South American country, and most of the Caribbean Islands use Spanish as their first language. Their customs and culture are based on Spanish ideas. This is neither good nor bad; it just is.

The Spanish influence is so strong in the US of A that we have laws that demand that signs and forms are printed in Spanish and English. You can even call a special 800 number and get a Spanish speaking IRS bandido to help take your tax pesos. Spanish is the most popular foreign language taught in our Public Schools. My wife studied Spanish in College and loved it. I speak enough Spanish to be mildly polite. I can even cuss a little bit in Spanish.COLUMBUS

Most of the Spanish countries seem to have a really big problem with their politics. Hardly a day passes that we don’t read that one of these places is either starting or ending a revolution. They never seem to get anything settled,

and keep asking us for help to get their “stuff straight.” We send them a few millions, but nothing really changes.

I taught Music at the American High School in the Panama Canal Zone in the early sixties. It was a wonderful experience for my family and I. We learned enough Spanish to get along, and enjoyed finding out what it meant to be a part of the Spanish culture. The language seems to have a more personal meaning than English. The Spaniard is not going to say, “Your work is progressing nicely.” Instead, he is going to raise both hands in the air and wave madly about shouting enthusiastically, ~‘Bueno! Bueno!” He may even kiss you on the cheek.

Some of the street signs gave me a bit of a problem. One said, “Non Basura.” This meant, “Don’t throw trash on the highway.” I could figure out that “non” had something to do with “no” but I couldn’t connect trash and “basura.” I asked some of my Panamanian students for an explanation and they didn’t know either. After a time, a bright young Panamanian girl looked it up in an old Spanish dictionary. She informed me that “basura” meant “stable sweepings.” You take it from there.

The American mother is going to take her small children to the Day Care Center and be off to find her identity as a woman. The Panamanian father worked and the “mama sita” kept her “mia muchachos” at home. They didn’t have much, but they did have a family.

2COLUMBUS

Who started all of this mess? A fellow named Christopher Columbus

hustled the good Queen Isabella of Spain out of enough Pesos to sail West to find a better way to get to India, which was in the East. Most people figured he would just sail off the end of the world, and laughed at the whole idea. Chris kept sailing into the setting sun. Zap! Revolutions Are Us Inc. Thanks a lot “Liz!”

3#39 9/11/90CRISIS

A short time ago, I almost “bought the farm.” I bear feel really lousy after mowing the lawn on a hot Wedn~ ~n. I figured that I’d gotten too much heat ar C’

dehydrated. The Doctors warn us old those hot and humid summer days -rebel and just sort of dry ~ beginning to understand that

I got to feeling worse andlike horses were trying to k ‘~ he inside. I figured by then that I had foL Sometimes it’s terrible to be so smart that you kno trof the answers. I did have enough sense to know that I needed help. I told my wife to take me to the Emergency Room at the Clinic across the river. She didn’t blink an eye or ask a question. She headed for the truck and did what needed to be done. You should all have a friend like that.

It took a while, but everyone involved did their job, and I ended up in an Ambulance screaming toward the big city. We don’t have a hospital in our county and depend on our EMT’s to save our lives when we get in serious trouble. We know that they will take us to get help. They don’t make much money, but they are there twenty—four hours a day, seven days a week,

The next thing I knew a very business-like Doctor informed me that I had a ruptured appendix, and needed an immediate operation. He seemed then to hesitate and I realized that he was asking my permiésion. I told him quite plainly, “Do it!” He did, and then for the next week took care of me and brought me back to reality. He was very skilled and professional and, plainly seen, a caring human being.CRISIS

I’m at home now and mending nicely. My wife watches over me as if I were a crippled “chick.” Just as she has always done. She’s an easy going sort,

but in a crisis she does exactly the right thing, without hesitation. You should all have someone like that. I can be a little hard to get along with from time to time, but my family let me know just how much they cared about me during the crisis. They were there. One hundred per cent, when the chips were down. I didn’t know how lucky I was.

My feeling about life will never be the same as it was before. I know full well that this kind of problem would have surely been fatal if I had lived a hundred years ago. I doubt that I would have made it through the night. I’m alive because of the things we’ve learned about medicine. I feel that I no longer belong to myself, but to a world that keeps trying to make life, and itself, better.

Down through the years, I’ve had many unkind thoughts and words about modern technology. Now I’m alive because of it. What do I say now? What do I think now? It’s a puzzlement, and I have no answers. I feel that I should do something; but what? I think that I must “lie me down and rest awhile and then I will rise and fight some more.” I will not fight with anger, but with a better understanding of what it means to be alive and well.

If you have had an experience like this, you know what my feelings are, and I’m sure you think my thoughts. I was totally terrified in knowing that my continued existence depended entirely on the good graces of my fellow man. I was not afraid to die, in fact I was quite calm in that knowledge. I was overwhelmed by the thought that there were those who thought I was worth saving. How can I ever again be angry?

2#40 3/20/90

CRITICAL THINKING

I have a bad reputation with my family. They often suggest that I am “hard to get along with.” When I tell them that I have no interest in going to the beach for the purpose of having sand ground into my body, my mouth and hair filled with salt water, and my body cooked ‘till well done, they call me a “party pooper.° I simply reply, “I was born a bad person.” Gift buying time is, for them, a special “cross to bear.” My wife, who is a Doctor of Shopping, spends countless hours trying to find something that “the old grouch” will like. My son “nailed it” this last Christmas.

Underneath the Christmas tree I found a Computer Chess set. This jewel will play an almost endless variety of Chess games and problems. I love it. I play a little Chess, but not enough to be a threat to anyone who knows much about the game. The Computer Chess set and I have become good friends over the last several months. It is a devilish device. It has no emotions, and is a perfect example of the computer “buffs” favorite expression, “Garbage in, garbage out.” If I enter a bad move, its little blinking light ‘~breaks up” and immediately counters with a move of unbelievable brilliance.

There was a time when I seriously considered shooting it. Slowly but surely I learned how to beat it. I discovered that it had a weakness. In any given situation, it always used the same reply. By studying the replies, I found that I could force it to move in my favor. This won’t work in a game with a “live person.” In real life, you usually get just one chance to do a thing right, or pay a good price for your mistake.

With the computer, I can stop, turn off the switch, and start over with a new move. The computer doesn’t care.

I’m working on my twentieth game now, and its going slow. The more you play, the tougher it gets. I learned another thing from “George.” Trying

CRITICAL THINKING

might be worth a pat on the head, but only a well though out plan, carefully executed, will bring success. If I get careless or tired or let my mind wander, it will “take me apart.”

I figured out how to save the “education people” a lot of money. They spend millions of dollars each year giving the students tests to find out what they know and what they can do. The SAT thing is driving the Coaches “bananas.” The test makers are making millions out of the testing business. I think that all High School students should be required to take a course in Computer Chess and learn to beat the machine. If they do, they will have demonstrated that they can think well enough to face problems, learn from their mistakes, and then solve problems. Isn’t this what education is supposed to do?

These machines can be set up to challenge everyone from a first grader to Einstein. The level can be set wherever you want

it. The students couldn’t cheat because no one would know any answers until they had punched in a given move. The machine doesn’t care whether the student is black, yellow, red, white or chartreuse. It doesn’t make any difference if the student is rich or poor. It doesn’t make any difference if you just caine out of the swamp or just got off the subway. Its just going to sit there and blink at you until you do something that makes good sense. The grading would be simple. You either checkmate that “sucker” or you don’t pass.

We need something to get our young people to understand that “life is a

bitch,” full of problems, which we must solve ourselves.2#41 4/21/90

FALSE EXPECTATIONS

I took a job, teaching music, in the late Fifties. The job paid one hundred dollars a week. I figured that I had it made. My money worries were a thing of the past. I looked forward to a bright future where dollar income would be more than dollar outgo. Was I ever fooled! It was good money for the times, and I was thankful that someone was foolish enough to pay me that much. The job was in a new school that had gone through four Band Directors in three years. After looking the job over, I told the principal that I couldn’t see what the problem had been. He looked at me “a little strange” and said, “You’re hired. Have at it.”

The entire school of some 750 students had just four people involved with music. I’ve always been an admirer of Chinese “tea cookie” sayings. One I liked really well was, “A thousand mile journey begins with the first step.” I took the first step. Nine years later, over five hundred students were enrolled in the program. It wasn’t any serious competition for the New York Philharmonic or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but it got the job done. Someone asked me how I had managed to do all of this. I replied, “Mostly, I went to work sober and then tried to get a little something extra done each day.” Simple, but effective.

The problem came at the end of the ninth year. The Superintendent called me into his office and told me I was going to have to cut back on the program. He said that they couldn’t afford to pay for it. He said my program was making it almost impossible to schedule the rest of the classes. I told him that I wouldn’t

know how to “go backwards” with it. He couldn’t understand that the kind of “drive” and energy it took to build the program was not like a water faucet that could be turned on and off at will. He wouldn’t change his mind about the “cutback,” so I just quit the job and moved on “down the road.FALSE EXPECTATIONS

I see this story repeated time and time again. Someone is brought onto a job because they have a reputation for getting things done in a special way. At first, everyone seems thrilled with the idea of having a mess cleaned up. They expect, though, that at a certain spot, the clean up will be finished and things can get back to normal. A “mess cleaner upper” is a “mess cleaner upper.” If he can’t find a mess to clean up, he will invent one. Then everyone gets all mad and wants to run the “rascal” out of town.

I think especially about the people they hire to fight the wars on crime and drugs. The “SWAT” teams. These people have gotten some really bad “press” in the last few years. Every now and then they break down the wrong door or blow up the wrong building. Some have a bad reputation for being overly violent in dealing with the “kingpins of crime” and their armies of helpers.

Think about it for a little bit. We are asking these people to tangle with the “bad guys.” We are asking them to charge into a building that might be full of unsavory characters armed with automatic weapons, flame throwers, explosives and a dedicated desire to rid the world of all “SWAT” teams. I wonder where people think these “SWAT” teamers are recruited. I guarantee you that they are not coming from the local Monastery. This is a job that requires “hard” men. It requires men who can

look death straight in the eye and not blink. That doesn’t mean that they are “bad.” It does mean that they are “special.”

As the young people used to say, we need to “get real” with our expectations. A “SWAT” team member is not going to say to one

2FALSE EXPECTATIONS

of the “bad guys,” “Would you mind terribly not pointing that Uzzi in my face?” The odds are very good that Mr. SWAT is going to “blow” the “bad guy” away. Isn’t that what we hired him to do?

3#42 5/19/90 Revised 6/29/90

HALLOWEEN

While on vacation in West Virginia a few years back, I stopped by a used book store; wandered through, looking at the old novels; and pulled one from the shelf that looked interesting. As I flipped through the pages, an old photo fell out and fluttered to the floor. I picked the photo up and looked at it. It was a brown and fading picture of an Aunt who had recently died. On the back was a short note from my Aunt to my Mother. I looked in the front of the book and found the stamp of a book store in New Jersey. “Big deal,” you say, “what are you trying to prove?”

That’s my problem. I don’t know what I’m trying to prove.

My Mother and my Aunt had been in the habit of vacationing at a beach resort in New Jersey years and years ago. How did that picture get from New Jersey to a mountain town in West Virginia? Why did I ramble to that part of the bookstore and pull out that book? It wasn’t much to look at. Just something that looked interesting. I know that my

stomach did several “flip-flops” when I saw that picture. Was it a communication from the nether world? Each of us can remember a tale like this. We don’t know what it means. We don’t know what it doesn’t mean.

Many times in my life I have been alone in a room. Maybe after my wife has gone to bed and I’m doing some late night reading. I have felt a disturbance in the air near me. The furnace? The fireplace? An open window? A surge of strange energy? A ghostly presence? Sometimes I get up and roam around to see if I can find the cause of this strangeness. Imagination? Tension? Reality? I don’t know. Neither does anyone else. Some would like to pretend they understand. Shuure!HALLOWEEN

As the Irish like to say, “May the Saints presarve us from the likes of them that thinks they knows it all.” I have •a zillion pieces of totally useless information running loose and unsupervised in my skull. I’ll bet that you didn’t know that a “quidnunc” was an old timey name for the town gossip? Maybe you’re one, and did know.

Hallowe’en sure has gotten a lot of bad press in recent years. The Catholics said that it was a time for all of the Saints to return to Earth and have a look around to see if their Sainted lives had had any real effect on what people were doing. The Celts, and their evil priests the Druids, looked on it as a time to slow down a bit and look at the results of summer. It was a time to think about the coming winter and prepare for some cold, long, gloomy nights and short days. It was a time to think of the future.

In the late Twentieth Century, it is a time for children to dress up in silly costumes and go out and aggravate the

neighbors. Even this foolishness is a dangerous pastime. There are “whackos” around who enjoy giving out treats that are laced with poison and sharp objects.

No one really questions that much of the tradition of Hallowe’en is based on Satanism and Paganism. I think we can still put it to good use. Make it a time to let the children know that there is much we can’t explain. Let them wonder a little bit about some things.

2HALLOWEEN

I really like James WhitcOmb Riley’s poem, “Little Orphant Annie.”

“You better mind yer parents and yer teachers fond and dear, An’ churish them ‘at loves you, an’ dry the orphants tear, An’ he’p the pore and needy ones ‘at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns ‘11 git you

Ef you

don’t

watch

out!”

Excuse met It’s time to go watch “The Great Pumpkin.” Shoot!... There goes the doorbell.

3#43 5/20/90

VETERAN’S DAY

It’s that time of year again. We can expect parades of marching bands, with floats that have a military theme. We can expect to see middle age and old men marching down the street wearing uniforms that don’t quite fit anymore. If we go to the public events, we can hear long and dreary speeches made by well meaning politicians. They will be talking about honoring the once young men who gave up their plowshares and innocence and marched bravely off to a war. Most Veterans will stay at home and maybe stop for a minute and think of the loss, in war, of a close friend. War is as much about friends as anything else.

The following is an excerpt from a book I wrote about my experience in the Second World War.

Step by step we struggled up the steep hill against small arms fire, a tumult of Nambu fire and an occasional flurry of knee mortars.

“Hurry it up. C Company is about overrun.”

My very best friend was in front of me. He was a Mormon boy who somehow never lost his temper or used any kind of vulgarity or swear word. If he got really excited he might explode with, “Son of a buck.” He never complained or “bad mouthed” anyone or anything. He prayed for all of us “heathen sinners.” He was my friend. I loved him more than a brother.

“Breen, please watch where you’re walking. Every time the column stops, you run into me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please pay attention to what you’re doing.”

“Okay. But you ought to have your helmet on.”

“It hurts my neck.”

“You ought to wear it anyway. It won’t do any good hanging on your back. The Captain is going to get you good if he sees you.”

“Okay. I’ll put it on at the next break.”

“Okay.”

VETERAN’S DAY

Pop! Pop! Pop! Knee mortars, Blam! Right in my face. My friend fell backwards and knocked me down. His head fell against my chest. A piece of his skull was missing. His brains began to ooze out on my dungarees. I tried to carefully replace them. I got sick and threw up all over both of us. I took him in my arms and held him while I rocked back and forth on my haunches. I cried. I wanted to die.

“Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Why didn’t you wear your helmet? I told you. Now I don’t have any best friend.”

I rocked and cried, and rocked and cried.

I heard, from a distance, “Breen, let us have him. You can’t help him. We’ll get him to an aid station. Let go. Let us have him.”

“He’s dead. He’s my best friend.”

“We know. We’re your friends.”

“Can I go with him?”

“Just to the aid station.”

They put him on a stretcher and carried him off.

I followed them a short distance,

I knew he was dead. C Company was about over

run.

I turned back and walked toward the sound of

firing.

I cried all the way.

The organizers of the parades feel good about the job they have done. The float builders admire their handiwork. The speechmakers slaved over their speeches to be sure they said the right thing. They all did well. I still wish my friend had worn his helmet.

2#44 5/11/90

NEW GERMANY

I taught at an American School in West Germany for six years. One cold and gloomy fall afternoon, my wife and I traveled its main river, the Rhine, to a place called “the Lorelei.” There, on a high cliff, stands an enormous bronze statue, a female figure that stares defiantly at the West across the Rhine. As I stood there, shivering in the afternoon chill, I watched as a procession of older men came slowly and silently up the hill. Some of them were missing an arm or a leg. Some had a patch over one eye. Some struggled along with the aid of a cane.

They all came up to the statue, stopped and stared up at the face of the statue for a time, and then in turn gazed defiantly across the Rhine to the West. I noticed one in particular. He stood about six foot six, and weighed a hard,

muscular two hundred pounds or so. His bare head had its hair cropped short in the military style. He was blonde haired and blue eyed. He wore a leather overcoat that reached down to mid-calf. He looked mean. He stared at the statue and then gazed defiantly across the Rhine. He stood with his hands on his hips and his overcoat open, baring his chest and body to the hate that came at him from the West. Then a strange thing happened. Tears began to stream down his cheeks. He stood there for a brief moment, and then in perfect military precision, did a right flank and marched proudly back down the hill.

What else could this have been but an ex—German soldier? Perhaps a former member of the dreaded SS. Maybe a Stunt Troopen, and Einsatz Commando, or a Sonder Commando. Strange words that mean little to the average American, but remind those who know them of unbelievable deeds of crime and violence. History brands this man as the killer of women and children, and the destroyer of six million Jews, That is probably a fair judgment.NEW GERXAI4Y

The newspapers are full of stories about putting the two Germanies back together to make an economic and political powerhouse in the middle of Europe. People speak out loud and strong to say yes or no to this idea. Each side has good reasons for what it says. I read about two things that disturb me. Some want to punish the Germans forever for the misdeeds of the Nazis. There is no question that this list of misdeeds is long and horrendous. “The sins of the father shall be visited on the son.” It seems to me, though, that instead of punishing them generation by generation, we need to find a way to use the unified strength of the German people to build a better world.

During the last thirty years, I have

studied everything I could find to try to understand better exactly what happened during the time 1913-1945. Like most things, it’s not as simple as most people would like to make it, The guilt for a hundred million deaths can be place on more heads than the Germans.

I notice, as time goes by and new young writers give their account of History, that the facts become distorted and changed. Wars are not started by a people. Wars are started by the leaders of a people. The leaders convince the people that following their ideas is the only way to survival. The people then do as they are told, with little thought for the consequences. This is not an excuse. It is the History of civilization.

In any event. The man stood and gazed defiantly to the West. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He did a right flank and marched proudly down the hill. He knew that he had done his best and lost. He was not ready to bow his head and be whipped. He would go ahead with his life and do his best some more. His sons and his sons’ sons will march on forever. These men make the world.

2#45 5/21/90

THANKSGIVING

“Over the river and through the woods, To Grandmother’s house we go.”

Not likely in this day and age. It’s probably:

“Take I 85 South to Commerce. Turn left. Go ‘round the U of Ga. Pick up I 75 at Forsyth. Drive like a madman. Watch out for the GHP.

Maybe just take a plane.

The time when most members of a family lived within walking distance of each other is long gone. Everyone gathered at Grandma and Grandpa’s house to visit together and wonder how this family grew from a couple to a houseful. Everyone was tired after a summer of work in the fields and a fall of gathering the fruits of that work. It was a time to relax and begin to think about the coming Winter.

Grandma was the boss and the cook. I like to think that she had plenty of help from daughters and wives. Most of the visitors brought baskets of food and goodies with them. It was Grandma’s job to put it all together and stack the table high. Grandpa and the men gathered in the living room around the fire, talked about the crops, and maybe smoked a cigar or had a glass of cider. The children were sent outside or to the barn to play and keep out from underfoot.

This was before the day of counting calories and checking for cholesterol. I’m sure they violated enough “health” rules to give an eighties “yuppie” a heart attack just from watching these poor ignorants eat themselves into an early grave. Well, if “ignorance is bliss,” they probably finished the meal pretty “blissful.”

Then they started on dessert.THANKSGIVING

At day’s end, everyone gathered their empty food baskets, rounded up their children, and headed wearily home. The women all gave each other a big hug and a peck on the cheek. The men threw their cigar stubs in the fire and, with a manly clearing of the throat, shook hands all around. Grandma hugged and loved on everyone in sight. Grandpa stood there looking wise and stern and reminded everyone to, “Be careful going home. I was a wolf the other night.” The

house empties. The lights go out and an early winter wind whistles across the roof.

That’s a nice romantic little tale, you say. True. It really is more truth than fiction. We still do most of these things today, but in a different style. Our families are split to the four corners of the country and of the world. We get a happy and tearful ‘phone call in the late afternoon and we know that the caller would much rather be home than wherever they are. We can pick up most of what we need for dinner at the local supermarket, already cooked and ready to stack in the middle of the table. The men gather by the TV and watch the pre—game show, smoke a cigar and drink a little glass of cider. The women gather and gossip and make a “fuss” over a dinner that still needs organizing. The children are sent outside or maybe to the Movie to be kept out from underfoot. The health “nuts” count calories and check for cholesterol and pick carefully at mountains of delicious food.

When day is done, the “leaving” ritual is the same as it has always been. We are no less sincere than the folks in the “good old days.” We do have to hurry on. We have a “piece to go.”

“Get on I 75 and head for Forsyth---.”

The house empties. The lights go out.

An early winter wind whistles across the roof.

2#46 3/27/90

MOVIE PLOTS

The Greeks were busy as bees for

several centuries. They ran around Athens inventing things, coming up with brand new ideas, turning marble into beautiful statues, putting up buildings all over the place, and generally disturbing the peaceful lives of the rest of the people in the world. After a while, they got a little bored and came up with the idea of putting on plays. I suppose it all started with one of the local citizens telling stories in the town square. After a while, he got some help from members of the audience who already knew the story. This way he could get a little relief from having to talk all the time.

The next thing you know the Greeks had gone out of town to a hill and carved out a stadium which could seat upwards of eighteen thousand people. I don’t know how those Greeks got so smart, but you could hear a piece of paper flutter to the stage at a hundred yards on one of those theaters. The theaters still exist, and you can go check that one out. If you’re a smoker, you’ll have to take a boat. They won’t let you smoke on the planes anymore.

These Greek plays laid down the basic ideas that we still use in our movies and television plays. If you pay a little extra attention you can follow the old Greek ideas. First, you have to get the place, the people and the situation straightened out. Next, you get everything all messed up so that it looks like it can’t possibly work out. Then comes the place in the play where the thing begins to make some kind of sense. Suddenly, a solution of sorts appears, and problems start getting solved like magic. Finally, everyone gathers ‘round in a circle and catches up loose ends. Everyone hugs and kisses, promises to write, and the hero rides off into the subway. Believe it or not. The Greeks invented that mess.

My wife and I don’t watch as much television as we used to,

MOVIE PLOTS

but we do our part to keep a bunch of actors working. After all of these years, we consider ourselves pretty much experts on the idea of television plots. We figure that they come up with the plot ideas in a special way.

They take several thousand filing cards, which have just one word written on each card. They throw these in the middle of the table and then start pulling them out, one at a time. Suppose they end up with the following cards: leg, rancher, mink, wife, drunk, steal, lover, “fat farm.” I know that you can put it together, but I’ll give you my idea.

A one legged mink rancher from Detroit ~5 having a problem with his “boozing” wife, who is stealing mink out of the basement to sell so that she can have enough money to send her overweight lover to the “fat farm.” Do your own, it’s fun. Any writer worth his pay can make a three night mini-series out of that idea.

We have also learned to recognize what is known in the “theatuh” as “the unemployed actor” movie. A big star notices that some of his old friends haven’t been working very much. They get together and make a movie which will pay everyone enough to survive until a decent part comes along. The screen credits usually take about twenty minutes to roll by. Everyone is listed neatly in alphabetical order. You sort of recognize most of the names but you can’t really “pin them down.” These “once famous” stars flash by in the most unlikely and minor roles.

Some of the things I see I can’t believe. I remember the famous Western star who was shot just above the heart with a .55 calibre slug. The slug should have torn his shoulder off. He didn’t slow down. He didn’t even shrug. He just kept

coming at the “bad guy.”

2#47 5/24/90PEASANTS

On a recent shopping trip to the big city, I stopped at the Mall to do my usual thing. I don’t go to buy things. I go to look in the shops for a little while. My wife has her Doctorate in shopping, and does all of the important buying. After a short while, I do buy a cup of coffee, find a seat near the fountain in the middle of the Mall, and settle down to watch the people.

On this particular day as I was crossing the parking lot, I noticed an enormous thumb tack lying in the roadway, point up. I picked it up and started to hunt for a trash can. As I approached the entrance, I noticed a very well dressed man standing there looking important. I showed him the thumb tack and said, “Would you like to step on that?” He had seen me pick it up. The gentleman tilted his head back and looked at me down the end of his nose. He didn’t say anything, but he might just as well have said something like, “Peasant. How dare you speak to me without first asking permission?” I’ve met this type many times. I just ignore them and go on.

Just inside the Mall I met an elderly gentleman dressed in neat khaki. I showed him the tack, and we had a short but lively talk about the damage the tack might cause and how it might have arrived in the parking lot, point up.

I must have the “mark of the peasant” on my face. I don’t have much luck in trying to talk to people who appear to be “high class.” They make me feel like I must be dirty or smell bad. The women are worse than the men. If you

want to be snubbed “big time” try walking up to a couple of ladies in silk dresses and flowery hats and asking for directions. One of their favorite answers is, “We’re not familiar with this section of town. Why don’t you ask one of the clerks.” This breaks down to mean, “We’re justPEASANTS

slumming in this peasant store. You should talk to someone on your own social level.”

Give me a man with dirt under his fingernails to talk to. We may not solve any earth shaking problems. Our conversation won’t touch on art or drama or the latest clothing fad. We might well start out by saying, “If it gets any hotter, the frogs are going to croak.” After that bit of humor, the conversation will center on really important things.

Why is the new tile on the Mall floor breaking up? Why do so many people have nothing better to do than come to the Mall on a weekday? That’s a tricky one. We’re there. How come all those young kids are not in school on a school day? Why do the women wear such ridiculous looking outfits? We don’t solve anything, but its a nice way to pass the time of day while we wait for our wives to “do their thing.”

When I do decide to buy something, I make a special effort to be polite and pleasant to the sales people. I’ve watched a few “upitty” people give these “peasants” a fit. Some of the clerks can get nasty, but most of them are just trying to make a living and get through the day. They are thinking, feeling, sometimes troubled people. Even as you and I.

I recognize that they are real people by looking them straight in the

eye. I use magic words when I speak to them. “Ma’am,” “Sir,” “Please,” “Thank you,” and, if I’m looking for a solution to a problem, I say in my best “country” style, “I’m confused” or “I have a problem.”

They’ll knock themselves out to help you.

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I’d rather not have them say, “Have a good day.” If they do,

I reply, “I’ll try.” I do sort of like, “Have a good ‘un.” I have

a “rule of thumb” for dealing with all people. Never start a

conversation with a man in a three piece suit or a woman in a

flowery hat.

3#48 5/25/90

CONTROL FREAKS

Most of us have had the unhappy experience of meeting or maybe working with the “take charge” person. If three people go to lunch together, and one of them is a “take charger,” the fireworks start. These people assume that no one in the group has sense enough to tell time, read menus, or add up prices. You will be informed about the amount of time set aside for lunch. You will be informed about the best menu choices and the best buys. The “take charger” will point out the best table and tell each of you which chair to use. You don’t have to look at your plate to see if you’ve finished eating. The “take charger” will stand up and declare that it’s time to go pay the bill.

Who do these people think they are? Who made them boss? How did they get that way? Where did they come from? If you try to “buck” one, they will look at you with hurt in their eyes, as if to

say, “I’m just trying to keep you from making a fool of yourself.” The expert “take chargers” will “puff up” and go off into a corner and pout.

I’ve done a great deal of reading, talking and thinking about these people in the last year or so. I became interested in the idea because I’m pretty much of a “take charge” person. I began to wonder, a few years back, why it was that I didn’t have any really close friends. I had noticed that sometimes when I entered a room, my friends or co-workers would stop whatever it was they were doing and look in my direction. It seemed to me that they were expecting something. I always considered this a high compliment. These people were looking for “words or deeds of wisdom.” I usually did my best to supply them.CONTROL FREAKS

I picked up and read a book that had a lot of things to say about us “take chargers.” The book made so much sense that I read it twice.

Then I got that bad feeling in my stomach that we all get when we realize that what we thought was, wasn’t. Slowly but surely the truth forced its way into my “steel trap” mind. My co-workers were not waiting for words and deeds of wisdom. Their reaction was more along the line of, “What is this idiot up to now?” They weren’t looking at me, they were looking for an escape route. Sometimes, I’m surprised that they didn’t just shoot me.

How did I get to be a “take charger?”

It would be easy to say that my mother and father neglected

and abused me terribly when I was a child. It would be easy to

remember that both of my parents were alcoholics. I could say that

I was an abandoned child. How nice and neat that would be. What

a wonderful and cushy excuse. I don’t believe much in excuses, but

I do believe in cause and effect. We choose who we become. “We

have met the enemy and he is us.”

The experts call people like me, “the product of a dysfunctional environment.” That means that my childhood years were all messed up. I learned early that if I was going to survive, I had to “take charge” of everything I could. By the time I got to be an adult, I was telling the bees where to buzz.

Those who don’t learn from the past must repeat their mistakes. I’m doing better, and at least I recognize the reaction I get when I start getting “bossy.” I have to bite my tongue sometimes to keep from giving unasked for advice. It’s hard not to “butt in” and straighten up a mess.

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My wife helps me. She refuses to tell me what she plans to eat for lunch. I let her select our table at the restaurant. I still tell her what chair to sit in. Nobody’s perfect.

3#49 5/26/90

SCROOGE

I read “A Christmas Carol” when I was a junior in High School. I enjoyed it and it made me feel good when everything worked out nice at the end. I couldn’t understand why old Scrooge had

to be such a hateful so and so. For me, it was an early lesson in the idea that “them that has gets” and usually keep it to themselves. Charles Dickens made a big deal out of the fact that Scrooge gave a little bit of pocket change to help Tiny Tim and his family. That was better than a kick in the teeth, so I guess we should be happy that Scrooge did something other than squirrel away his ill-gotten gains in the wall safe.

I’m beginning to think we may have given Brother Scrooge a “bad rap.” There is no evidence in the story that Scrooge did anything that was against the law. He came to the store early and stayed late. He expected “a days work for a days pay” from his employee. He was probably not much different than the rest of the “money men” of his time and place. I grant you that he didn’t have a “health plan,” but then Bob Cratchett didn’t have to pay half his salary for premiums either. He didn’t have to be so nasty about letting Bob have a little time off for the Holiday Season. An extra “fiver” in Bob’s pay envelope would have saved old Scrooge from some scary nightmares...

During the last Holiday Season I saw several television shows based on the idea of a “Christmas Carol.” Most of them kept pretty close to the book. Some people tried to move the story from the Nineteenth Century to the present day. They usually did a pretty good job of showing how a mean spirited, stingy, old grump, got his come-uppance and changed his ways.

I have a bad habit of reading a book and watching the TV at the same time. I look up only when things get real noisy or verySCROOGE

quiet. The noise usually means that

somebody is being killed. The quiet usually means that one or more people are about to hit the sack in various stages of nakedness. I’m no different than a hundred million other Americans. Sex and violence is what we watch on the TV. Sometimes the TV shows and the ads run together on me. Sometimes my wife changes channels and I mix two story lines.

This happened to me while I was watching the “Scrooge” thing last year. Tiny Tim was hobbling bravely along the wintery street on his crutch. I went back to my book, heard a noise and looked up. There was Lee lacocca. Wait a minute. Lee was Scrooge? He looked the part, except he wasn’t dressed right. Even Scrooge didn’t own a thousand dollar suit. Lee sure looked mean though, and he was giving us viewers a fit about something. When you’re a “space cadet” it takes a while to transfer your brain from a book to the voice on TV. I think it had something to do with the idea that no self respecting American would buy anything but his product. I shook my head and tried to figure out what was happening.

Was Lee supposed to be Scrooge? It sounded like a good idea to me. My brain went to work and I came up with a whole new approach to a “Christmas Carol.” I would “unretire” myself and go into the movie business. I knew that my idea would be worth millions.

I would cast Lee lacocca as Scrooge. Don Johnson as Bob Cratchett. Madonna as the Momma. Michael Jackson as Tiny Tim. Connie Chung would play all of the Ghosts. You couldn’t beat that line up with a stick.

2SCROOGE

I would add one character. Donald Trump as the son of Scrooge. Donald would buy Bob’s humble home, tear it down and build a fifty story hotel in its place. Then Donald Trump would let Bob run the elevators. The only problem is that I couldn’t make any money if I paid “The Don” his usual fee. $15 every time he took a breath.

3#50 5/26/90

PARTIES

Parties make me nervous. The big problem with them is that there are always a bunch of people around, usually more than I can watch carefully. This prevents me from “doing my thing,” which is to watch people.

Sigmund Freud, the great “head doctor,” would call this “voyeurism” and suggest all kinds of weird and sexy reasons for my innocent pastime. If I’m not going to be a “party pooper,” I have to stand around and talk to people. It’s either talk or pretend to listen to someone else “rave on.” Of course, I can usually find a nice comfortable chair and watch the TV. People will ignore you, but they won’t invite you to their next party. I’d rather stay home and watch the TV from my own comfortable chair.

I would never make it as a “party animal” anyway. I don’t mess with “booze” and I don’t hang out with those that do. It’s not so much a moral thing with me. I just don’t like what “boozing” does to people. Besides that, I’m allergic to the stuff. I really am. When I was younger, I tried to be the “life of the party.” After a couple of beers or mixed drinks, I got sick, threw up all over the place, and passed out. I didn’t get invited to many parties after the word got around. I finally checked with a doctor. A couple of tests later he declared that I shouldn’t even be smelling the stuff, much less pouring it down my throat. I got religion in a hurry.

Every now and then I get trapped into a “social evening with a few friends.” I take a good long nap in the afternoon and fortify myself with several cups of strong coffee. I know these people are

going to serve a punch that’s so sweet it would make a “health nut” freak out. The little sandwiches they serve will have the crust cut off and be so dry that you have to drink the punch toPARTIES

keep from strangling. I can handle that much, but when I walk in the door and they hand me a little name tag with the words “Blue Team” typed on it, I know I’m in serious trouble.

I’ve seen these people operate. Their idea of a “fun” time is to divide into groups and play “Trivial Pursuit” or charades or, worse yet, go on a scavenger hunt. The hardest part is the beginning of a party. That’s when everyone has to give an introduction speech, which includes their name and their likes and dislikes. I usually cooperate, but what I’d really like to say is something like, “I’m an escaped lunatic. I just ducked in here to beat. the law.” The really silly thing about this introduction “bit” is that most of the people in the room already know each other. What happened was, someone read a party book. On page three the book said, “Make sure your guests are introduced to each other,” Check this: “Hi there. I’m Sally Jones. I’m your Grandmother.”

The big party night for the year is New Year’s Eve. It’s time for evening gowns and tuxedos. It’s time to haul the family jewels out of the safety deposit box. Anybody who is anybody will go to the ritziest spot in town and spend a small fortune on supper and pour down enough “booze” to float a Volkswagen. I’ve watched a few of these gala events on television. They start out dancing gracefully in beautiful circles around the floor. It’s not too long until they are holding up each other.

I guess my wife and I are social failures. On New Year’s Eve we get

comfortable in our “jammies,” crunch on a large bag of potato chips, and wash ‘em down with a diet soft drink. We try really hard to welcome in the New Year as proper people do.

It just comes too late in the evening.

2#51 5/27/90

DECIDE WHAT YOU ARE

We are what we, at one time or another, decided we were going to be. If, at five years old, you decided that you were going to be a fireman when you grew up, but now at thirty you find that you are a used car salesman, that just means that somewhere along the line, you changed your mind. It’s a good thing I didn’t decide to be an English teacher. The second sentence in this mess would have set the writing profession back a hundred years.

When I write about deciding to become something, I’m not thinking so much about how you earn a living. For most of us, making a living is something we can’t avoid, and so we hire our body and soul out in the best way we can find. Some of us get lucky and find ourselves doing work that we really enjoy. Most of us wouldn’t work at any kind of “job” if we could figure out another way to pay for the groceries. I don’t think that many people are interested in going to the house and hiding from society. What we’d like to do is to be able to come and go as we please.

I’ve lived my life working pretty much an eighteen hour day. Before anyone gets visions of a workaholic who didn’t have sense enough to stop every now and then and “smell the roses,” let me assure you that when I say work, I’m

talking about staying busy. I’m a world class “napper.” If I get a little tired, I “lay me down and rest a while.” About a half hour usually does it. Then I spring up and “fight some more,”

Why did I spend so much time doing things instead of sitting on the porch watching the weeds grow? In the first place, I enjoyed what I was doing. Even when things went badly, I felt that if I just kept at it, a solution would present itself. It always did. Not necessarily my “druthers,” but something that would work.DECIDE WHAT You ARE

I must have said, in the middle of something that wasn’t going

well, a million times, “How could I have gotten myself in this mess? Never again will I be this stupid.” I always forgot that, “there is no fool like an old fool.” I learned a little, but not much.

In the second place, I don’t like to set anything aside until I’ve finished the job. If you’re working on the new undersea tunnel between England and France, you don’t have much choice. You’re going to have to stop at the end of the day and go home. It’ll still be there tomorrow. My problem has been that I knew that another hour or two of steady work would get things in good shape for the next day. That can pile up on you and extend the work day.

With my work as a teacher, I was always determined that no student would be able to come to my class and say, “He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He hasn’t done his homework.” I liked for my classes to move very rapidly. I always prepared more work than they could possibly do. Keep ‘em busy. A student can’t talk and play a horn at the same time. A student with both hands on a horn can’t “whap” Johnny across the back of the head either. I’m not talking

about “busy work.” That’s an invitation to disaster.

I am what I am because that’s what I decided to be. I made thousands of decisions as the years rolled by. Each one of them was based on what I thought was best for me. Each one of them left its mark on what I became. I guarantee you that some of them were pretty “wimpy,” but they were my decisions. I don’t have much patience with people who sit around and moan and groan and declare that, “I could have been rich but I never got the chance.” I can hear Donald Trump laughing in his belly.

2DECIDE WHAT YOU ARE

If you met me, you might not like who I am. That’s your problem. Not mine. I like me.

3#52 5/27/90

HEALTH NUTS

Many years back, when life seemed to be much simpler than it is today, I was driving home from an early evening meeting and I saw a man running madly along the side of the road. His body was covered with sweat and he looked exhausted. I thought he might be in trouble, and stopped to see if I could help. He didn’t even break stride. “I’m jogging. Go away,” he said. I started to tell him who I was, but thought better of it. I didn’t have any problem telling that the man was upset because I had moved in on “his space.” There was a lot of talk in those days about people’s “space.” I was going to talk to my wife about it when I got home, but I was running late and my best bet was to give her a little “space.”

I did talk to my friend, the Basketball Coach, about this “jogging”

thing when I went to school the next day. He told me it was the latest fad. People all over the country were exercising and starving themselves to death so that they might “get in shape” and live an extra fifteen minutes. Coach was six—foot—four and weighed a lusty 160 pounds. I looked at his thirty inch waist and asked if he “jogged.” He told me that he didn’t. He preferred to chase women instead. That made a lot of sense to me, so I let the matter drop.

At the time, I was six-foot—one and weighed a not so lusty 168 pounds. I had a thirty-one inch waist. I was conducting eight classes a day, and that meant I had to do a lot of arm waving and moving about. I didn’t chase women, although I thought about it a couple of times. I also knew that my wife would kill me if she even thought I was thinking about “playing the field.” We did not have what some, at the time, called an “open marriage.” I couldHEALTH NUTS

still run a pretty mean ten yard dash. The “jogging” thing just was not my “cup of tea.”

A couple of years back I discovered that I weighed in at a totally unlusty 225 pounds. Due to the ravages to time, I had shrunk to five-eleven and a half inches, It dawned on me that I needed to get the old “bod” under control. Every time I went to buy new trousers, the waist size had gone up two numbers. I didn’t try to convince myself that the new style clothes were made smaller. I wasn’t exactly fat, but I was getting there in a hurry.

I decided to tighten up on my calories and walk the excess baggage away. I knew I wasn’t going to run it away. My famous ten yard dash had been reduced to a ten yard amble. At

that point, I had to stop and rest. I walked a good steady bit every day for a couple of months. I have to admit that I felt better. I didn’t lose any weight.

In typical “health nut” fashion, I made a list of what I was eating each day. Surprise! Surprise! I was stowing away a couple hundred calories a day in mayonnaise and another couple hundred in soft drinks. Talk about “supreme sacrifices.” I cut that stuff out and continued to do my walks. Slowly but surely the needle on the weight scale began to drop. It took me a year, but I finally got my weight down to 200 pounds. That’s good enough for me. I’ll do whatever it takes to stay in that area.

I also bought one of those Aerobic Exercise tapes. Just looking at it wore me out. I put it back in the box and filed it. My macho mind told me that I didn’t want to look like those women anyway. I think those tapes might be alright if you’re in decent shape and want to stay that way.

2HEALTH NUTS

I still buckle my belt around my middle. I can tour the Mall

and look in all of the shop windows before I have to stop, get a

cup of coffee, sit down and rest. I even occasionally admire a

well turned, female ankle,

3#53 1/7/91

SELF JUSTIFICATION

I have always been interested in the whys and wherefores of human behavior. I’m not much concerned about the rightness or wrongness of what people do, but I like to figure out how they went about deciding to do the thing! The hunter walks up to a fence that is clearly marked with a No Trespassing

sign. He pauses, reads the sign, and then climbs over the fence. What is this guy thinking? I’ll do what I durn well please? No one is going to tell me what to do? I’m too tired to walk around the field? One thing is for sure, the hunter is thinking something. It may not be much, but you’d better believe that he made a decision.

I once walked into a College class and got one of the great surprises of my life. Our teacher came into the room, stood in front of the class and said, “There is no book for this class. There will be no tests for this class. You do not have to write a paper for this class. Your grade will be based on what you have to say in class and how you say it. The subject for our class is, ‘No one ever does anything wrong.’” I thought, “This will be an easy A.” Was I ever wrong. The guy made us sweat blood every time we came to class. If we said something, we had to “back it up.” If we didn’t say anything, we flunked. I learned a great deal from this teacher, and have carried his lessons though life.

“No one ever does anything wrong” seems like a pretty silly statement until you stop to think about it. I’ve come close to getting myself fired a couple of times for making that statement in class. Angry parents have descended on the School Board Office demanding to know what kind of heresy is being taught. After I explain to everyone what the idea is about, everyone calms down a little bit. My supervisors usually suggest strongly that I stick to teaching Music, and leave the heavy stuff to the real teachers.SELF JUSTIFICATION

I usually pout for a few days and mumble to myself that, “They aren’t looking for teachers. They just want trained parrots.” Then I keep my mouth shut for

a while.

In the grand and glorious days of World War I, the Eddie Rickenbackers and Baron Von Richtovens clashed in mighty dogfights over the battlefields of France. The victor in one of these air battles would fly by his parachuting enemy and give a salute to recognize the skill and daring of his foe. This all changed in the Second World War. The opposing forces realized early in the game that a trained pilot who parachuted to safety would soon reappear in a new and better plane to be shot down again or to shoot you down.

Victorious pilots began strafing parachuting pilots and the whole world screamed, “Barbarians.” I agree that it is barbaric. The whole idea of War is barbaric. I never could understand the people who wanted to make rules for the conduct of War. I don’t have any trouble understanding the thoughts of the victorious pilot as he dove and strafed his vanquished foe. That doesn’t make it any less barbaric. What would you have done?

“No one ever does anything wrong” means simply that each of us has, what we think, is a very good reason for doing the things we do. It means that if we cannot convince ourselves that the thing we are doing is right for us, we will not do it. It does not mean that everyone or anyone will agree with us. It may be against Man’s Law. It may be against Spiritual Law. It may hurt other people or destroy other things, but we are convinced that it is right for us.

2SELF JUSTIFICATION

We need to keep this in mind when dealing with others. When we wonder, “How could he have done such a stupid thing” you’d better believe that he thought he had very good reasons.

Maybe the village idiot set the barn on fire so he could roast marshmallows??

3#54 6/5/90

SMOKING

When I was seven years old, I went,to live with an Aunt, an Uncle, and their fifteen year old son. The stay was not a long one because I got in serous trouble in school and was expelled. I was also expelled from the tender care of my Aunt and Uncle and sent on to a place called Swartzel Methodist Home For Children. My Aunt worked as a secretary for Uncle Sam and my Uncle drove a streetcar. During their work time and my non-school time I was left under the supervision of my cousin.

We had a sort of “low key” street gang. We spent our time aggravating the neighbors and stealing whatever from the local stores. Everyone in the gang smoked cigarettes and I was not long in their midst before I took up the “evil weed.” Being the youngest of the group and the least likely to get busted, I was appointed “Procurement Officer for the Tobacco Products.” In simple terms, I got to steal the cigarettes.

During the next ten years, I spent a great deal of time listening to lectures from adults about the evils of smoking. I continued to smoke like a fiend. Finally, when at sixteen I joined the Marines, I was not only allowed to smoke if I wished, but could buy the things for a few cents a pack, or in many cases get them absolutely free. At one time, I smoked about four packs a day. Maybe I should say that I lit up, or even better, got rid of four packs a day. Allowing eight hours for sleep, that’s about one cigarette every twelve minutes.

As I got older, I began to taper off, and by the time I was forty I was down to about a pack a day. I gave up on cigarettes for about fifteen years and took to smoking a pipe. Bad nerves, bad

coffee and cheap tobacco finally got to me and I gave it all up. After a while, I started on the cigarettes again. I smokeSMOKING

less than a pack a day and may stop altogether. My friend Mark Twain covers it well. He said, “Anyone can stop smoking. I’ve done it several times.”

I can see no way that smoking can possibly be good for your health. The paper and the tobacco are filled with all kinds of weird and deadly chemicals. Most smokers wheeze and cough and spit through their waking hours. Why do I smoke? I haven’t the foggiest. I’m sure the experts would say I’m addicted. I can’t quarrel with that. For me, the things have calming effect. I use them mostly as a way to “shift gears.” When I finish with “x,” I have a smoke and then go ahead to “y.”

I do object to all of the part-truths I read about the effects of smoking. “Cigarette smoke contains Carbon Monoxide.” So does every internal combustion engine that was ever cranked up. I guarantee you that you will inhale more carbon monoxide mowing the lawn than you will from a pack of cigarettes. “May result in fetal injury, premature birth and low birth weight,” Come on fellas. Either it do or it don’t. That’s like saying “she’s a little bit pregnant.” “Quitting reduces the serious risk to your health.” What a perfect example of late Twentieth Century “say nothing.”

William Shakespeare had a bunch of good things to say. “Much Ado About Nothing.” “Methinks he protesteth too much.” Even better, the immortal Sergeant Joe Friday, “Just give me the facts, Ma’am.” If the things are as bad as the bad—mouthers claim, why don’t they put the tobacco growers out of business?

I know the answer to that question. I’d just grow my own anyway.

2SMOKING

I sit in the non-smoking sections of restaurants. I seldom

smoke in an enclosed area. I do not smoke in the house at home.

I have built a screened in “smoking porch.” If you come to my

house and want to smoke, that’s where you must go. I spend about

$20 a month on cigarettes. How much do you spend on soft drinks? Excuse me. It’s time for a smoke.

3#55 6/6/90

SWEATERS

The young man, with his brand new marketing degree tucked in the coat pocket of his brand new three piece suit, had just landed his first real job. He was to be the manager of a small “Dollar” store in an equally small town. In the old days, it would have been called a “five and dime” store, but inflation has changed everything. He had been an “A” student in college and absorbed all of the latest ideas which dealt with “selling the most goods with the least amount of effort and the highest amount of profit.” He was anxious to get into the thick of things and prove to one and all that he was a “rising young star” in the store business.

He went to the storeroom in the back of the shop and looked over the piles of goods waiting to be sold. He noticed that there were several unopened cases marked “sweaters.” Most of the sweaters were blue, but there were also reds and greens and yellows and a few coral and one or two chartreuse. He decided to get rid of those sweaters. His records showed that they

had been in the storeroom for a couple of years. He had done especially well in school with the course on “Effective Display of Merchandise.” He remembered from page nineteen, “A combination of an attractive price and a traffic stopping location will sell most goods.”

The blue sweaters must go first. he lined a counter box with blue foil and stacked the sweaters neatly under a sign which said in bold blue letters, “Sale. 50% off original price.” He made a nice tag for each sweater, which showed the old price scratched out and the sale price printed in, with his new blue felt marker. He stood back, admired his work, and waited for the profits to start rolling in.

No one bought any of his sweaters, He went back and reread page nineteen and several other pages. Aha! ! Page twenty—six hadSWEATERS

the solution. “Customers will be attracted by a combination of colors.” He removed five blue sweaters and replaced them with one each of the other colors. He relined the counter box in a bright gold and remarked the “sale” sign in a business-like black. He thought to himself, “That ought to do the trick.”

No one bought any sweaters. Two ladies did pick up the chartreuse sweater, looked at it, felt the material, wrinkled their noses at it, and moved on to “pots and pans.” He went back to page nineteen. He read and studied and thought and wondered. He couldn’t find any help. He picked up a sweater and studied it. Aha!! The label read, “Made in the Peoples Republic of China.” That was it. People were mad at China because of the recent treatment of students in that country. He took his scissors and roughly clipped each of the labels and threw them in the trash. “They’ll be sold before dark.”

No one bought any sweaters. Two ladies did pick up one of the red ones, looked at the destroyed label, and looked at each other knowingly. “Seconds.” They dropped the sweater as if it were filthy and moved on to “linens.”

The young man was crushed. Four years in regular college and another year in Graduate School. Completely wasted. He couldn’t even sell a few lousy sweaters. He decided to leave the sweaters lay where they were. It was mid-summer and time to think about pre—school sales,

Time passes by quickly. Three weeks before Christmas the temperature dropped to below freezing and several inches of snow fell. He sold every one of the sweaters. He remembered page sixty—four of another book. “Seasonal effect on sales.”

2#56 6/13/90

LINCOLN

Do you think you were “raised hard?”

The experts on family life would have had a “field day” with this child’s history.

He was born in a dirt floor, log shack in the mountains of Kentucky. His father was a farmer who scrabbled a few acres of rocky top soil to feed a growing family. When he was old enough to walk, this man child went to the fields to help plant the crops. His mother and father could not read or write and were too busy surviving to take time to learn. When he was seven, the family was forced by a legal land squabble to move to Indiana and set up housekeeping in a

kind of lean-to on Public Land. In time, the father managed to buy the land and the family moved into the luxury of a log cabin that had four sides and a roof. All of this hard life took its toll on the momma, and she died before the boy was ten.

In due time, the father brought a new wife, a widow woman with three children of her own, to live in the cabin. Stepmother and stepson got along famously, and the large family did whatever it took to make things work. Education was not high on the list of things that needed to be done, but what with studying the family Bible and borrowing what books he could find, the young man learned to read, write and figure acceptably well. By the time he was twenty-one, the family moved to a better life in Illinois and the young man had the time and energy to try to be “the best he could be.”

He studied and worked hard and, step by step, moved up the ladder of success. He taught himself law, and soon found himself making more money as a lawyer than the Governor of the State made as Governor, He worked according to two basic ideas: do the jobLINCOLN

right, and be “straight” with people. Sounds like a “rags to riches” tale to me. It’s not a tale. The young man was Abraham Lincoln.

We all understand that this story took place in a different time and that this was the way many were raised in those “good old days.” The point is simply that the person is more important than the condition. I think that it is fair to assume that Lincoln looked at his situation a number of times and said to himself, “I can do better than this.” Then he did something. In this case, he

became President of the United States. I don’t think that at one time Lincoln laid in front of his log cabin fireplace and dreamed of some day becoming the President. I do think that he had a terrible curiosity about what might lie out of sight of the cabin, and a need to go find out.

If we wonder about what kind of magic allowed Lincoln to move from a frontless lean—to in Indiana to the White House in Washington, D.C., we have to consider that there was probably no magic involved. Lincoln appears to have been a great believer in the idea that the only way to solve a problem was to do something other than stand around and fuss about it. He was elected Captain of an Infantry Company in the Indian Wars of 1832. He didn’t know much about soldiering, and neither did his troops. In those days, everything Military had to be done according to special rituals. He led his men across a large open field only to find his progress stopped by a very high fence. Lincoln racked his brain to figure out what the proper command was to get the troops over the fence. He couldn’t come up with a thing. He did what Lincoln always did.

2LINCOLN

He decided that dong something was better than standing there looking foolish. He gave his order, “Company halt! Fall out! Fall in on the other side of the fence!”

A few years later Lincoln went to see a play. A Nineteenth Century terrorist “blew him away.”

3#57 6/16/90

VALENTINES

The man said, “Ah’m from Texas, where the men are men and the women are durn glad of it.” That’s what the male chauvinist pig declared. Right in public. Where all the women’s “libbers” could

plainly hear him. Then this poor misguided soul got in his pick-up and drove to the country. He parked in front of the old two-story farm house and went inside. His wife was in the kitchen, fixing supper. She stood in the middle of so many delicious smells that the old boy could hardly find her. But he did. He gave her a peck on the cheek and a pat on the rump and went to take a shower.

He felt better after the hot water and soap cleaned a few days worth of grime from his body. Construction work is hard work, especially on a Texas summer day. It paid good money and he knew that he was going to be able to get the three kids through school, with just a little bit of luck. He stood in the kitchen door and looked at his wife of twenty years. She was still pretty nice looking. He didn’t have any trouble telling that she was a woman. A little heavy maybe but she wore a clean print dress and her shoulder length hair was neatly combed. He walked over to where she stood mixing a pitcher of ice tea and gently put his arm around her waist. He loved the smell of her, and the warmth of her body. They stood there silently for a moment. She, mixing tea, and he watching her hands. He patted her on the rump again and left to watch the evening news on TV.

I say that this male chauvinistic pig should be horse-whipped or at least put on one of those Texas “chain gangs” for a month or two. Anybody that would make a public statement like he did about women... And to think that after twenty years of marriage he would still look on his wife as a sexual creature. For shame! For shame!VALENTINES

She gave the tea another stir, dropped in a tray of ice cubes, and put the pitcher in the fridge. The two teenage

boys burst through the kitchen door dripping sweat and dirt from their baseball uniforms. They stripped to their shorts and threw the clothes in the basket by the washing machine. They lifted the lids from the food cooking on the stove and sniffed supper. With a quick, “Hi mom!” they headed for the shower. They talked about the ball game they had just lost. “I wish girls would stick to Cheerleading. If Susie had caught that pop fly we would have won the game. She looks like a stick in our uniforms.” Oh! Oh! If these boys don’t mend their ways, the “libbers” will have their hides.

The seventeen year old girl breezed through the front door and as she passed her dad, seated lazily in front of the TV, she kissed the middle of his bald spot. “Gotta go help mom. See you at supper.” She floated into the kitchen with a “Hi mom! I’ve got a date tonight; Billy Joe is taking me to the ‘stock car’ races.” She grabbed a handful of silverware and began to set places for supper. She’d better watch out. Some young man would trap her yet.

Supper was a kind of quiet time. Each one gave a little speech about their day’s happenings, but mostly they enjoyed the meal and each other’s presence.

It was the boys’ time to do the dishes. They don’t do a very neat job, and “mom” always has to “touch up” after them. The despicable male chauvinistic pig got up from his chair at the head of the table, walked over to where the woman, whom he’d been exploiting for twenty years sat, and said, “Let’s take a walk over

2VALENTINES

to Fred’s.” She smiled in agreement and took his hand as she stood up. He held the screen door open for her. Hand in hand they walked into the sunset.

What a terrible story!

3#58 6/19/90

WASHINGTON

Old George was a first class “hardhead.” He decided to get on his horse one cold, snow blown, December, virginia day and ride out to check on a piece of land. He owned several thousand acres and believed that the best way to solve a problem was to go look it straight in the eye and do something. He wasn’t one of those who put off to next week what could easily have been put off until tomorrow. He did it now. Snow storms were just a bother.

I can hear Martha. “George. If you’re bound to go out in this mess, at least wear your good coat.” To which George probably replied, “Martha. I’m wearing more than I had on at valley Forge. You just keep the coffee pot fresh. I’ll be back in a bit.” Then, as George started through the door, Martha again, “George. Don’t forget your wool scarf.” “Martha..

Well, George went out and rode the now frozen trails; found the problem; whipped things back into proper shape; and struggled home through a blinding blizzard. He died two days later.

It seems he came down with a thing called the “quinsy.” A sort of super bad sore throat. They used the best medical treatment of the time, but none of it helped. First, they put leeches on him to draw out the bad blood. They had him gargle with a tasty mix of “molasses, vinegar and butter.” They even made a “blister” of cantharides and put it on his throat. I don’t know about that last one. I was raised to believe that cantharides was made from dead beetles. We called it “Spanish Fly.” Maybe they

•knew something we don’t. Whatever

they had in mind, it didn’t work. George thanked one and all for their kind attention, closed his eyes, went to sleep, and passed into immortality.

We like to believe that our great heroes were “supermen,” able to do things us common folk can’t. That makes us feel better andWASH I NGTON

not so guilty for doing less than we should. Every time a new generation rewrites History, they make these heroes more and more, “bigger than life.” We begin to lose sight of the truth about them.

George was born rich, raised rich, lived rich, and got richer as he went along. He was a true Capitalist. That means that if you went to trade horses with him, it would be a real good idea to bring an extra horse to ride home. Donald Trump didn’t invent “The Art of the Deal.” It’s not hard to figure out how George got so far. He was one of those terrible people who are always “up to something.” He was either working, partying, politicking, or soldiering, every waking hour. Every time he turned around to spit, he made a few bucks. He knew how to work with people, and how to get them to work with him. You didn’t “beat” George. You might slow him down a little, but by the time you turned around, he’d be back on your “case.”

He learned things military the hard way: “in the field.” He made some prize mistakes in the early days. He built a fort in the bottom of a valley. When the creek rose, the fort flooded. The hills around the fort were so close that “snipers” made going to the “privy” an unwelcome adventure. Later, as an aide to a British General, he made a classic blunder. He advised splitting the forces into two groups. The French “chopped” them to

pieces.

Custer tried the same thing at the Little Big Horn and Crazy Horse wiped him out. Custer should have read his History book better. George learned from his mistakes and fought the British so well that they finally gave up and went back to “Merrie Olde Englande.”

2WAS HI NGTON

I can hear George now, crossing the Delaware, “Come on boys! Lean into those oars! The Hessians are great cooks! Let’s hit ‘em before breakfast!”

Thanks a lot George. We owe you.

3#59 6/22/90

WILL OF THE PEOPLE

It’s a puzzlement. Most of us agree that law and order is a good idea. We can see the need for hard set rules on proper behavior. We follow the rules and expect others to do the same. We think it’s a good idea for something unpleasant to happen to those who choose to break the rules. We have a hard time making up our minds about the details.

It all started with our Constitution. I spent some time reading it, and was really surprised to find that it is a pretty good piece of work. Those old boys “covered it” pretty good. They even built in a way to change it if occasion arose. Down through the years, we’ve spent a lot of time and energy arguing about what it says and means.

This Constitution then is our “game plan.” Every now and then, when we see the need, we tack on a little change to try and make it work better. Sometimes we change our mind and take the change out. Many times it’s hard to decide just what the thing means. We solved that one pretty well by hiring some experts to decide for us, and

agreed to go along with their decisions. Up to this point it has all worked pretty well.

We have a problem sometimes with people who don’t want to play by the rules, or decide that it says something most of us don’t accept. Then the fur begins to fly and we get riots in the street and noisy speeches. Everyone is sure that they are right and that the other fellow is an idiot. No one seems to be able to some up with an answer that satisfies everyone. We overlook a basic truth.

All social groups are made up of people. These people have a will. The will of the people always wins. It may take a while, but the will of the people always decides what is or isn’t done. No leader can find success with a group if he goes against the will of its people.WILL OF THE PEOPLE

Six million Jews were slaughtered by the Nazis. Was the will of the Nazis the will of the German people? There is no question that they were caught up in the Holocaust. There is no question that the German people did little to stop the Holocaust. There is no question that some tried, and died horrible deaths. It was not the will of the people of the world. They rose up in their millions and destroyed the Nazis; laid waste the German cities; and sent their young to early graves.

Is it the will of the American people that our flag should no longer be treated with respect? A wedding ring is a symbol of belief in the idea of marriage. The flag is the symbol of our history as a nation. Are we as a people prepared to say that this idea no longer has value? Are we ready to use the flag as clothing, to burn it in protest, to stomp it in the mud with hatred? I don’t think so. I may

be wrong. The flag may become a silly decoration. If it is the will of the people, the flag will be returned to its place of glory. Nothing else will matter.

The freedom of speech thing bothers me quite a bit. Does everyone have the right to say anything to anyone at any time or in any place, without fear of being “hassled?” Have we become a country with no sense of morality? Is it time to remove “In God We Trust” from our coins? Is it time to take “One Nation under God” out of the Pledge of Allegiance? These questions make my stomach feel funny. What I think is only a small part of what counts.

The will of the people carries the big weight. I don’t think you’ll let me down.

2#60 6/26/90

TREASURES

Stuck in a corner, somewhere in my house, is a genuine, cherrywood, hand carved, apple butter stirrer. It’s got to be worth at least a dollar on the antique market. I also have a gas heated steam iron. This monster weighs at least twenty pounds. It was once used by tailors in a suit factory to press heavy wool material. They can’t fool me. You didn’t have to heat the thing and make steam. All you had to do was set it down on the cloth and its weight squashed the wrinkles out. I can’t imagine someone pushing this thing back and forth for twelve hours a day. I ought to be able to get a couple of bucks for it. That is if I’m interested in divorce.

If this was all I had in the way of

“objects that normally sane people buy at Flea Markets,” I wouldn’t mention it. We’ve got a house full of these treasures. After thirty-eight years of marriage to a woman who has a Doctorate in shopping, we have at least two of anything you’d care to mention. At one time we had extras.

I don’t expect anyone to believe this, but as each of our three children moved through late teenagery, they spent countless hours planning for the day when they could finally break out of their home prison and get out into the “free world.” The only problem with this is that after a short time, they came back home.

They also brought their wives, husbands, children, furniture and personal treasure troves with them, At one time, what had started out as a “starry eyed” couple holding hands at the movies, had grown to thirteen bodies, four TV’s, two washing machines, seven sofas, fifteen beds, and enough pots, pans and spices to feed Napoleon’s Army.TREASURES

The big problem here was that each one wanted to be the center of attention. Each one wanted to be boss. There were times when, as the novelists like to say, “the air was fraught with tension.”

I’m proud to say that everyone pitched in and did their part, and no one was ever seriously assaulted. There were times when one and all went to their rooms and pouted. As with most things, in due time they each decided to give the “free world” another try, and went their separate ways. The next problem was that they didn’t take all of their “stuff” with them. We have eight bottles of vanilla if anyone needs some.

Added to this fact, my wife and I had just returned from six years in West Germany where we had set up a complete household. For a while, we had the only home in the county with five floor mops. Things wear out. Things get used up. Things disappear mysteriously in the night. Each time one of our “bairn” came home, they hauled off a little more. Things are pretty much under control now and sometimes we get lonesome for the “good old days.”

It’s been a while since my wife and I have done any serious Flea Marketing and I was beginning to fear that we had lost our touch. Not to worry. As I came through the living room the other evening, I stumbled and felt a sharp pain in my right ankle. I looked down and saw one of our treasures of treasures that had been left near the couch. A genuine, old time, cast iron, “butcher paper” holder. Like they used to have in grocery stores. I sat down and rubbed my swelling ankle and felt much better.

As close as I can figure, we’ve got about ten tons worth of “stuf P in the house. I have moving bills to back that up. Each

2TREASURES

piece stores memories for us. We’d have to be “up against it” to sell the first piece.

About fifteen miles East of Greenville, South Carolina, there lies hidden in the valley a forty acre Flea Market. We’re going to check it out this summer on the way to West Virginia. We’re taking the truck.

3#61 6/29/90

ST. PATRICKS’

What do you know about the Irish anyway? Unless you’re Irish, probably not very much. Something to do with four leaf clovers and snakes I’ll bet. In the first place, they’re not clovers, they’re

Shamrocks (a trifoliolate leguminous plant used as a floral emblem by the Irish). If it’s a quadrafoliolate, then it brings good luck. In the second place, there were never any snakes in Ireland for St. Patrick to chase out. They have their share of lizards, but no snakes.

I’m proud to say that I’m Irish. My great grandfather left the “auld sod” and came to the US of A in 1846. That was the year that the potato crop failed and famine swept Ireland. Great grandpa was one of the lucky ones who managed to scrape enough money together to buy a “steerage’ ticket and head for the promised land. Steerage meant that he got to ride down where the rudders of the ship did their job. He got there just as quick as those who could afford staterooms “topside.”

Great grandpa settled down in New York and went in the funeral business. He didn’t strike it rich, but did well enough to be able to buy all of the potatoes he could eat.

Thousands of Irishmen poured into New York and soon built a strong Irish community. They worked hard, drank hard, and fought hard. They earned a reputation for being quick tempered and hard headed. Today’s “Micks” haven’t changed much. We’re proud of our heritage. The Irish fought their way out of the ghettos to make a better life. No one reached down to give them a helping hand.

Breen is a fine old Irish name. It means “from the brae.

From the meadow. The O’Briens, Bryans, Le Bruns and the Bruns all share the same history. Brun is more German, though, and means

spring or fountain.ST. PATRICKS’

Irishmen have a long list of given names. Mine is actually James Edward Michael Patrick Breen. The James and the Edward appear on my Birth Certificate. I picked up Michael because I was born on September twenty-ninth, which is the Feast Day of St. Michael the Archangel. That is my Saint’s Day name. The Patrick was given to me at the time of my Confirmation. Confirmation ~5 the time when a child has matured enough to speak for himself. I became a new person; therefore, I got a new name. You can call me Jim.

The Irish culture has become part of the American Culture. Americans use some Irish ideas and Irish words. I’m sure that you’ve heard them say on the TV, when someone is acting a little crazy, “They’re going to come and get you in the padded wagon.” Like so many other words and their meaning, things have changed down through the years. It’s supposed to be the “Paddy” wagon. Paddy being a play on Patrick. Patrick being the Patron Saint of all Irishmen. The “fuzz” spent a great deal of time going to local bars to break up fights amongst the brawling Irishmen. The “Paddys.” The “Micks” were “Mickey McGuires,” members of a very strong and violent Irish Labor Union.

There are a million bad jokes about the Irish and their love of a good brawl... An Irishman walked into a bar and ordered two drinks. One he tossed into his mouth and the other he threw in his shirt pocket. He kept this up until he became a little “loaded.” He turned to face a room full of fellow Irishmen, “I can lick any man in the room,” he bellowed. From his shirt, a small mouse peered, bleary eyed, and squeaked, “That goes for your darn cats, too.”

2ST. PATRICKS’

An old Irish song says it best:

“When Irish eyes are smiling, shure it’s like a day in Spring. In the lilt of Irish laughter, you can hear the Angels sing. When Irish eyes are happy, all the world seems bright and gay. And when Irish eyes are smiling, shure they’ll steal your heart away.”

Shure and begorra; may the Saints presarve ye all!

3#62 7/4/90

SPRING

“Spring is sprung, the grass is riz.

I wonder where the birdies iz.

The bird is on the wing.

How absurd. I always heard.

The wing was on the bird.”

Even if it has not been a “hard” winter, most of us are glad that Spring is here. Some are soon going to have to go out in the blazing heat of summer to work. That’s not exactly the stuff that dreams are made of. We know that, for a while, nature is going to be kind to us. It’s been cold and gloomy. We’ve been shut up in the house. For a while it seemed that it didn’t really get full light before it started to get dark again. Everything is bursting with new life. Open the windows! Shut off the silly heaters! Go outside and get a lung full of new grass and flowers!

Better check on the lawnmower. It’s been asleep for a while and it knows that when you wake it, there’s hard work ahead. I’ve known people that were attacked by a grouchy lawnmower. They can be more ferocious than a pit bull in heat.

In the old days, long before even I was born, Spring was celebrated the way we celebrate New Year’s. It was party time. It was time to make plans for the coming year. It was a special time for the politicians to gather in public places and give speeches to crowds that were in a good mood. Things haven’t changed that much. Even in those Ancient days, there were those who wanted to “run the rascal out of town” when he didn’t vote to suit them.

The Ancient Romans called it the Ides of March. Their Spring Celebration

ran from the ninth of March to the fifteenth of March. It wasn’t until much later that some smart alecky scientist figured out that the Romans were a week early and changed the calendar.

SPRING

Julius Caesar sent his Legions all over the world and “gobbled up” so many countries that he had to hire special clerks just to keep track of them. He got to be a real “fat cat” and he also got very “big in the head.” He decided that the Roman Constitution was nothing more than a bother and, when it suited him, ignored it. Some of his friends became very upset and decided that the old boy was going to have to go. They sent some of their group over to the temple of Pompey to do him in,

Brutus caught up with Caesar at the foot of Pompey’s statue and put the blade to him. Caesar fell to the ground, bleeding like a stuck hog and hollered out, “Et te Brutus?” (“And you too Brutus?”) Brutus screamed back at him in Latin, “Veni, Vidi, Vici...” (“You came. You saw. You conquered. You didn’t give me my cut.”)All of this took place on the Ides of March, when everyone was supposed to be having fun.

In today’s world, Spring is the time when our teenagers get a funny feeling in the pit of their stomachs. Johnny realizes that the sweet young thing sitting in front of him in English class has had a major overhaul since the last time he looked at her. That was in the sixth grade when he shoved her into the drinking fountain. She wasn’t little and scrawny any more. The smell of her was about to drive him crazy.

The Seniors suddenly become less loud and more calm. They get a dazed look in their eyes. It has dawned on them that after graduation in June they will never again have their special hide away, and that reality is more than a football game or quiet gossip in the corner of the Library. It makes them sad.2SPRING

It had rained for three days. Grandson looked at Grandpa and said, “Is it ever going to quit raining?” Grandpa looked down his nose, “Grandson. You ain’t never seen any real rain. I remember the Spring of ‘45. It rained so hard the dam broke. The river came over its banks. The water rose so fast fish ended up in the tree tops. We caught ‘em with butterfly nets.”

Grandpa! For shame! For shame!

3#63 7/10/90

EASTER

When I was growing up, I lived for a time in a Catholic Orphanage. Our home was an enormous building that covered about an acre. On the first floor were two very large playrooms for the boys, restrooms for the same, and the laundry rooms. The second floor was used for the schoolrooms, dining rooms, kitchen, another playroom, and the offices. The third floor was for the sleeping rooms, an infirmary and a chapel.

In those days, the Catholics were really big on religious holidays. Every time we turned around, they were herding us into that chapel for some kind of church service. We got up every morning and went first thing for our daily Mass. Sometimes we sent in the evenings, just at dusk, for a thing called Vespers, which had something to do with ringing bells. I never did get the whole idea straightened out. When a two hundred pound, six foot nun said go to the Chapel, we went to the Chapel.

It wasn’t really bad. They did lots of things that involved burning incense so the place smelled nice. The priest wore neat looking different colored robes, and was always turning around to bless us. We got to sing a lot, and I loved to sing. We boys couldn’t figure out whether we went so much because we were very— very good, or in super need of Heavenly guidance. We worked on the Chapel going, the incense burning, and the singing big time at Christmas and Easter.

We were well trained in the meaning of all the religious history and had the rituals down pat. I could speak and sing in Latin as well as English. They didn’t tell us much about why they did the things they did, the way they did them, We knew that when the priest wore purple robes it

was a time for sadness, but we wondered how purple got to be a sad color.EASTER

The week before Easter was a quiet, sad time. On Friday at noon, we went to the Chapel for three hours. The Saturday before

Easter was a joyous occasion. At the noon meal, we were given

p

candles and other sweets. For the six weeks before Easter, we were

not allowed to eat anything that was really good. We thought that was pretty much of a bummer. Saturday afternoon was the time for our final rehearsal for the Easter music. Easter was the big music time, and the service on Easter Sunday lasted about an hour and a half, mostly singing. We loved it.

Many years later, I began to wonder about some of the things we did and the ways we did them. I studied up on the whole thing and was satisfied that it was all a pretty good idea. I found a few things that I thought were interesting.

Easter comes on the first Sunday after the first full moon following the first day of Spring. Read that again.... I always thought that it came six weeks after the beginning of Lent, but then I couldn’t figure out how they decided when Lent began. It begins six weeks before the first full moon after the first day of Spring.

We always had our Easter service just as the sun began to rise, and we greeted it with a burst of song. In the Middle Ages, people went on Easter morning to a hillside to watch the new sun of Easter dance its way across the sky.

I learned that the Easter bunny was a special rabbit that laid its own eggs and hid them for children to find. It was important to find these eggs

because they were the symbol of new life. In the old days, Easter was a time to welcome new members into the Church and give a proper welcome to anyone who had moved into town during the past year.

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I can well remember that old Chapel with a bright sun just beginning to stream through the windows, the priest strutting proudly in his flowing white and gold robes, and the jntoxicating smell of the incense. i remember singing, “Et in terra pax hominibus.” “And on Earth, peace. To all men.”

What a terrific thought.

3#64 7/13/90

WORK ETHIC

The thing I like to do best of all is absolutely nothing. I like to sit on my screened-in porch, drink a cup of coffee, smoke a cigarette, and just stare off into space. If I sit there and make plans to do something, I don’t consider that doing nothing. In that case, I will soon have to get up and go do something. The result of this is that I will then no longer be doing nothing, but have refused to do that which I most want to do... Nothing. Doing nothing is not as easy as it might seem.

Since we were small children, we have been pushed and shoved by all of those around us to be always doing something. “Are you going to sit and stare at that TV all day?” “Why don’t you go out and play?” “Is your room clean?” “Have you finished your homework?” “Are you going to mow the grass after supper?” “If you finish that job, come help me.” “If things slow down, sweep up the floor.

I once worked in a gas station. The owner expected me to be always busy. He explained that passing motorists would notice that everyone was hustling about and figure that we

must be very busy. If we were busy, we must be running a good business. They would then want to be a part of this and stop to do business with us. I listed to this for a few days, and then quit the job. I told the boss that I had gotten a really good job. I was going to work on a garbage truck... $25 a week and all I could eat. He was not amused.

Where did we get this idea that doing nothing was a kind of crime? In the old days the boss used to say, “I expect an honest day’s work for a day’s pay.” He didn’t really mean that. What he meant was, “I expect to see you doing something every minute of the time you’re on the job. “ What he didn’t say was, “The harder youWORK ETHIC

work, the more money I make.” “You’ve done enough work for today. Go home and take it easy for the rest of your shift.”

I did exactly that three years ago. I love it. I worked

sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, for forty years. I woke up

one morning and found out that I was worn out. I asked myself why

I was doing all of this work, and couldn’t come up with an answer.

I know that most people spend their lives doing the same thing I

did. I didn’t think that I was the only one doing any real work.

I retired with a liveable income, and get along fine doing

practically nothing.

It has given me a chance to fill a life long ambition. I always wanted to think I had enough time to stop each evening, take a bath, and put on clean clothes from the skin out. Sometimes I skip a day. Sometimes I bathe and change twice a cay. Maybe I’m a “fat cat.” I threw away my alarm clock and sleep until full light. I usually manage a few jobs around the house, and occasionally go off and do something to make a few extra bucks. My favorite thing, though, is to go to the screened-in porch.

When I mention the house I live in and the piece of land that goes with it, I hesitate to call it my land. It belongs to the creatures that live there. If I dare leave the house and go into the yard, they scurry about and make all kinds of protesting noises. At last count, we had about a dozen jays, three squirrels, two rabbits, and at least one black snake. We put out food for them and just sit quietly and watch. I notice that they don’t do any work. Who’s in charge anyway?

2WORK ETHIC

I think Hoagy Carmichael, one of the better American songwriters, said it pretty well:

“Up the lazy river by the old mill run. That lazy, lazy river in the noon day sun. Linger in the shade of a kind old tree; through away your troubles; dream a dream with me.”

3#65 7/14/90

IQ

Down through the years I heard a lot of talk about a thing called IQ. It’s supposed to be a measurement of something called intelligence. I haven’t heard much talk about what this “intelligence” thing means. I do hear things like, “He’s smart. He has an IQ of 132. He makes straight A’s in school.”

They don’t have much to say about how the 132 and the straight A’s connect.

As far as I can tell, these high IQers can do several things better than the average person. They absorb information like a sponge, with little or no effort. My wife had a cousin who worked for the Government during the Second World War. This cousin’s job was to memorize and “spit back” information on demand. He memorized close to a hundred pages of notes that were to be used at the Yalta Conference at the War’s end. The story goes that he stood by Franklin Roosevelt’s side and fed him data during the Conference. I believe that story.

I watched this catbird work. After the war, he went to work in a bank as an auditor. I’ve seen him look at a sheet full of numbers for a few seconds and then start pointing out problems or errors in math. He was always correct. We thought he was a genius.

As a teacher, I always wanted to get at the files and see where my students rated on the IQ thing. I didn’t care much about the numbers themselves, but I did classify my students into one of three groups. Most of them were average. That meant that if they paid attention and worked at it, they would get along well enough. A few of them would be pretty bright. That meant that I was going to have a problem keeping them out of mischief. A few of them were going to be “slow learners.” That meant that I was going to have to be patient and not push too hard.IQ

I spoke to each group with a different language and never asked a student a question that I didn’t think he could answer. That’s not exactly true. If I didn’t think they were paying attention, I’d “zing” them with a good one, and

hope to embarrass them. I got “zinged” by the principal for that little trick a few times. “You shouldn’t embarrass students in front of their peers.” Maybe I should have hit them with a stick. Yuk!

Given enough time, the bright person will end up controlling the actions of the group. It may not appear that way. The “slow” person may be the most visible and be shouting obeyed orders all over the place, but the thinking and ground rules are coming from the bright person. The ability to pile up information and then put it to work can be deadly. The members of the group usually figure this out and either accept it or “run the rascal out of town.”

The “slow” one knows a great deal more than the rest of the group wants to admit. This “sly fox” plays his “slowness” for all its worth. He loves to hear someone say, impatiently, “Here. Let me show you how to do that.” He stands there and watches, while the “suckers” do all the work. It’s better to say, “Oh! I’m sorry! I thought you knew how to do that.” He’ll stomp you in the mud, getting the job done.

The average person is the one who ends up with the short end of the stick. He’s smart enough to figure out how to get the job done. He’s ambitious enough to feel good about getting the job done. He thinks that doing the job is more important that the why of it. I always felt that I could take a group with an 10 of 114, a healthy tad above average, and beat you at anything from chess to football.

2IQ

As the years roll by, the tools we

have to work with become more and more complicated. Only the very bright can understand how and why the tools work. The rest of the people are forced to accept their word as truth.

I wanted to find out how car payments were figured. I asked several people who should have known. They didn’t have the foggiest idea. They could punch it out on their computer for me, but they didn’t know how the computer knew. The Math teacher at the local High School knew.

3#66 4/14/90 Revised 6/21/90

SCHWEITZER

Sometimes, I talk to myself. I think most of us do. I have a strong feeling that there are two of me. There is the me that others see and react to. There is another me that no one knows or understands. We talk to each other like old friends, which is what we are. Like friends, we like each other and enjoy each other’s company. The other me is sometimes nice and says things like, “Hey, that’s pretty good.” At other times, this other me gets on my “case.” Then he says things like, “How could you do something that stupid?” My wife doesn’t approve of this fantasy, especially when I argue with myself and lose. “The men in the white jackets are going to haul you away some day.” Maybe. I just reply, “I’m the only intelligent person I know.” I’m not that “big in the head.” I mean that I’m the only one who understands exactly what I’m thinking.

We spend a great deal of time being angry. We are angry at ourselves. We are angry at others. We are angry at the world. We spend so much time being angry that we wear ourselves out. Most of the time, we don’t even know why we’re angry. We’re just angry.

I stayed angry until I was in my thirties. I began to question my anger after I read a book by Albert Schweitzer, “Out of My Life and Thought.” I don’t know what it was that Schweitzer said that made me stop and think. I knew that I was dealing with a man who understood the meaning of the idea, “being at peace with yourself.” Albert Schweitzer quieted my anger and allowed some of his peace to creep in.

He was a student of religion, a musician, a doctor, a scientist, and a man for all seasons and all reasons. He spent his life looking at things, thinking about things, and doing things.

SCHWEITZER

He went to darkest Africa and built a hospital in a place where the people had never heard of medicine as a way to treat illness.

He also built an organ for his jungle hospital. It was a special organ. It didn’t produce any sounds. Just a structure with a key board and foot pedals. He practiced on this organ for ten years, thinking the sounds in his mind. He needed to raise money for his hospital, and returned to the concert halls of Europe where he played “sold out” concerts with a real organ that made real sounds. Then he went back to Africa.

No one sent Schweitzer to Africa. No one paid his way. No one asked him to go. He just went into the jungle, stopped at a likely spot, and started to treat sick people. He spent his life doctoring the sick, practicing on an organ that didn’t make sounds, and playing concerts on an organ that did to raise money so that he could go back and do some more.

The “system” wasn’t thrilled with the way he ran his hospitals, and gave him a hard time. They wanted to close his hospitals down because Schweitzer didn’t keep them clean enough to suit their “high and mighty” standards. He believed that all life is important. He wouldn’t swat flies or step on ants. He didn’t approve of cutting flowers, and felt guilty about walking on the grass. He didn’t believe in killing anything. He must have figured out some excuse for eating dead things. He lived “four score and ten.” He saved hundreds of lives. He didn’t preach peace. He lived peace.

He was at peace with everything and everyone. He didn’t “gush over” with

well meant but empty words about how man ought to live. He simply greeted the universe of life with open arms. Just as his

2SCHWEITZER

practice organ didn’t make sounds, he greeted all he saw with, “I love you.” He didn’t say it. He didn’t need to. He knew it. You knew it. What need was there for sound?

Do you suppose that he knew something special?

3#67 7/21/90

OLD MEN

I have decided to start a new club. If you want to join, you need to keep in mind that this club will have no meetings, no dues, and will make no effort of any kind to get anything done. The last thing that you need to do to join this club is contact me. You just decide that you want to be a member, and you will be accepted without further ado.

This club is going to be,restrictive and discriminatory. I’ve already hired a lawyer to fight off the people who are going to be mad because I won’t let them join. It won’t do a bit of good for anyone to start writing letters to the Editor, marching in the streets, or hiring an airplane to fly over town with a banner which declares that I am a totally bad person. I admit that going in, and I will not change my position. If you fit my membership rules, welcome aboard!

The rules are simple. You must be at least sixty years old. You must be a male. Members of any race or ethnic group may join. Those of you who live in foreign countries like Washington, D.C., or San Francisco may start your own club. If you want to remain a member in good standing, you have to agree with several simple ideas.

When you see a young person doing something that is totally stupid or a complete waste of time, you give it the Ann Landers “bit,” MYOB. For the benefit of the four people in the US of A who don’t read Ann Landers everyday, MYOB means mind your own business. I know that this MYOB thing may seem selfish and that you only want to share your wisdom. The young person is not going to accept anything you say anyway. Count the scars on your body that are the result of doing stupid things when you were young. Why let today’s young advance to old age without their own collection of hurts?OLD MEN

Walk around all day long with a sainted smile on your face. Be a hypocrite! pretend that everything is right with the world. If you talk at all to some young people. . .Lie... Tell them that they are doing a really fine job and if they keep up the good work they will soon be blessed with unbelievable good fortune. Let them think that the boss is throwing a New Year’s party because he wants to spend some “quality” time with them. The only reason he keeps looking at his watch is he’s worried that the party is going to end too soon. Always accept a salesman’s word as Gospel.

Don’t tell your children about the old days. When they complain about the coldness of a winter day, forget your favorite, oft told tale of the Winter of ‘57, when the temperature dropped to fifteen degrees below zero and you drove your car into a forty mile an hour headwind as the engine froze over. They’re not going to believe you, and may decide that it’s time to start checking for a nice, cheap rest home.

If you find yourself involved in a conversation with a group of young people, never. • .never say something as

stupid as, “I’ve noticed down through the years that....” They’re going to give you that look of sadness that says, “The old coot doesn’t understand that things have changed. He doesn’t understand that in today’s world, saving the Manatees is more important than having a friend who accepts you for who and what you are.”

The more I think about this club, the madder I get. Tell you what I’m going to do. I resign. Take my name off your mailing list. Don’t send my phone number to one of those 900 places, so they can call me at supper time to ask for a donation to the tuskless elephants of Nairobi.

2OLD MEN

I’m going to spend time at my friend’s garage. They sit around the fire and tell lies, “That Porsche will do 75 in neutral,”

3#68 7/21/90

MONEY

If I want to go to the store and buy an ice cold soda for fifty cents and discover that I have a dollar in my pocket, I don’t have a money problem. In fact, you could say that I have more money than I have any use for. On the other hand, if I keep going to the store for ice cold sodas and don’t have anything left over to make my car payment, I have, a serious money problem. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to give up sodas or cars or go to jail for writing bad checks.

Most of us spend our lives trying to figure out how we can find enough money for a soda every now and then, pay for our shiny car before it becomes a hopeless pile of junk, and maybe stash a little bit for a trip to the Bahamas every ten years or so. In order to do this, we have to learn somehow to spend less

than we take in. That’s about as easy as petting a porcupine.

If the big boys who print our money in gobs of billions would quit playing games with us, it would be easier to figure out when we could afford a soda, and when we need to save that money for the car payment. At night when you’re not paying attention, they may dump a few billions on the market and mess up your entire plan. You go to the store and find that the money you had set aside for bread yesterday will only buy half a loaf today. There goes the car payment!

The only possible solution to this problem is to go to the boss and try to separate him from some of his money. Ho! Ho! Ho! He’s going to tell you that he doesn’t have any extra money to give you. He’s being less than honest with you. If the price of bread just went up, the price of the “squidgets” you make for the boss is going to go up pretty quick. Hang in there. He’ll change his mind about the raise before long. Of course, by that time the price of bread will probably go up some more.MONEY

I think the whole money idea is a bunch of nonsense anyway. At its best, it’s nothing more than a way to keep track of who has what. The big boys throw it around like birdseed, hoping that some of it will hit the ground and grow into something good. I read about a man who bought a building on credit, bribed a banker to loan him more money than the building sold for, paid off the first loan, sold the building at a profit, and then paid off the bank. He did all of this between lunch and supper. He made a nice profit for himself, and charged the lunch off on his Income Tax.

If we could just get the President to call the boys at the Treasury and tell them to stop printing money, the whole

thing would straighten up pretty quick. I don’t see why we can’t just decide what things are worth, and what a man’s time is worth, set a price, and forget about all of the game playing. The big boys don’t want that to happen. It would bring their afternoon trading games to a screeching halt. They might have to pay for their lunch.

I almost got lynched at a teachers’ meeting a few years back. The Board of Education had agreed to give the teachers a raise and they were arguing about how much. I told them that I didn’t want a raise, and they broke out the rope. I put my back in a corner and tried to explain what I wanted. I told them to figure out how much I was worth, and offer me that as a salary. I would either take their offer, or quit the job. I told them I would never ask for a raise. They threw the rope over the rafter. I added quickly that I did expect to have my salary keep even with the inflation rate each year. They took the rope down and told me that there was a fresh pot of coffee in the teachers’ room. They asked me if I would go get it.

2MONEY

By the time I got back, they had settled the raise thing and were discussing the new football stadium.

3#69 7/2390

MOTHER’S DAY

Did you ever stop to think about what the world would be like if only Mothers were making decisions? Scary isn’t it? You are probably also thinking, “The old boy has finally gone off the deep end. He needs close supervision.” That may be true, and several members of my family came to that conclusion a few years ago. I once caused .a small riot in my house by suggesting that we

should not use the car to go any distance less than a mile. I let that one go in a hurry when they figured out that my job site was only a half mile from the house.

Notice, from the above, that I said Mothers. I didn’t say females. Females are different than Mothers. Females spend their time being female. Mothers spend their time checking on everyone else in the world to make sure that the proper thing is being done. Mothers are not much concerned about anyone else’s ideas on what is proper. Mother knows best... After all, if it wasn’t for mothers, there would be no one else.

If the Mothers of the world were making all of the decisions, I don’t think we’d have any more wars. They wouldn’t approve of the way our fighting men have to live. Wars are usually fought out in the mud and slime. The fighters don’t get to bathe and change underwear and socks everyday. Sometimes they don’t get three well balanced meals a day. They have even been known not to brush their teeth on a regular basis. None of these things sit well with the Mothers of the world.

If somewhere in the world there was a disagreement over who owned what real estate, the Mothers would call a meeting, form several committees, decide on a fund raising program, and dismiss the group until the following month. By the time they got all ofMOTHER’S DAY

the committee reports worked out, everyone would have forgotten about the disagreement.

I believe that the following story is true. Some Mothers may not.

In a small Southern town, a group of young Mothers had become very active in fund raising, They were

determined that their children were going to have everything that fund raising could buy. They were very, very good in this business. They were so good that the neighboring towns began to call on them to help in planning their fund raisers.

Four of the champion fund raising Mothers piled into a station wagon one cool Fall evening and headed for a PTA meeting in a nearby town. Halfway there, they went head on into a semi loaded with fruitcakes for the Kiwanis Christmas fund raiser. The four ladies passed into the Great Beyond. A time passed, and one day St. Pete got an urgent phone call. It was old Satan himself, He said to Pete, “You’ve made a big mistake. These Mothers don’t belong here. They belong with you. You’re going to have to get them out of here. They’ve had a hundred and two Bake Sales. They’ve got Bingo going every night. They’re $200 away from having this place air conditioned.” Old St. Pete said, “Send them on up.”

Once a Mother, always a Mother. Now that my children are grown and gone out into the cruel world, where they manage to survive without twenty-four hour a day maternal supervision, I get to be the child, I call my wife “Momma.” It makes good sense. She takes care of me without blinking an eye. “Eat the Yogurt! It’s good for you.’t “There is only one pair of socks in this week’s wash.” “Are you going to take another nap?” I love it!

2MOTHER’S DAY

When people ask me how many children I had, I always reply, “I didn’t have any. My wife had three.” I did get to pay for them, though. That’s the least I could have done. Other than that, I just

tried to stay out of the way while “Momma” did her magic.

3#70 7/24/90

YOUTH

When I was very young, I used to read Reader’s Digest from cover to cover. I read every word in the thing, including the advertisements. I wanted to absorb as much information as possible in the shortest amount of time. I don’t know what my hurry was. Maybe I thought that if I didn’t get it, someone would steal it from me. Go with that one Dr. Freud! As soon as I finished with a copy, I became impatient for the next one. Then, as they say in the Romance novels, “my world fell apart.”

I picked up the latest copy and zeroed in. “Logging Camps in the Northwest.” Good, but a bit of a waste. I had read in another Digest article about “log jams.” Planting trees to replace the ones they cut down was new. “The Coming of the Interstates.” Nonsense! There was no way that they could cut a six lane highway through the hills of West Virginia. “The Spider Monkeys of Tanganyika.” Whoa! Hold your fire! I had already read about those silly monkeys.

I checked the date on the magazine. It was right. I checked some back issues and finally found one with an article on African monkeys. I compared the two, There wasn’t enough difference between the two articles to count for anything. I was shattered. Reader’s Digest was reprinting old articles. Was nothing sacred?! Why would they do that to me? It was my magazine. All of my friends who read the Digest had already read about Spider Monkeys anyway. Who needed a repeat.

I thought about it. I worried. I fussed about it with my friends. One of them said, “My younger brother read that article and thought it was great.’ Oh! Oh! I’m dumb, but I’m not stupid. They didn’t write that article for me. They wrote it for those that were too young to have read the original. I had always

YOUTH

thought that the old had their place in time, the young had their place, and I was somehow in the middle on a merry_go—round that

in circles but never changed. I knew that babies were

meaning for most of the then young.thought about that forawhile and then decided that it wasn’tsuch a bad idea. My lifewas beginning to straighten out some.

plan.

In the meantime, it seemed to make good sense to take each day

and make it special. It was only going to happen once, and there

was no way to redo it. There would be no time for waste or

senseless bad feelings. There would only be time to fill up each day with living and hoping that tomorrow would really be there, Each day would pass into night and then disappear.

Somewhere a book reads, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts....” And then in another place, “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose. A time to be born and a time to die...”

raced madly being born and of it had any forward. The keep track of

Hmpf! It was not going meant that it for it to go. an old personthat every now and then an old person died, but none special meaning for me. I was. I lived and went passing birthdays were nothing more than a way to things. I would be forever.

was a puzzlement. If, in fact, that merry

—go-round in circles, but was going in a straight line, that had to be going someplace. There was only one place The home of the “Grim Reaper.” One day, I would be and I would die, My death would have no special2YOUTH

But then I return to Mark Twain. “What a pity that youth has to be wasted on the young.” Maybe not. Maybe that’s part of the plan.

3#71 7/26/90

XEMORThL DAY

Each year our group grows smaller by the hundred thousands. We are the remnants of a society of brash young men who went to a strange and foreign place to seek out and kill other brash young men. Our minds are still filled with wonder and confusion about the whys of what we did. We were convinced at the time that our cause was good and just. We felt that we must do these things, or our world would cease to exist. Now we sometimes wonder if it had any real meaning. Maybe. Hopefully. We know that it was very special. We buried our dead in blood—soaked, sacred ground, and went ahead cautiously but without fear.

It was the Fourth of July. We had celebrated a day early with a head—on encounter with the Sons of Nippon. If winning means taking control of ground, we had won. We had paid a price, and now it was time to put our dead to rest.

The word passed around the perimeter.

“All hands will assemble at the cemetery at 1400 hours.”

We gathered in a half circle as the Colonel spoke to us quietly.

“The purpose of this formation is to say good—bye to our friends. This is a young war. Many of us, perhaps most of

us, will die before it is over. When my time comes, I hope I can die as they did, like a Marine. Fighting!”

There was no bravado intended or taken.

“I pray that we can be half as good as they were.”

The chaplain read the service for the dead and spoke the eulogy. The firing squad gave its salute.

I stared blankly at the thirteen graves on the side of the jungle hill. How long would I last? Would I die clean like they had? One thing was for sure. I would die fighting. I lookedMEMORIAL DAY

again at each grave. Good—bye dear friends. I turned and walked slowly around the campsite.

I flopped to the ground and put my head between my hands. This was stupid. Why were we killing each other? What did the dead men know? A dead Marine and a dead Nip were exactly the same. Maybe someone knew. I sure didn’t. I got up and continued to walk with my head down.

The Colonel was sitting in his Jeep with one leg thrown over the dashboard. He called to me as I passed by.

“Marine. Come here.”

“Yes sir!”

“Stand easy and quit calling me sir. How old are you?” “Seventeen.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep!” If he wanted casual, I’d give it to him.

“You did a good job up on the hill yesterday.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s going to be a long war,”

“We’ll make it.”

“Maybe. I hope so.”

Well, I made it. The Colonel made it. A bunch didn’t. The least we can do is stop every now and then and remind ourselves and others about the price we paid to live in a world that is beginning to recognize that there is a better way to settle our differences than to send our young men out to slaughter each other.

For those of us who remain, it is good to think of Shakespeare and Henry V.

2MEMORIAL DAY

“But we... shall be remembered;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he today that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother;...”

3#72 7/25/90

RHETORIC

I know that this will come as a great shock to you, but everything that you read or hear is not the absolute truth. Some people can look you straight in the eye, swear on their sainted mother’s grave, and hope to be struck by a bolt of light~ning, and lie through their teeth. Some others don’t exactly lie, but they do use the truth, as they know it, in a way that helps them and confuses you. Still others like to think that what they

think is true because they think that it is true. This last idea can cause some serious problems. No matter how untrue the thought may be, some people are going to think that because it was said, that there must be some truth to it, and act on it.

The best examples of this idea in stating opinions as truth can be found on the editorial pages of newspapers. The guiltiest writers are those who write letters to the editor. Those who write the columns run a close second. Check these out. Remember that some will accept these as absolute truth.

“Soviet opinion polls are not that reliable, but a recent one gave Gorbachev a cellar popularity rating of 13 percent.” This says, in effect, that the Soviets are not bright enough to take a poll, or that they are a bunch of out and out liars. It also says that people who live in Russian cellars don’t like him very much. Could it be true? I wonder how they got “Sputnik” into space?

“I know teachers have a rough time because kids are not taught respect by their parents now, the way I was in my childhood years-- 1924 to 1930. They are not taught to obey parents and teachers as well as other adults.” This guy had a really short childhood. Maybe they gave up on him after his sixth birthday. Maybe I missed out on something somewhere along theRHETORIC

line. Ninety percent of the students I taught had been properly trained at home. It was the ten percent “lunatic” fringe that caused the problems.

The most dangerous kind of opinion as truth is found in letters that ask questions. The questions usually hint that there is only one possible answer

and that answer means that someone is doing something very bad.

“Why is it necessary for the Police to dispatch three or four times the number of Officers to a disturbance at a ‘black’ club than it would to solve the same problem at a ‘white’ club?” The accusation is that the Police are racists. They may be. It is also possible that experience has taught the Police when and where to expect big trouble,

“Why were 90 percent of the officers white?” Do they really believe that when the disturbance call came in, the police sat down at a table and assigned all of the Ku Kluxers to the call? Do you believe that?

“Why were there a number of vicious, growling K—9’s present?” Are they suggesting that the dogs were there to attack and strew body parts all over the parking lot? Maybe they need to check Police casualty rolls and the lists of Police killed by violent assault.

“Why was unnecessary force used by more than five officers to arrest one individual?” I hope that the writers of the letter are experts on Police Training and crisis tactics. I wasn’t there, but if I had been, I wouldn’t want to bet my life on not using enough force. Maybe the individual chose not to be cooperative. I know that the Police can and do go too far sometimes.

2RHETORIC

There was nothing in the letter to explain exactly what took place. Just an accusation, which will encourage some to cause a bigger problem next time.

If you use a half—truth as a whole—truth to improve your position, you are acting and living a lie. Some of those around you are going to accept your half—truths as whole—truths and act on them. You have made them dishonest. You have declared that truth has no value. You have tried to speak against corruption by becoming more corrupt than the corrupters.

3#73 8/22/90

LOGIC

My wife’s mother used to lay “old

sayings” on one and all. I was never able to remember exactly how they went. Most of them were very confusing to me. Most of them seemed quite logical and sounded like something that made a great deal of sense. I just had a problem with understanding what they really meant. One of my favorites was, “Don’t measure the other fellow’s peaches in your basket.” My wife insists that it should read, “Don’t measure your corn in someone else’s half—bushel.” Whatever!

I’m not at all sure what it really is trying to say, but I think I have the idea straight. All of us have this really bad habit of deciding what is right or wrong for everyone else in the world by measuring it against our own ideas. I don’t suppose there is any good way to get away from this bad habit, but it sure causes a bunch of problems.

I’m a neatnick. I want everything exactly so-so. This, of course, drives my wife, who is a gatherer of priceless items that will someday be worth a fortune at the flea market, into a “tizzy.” She placed a small basket of packaged salad crackers on the table for munchies. They were thrown in the basket in artistic disarray. My daughter and I noticed this and immediately sat down to rearrange the crackers in a neat line with all of the labels right side up and facing front; as is good and proper. My wife informed me that if I didn’t think she had sense enough to take care of the kitchen, I could take over the job myself. I’m not dumb enough to be suckered into that one. We both got a little upset. Neither one of us was either right or wrong. The crackers were going to taste the same, no matter how they were placed in the basket.LOGIC

I read in the papers that a young boy was riding in the back of an open pick-up truck. The truck wrecked, The

boy was thrown from the truck and killed. The driver was charged with DUI. What a terrible thing. A needless waste of a young life. Surely the driver was an ignorant, unthinking, unfeeling, totally bad person. Maybe. Maybe not. Just like the crackers, it doesn’t really make any difference. The boy is dead, and the man will have to live with that fact.

We don’t have to approve of what happened, but we should try to understand how and why. I would suppose that the man and his father before him were raised riding in the back of open pick-up trucks. I would suppose that the man and his father before him, and on back a few generations, were used to having a few drinks on the weekend after a hard week’s work. I would suppose that no one gave a second thought when they saw the young boy climb into the back of the truck. This is all part of a way of life, and of itself is neither right nor wrong. It just is.

The town drunk gets his Government money on the first of the month, and then spends the day scurrying about town paying all his bills. He is very careful to pay back the money he borrowed the previous month. It is a point of honor that everyone be paid before the sun goes down. Then he takes whatever money is left and begins again on a binge that will last ‘till the money is gone and no more can be borrowed. He will spend some time in jail, and some time in the hospital. Why does he do this to himself? I haven’t the foggiest. I do know that he has reasons. I don’t approve, but I know he must be haunted by some special ghost that he tries to chase away with booze.

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“The best fruit doesn’t grow closest to the ground.” I don’t know what that means. Do you?

3#74 9/26/90

POWER

I have never understood the idea of “power.” I wouldn’t walk fifteen feet to be able to tell someone else what to do. I know people that would walk a thousand miles just to look a fellow human being in the eye to order him to do or not to do some thing. They seem to have some insane idea that the power to control other people’s lives makes them bigger or better.

I don’t have any problem with the idea that a person who has to work with a group of people in such a way as to get a job done in a particular way must somehow figure out a way to push that group in the right direction. When that happens, the leader of the group is using power.

A teacher must have and use whatever power is needed to control the actions of the students in the classroom. The best teachers are the ones who find a way for the students to have some “say-so” about what is going to happen, without that teacher losing their position as “king of the hill.” One of the best teachers I knew told me, “The only way you are going to have a successful program is to put together a group that wants to do the same things that you want.” Unfortunately, this is seldom possible in the Public School system. It is possible with activities like Music and Sports, where the leader of the group has some control over the membership of the group.

As a teacher, I sometimes told my students, “You have only two choices in life. You can be a tellor or you can be a tellee. There is no middle ground. In this situation, I am the tellor. If you don’t do as I say, I am in a position to cause you un-

wanted trouble. If you don’t like this, then you must do the things that will make you a tellor instead of a tellee.” The problem here arises when the tellor starts telling the telleesPOWER

what to do, just to prove to them that it can be done. This is abuse of power. We’ve all done it. I’ve done it. I was never proud of myself afterward.

I don’t understand what it was that drove Adolph Hitler to sacrifice fifty million lives to build a German Nation that could control the World. I’ve read book after book that attempted to explain the man and his reasons. They all failed. Some simply excused it all by stating that he was a raving lunatic, and therefore his actions did not require explanation. I can’t agree with that. It seems to me that he got caught up in a “power grab” which simply went out of control. The job became too big for the man, and it blew up in his face.

I am reminded of Howard Hunt, who was asked shortly before his death, “You control billions of dollars and thousands of people. You still work sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. How much do you want?” Howard Hunt replied, “Just a little bit more.” He is also credited with saying, “If I can’t take it with me, I ain’t gonna go.”

If you happen to be in a position where someone else is pushing you just for the pleasure of watching you suffer, do what you have to for survival, but take the first chance you get to back off and away from your tormentor, I know how easy it is to get trapped in a no win situation, but keep looking for an escape route. No job, no marriage, no position, is worth getting up each morning dreading the day or the person you have to deal with.

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If you’re one of those who delight in making others miserable because you’re in a position to control their lives, at least ask yourself what you hope to gain. Remember, you are as mortal as the rest of us. Howard Hunt will be glad to see you.

3#75 9/12/90

MARRIAGE

One of my smart—alecky daughters gave me a coffee mug for Father’s Day. In plain blue letters on the cup were printed words of wisdom? “Men are good for only one thing——and how important is parallel parking anyway?” What kind of a sexist remark is that, anyhow? In recent years, men have gone to jail just for letting some sweet young thing know that they appreciated the idea of a tight fitting mini skirt. I don’t know whatever happened to the birds and the bees, but in today’s world, the suggestion by a man to a woman that they consider the idea, can get the man in serious trouble. I think that I must be one of those “male chauvinist pigs.”

I just don’t understand what all of the fuss is about. I was raised to say “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am;” to hold the door and stand aside while the ladies went ahead; and to gaze lustfully at a well filled bathing suit. As a result of this training, when my hormones were old enough to begin raging, I began to search far and wide for a suitable partner. I found a beautiful young thing who wore a perfume that was designed to put my hormones in a dither. We started to “court” and early on resolved that the birds and bees would have to wait for marriage before casting their spell. We went to the church, got married in proper style, and began raising a

family. We produced three children. i went to work every day, and she stayed home to “keep house.” It’s been forty years now. I thought that was the way it was supposed to work.

My wife readily admits that she has seen a few “hunks” down through the years, that have caused her blood pressure to raise a few points. I know that I’ve seen several ladies that I would have considered “fair game” if I had been single. My wife tellsMARRIAGE

me that “It’s alright to look. Don’t touch!” I don’t understand how my appreciation of the fairer sex makes me either a “dirty old man” or a bad person, A work of art is a work of art. No matter what the age.

I read in the papers that three out of five marriages end in divorce. I read that ninety percent of those divorced, remarry. I know many families that are raising two or more sets of children from previous marriages. i wonder what goes wrong. The “head” doctors will tell you in the blink of a twenty-five dollar book that things like arguments over money, the pressures of parenting, and the failure of a couple to grow and go in the same direction, are the big things that destroy marriages. I’m sure that is mostly true, but it doesn’t explain how a starry-eyed couple went from loving to hating, or worse yet, completely ignoring each other.

In forty years of marriage, my wife and I have gone “aroundthe bush” a few times. We’ve had our share of shouting matchesand threats to “just go on down the road.”reason, we

managed to work the problem out and

get on with our lives together. We have learned to love and respect each other, each accepting the other for what they are. That doesn’t mean that we agree on everything, but we have learned to listen to each other. We are good friends.

“Oh! What fools these mortals be.” I know those who have spent their lives hopping from bedroom to bedroom; dashing hither and yon in a mad search for a soul—mate who will raise them to a permanent state of dizzying ecstacy; and that this will go on

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forever. I wonder why it is that when I see these people, they always seem worn out. Why do they frown so much?

My wife and I sometimes speculate on whether we could have, or would have, done better with someone else. We agree that it’s possible. We agree that “for sure” we could have done worse.

3#76 9/27/90

SUMMER

Well, the love bugs have gone wherever it is they go. They arrived in their millions; reproduced in mid air by the billions; and then disappeared like last week’s pay check. I took the bug screen of f my truck, scrubbed ten pounds of dead bugs from the hood,. and parked the thing in the shade of the old oak tree. I guess summer must be here.

The thing I like best about the first day of summer is that it is the longest day of the year. I got into the habit, years ago, of waking up when it became full light. That means that I’ve been waking up earlier and earlier in the mornings between December and June. Now that I’ve gotten the longest day of the year out of the way, I can sleep comfortably just a few minutes longer each day until it gets to be the first day of winter again, and Mother Nature turns things around to

rob me of some of my favorite pastime.

It gets hot in this part of the country. After about a month of 95 degree temperatures in the mid—afternoon, I begin to look forward to the coolness of fall. My wife’s mother used to say, “Don’t wish your life away.” I took this to mean that we should enjoy each day as it happened, and not be hoping always for a somehow different and better tomorrow.

One thing is for sure. You can’t do a whole lot of physical work in this kind of heat. People who work outside have learned to move slowly but surely to get the job done. They know when to stop and take a breather. They know to keep a jug of cool drink near at hand. It’s rare that someone has to be hauled to the Doctor’s office with a heatstroke. It’s the Yankees that come South and poke fun at our slow ways that get hauled away. ThoseSUMMER

that can, save the serious work for the early morning hours or for the time in late evening just as the sun is going down.

Of course, the very best thing to do is absolutely nothing. Some “fat cat” capitalist dreamed up a scheme to get the peasants to work harder. He called it the Protestant Work Ethic. This meant that all of the Protestants were supposed to spend their lives working like madmen, This, of course, would make the Capitalist richer and the Protestant more tired. I don’t know why they decided to pick on the Protestants for this fancy idea. Maybe it was a Catholic or a Hebrew or a Buddhist or Muslim. I guarantee you that it wasn’t a Southern Baptist.

The biggest summertime chore for

a retired old fogey like me is mowing my two acres of lawn. When we got the place, I wanted to put a fence around the house that would leave us room to plant a few flowers and some spare room to walk around a little. Being a lover of nature and creatures, I was more than willing to leave the rest of it in its natural state as a sort of refuge for whatever. My wife had a different view. It was her feeling that we should fence the whole thing in and fix little play areas for those creatures who cared to visit with us. Her logic went something like, “Why have it if you don’t use it?”. You don’t stay married forty years arguing with logic like that. I fenced the whole thing, bought a riding lawn mower, and in the high season mow it about once a week. It does look nice. The creatures love it and stay with us.

Summertime is good for a bunch of things. Swimming in the lake. Going to the beach. Napping in the shade. Sitting on our screened in porch in the early evening and watching the cars go

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by. Potato salad and cold fried chicken and a cool glass of ice tea. I think George Gershwin had the right idea. “Summertime. When the livin’ is easy. Fish are jmupin’... and the cotton grows high.”

3#77 11/9/90

FREEDOM

As much as anything else, the word freedom means our individual ability to choose the direction of our search for a happy life. We can go, in our search, wherever our abilities and ambition point us. No one has any great interest in standing in our way unless our search somehow interferes with their search. When that happens, the sparks begin to fly, and someone is going to have to change directions.

If you want to get up in the

morning and head for Alaska to prospect for gold, you can do it. Go right ahead. Now, if it so happens that you have a wife and three young children to support, you may find yourself on the nether side of the law, unless you have figured out a way to provide for their care while you are off rounding up gold nuggets from the frozen Arctic soil. The point is, if you are determined to go, go. No one is going to make a serious effort to stop you.

I once heard a High School Football Coach try to explain to the local Civic Club why his team was on the downside of a 3-7 season. His position was that the equipment and facilities at the school made it nigh impossible for him to do a good job. The Coach got a little angry and complained about the “Monday morning quarterbacks” and the lack of support from the townspeople. He ended his little speech by stating that if things didn’t improve, he was going to get in his car and find a job at another school where his coaching ability was appreciated. A “wag” in the back of the room piped out loudly, “I’ll buy you a tank of gas.”

We have the freedom to think our own private thoughts without interference. I’ll bet that I’m not the only one that has sat in a crowded room listening to an idiot rave on and on about how to cure all of the world’s problems. The main idea ofFREEDOM

the speech usually hints that we are doing everything wrong. If we would only follow the speaker’s system, everything would comeout fine and dandy. I’ll bet I’m not the only one who hasthought bad thoughts about the speaker.

Maybe questioned his

parentage. Maybe thought of the hunting dog that was sitting at home waiting for

us. Maybe figured that the dog probably had better sense than the speaker. The speaker is usually being paid a handsome sum to spit out a thousand nothings. Probably doesn’t give a “fig” what we think.

“Freedom isn’t free.” We are all part of a system, and the system has a bunch of rules and regulations that we must follow or the system will come down on us like a bag of wet cement. We have to give some of our freedoms up to make it possible for the system to protect us. We have to be always on watch to make sure that the system doesn’t swallow us whole and leave us with no freedoms. If I’m going to Alaska in the morning, I’d best use the roads provided by this system. If I get in a tank and try to get there “cross country,” not only will I tear up some good farmland on the way, but I’m soon going to have a large group of angry citizens running after me screaming, “Shoot the rascal!” Sounds like a good idea to me.

The fight for freedom and against freedom goes on each day. There are those who would try to force us to believe or not believe in the existence and authority of a God. Others would try to be Gods and decide for us what we do or don’t do with our bodies. The flag burners want us to forget our yesterdays and the meaning of a piece of colored cloth which is the symbol of a way of life and a memory of our heritage. The foul mouthed “rap” singers insist that their language is the voice of the system.

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It was Patrick Henry who ended a speech calling for an uprising of the American Colonists with the immortal words, “I know not what course others

may take, but as for me, give me Liberty or give me death.”

3#78 3/30/90

TEMPER TANTRUMS

Up to the time I was about thirty, I spent a great deal of time being mad at everything and everybody. Losing my temper at the “drop of a hat” became a daily occurrence. I made it a practice to look for things that would allow my anger to explode. Those who were unfortunate enough to have to “put up with me” made it their practice to avoid me as much as possible. Slowly but surely, I began to realize that my “evil temper” was a losing proposition. I began to understand that while I was having a fit of temper, I was not in control of either myself or the situation. I made up my mind to do better. It took a while, but I began to improve. I realized that having a “temper tantrum” could cause all concerned a lot of unwanted grief.

My youngest got through her “two year old” tantrums without much of a problem. She started expressing opinions by outbursts of temper well before her second birthday. She was the baby and we thought it was very cute. After awhile, it began to be a “drag” and we tired of the “temper” game, One day she threw herself to the floor and held her breath. At first we were alarmed, but then as we watched her struggle to keep her cheeks puffed out and turn slowly purple in the face, it became funny. Mother, father, older sister and brother stood there and laughed at the baby. She finally let the air burst out, sucked in a new breath, and then stomped off to her room. That was the end of the “terrible twos.” Some people remain “two” for the rest of their lives. Grown—ups who can’t control their tempers have caused some unbelievable destruction,

Emperor Hirohito of Japan was “wacko” about breeding and raising fish, One cool fall night in 1937, the Emperor discovered that many of his prize fish were sick and dying. HeTEMPER TANTRUMS

spent the entire night “doctoring” these “poor fish.” It so happened that one of his field generals was also busy capturing the Chinese city of Nanking. The city fell to the Japanese forces in the middle of the night. The happy general called the Emperor to let him know the good news and to ask what the Emperor wanted done with the captured city. The Emperor had just managed to finally get to sleep and was not at all happy about being awakened. He lost his temper. The Emperor let the general know that he had more important things to worry about than the fate of a Chinese city. He told the general to do whatever he pleased, and went back to bed. One hundred and seven thousand Chinese were slaughtered before the day ended.

When the Germans “stole” Czechoslovakia in the spring of 1939, they realized that they were going to need to use harsh measures to control the place. The Gestapo Chief, Heinrich Himmler, was in charge of this sort of thing. Heinrich sent in one of his toughest “hard heads” to do the job. His man, Rein— hardt Heydrich, was an expert at “killing off” the opposition. The Czechs were not at all happy. Finally, a couple of young Czechs took matters into their own hands and “blew Heydrich away.” Himmler became very upset with this turn of events. These Czech “sub humans” had just made a mess of one of his “pet projects.” He lost his temper. The small town of Lidice went up in smoke and all its men were shot. The new man that Himmler sent in to take Heydrich’s place was worse than Heydrich.

I recently read where three brothers were involved in a “shootout” over how one of them had parked the car. If you go around with a “chip on your shoulder” and are always ready to

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“take somebody’s head off,” sooner or later some quiet little person is going to “take you apart.” I lost two front teeth proving that one.

3#79 11/10/90

GRANDCHILD’ S WORLD

I recently traveled the Interstates around Washington, D.C., and West Virginia. I couldn’t help but marvel at the differences in these roads and the old two laners I traveled over fifty years ago. What was once a three hour drive along a lane and a half of twisty, up and down a hill and across a “flat,” and then another hill, is now a smooth trip through gentle curves and soft hillocks that takes forty—five minutes. Of course, you don’t get to watch the countryside much. You have to spend your time staying in traffic and trying to avoid being squashed by monstrous semis. They’ll get you if you’re not careful.

I saw some interesting signs on the way, A motel advertised “Air Conditioned TV in every room.” I wanted to stop and check that out but my wife declared that the inn keeper would not appreciate my feeble attempt at humor. One sign ordered, in black letters on a bright yellow State Road sign, “Trucks with more than eight wheels use two right lanes.” Them trucks were big, but they weren’t that big.

I saw some interesting rear bumper decals. An old “clunker” backfired and poured smoke in my face with one that read, “Hit me, I need the money.” A black pick—up truck with enormous tires informed me, “Eat right. Keep fit. Die anyway.” I liked the one that read, “Let me tell you about my grandchildren.”

I worry about them a lot. What kind of a weird world are they going to

live in? They probably won’t think its weird. Today’s “yuppies” don’t think the twelve lane super highways are weird. They don’t know what quiet means. They’ve lived their whole life with the deafening noise of machinery pounding on their skulls twenty-four hours a day. They think the hamburger rolls at the fast food emporium taste good. They have never eaten mom’s freshGRANDCHILD’S WORLD

rolls, self made and hot, from the oven. They don’t seem to mind at all.

Sometimes I think that we worry too much about the terrible things that might be a part of tomorrow’s world. Maybe we don’t want to accept that it will be different than ours. Maybe we think too much that our “right” is the only possible “right.”

At the rate we burn up oil, surely the wells are going to run dry before long. Will the world come to a stop when that happens? I think not. We already have better ways to make machines run than by burning gasoline in them. It will probably get better.

I think manatees and whales are fascinating. If we kill them all off, the world will be poorer for it. The dinosaurs went a long time ago. Maybe our world would be somehow different if we still had some. We seem to get along well enough without them,

Way back when the first railroad trains started to roll, the scientist swore and be durned that if the things went faster than forty miles an hour, the force would pull all of the passengers to pieces. The pilots in our modern planes travel faster than the speed of sound, without ill effect, I suspect that if we get up to the speed of light, no one will give it a thought.

I think that no matter what happens, my grandchildren will continue to do what we humans have already done. They will solve the problems one at a tine, and work out a liveable world, Like us, they will make some bad decisions and leave new problems for their grandchildren, but all in all they will adjust to what is, and accept it as reality.

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I do hope that they will finally decide that there has to be a better way to solve disagreements than the one their many generations of grandparents used. That is the idea that the only usable solution to a disagreement is to get a big club and hit the other fellow over the head. It hasn’t worked for us.

3#80 11/221/90

CRIMINAL MIND

“Mother, may I go to swim?”“Yes, my darling daughter.

Hang you clothes on a hickory limb, but don’t go near the water.”

I’m sure that when you were a child, the old mommas said something like that to you. If you didn’t follow momma’s command, you knew that you were going to be in serious trouble. Maybe a little of the old willow switch? Maybe just a good talking to? I’m sure that whatever the punishment was, it wouldn’t have met with the approval of the HRS.

I’ll bet that you didn’t know that if you did decide to go ahead and “cool out” in the river, that you had committed a criminal act. You defied the system, You failed to honor your mother. The system said that momma made the rules and children followed them. Or elsel Our country’s jails and prisons are filled with grown up children who started out

deciding that the only thing of importance was what they wanted for themselves.

Most of us think about the things we do. We decide that they are good or bad. We want to be sure that other people know that we are one of those who does “the right thing.” We sure don’t want the system to get out the old willow switch and give us a good “lacing” with it. Sometimes we are nice, and do or don’t do things because they might somehow hurt others.

I worked for the High Sheriff for a while, and learned some new things about how people end up behind bars. My first idea was that I was dealing with those who had somehow gone astray and been caught at it. It seemed to me that they had bucked the system, and now were going to spend time thinking about the error of their ways, and making plans to go the “straight and narrow” when they finished their tine. This was surely true for some of them. I was astounded to find, though, that some of them could not understandCRIMINAL MIND

why their deeds had resulted in a jail sentence. Hogwash! You say. They’re putting you on. That’s what I thought at first. The more I talked to these jailbirds, the better I realized they couldn’t understand why society was so upset with their behavior. Check these three out!

“My wife and I were just having a little disagreement. She threw a cup of coffee at me and then I knocked her on her butt. Now I’m in jail for aggravated assault. I don’t see how its anybody’s business what a man and his wife do in the privacy of their own home.”

“1 was just taking a shortcut to get to the woods. I saw this beautiful doe and took a shot at it. I didn’t even see Bubba coming from his barn. I only got him in the shoulder. Now they got me for armed trespassing; assault with a deadly weapon; shooting a doe out of season; and hunting without a license. What’s the big deal anyway?”

“If they would just turn me loose, I’d get myself straightened out. I don’t want to be out on parole. I couldn’t stand that, When you’re on parole, they want to have you check with them all the time and tell them what you’re doing and where you’re going. They don’t even want you to go have a little bottle of beer in the evenings, A man’s got to have some fun.”

These people are serious in what they say. They aren’t putting you on. They realize that the system is unhappy with their behavior. They know that the system is going to hassle them if they don’t straighten up. These people can’t figure out why they aren’t able to do as they please. They never learned that a member of a system is responsible to that system.

2#81 11/23/90

DANIEL BOONE

As the King of Siam said, several times, “It’s a puzzlement!”

I read the papers, watch the TV, look all around me, and understand without any trouble at all that there are a whole bunch of people that aren’t “making it.” They spend their entire lives

trying to figure out how to pay a hundred dollars worth of bills with fifty dollars. Can’t be done. Most of them go to work each day and do their best, Their best just isn’t good enough to make their bills and their pay come out even. Most of them keep trying. Some just give up.

Balderdash you say! They have to learn to manage their affairs. They expect too much. They have enough money for beer and cigarettes, They have a couple of old clunkers to chase up and down the road. They’ve got a TV and a VCR and a shotgun. They’ve always got a soda in their hands. They find money to do what they want to do. If they would use that money to pay their bills and stick a little in the savings, they soon would be caught up.

I wish it were that simple.

Many years back, I was driving through Kentucky headed for Eastern Tennessee, To get out of Kentucky, I had to drive through the Cumberland Gap, a pass through the Appalachian Mountains. A sign by the side of the road told us tourists that Daniel Boone had come that way in a long ago time. He was headed West, looking for a place to homestead. He walked through the Gap with everything he owned either on his back or strapped to a mule. He carried a rifle in his hand and had a powder horn slung across his shoulder. He “made it.”

We stopped for a spell to look at the gap and ponder about how old Dan’l managed the whole thing. He was on his own. If he wanted shelter, he cut some trees down and built himself a cabin ofDANIEL BOONE

sorts. If he got hungry, he roamed through the forest and hunted for wild game or gathered the natural foods that grew in abundance, If he wanted a bath or a cooling drink, he went to the nearest

flowing body of fresh clean water, When he decided to stop and settle for a while, he built a better cabin and planted things in the ground around it. He could grow corn to make “squeezins” and maybe a little whiskey. A handful of seeds thrown on the ground and carefully tended would grow to a nice “mess of tobacco.” Simply said, he did what needed to be done to “make it.” No one told him how, what or when. No one insisted that he send part of the fruits of his labor to the “White Father” in the little village on the Potomac, where it might be sold and used to send a Ben Franklin on a cruise to France for a tour of the nightspots.

If you tried any of Dan’l’s ideas on your own in today’s world, you’d end up in jail. You had better not hunt or fish without a license. You had better not build a house without a permit, If you make a small libation for sipping on a quiet evening, the “Revenuers” will get you before you can swallow. A few minutes spent puffing on the “evil weed” will cost you more than a “Minie” ball cost Dan’l.

The “head” doctors will tell you that times change and things change and we have to learn to change with them. This doesn’t mean that the changes are all good changes, In any event, they are what they are and we have to figure out how to do what needs to be done to make some kind of sensible life. Not trying won’t make it. Defying the system won’t make it. It’s not as simple as it sounds.

It’s a puzzlement.

2#82 4/7/90 Revised 6/27/90

FOCUS

A young person who wants to become a teacher must go to College and study for at least four years, Since teachers are expected to have answers for just about any question, the college courses will cover everything from how to write a “paper,” to thinking about how and why we exist as human beings. Those who wish to become teachers must take special courses that look again and again at the idea of teaching. I must have taken twenty-five or thirty of those classes.

They all were pretty much about the same things. How should the schools be run? What should the teacher be doing in the classroom? They never got around to telling me what to do when a student told me that he didn’t have a paper and pencil for class because he had not been home for three days. They talked a great deal about ideas, but not much about solutions to problems.

I went into my early “education” classes thinking that people went to school to learn new ideas and decide how they would use these ideas. I was quickly told, in no uncertain terms, that my thinking was weak and that maybe I should consider some other line of work. I was informed that the “purpose of education” was “to indoctrinate the values and mores of the existing society and insure that they were passed on to the next generation.” That seems a bit “wordy,” but fairly innocent.

It is a totally “scary” idea. It says that we should not look at what is happening and question it. We should just accept it and then make sure our students did the same thing. I argued the point for a short while and then realized that I was “holding the short end of the stick.” I decided that I had better shut my big mouth, get through the classes, and then, when I got to the classroom, doFOCUS

what I thought was right. Maybe they don’t teach this anymore. I’m not convinced.

Have you ever had your child come home from school and say, “1 got in trouble in school today for arguing with the teacher. She said I was being ‘sassy.’ I couldn’t understand why I was wrong.” What did you say to the kid, “You’d better not be sassing the teacher.” For shame. You need to find out what happened.

I can’t remember how many times I was asked, “Why do we have to do this?” Some would ask that question if you asked them to take a deep breath. A good question deserves a good answer. I studied on this one and finally caine up with, “It’s all a part of your education. You need to learn as much as you can about as many things as you can. Look at it. Take out what’s good for you and throw the rest away. First, you must look at it.” That satisfied most,

I once mentioned to a group of Music students that Beethoven was deaf when he composed his last Symphony and was unable to hear it performed. I heard, “Who cares?” and then, “What difference does it make?” My reply was, “You tell me.” It took a while, but every class had its thinkers and talkers, I really felt good that so many of them said so much that made so much sense. I didn’t follow my Lesson Plan that day but went back to it the next day. There was a howl of protest, “Why can’t we do what we did yesterday?” I told them that if I didn’t follow the Plan and cover all of the pages in the book, I could get fired, They didn’t believe me. Maybe they were just “putting me on.” Naah! Kids wouldn’t pull a sleazy trick like that.

2FOCUS

I have a friend who is so bright that his momma used to call him “Sunny.” He recalled his Public School days as being an absolute waste of time. He swears that he once answered a 120 question test with the same answer for each question, “Me no know and me no care.” The next day he got to read his answers to the class. He had to read each question and then read his same answer. He also got his “butt” busted for his efforts.

3#83 5/5/90

OLD TIMER

From time to time, maybe when things have gone well, a teacher will find that the lesson they prepared has been completed and a few minutes remain before the bell is to ring. I always kept a small bank of discussion ideas to throw at the class for those moments. Usually nothing of any great import, but something that might encourage a little thoughtful conversation. The idea always worked out better than throwing spit-balls or flying paper airplanes.

One of my favorite ideas was to make a ridiculous statement and then lean back and let the students “have at it.” I informed the class on one of these occasions that in my young days, we didn’t have Television. Their first reaction was one of disbelief. The next reaction was, “What did you do?” I told them that sometimes we didn’t do anything, and enjoyed it. More disbelief. Sometimes we just sat around and talked. About what? Nothing. Our favorite pastime, though, was listening to the radio.

We would gather in the middle of the evening and listen as the silence of the station break was interrupted by the sound of a slowly opening creaking door. “The Inner Sanctum,” a program of stories about the strange, the ghostly and the occult. Again, we would hear a rich baritone voice intone, “Who knows what evil lurks in the minds of men?” The sound of a crazy laugh. Then the voice again, “The Shadow knows.” The sound of a tenor voice, in rapid delivery singing out, “The Lone Ranger rides again. Hi Ho

Silver. Away.” This was the “stuff” that dreams and fantasies are made of. The nearest these programs came to a sexy scene was a “Soap Opera” in which a couple would say over and over, “John”__”Marsha”_...”John..flMarsha.. Our young minds visualized all kinds of forbidden behavior,OLD TIMER

I once wrote a book. The very first line says, “On September 1, 1939, the World ended.” The book is about my personal experience in World War II. The idea of the opening statement is that, with the beginning of this great war, a way of living and thinking ended, and with the coming of the Atomic Age, a “Brave New World” was born.

I have never been convinced that the “quality” of life has improved during the last fifty years. We have more. We know more. We can do more. The question is, do we feel better about ourselves and our way of living? I don’t think so.

Those of us who were young before 1939 lived before such things as penicillin, polio shots, frozen food, Xerox, plastic, contact lenses, frisbees and the “Pill.” We lived before man walked in space; before women wore pantyhose. We existed before radar, laser, ball point pens, credit cards, nuclear bombs, air conditioners and when Mom was the automatic dishwasher.

In this prehistoric time, “grass” was mowed, not smoked. “Coke” was a soda fountain treat after •the 10 cent movie. “Crack” was something that happened to an egg if not handled carefully. “Pot” was something you used for cooking supper. “Rock” was collected from a field to use in a school Science project. “AIDS” were students who worked in the principal’s office instead of

going to Study Hall.

The word Japan brought to mind little comic characters, who wore spectacles and had “buck” teeth, not billionaire bankers who could by a small “country” Bible College and use American dollars to turn it into a University overnight. Arabs lived in tents in the desert and tended to their camels. They didn’t go around

2OLD TIMER

“flashing” oil dollars to buy whole American cities.

We were the last generation to believe that a woman needed to have a husband before having a baby.

3ahoor. a thousand miles; all uphill. We

rolled up to Dothan; angled and snuck into the traffic on 1—65. We miles; take a break; change drivers and

a day. The only real difference we could was the price of gas. The farther we went

doesn’t make a bit of sense to me. The st more to ship gas to Dixie

e! Certainly not twenty cents boys” wouldn t be gouging us danged carpetbaggers, If you go a few hundred yards

cago. Twelve lanesrive

the motel. The motel was real nice. It had elevators and everything. It was just a short hike away from O’Hare Airport. The planes howl

oft this strip every minute or so. We should have caught one of them My children say that I’m just a cheapskate.

he reason for this mad adventure, was to attend a reunion of olt war buddies. WW II that is. I had been one of those lean, mean, Marines chat you sometimes see in an old John Wayne movie. You soc a bunch of neople piling out of an Uamtrac~~ and racing

insan•~ly across a sandy beach. Meanwhile everyone ejse is trying

to blow no the entire island. A closeup shows

John Wayne screaming, “Let’ go k111 Japs “ . The problem is that the Jap John Wayne is

so reaning, “ Mill them on t•he beach “ Nasty fellow. Ours was for real.JAMES E. BREEN~

BRISTOL.FL 32321 *Bd 10/3/91

The wife and I loaded Can~o1 ian border. We were goi

Di

the truck; got in and headed for ng to Chicago, the “Windy City”.N’ort u s u a ~t.we 5 t ly dr I i eto Montgomery ive a hundred hundred milesthe

That ‘s1110

t 11 a n orsee 115 we. went along, oneapet- it became. That people will cell you tha it does to Yankeeland. lion. I know that the “g few extra cents. Must

1—65 “Ts out” at Gary I

000 ‘11 end up in La

l:oed that we were alread bornper traf1fic, We sttit co

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ood ol

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ndianaIn:

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ke Michi y in Chi ill had to dlAMES E. BREEM

PD RDX i88

BR!SroL,EL 32321

I was

night, the line most by Nip tanks, I managed

im

Most of

words in

the same

J a o e v e r y 0 n e hut not interfering; mood: Into. talki.n..g,but smiling and pleasant. thinqs his way. Jim; brother; hosting the

The last time I’ hauled off the line a and 5:1 owed down a Jap

body to their machine :rhe ghosts

looked at eachyou could al Tom; still angry as arrogant as

whole thing. Me;

d seen most of th

t Sugarloaf. I zi .25 slug. Mel’s gun pit soa line company. Each at the point in the

the attack was spearheaded

e! I

then.

remembered.

letter muchthe adrenalin broiled t the

thers;

to alwaysassigned, as a “bazooka” ma to

Captain would tell me to dig inlikely to come under attack. If

was supposedto blow them to

sniitFhe:r~aws. Sur to hang in there and get off a round or two; now and et with a hunch of my old buddies and we talked and us no longer “booze it up”, smoke, or use five four an eight word sentence. Amazingly they were pretty kind of people I’d known a half century earlier.

k; the old mother hen; still looking around to make sure was doing all right. The Lieutenant;

tall and guiet; observing

ready to step in if need be. Dick; still not ways feel his presence. Art: always

that the world doesn’t doever, Mel; The eternal fraternitystill the smart mouth; vomitingese men was the night I gotgged when I should have zagged.boys dragged my punctured

I might not get hit by crossfire.were very much with us. As I

of those long goneone when it came Time

to leave, in my stomach and my chest tightened. Now I knew tha thing had not been a Stephen King story plot. We bro few; had been a part of a great tragedy and survived remember Ed, the King of the Hill and Ed,the Saint.

Eanzai to you all! May you live ten thousand years!whole

we preciousJAMES E. 8REE~

P0 BOX 188 *8510~’ ~BRISTDL,FL 32371 - / /

in the early days of the first World War, the Saudi Arabians were waging a losing battle with the powerful Turkish Army. The Britie:h didn’t want to lose that high priced piece of real estate and s nt the Arabs a little help. They sent a young officer out to put- the Arabs in proper form. Larry did such a good job helping the Arabs chase the Turks all over the desert, that he soon became a legend. Just like Daniel Boone or Joe Montana.

After a time, Larry earned some home leave and caught a boat back no Merry Old England. One fine day he went to the local pub to quaff a few ales. He was standing at the bar, minding his own business, when one of “stay at homes” began asking him guestions about his combat experiences. Larry took a deep breath; filled his o::pe and lit a match to it. The other fellow asked,”I-iow do you survive in the desert?” Larry didn’t say a word. He just stood there puffing on his pipe and holding the lit match. The match continued to born, It burned down to his fingers. It burned into his fingers. Larry didn’t even flinch. He stared the fellow in the eye and said, “The Trick is not to give a damn.”

Some would say that Larry was a “cold

fish”.Probably! He sure knew that “you don’t sweat the little ones”. He managed to knit a small group of roaming Arabs into a fighting force that put the fear of Allah into the hearts of the Turkish Army.The legend grew, that he paid no attention to the hardships of the desert or the chances he took with his life. He was captured by the Turks; tortured;

raped and escaped to lay him down and rest a while;then rise to fight some more. He always appeared cairn and fearless.

I sure wouldn’t want to be standing in a doorway that Larry

had decided to enterJ1AES 5. RREE~1

DPJSTUL,FL 32321 *86 10/22/91 Supreme Court

Those Senators gave Brother Thomas a fit. For a while,I thought toe might hang him from a chandelier. I watched the goings on until . my head throbbed. I never saw many; take so long to say abs -ut’-i-~- nothine.Don’t get me wrong. If Brother Thomas had done just half of what they said he did; I wouldn’t want my wife or daughter wo ing for him.

I’ve been mating a study of names and their meaning. Hatch means; tO : t st •ll and uiet for 3 iong time and then come up with something new. Orin came up with something new. An Academy Award winning act. He cried to convince us that he had never heard, much iess used a lunch of four and five letter “dirty” words.He didn’t convince me, ‘.11 n:ive him an “A” for trying.

Biden is an old country word. It’s sort of like Hatch. It means to .n it around and wait for something useful to happen. When it does; you take it and run. It’s called “bidin my time”.You think I male that up. Don’t you?

The whole thIng was lice a circus, where the animals turn on the tra~-’ers. Everyon— lost. NO one qon. I shudder to think that those

ci o• 5 art the deoision makers for the US of A.

tad r,n--e when toe Senator from South Carolina was questioning Ero~ er Thomas,From the tone of the Senator’s voice, I figured that snmrone must have caught Thomas ~tealing chickens. The idea was that Brntner Thomas might have asked a female employee to look at a

“dio-:y~’ movie. Whoever heard of such a thing? I’m not sure that many of one “good ole boys” could pass that kind of muster.

The Japanese did not have such high standards when they decided to go to War with the US of A. They started looking around for a st’oong man to head up their Navy. After going through some good men ,ried and true,who couldn’t cut the mustard for a job thatJAMES 5. BREEMPD flOy ~gg

RRTSTT FL 3232~ *86 F?

big~ they decided on a gambling. womanizing, reformed heavy drinker fnr he job. The torn had a repunation for getting the job done wsoh ut any foolishness. His’ nane was Isoruku Yamamoto.

~in too iy study f nemes that means, “1 saw you cut the -Yams and put them tn your mouth”.Izzy was against going to War with the US of A,Hy’d been here and saw what happened when we were pushed. He didn’t believe that Japan could win. When push came to shovr , lazy sat down and drew up the plans for the attack on Pearl Harbour. That is .Then he wasn’t chasing his secretary around the desk.

Meanwhile,bacl: at El Pancho US of A. Frank started scraping the barr. I to lind somaone to clean up the mess that Izzy had made of our Flee: at Pearl. After going through some good men, tried end true, who coolnn’t out the nistard for a job that big, Frank decided on a gambJing, womaniziog, non reformed heavy drinker. The man had a reputation to atting the JO. done without any foolishness. His name was Ernest King.

Iha- ‘amo doe nt need any expiaininci. Ernie wanted to be top dog an: -~anl nut him on the Throne. Ernie went to camp. The US Navy was lever quite th-~ same. In three years, Ernie built a group of “old sea dous . the like of which the world had never seen. He blew everything the Nip had afloat into Eushido Valhalla. Except for two Sampans and

a rowooat. That is, when S* he wasn’t chasing his secretary around the desk Jticky isn’t it? Was Neitzsche right? Does the end justify the means?

Like raustus, do we sell our souls to the Devil, if that’s what it takes to get the job done? Don’t look at me. I don’t have the answer. I jus: r oncief

-.rc 0’:: going t,o thunder and point our finger and bellow,”Shame! Shame~” Until...?JAMES 5. BREEM

[5?, 3232j it86 10/22/91 Supreme Court

Those Senators gave Brother Thomas a fit. For a while,I thought the-- might hang h:m from a chandelier. I watched the goings on u-b 1 o~. head tnrobbed. I never saw many; take so long to say abs Lute~-.-

nothinu.Don’t get me wrong. If Brother Thomas had done just hal.f of what they said he did; I wouldn’t want my wife or daughter work ing for him.

I’ve been making a study of names and their meaning. Hatch means; to sit still and nuiet for a long time and then come up with something new. 0cm came up with something new. An Academy Award winning act.

He: tried to convince us that he had never heard, much less used

a hunch of four and five letter “dirty” words.He didn’t convince

rn’- S’l~ give him an “A” for trying.

Biden is an -id country word. It’s sort of like Hatch. It means to:- :t around and wait for something useful to happen. When it d~-o- y: bate it :nd run. ft’s called “bidin my time’.yoit think I mc le that up. Don’t you?

The whole thing was like a circus, where the animals turn on the trainers. Everyone lost. NO. one won. I shudder to think that those

are the decision makers for the US of A.

I toned in once when the Senator from South Carolina was questioning Brntner Thomas.From the tone of the Senator’s voice, I figured that someone must have caught Thomas ‘stealing chickens. The idea was that Brotner Thomas might have asked a female employee to look at a “dii’y~1 movie. Whoever heard of such a thing? I’m not sure that many of t:te “good ole boys” could pass that kind of muster.

The Japanese did not have ‘uch high standards when they decided te o- to -oar with he US of A. ‘hey started looking around for

-‘a rh--one ---In to h’.’ H up the r N-wy. After -going through some good men, cried and

true ,who couldn’t cut the mustard for a job thatJAMES t. RREENPD fJOX 188

~R1Sro[ ,FL 32321 *86 P2

b.- - they -decided -an a gamboing, womanizing, reformed heavy drinker for he job. The man had a reputation for getting the job done

an -uf ~ny foolisoness Hir name was Isoruku Yamamoto, According to my study of names; that means,”I saw you cut the

Yams and put them in your mouth. Izzy was against going to War wi at the US of A, H:’ ‘d been here and saw what happened when we were pust. d. 1-ic didn’t nelieve that ‘apan could win. IThen push came to shnv - Izzv sat do-.:n and drew up the plans for the attack on Pearl Ha- - tr. ‘at Is, -- hen he wasn’~ ch:sing his secretary around the desk.

:-Ieafluijile,bac,- at El Ranchc US of A. Frank started scraping the bani-e.t to find som-T-one to clean up the mess that Izzy had made of our Fleet at Pearl. Afier going through some good men, tried and true, who cotlrn’t out the mustard for a job that big, Frank decided on a gamb: ing, womanizing, non reformed heavy drinker. The man had a reputation fo~ attino the job done without any foolishness. His name was Ernest King,

That name doesn’t need any explaining. Ernie wanted to be top dog and - rank put him n the Throne. Ernie went to camp. The UN Navy war- .:vet ruile th’ same. In three years, Ernie built a group of “old sea dogs , the like of which the world had never seen. He blew everything the lIp hao afloat into Bushido Valhalla. Except for two Sampans and a a-n- ---oai. Thnh is when S4 he was-nt chasing his secretary around the desk

tiokl, isn’t -- h? Was NeLtzsche right? Does the end justify the means? Like austus, do we sell our souls to the Devil, if that’s what it takes to gr the job done? Don’t look at me. I don’t have the answer. I just --~onder

Are we going to thunder and point our finger and bellow,”Shame! Shame ‘ “ Until, . .

‘JAMES E. DREEWPC ROX 188 #87 TC Chorus~i

RRISTOL.FL 3232!Each Monday evening, just as the sun is

beginning to snttle

Er - over the river to the West, my sife and I pile into the old truck nd head for the big city. We

don’t go there for a night on the town or o “case” the Malls; we go there to rehearse with a sinqing group.The ehearsal last a couple of hours. We pile into the truck again and head or the swamp. It all takes about six hours and burns up five or

o gallons of gas. About the cost of a six pack. We even pay the eople who run the thing for the privelege of being a member. Ten dollars semester a piece. The price of a few more six packs.

I guarantee you that we aren’t doing “rap”. We aren’t singinq “Rook round the Clock” or “The Old Rugged Cross” or “You are My Sunshi no” .

There’s ~thing wrong with those tunes. In fact they’re some of my favorites. We ing “classical” music. The word classical means something that has

?en around for a good while and each generation in its turn has looked it and decided that it was something of value. A 1925 Bugatti is a

assic car. A 1904 Singer Sewing machine is a classic. Sometimes, its ~rd to see the difference between a classic and an antique.

The kind of music I’m talking about was written at least a hundred

-ars ago. A goodly number of people liked it then. A goodly nuinher of

-ople still think it has great value. My wife and I like it. We have en singing and playing this kind of music since we were in grade school one told us that it was supposed to be something special or that we ould like it. We just decided thatthis music was “our thing”.

Does this make us strange or weird? I don’t think so. Some people joy chasing each other round and round in a circle, at speeds over t-wo ndred miles per hour.Some people jump off seventy foot towers with a

tied around their ankles. I even know people who sit around in the oning and punch holes in a piece of cloth with a needle. It takes all kinds.JAMES E. BflE[p4

PD 130X 188 #87 P2HRISTDL,FL 32321

Remember the movie “Phantom of the Opera”? We like the kInd oF

~c the crazy organist plays. The Alfred Hitchcok Show theme? “Funeral

arch of the Marionettes” was the music. “2001”? “Thus Spake Zarathustri”.

he Olympics? “Fanfare For the Common Man”. We even like the Opera. Well some f it. Ballet has been a bit of a problem, I’m about convinced that

hey have the stage floor electrified. When a dancer’s feet hit the floor, hey jump. Quick!

I think most people believe that there isn’t too much involved

~ the singing thing. You just open your mouth and let it fly. Not true!

3pecially when your singing for the gentleman who directs our group. ITo is uqh! He won’t even let us use all of the letters in the alphabet. Not even ~en they are written on the song sheet. Take the old tune, “I Wonder as I

inder”. If we use the “r” sound at the end of the two main words,the old

)V would go into a “tizzy”. We would be informed in no uncertain words, that

- should be “I(eh) Oneduh az I(eh) Wandah”, You are not allowed

use the “s’ sound very often.”You sound like a pit full of vipers”.

rtainly no self respecting choir member would use the “ee” sound. Always ‘eh” 1niess you want to sound like a mare in heat” Stallion maybe.

Take something as simple as “For unto us a Child is horn”. Everything

es fine until you get the “o” in born. Then you keep singing the “n’ sound and down the scale until you think your-lungs are qoinq to hurst.Every now

d then they sneak in a wierd note to make sure you’re paying attention.If

u try to steal a quick breath, Mr Doom steps in.”Broaching whales don’t

eathe that loud,” Why do we put up with this kind of harrassment?

When the practicing is done and the singing starts,we become a part of ilething special. We are making something out of another human’s thoughts.

on a piece of paper come alive.What about

old grouchy?

He has made it all possible. He knew what should happen. He made It a ppen. Ilah lay loo yah ah meh n. Who ever heard of such a th i nq?JAMES E. BREEM

BRISTOLJL 32321 *88 Hippies 11/18/91P1

“Hey Hey!” “Ho Ho!”

“Where did all the Hippies gb?’

T’ve wondered about that one for a good many years.l figured that they must have gone someplace, Maybe they were here hut -I wasn’t smart enough to see which ones were HiPPies~Yuppies,MooniesRockersPk or just plain human beings. An old saying,goes,” If you are ready for a teacher one will appear.” I believe that. I found a book which told the History of the Hippies and then brought things up bo date. The lady did a real “mirror looking” job.

This is what the book said to rae.

About thirty years ago, -the young people decided that they were getting a bum rap from their parents. Daddy was the main villian. He kept bringing home a paycheck each week. Momma was as bad, or worse. She insis~ad that they live right and do right. The children insisted that Daddy was a shameless thief.

He bragged to them about filing a “creative” Income Tax Form. Then he turned around and got all over their case for copying someone elses homework.Momma, that wretched creature, made them go to bed early on school nights. She told them, they needed the rest. Not true! Momma just wanted an hour or so of peace and guiet. Terrible thing!

It turns out that Momma and Daddy did so much for they kids, that they didn’t have anything left to do for themselves. The kids decided to get off by themselves and start a new kind of world. The old idea of “family” was a bummer and needed to be destroyed and replaced by a new “egual” society.They managed both jobs. Is it now better? I wonder.

Along the way, they seemed to come up with some strange ideas.

Two Hippies were walking down a path in the forest. They came to a fork in the path and decided to go different ways. The7 knew That

either path led to a nearby river and they agreed to meet there. The first Hippie walked along; enjoyed the forest and the creatures and the peace and guiet. He sat on a rockJAMES E. BREEWPD sox 188

RRISTQLIFL 32321 *88 P2

at the river and waited for his friend. The second Hippie walked down his path;

enjoyed the forest and the the creatures and suddenly came upon an enormous Grizzly. The Hippie panicked and ran crashing through the brush. He saw his friend at the river and ran up screaming.”This forest is full of wild creature I was attacked by an enormous Grizzly.Let’s get out of here.” The other Hippie stood up and said,”Right. We’ll go find a better forest.”

Where are these two now?Probably one of three places.

A goodly number decided that you could be rich and still make the world a better place to live in. They are high paid professionals who work within the system and try to improve it. When they go to the mountains to commune with the spirits, they go in a $100,000 Winnebago. You may know some of them. Joseph Biden, Steven King and Steven Spielberg for examples.

A goodly number decided to do what they could, when they could,how they could. They have a decent job. They owe money on a car. They have a heavy mortgage. They eat three meals a day. They work, in their spare time at the homeless shelter and the free clinics. They get upset about the Amazonian Rain Forest. They’ll give you a helping hand, if they can.

A goodly number decided to live,maybe, in a cave in the Dakota mountains. They commune with the spirits. Their hair is greying. They bounce grandchildre; on their knee. They are still working on a plan to keep the earth from destroy:

itself.

And then there remains, the “walking wounded”. They roam around looking f something. Their bodies and brains “all aching and racked with pain”. Every no~ and then they stop and

say,”What happened?”.

Close to ha-lf a mill-ion- Ethiopians starved to death last year.

One former Hippie is now a big time lawyer. As a very young man he worked to feed the starving and house the homeless. Now each and every Thanksgiving e~

~ he goes to the local mission and helps prepare a meal to feed “street people”.

JAMES E. ~REEN3232j * 89 Nietzsche P1

Once there was a man named Fred.

±0 said,”You need to be led.

Work your bones. Until your dead.

The Leader, gets all the ‘bread’.”

Hey! Fred would have made a good Congressman.

His whole name? Wilhelm Frederich Nietzsche. That’s a mouthful. His last name sounds sort of like “Neat—she”. Fred lived about a hundred years ago. He wrote about how and why people do the things they do. He came up with some sensible answers to very old questions. You may not like his answers but they are still answers.

Fred said that everyone is trying to move another step up the ladder. How can you argue with that? The question is;what are people willing to do to make that move. Do you have a price? If I figure out that price and pay it, I own you. Don’t get on my case.

Talk to Fred. But Fred’s dead!

Fred decided that you had to have leaders and followers ,if your group is going to get anything done. A team has to have a coach. The coach points the direction. The team goes that way. A well coached team usually wins. Guess who gets first choice of the seats on the bus. Guess who gets to sit in the aisle.

Fred figured that people were a lot like a herd of sheep. Whatever the herd does, the people do. Wherever the herd goes, the people ~O. Check this out.

“Everyone report to the auditorium.” No one hesitates. The ierd is glad for a break in the routine. They laugh and talk and jostle each other. Some may wonder, what dumbness is up

but they

ill go. They are asked for a donation to a good cause. The herd empties ts pockets, Johnny won’t throw in his lunch money.The herd looks [own its nose. Johnny is in trouble.

*89 P2How do we decide what’s right and

wrong? That’s easy. The Good ook tells us. Not true! Says Fred. He agrees that its wrong to rip off the other fellows stuff, Even if he has more than he needs. Even if he won’t share. :t’swrong. We figure that if we don’t rip off his stuff;he won’t rip off ours. Even if we have more than we need. Even if we don’t share. Think of all the money we could save on guard dogs, if everyone did it Fred’s way.

After a while, Fred’s giant brain began to get him in trouble. He started coming up with answers he didn’t like.Look at a couple.

Nothing has any value. If that’s true, then saying nothing has any value, has no value. That won’t work. Nothing will work every time. If that’s true then that won’t work either.

Fred thought about all of this and had no luck with it. He moved to a shack in the mountains;sat down and stared out the window. Finally it became too much for him. His brain went straight:up -:~ike;-á•~jnd blown kite in March.They had to haul him off. The boys in white put him in a room with no windows and no furniture. Fred died there;still wondering.

As the King of Siam said, “It1s a puzzlement”.

Fred realized that even if everything he said was true, it still didn’t mean anything.We are what we are and probably will stay that way. Sometimes we do a little better; sometimes a little worse. We continue to struggle and hope for a better tomorrow.

You need to watch it though.

Some clowns have studied Fred’s work and know how to use it to get you to do their thing. Check this and see if you can smell Fred at work.

Be the Best of the Best! Buy our gold plated Finkledook” Gotcha!

Fred would love it!JAMES E. BREEN

P0 BOx 188 *90 ConspiracyBRISTOL,EI. 32321

John Kennedy is almost thirty yeats dead and they are still arguing about the how and why of it. Some say that we should just let his soul and memory rest in peace and get on with our own self destruction. I think that I agree with this idea as much as any. The really scary thing about all of the ideas that surface about what might have happened is that any of them are more than possible. As we get older, we realize more clearly that there are people who will do anything to gain or keep power. My problem is that I don’t understand what it is they want with this power.

I can understand wanting to be “king of the hill”. We all want others to think that we have value and importance. We want to have enough extra money to be able to order the large fries and the de lux burger without counting our change. This power thing goes much farther than that though.

Long after he had made his first billion, H.L. Hunt still worked all day and part of each night piling up more goodies. He was asked once. “Why do you work so hard? How much do you want? H.L. replied.”Just a little bit more!” When I realize that some people will kill just to be able to control the lives of others, it scares me. Don’t get me wrong; if I have to choose between being told what to do and doing the telling. I choose to be the one doing the telling. I’m just not willing to push you in front of a truck or steal you’re lunch money for the honor.

Well anyway, a person or persons unknown shot Johnny boy dead. The local constabulary picked up a suspect beat the tar out of him and then let him get in harms way before they had a real good chance to pick his brain. Jack Ruby shot Lee in the gut and killed him dead.JAMES E. GREENP0 BOX 188

BRISTOL,FL 32321 *90 p2

Then it started. Like molasses leaking from a barrel the rumors spread everywhere. There was no good way to stop it. The scary bhing is; that any of them could be true.

Take the word conspiracy. I looked it up in my twenty pound dictionary. As much as anything, the word means to breathe together. So maybe some “good ole boys” got together, blew cigar smoke in each others face and said,” Hey, you know, Johnny

boy is getting to be a bit of a drag. If he pulls out of Viet Nam, we are going to lose big bucks. Let’s “whack” him. Lyndon knows how to play the game.” Another one chimed in,” I got a couple of Mafia boys that owe me. I’ll give them a ring.” And the deed was done.

Johnny had sent a bunch of renegade mercenaries to the Bay of Pigs in Cuba and scared the bejeebers out of Fidel. Some say that Johnny might of had a few unemployed “hit men” roaming around Havanna harbour waiting for a good chance to “whack” Fidel. If this is true, I imagine the bearded wonder of the Caribean, could have put on a brand new set of custom tailored fatigues;called a meeting at the palace with his fellow revolutionaries and said, “Whack him before he whacks me.” And the deed was done.

Johhny wasn’t real thrilled with the way our beloved CIA did business. What with them running around “whacking”foriegn politicans; blowing up harbours; and deciding who got to be king of the hill in any one of a number of third world places. Maybe they had a staff meeting and someone said,” Hey;you know; we figured Johhny wrong. We tho-ught he was going to spend his time playing touch football and chasing secretaries around his desk. I think he is going to flose us down. Let’s “whack him” And the deed was done.

Any of the above is possible. Scary?JAMES E. GREEN

PD BOX 188 *90 ConspiracyBRISTOL,FL 32321

John Kennedy is almost thirty yeats dead and they are still arguing about the how and why of it. Some say that we should just let his soul and memory rest in peace and get on with our own self destruction. I think that I agree with this idea as much as any. The really scary thing about all of the ideas that surface about what might have happened is that any of them are more than possible. As we get older, we realize more clearly that there are people who will do anything to gain or keep power. My problem is that I don’t understand what it is they want with this power.

I can understand wanting to be “king of the hill”. We all want others to think that

we have value and importance. We want to have enough extra money to be able to order the large fries and the de lux burger without counting our change. This power thing goes much farther than that though.

Long after he had made his first billion, H.L. Hunt still worked all day and part of each night piling up more goodies. He was asked once. “Why do you work so hard? How much do you want? H.L. replied.”Just a little bit more!” When I realize that some people will kill just to be able to control the lives of others, it scares me. Don’t get me wrong; if I have to choose between being told what to do and doing the telling. I choose to be the one~doing the telling. I’m just not willing to push you in front of a truck or steal you’re lunch money for the honor.

Well anyway, a person or persons unknown shot Johhny boy dead. The local constabulary picked up a suspect beat the tar out of him and then let him get in harms way before they had a real good chance to pick his brain. Jack Ruby shot Lee in the gut and killed him dead.JAMES E. BREENP0 BOX 188

BRISTOL.FL 32321 *90 p2

Then it started. Like molasses leaking from a barrel the rumors spread everywhere. There was no good way to stop it. The scary bhing is; that any of them could be true.

Take the word conspiracy. I looked it up in my twenty pound dictionary. As much as anything, the word means to breathe together. So maybe some “good ole boys” got together, blew cigar smoke in each others face and said,” Hey, you know, Johnny boy is getting to be a bit of a drag. If he pulls out of Viet Nam, we are going to lose big bucks, Let’s “whack” him. Lyndon knows how to play the game.” Another one chimed in,” I got a couple of Mafia boys that owe me. I’ll give them a ring.” And the deed was done.

Johnny had sent a bunch of renegade mercenaries to the Bay of Pigs in Cuba and scared the bejeebers out of Fidel. Some say that Johnny might of had a few unemployed “hit men” roaming around Havanna harbour waiting for a good chance

to “whack” Fidel. If this is true, I imagine the bearded wonder of the Caribean, could have put on a brand new set of custom tailored fatigues;ca~~e~ a meeting at the palace with his fellow revolutionaries and said, “Whack him before he whacks me.” And the deed was done.

Johhny wasn’t real thrilled with the way our beloved CIA did business. What with them running around “whacking”foriegn politicans; blowing up harbours; and deciding who got to be king of the hill in any one of a number of third world places. Maybe they had a staff meeting and someone said,” Hey;you know; we figured Johhny wrong. We tho-ught he was going to spend his time playing touch football and chasing secretaries around his desk. I think he is going to flose us down. Let’s “whack him” And the deed was done.

Any of the above is possible. Scary?JAMES E. BREEN -

PD BOX 188 *91 Taxesp1

BRISTOL,FL 32321My wife and I went off to see some

friends. We had an offer

to stay with a couple who are,to say the least, “well to do” They are a good example of what I think is called,”fulfilment of the American dream”. They married young;started a family; found themselves a couple of good jobs and then worked at it. Over the years, they lived sensibly and set aside a dollar or two whenever they could. Now they look forward to retirement with comfortable ease.

Recently they sold the house they had lived in for years and bought a new one. What with one thing and another, they made a nice little piece of extra change on the deal. The problem is that they are facing a hefty tax bite on the extra change. It just doesn’t seem right to me. They’re not in the real estate business. They took care of their home;fixed it up here and there and now the boys at the old IRS want a piece of the action. They call it Capital Gains.

I heard Brother George say

something about that during his talk on the TV the other night. I studied up on it. It seems that if I decide to open up a hot dog stand down on the corner and spend a thousand or so to build the stand; that stand becomes a Capital Asset. If I sell my hot dogs in such a way that I come away with an extra 22t on each one that’s called profit. I have to pay tax on that 22’~. Maybe as much as 10* each. Whew!Ndvif I get tired of selling hot dogs and giving so much of the profit to the old IRS, I may just sell the stand and take up alligator poaching; or politics. Either of those might earn me a trip to the Federal Home for bad guys in Atlanta. Oh! tJh!The best thing to do is sell the stand;

—~.ake the profit and head for Tahiti.JAMES E. GREEN

PD BOX 188 *91 p2BRISTOL,FI. 32321

Wait a minute! If I do that, the old IRS is going to want about

30* on every extra dollar I make. That’s what they mean when they say “Capital Gains”. I already paid them a bunch of tax money and now they want more. I worked hard on the whole deal. I think I should be able to keep what’s left over. The IRS didn’t offer to pay the doctor’s bill when I smashed my thumb building the silly stand.

Alligator poaching is looking better by the minute, It’s better than politicking. As an alligator poacher, I don’t have to lie to anyone but the old IRS. ‘Course, they can get nasty!

Well, anyway, Brother George wants to cut that 30* in Capital Gains down to about 15*. Sounds like a better deal to me.From this, one might think that Brother George is a great friend of all the hot dog stand owners in the US of A. Maybe! The ones who are really going to make out on that deal are those who are selling off a couple thousand restaurants for a few million. We’re talking big time savings here. These fat cats are just likely to vote George back in for another go at being President. Brother George can get tricky!

Brother George has got another one going. He wants to reduce interest rates.

That’s fine if you’re borrowing but not worth a “flip” if you’re trying to save up a few bucks for a trip to Tahiti, The bank used to pay me 8* for holding my dollar savings for a year. If I wanted to borrow, I had to pay them 10* on the dollar. I could handle that. I’m pretty much out of the borrowing thing now. When a young person wants to buy a home, they get some bank money at 8* on the dollar. Great! The bank will only give me 6* on my dollar savings now. It seems to me that I’m helping the young folks chase he American Dream. I hope they appreciate it!JAMES E. BREEN -

P0 BOX 188 *91 Taxesp1

BRISTOLJL 32321My wife and I went off to see some

friends. We had an offer

to stay with a couple who are,to say the least, “well to do” They are a good example of what I think is called,”fulfilment of the American dream”. They married young;started a family; found themselves a couple of good jobs and then worked at it. Over the years, they lived sensibly and set aside a dollar or two whenever they could. Now they look forward to retirement with comfortable ease.

Recently they sold the house they had lived in for years and bought a new one. What with one thing and another, they made a nice little piece of extra change on the deal. The problem is that they are facing a hefty tax bite on the extra change. It just doesn’t seem right to me. They’re not in the real estate business. They took care of their home;fixed it up here and there and now the boys at the old IRS want a piece of the action. They call it Capital Gains.

I heard Brother George say something about that during his talk on the TV the other night. I studied up on it. It seems that if I decide to open up a hot d~g stand down on the corner and spend a thousand or so to build the stand; that stand becomes a Capital Asset. If I sell my hot dogs in such a way that I come away with an extra 22* on each one that’s called profit. I have to pay tax on that 22*. Maybe as much as 10* each. Whew!Nowif

I get tired of selling hot dogs and giving so much of the profit to the old IRS, I may just sell the stand and take up alligator poaching; or politics. Either of those might earn me a trip to the Federal Home for bad guys in Atlanta. Oh! Uh!The best thing to do is sell the stand;

—take the profit and head for Tahiti.JAMES E. GREEN

PU BOX 188 *91 p2

BRISTOL,FI. 32321Wait a minute! If I do that, the old IRS

is going to want about

30* on every extra dollar I make. That’s what they mean when they say “Capital Gains”. I already paid them a bunch of tax money and now they want more. I worked hard on the whole deal. I think I should be able to keep what’s left over. The IRS didn’t offer to pay the doctor’s bill when I smashed my thumb building the silly stand.

Alligator poaching is looking better by the minute. It’s better than politicking. As an alligator poacher, I don’t have to lie to anyone but the old IRS. ‘Course, they can get nasty!

Well, anyway, Brother George wants to cut that 30* in Capital Gains down to about 15*. Sounds like a better deal to me.From this, one might think that Brother George is a great friend of all the hot dog stand owners in the US of A. Maybe! The ones who are really going to make out on that deal are those who are selling off a couple thousand restaurants for a few million. We’re talking big time savings here. These fat cats are just likely to vote George back in for another go at being President. Brother George can get tricky!

Brother George has got another one going. He wants to reduce interest rates. That’s fine if you’re borrowing but not worth a “flip” if you’re trying to save up a few bucks for a trip to Tahiti. The bank used to pay me 8* for holding my dollar savings for a year. If I wanted to borrow, I had to pay them 10* on the dollar. I could handle that. I’m pretty much out of the borrowing thing now. When a young person wants to buy a home, they get some bank money at 8* on the dollar. Great! The bank will only give me 6*

on my dollar savings now. It seems to me that I’m helping the young folks chase a-he American Dream. I hope they appreciate it!JAMES E. GREEN

PD BOX 188 *92 senilityBRISTOL,rrj. 32321

I’ve been meaning to write about this idea for a long time, but

keep forgeting what I was going to write.r - - Maybe, if I get right to it I can put it down before my befuzzled brain drifts on to something else.

The other night on the TV, they had a program about children trying to put the old folks out of harms way at the happy farm. This sweet young thing had become worried that her dear old momma had lost it and needed full time supervision. They hauled the momma to the head doctor’s office and ran her through a bunch of tests to see if her brain had become unglued. The old doll had some problems but I figured that I was closer to being happy farm material than she.

They asked the lady to count backwards from one hundred——by sevens! She stumbled through a couple of right answers and then gave up. I rould handle that one,if you give me a little time. I’m not at all sure that I could do it under that kind of pressure. I also know a whole bunch of people under thirty that couldn’t do it if you offered to buy them a six pack for the right answers.

They also gave her some wood blocks to make different little pictures. She looked at the blocks; shoved them aside and refused to cooperate. They gave her a really bad mark for that. The daughter gave a list of some the bad things her momma had done. She had left the stove on; run the bathtub over; didn’t take all of her pills and sometimes refused to answer the phone. Probably thought it was her dear daughter a callin’, Half the women I know do some of the things on that list. I thought that was just the female thing.

We should live so long; sooner or later we will all be ready r the happy farm. It seems to me that we are moving closer to a

3ociety that wants to stash its old folks out of harms way as soonJAMES E. GREEN

PD BOX 188 *92 p2

8RISTOL,rl. 32321

as possible. I’m not completely convinced, that they have the old folks

st interest in mind. I think maybe they have grown tired of hearing about the winter of ‘38; having a main meal of corn bread and white beans and have grown to hate being bashed over the head with,”when I was young a man’s word was his bond”. They are pretty much creatures of, “What’s happening man?”

When my wife’s daddy reached his eighties, I began to study him closely to see if I could understand better what it meant to be old.I soon discovered some interesting things. He forgot some things because he no longer thought they were important. He didn’t hear some things because he had already heard the tales a thousand times and thought they were boring. He had come to realize that some things had no meaning even if they were true——or false. When the Motor Vehicle people took away his driver’s license, it almost destroyed him. He thought about it for a while and then gave me his keys,”You drive. I’m going to watch the pretty girls.”

If you ask my wife, she would tell you that I’ve needed close supervision for all the forty years we’ve been married. When the children were pre—schoolers, the highlight of the day was to go sit on the ~ront porch and guess how many times I would drive by the house on :he way home from work, before I had sense enough to turn in the driveway.

seldom know what day of the week it is.I couldn’t care less most )f the time.

Sometimes i do some really airheaded things. For instance——oh! )h! Hold the phone! I smell something burning—___

Hmph! No big deal. Just before I sat down to write this, I put kettle on to boil some water for a spot of tea. Would you believe

hat it went dry in less than an hour?

JAMES E. GREENPU BOX 188 *92 senility

BRISTOL,Fi. 32321I’ve been meaning to write about this

idea for a long time, but

keep forgeting what I was going to write.~ - - Maybe, if I get right to it I can put it down before my befuzzled brain drifts on to something else.

The other night on the TV, they had a program about children trying to put the old folks out of harms way at the happy farm. This sweet young thing had become worried that her dear old momma had lost it and needed full time supervision. They hauled the momma to the head doctor’s office and ran her through a bunch of tests to see if her brain had become unglued. The old doll had some problems but I figured that I was closer to being happy farm material than she.

They asked the lady to count backwards from one hundred——by sevens! She stumbled through a couple of right answers and then gave up. I could handle that one,if you give me a little time. I’m not at all sure that I could do it under that kind of pressure. I also know a whole bunch of people under thirty that couldn’t do it if you offered to buy them a six pack for the right answers.

They also gave her some wood blocks to make different little pictures. She looked at the blocks; shoved them aside and refused to cooperate. They gave her a really bad mark for that. The daughter gave a list of some the bad things her momma had done. She had left the stove on; run the bathtub over; didn’t take all of her pills and sometimes refused to answer the phone. Probably thought it was her dear daughter a callin’. Half the women I know do some of the things on that list. I thought that was just the female thing.

We should live so long; sooner or later we will all be ready

the happy farm. It seems to me that we are moving closer to a

society that wants to stash its old folks out of harms way as soon

JAMES C. GREENPD BOX 183 *92 p2

BRISTOL.FL 32321as possible. I’m not completely convinced,that they have the oldfolks

st interest in mind. I think maybe they have grown tired of hearing about the winter of ‘38; having a main meal of corn bread and white beans and have grown to hate being bashed over the head with,”when I was young a man’s word was his bond”. They are pretty much creatures of, “What’s happening man?”

When my wife’s daddy reached his eighties, I began to study him closely to see if I could understand better what it meant to be old.I soon discovered some interesting things. He forgot some things because he no longer thought they were important. He didn’t hear some things because he had already heard the tales a thousand times and thought they were boring. He had come to realize that some things had no meaning even if they were true--or false. When the Motor Vehicle people took away his driver’s license, it almost destroyed him. He thought about it for a while and then gave me his keys,”You drive. I’m going to watch the pretty girls.”

If you ask my wife, she would tell you that I’ve needed close supervision for all the forty years we’ve been married. When the children were pre—schoolers, the highlight of the day was to go sit on the front porch and guess how many times I would drive by the house on the way home from work, before I had sense enough to turn in the driveway. I seldom know what day of the week it is.I couldn’t care less most Df the time.

Sometimes I do some really airheaded things. For instance-—oh! )h! Hold the phone! I smell something burning-—-— Hmph! No big deal. Just before I sat down to write this, I put

} kettle on to boil some water for a spot of tea. Would you believe .hat it went dry in less than an hour?JAMES E. 8REER

BRISTOL,EL 32321 *93 Car PricesThe ash trays in my truck are filled to

the brim. It’s time to trade on something new

and shiny. I’d like to have a nice van but they want more for them than I’m willing to pay. After watching the thing on TV about the ease with which the front seats break up if you’re hit from behind, I’m almost tempted to buy a horse. Maybe I could weld a crash frame into it; like the race car drivers do. My wife would say that was ugly. “Don’t buy no ugly truck!”

I’ve been reading the papers to see what I might be able to get real cheap. 1-Imp! I bought my first house for less than they want for a decent car. To be fair, I should mention that I was making $75 a week at the time. The more ads I read, the more nervous I get.

I thought the politicians had a wrap on saying a thousand words without saying anything that made much sense. They need to take lessons

rom the car people. Check some of these out.

“Best price first time. No hassle. No bargaining. No commission

salesman.” The man must think we are all complete idiots. When he offers

me a cup of coffee and 14* trade in on my truck, I “garantee” you

there’s going to be hasslin’ and bargainin’ going on. You show me

a salesman who isn’t getting a little something extra when he makes

a better deal for the boss and I’ll show you a fool.

I don’t understand ads that say things like,”entire stock on sale”;”as low as $8693.57”; “drastically reduced” or “end of the month clearance”.

I read a couple of ads on leasing. I can see where that could be a good idea for some people. Not my cup of tea though. What with one thing and another you could end up paying about ten cents more a the dollar than in a regular credit deal.JAMES E. GREEK

P0 BOX 188BRISTOL,FL 32321 *93 p2

Now we get to the nitty gritty of the whole thing. How much are these catbirds going to charge for the privilege of making payments on that new shiny hunk of plastic? I learned some time ago that if the rate they charge is less than twice the rate your little stash is earning at the bank, your best bet is to hold onto as much cash as you can and pay their interest. Read that again. It took me about a year

to figure it out.

The rates run from 0% to highway robbery. That makes no sense of any kind to me. Money is money. I don’t see any reason to have a bunch of different rates. Unless they’re just trying to see how much you are foolish enough to pay. They try to tell you that it has to do with your credit rating. Nonsense! You’re either going to pay them back or you aren’t. If you don’t, you are going to be n deep doodoo. If I don’t think you’re going to pay me back the money, I’m not going to loan it to you at any rate.

The rebates are a joke. If the car is worth $1000 less, why don’t they just lower the price? They give you a rebate and then charge sales tax on it. You still have to pay it back. With interest! If a guy offers to sell me a $12,000 car for $10,000 I begin to wonder how they decided it was worth $12,000 in the first place. Sounds like flim—flam to me.

I sometimes think that when they say,”We treat you right”; what they’re talking about is painless wallet surgery. I think I’ll go empty the ash trays in the truck and hope for a better day.

One dealer advertised,”Gigantic tent sale at the Fairgrounds” fldon~-t want to buy a gigantic tent. I’m looking for new wheels.

Remember! Anyone who buys a car from a guy from south Alabama called “Bubba” deserves whatever happens to them!JAMES E. GREEK

BRIST0L,FL 32321 *93 Car PricesThe ash trays in my truck are filled to

the brim. It’s time to trade on something new

and shiny. I’d like to have a nice van but they want more for them than I’m willing to pay. After watching the thing on TV about the ease with which the front seats break up if you’re hit from behind, I’m almost tempted to buy a horse. Maybe I could weld a crash frame into it; like the race car drivers do. My wife would say that was ugly. “Don’t buy no ugly truck!”

I’ve been reading the papers to see what I might be able to get real cheap. Hmp! I bought my first house for less than they want for a decent car. To be fair, I should mention that I was making $75 a week at the time. The more ads I read, the more nervous I get.

I thought the politicians had a wrap on saying a thousand words without saying anything that made much sense. They need to take lessons tom the car people. Check some of these out.

“Best price first time. No hassle. No bargaining. No commission

salesman.” The man must think we are all complete idiots. When he offers

me a cup of coffee and 14* trade in on my truck, I “garantee” you

there’s going to be hasslin’ and bargainin’ going on. You show me

a salesman who isn’t getting a little something extra when he makes

a better deal for the boss and I’ll show you a fool.

I don’t understand ads that say things like,”entire stock on sale”;”as low as $8693.57”; “drastically reduced” or “end of the month clearance”.

I read a couple of ads on leasing. I can see where that could be a good idea for some people. Not my cup of tea though. What with one thing and another you could ~p±nd up paying about ten cents more un the dollar than in a regular credit deal.JAMES E. GREENP0 BOX 188

BRISTOL,FL 32321 *93 p2

Now we get to the nitty gritty of the whole thing. How much are these catbirds going to charge for the privilege of making payments on that new shiny hunk of plastic? I learned some time ago that if the rate they charge is less than twice the rate your little stash is earning at the bank, your best bet is to hold onto as much cash as you can and pay their interest. Read that again. It took me about a year

to figure it out.

The rates run from 0% to highway robbery. That makes no sense of any kind to me. Money is money. I don’t see any reason to have a bunch of different rates. Unless they’re just trying to see how much you are foolish enough to pay. They try to tell you that it has to do with your credit rating. Nonsense! You’re either going to pay them back or you aren’t. If you don’t, you are going to be

~ deep doodoo. If I don’t think you’re going to pay me back the money, I’m not going to loan it to you at any rate.

The rebates are a joke. If the car is worth $1000 less, why don’t they just lower the price? They give you a rebate and then charge sales tax on it. You still have to pay it back. With interest! If a guy offers to sell me a $12,000 car for $10,000 I begin to wonder how they decided it was worth $12,000 in the first place. Sounds like flim-flam to me.

I sometimes think that when they say,”We treat you right”; what they’re talking about is painless wallet surgery. I think I’ll go empty the ash trays in the truck and hope for a better day.

One dealer advertised,”cigantic tent sale at the Fairgrounds” I don-’-t want to buy a gigantic tent. I’m looking for new wheels.

Remember! Anyone who buys a car from a guy from south Alabama called “Bubba” deserves whatever happens to them!

JAMES C. GREEN *94 votingPa BOX 188

BRI$TOL,FL 32321To misquote Bill Shakespeare,”TO

vote or not to vote, that is the

stion.” I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. The more

- think, the more confused I become. My wife would gladly comment,”SO

s anything new?” I think, maybe, “therein lies the ‘rub’ “,As each

Tear passes by, I see that the politicians don’t. Oh! The faces change

wery now and again but the ghost of broken election promises past haunts us

Like a missed triple axel in the Olympic finals.

My dictionary says that democracy ~5,” a form of government in qhich all classes, including the lowest, have a voice in that government.” That’s a tricky statement if I ever read one. I thought democracymeant, that everyone had the right to vote for their choice of who got to run things in our government. It’s the same thing, you say. Maybe. I told you that I was confused.

Old Noah Webster’s idea of democracy came as a shock to me. I r~ud somewhere about a government paper that said,” all men are created equal”. Noah says that all classes, even the lowest are included in this democracy thing. How can we have classes, if all men are created equal? Who decides who goes where? How do you get out of one class and into another? I think it has something to do with money. Maybe it’s that power thing? I’m going to have another look.

I also thought that democracy meant, that the people could get together and send the best person they could find to get a government job done right. We all know, that it doesn’t work that way. In the good old US of A, we have, two groups of fat cats that sit down at a table; fuss,argue and deal; and decide who gets a chance to steal the pork barrel. Then they put these two names on a piece of paper and we get to choose which ç~-bird seems to~the most likely to cause the least damage. That’s democracy?

JAMES C. GREEN *94 p2

P0 BOX 188BR!STOL,FL 32321

That thought sends shivers up and down my spine.

I always did say that telling the other fellow what he’s doing wrong was pretty easy. I have no idea for a better way to go about this voting business. You could, give every one who wants to try out for the job an amount of money and let them have at it. If someone is caught cheating, shoot ‘em! But then, we might end up with no one. The King and Queen thing is’nt much. They spend all of their time either at the races or breaking bottles of good “bubbly” on the side of a new ship. Having a dictator doesn’t work very long. Sooner or later one of the “lower classes” will “whack” him and you have to go find another one. The biggest difference between socialism and capitalism is deciding exactly who gets to hold the big bucks. If you’re going to have a group, someone has to be in charge.

As the King of Siam said.”It’s a puzzlement.”

Seems like we’re stuck with what we’ve got. I think we should get our heads out of the sand on some of it though. If Billy Joe decides to run for the job of Chief Cook and Bottle Washer and throws a pot full of money into the running, Billy Joe expects to get the money back. One way or another! Anyone who thinks different is living in a dream world.

I think that’s called reality.

Those who play at politics, know the rules of the game. They welcome anyone who is willing to play the game with them. They will close in on anyone who tries to make up new rules; like vultures. The “shades of night” will fall fast. It’s what the power boys call, the “loop”. If you are outside of the loop and not trying to get in,you a a nobody. If you are a nobody; “all’s fair”.

I think I may just watch!JAMES E. BREEN *95 Young

Rebels P1

PD BOX 188BRISTOLSEL 32321

“What a pity that youth has to be wasted on the young”. My old buddy Mark Twain said that a few years back. As usual, he was right on. The younguns are full of vim, vigor and vitality. If an adult says up they say down. Just for the heck of it. This has been going on for,lo,a multitude of centuries. I hope it continues for many more.If they were meek and humble of heart, we would still be living in caves. Wouldn’t have to make car payments though. Every now and then they get a little out of hand with their revolt against the powers that be.

Would you believe that one of the local High Schools has hired someone who does nothing but roam the hallways of the school. He sneaks about like a red fox approaching a hen house. If he sees a student wearing a hat he creeps up on this terrible person; snatches che hat away and runs to stash it in the office safe. And if that isn’t bad enough, woe and double woe to the youngun who is caught leaning against one of the lockers gorging on goodies from the Seven Eleven. The Great Satan will snatch them also.

All of this, was written in a letter to the editor. Not in these exact words but close. It makes me wonder about a couple of things. What does the Great Satan do between bells; when students are supposed to be in class? Probably checks the nooks and crannies for illegal smokers. Maybe he takes a nap. I’m sure he is up to no good. Is the no food policy an attempt to keep the school building from turning into a garbage dump? Is the no hat policy an attempt to teach the children that there is a time an—iplace for different things. Naw! ! We all know that the schools are all messed up. It’s not possible that some teacher could be trying to straighten things

up a little bit. It’s all a plot to make life miserable for the studentsJAMES E. BREENp0 BOX 18~ *95 P23232t

It doesn’t bother me that the student

objects to the hat and food policy, protest is good for the soul. Any rebel worth his salt is going to swear that the king can do no good. That bothers me is mealy~outh~ whining about being caught and punished for breaking the rule. The letter further suggests that “civil rights” were being violated. i decided to recheck my Constitution. Sure enough it says right there in black and white;” the right of people to keep ‘Twinkies’ and not bare their heads shall not be ~~finged”. Or words to that effect. Come on Bro.. Take the silly hat off and eat in the cafeteria. If you buck the system it will buck you. Please!D0n’t cry if you get caught. Just say,”Well~ that didn’t work. 1111 try 50mething else.”

The rule may be dumb. The man in the hallway may be a perfect jerk. Whether you like it or not; he is “the man”. If you want change, grow up! Put yourself in a position to make a change! That’s what revolt is all about. Many before you have done just that. Look at the Constitution. There are twenty-six changes. We call them Amendments. Anyone can whine. It takes guts to stand up for your beliefs.

And while I’m up on my high horse pontificating all over the place, I have another question. Thy is it that so many of those who write letters to the Editor, think that those who read the letters, are totally stupid? They seem to believe that no one can tell the difference between a part truth and the whole truth. “The school has hired someone to do nothing but.. .“. Surely you jest.

Younguns! Keep up the good fight. Scream! Holler! Protest! Swallow that Twinkie in one bite if you see the Great Satan charging down the hall. Stick your hat in your shirt and then put it back on after he gets on someone else~ case. If you get caught. Shut up! Nobody likes a crybaby.

JAMES C. GREENPU BOX 188 *96 Does the punishment fit the

crime? Page 1BRrSTOL,FL 32321

I’ve tried mydarndest to read

Shaekspeare. I’ve heard so much talk

about his genius~ that I think should take the time to learn something about him. The old boy is good! I read a little bit and then get to thinking about what he had to say.The next thing you know its beddy-bye time and I haven’t done much reading; just a lot of thinking. We studied “Macbeth” for senior English; 50 I got through the whole thing there. I liked that business at the beginning where the three old hags are standing around mixing up a witches brew and the story line goes,”Boil,bOil;tOil and trouble.” I’ve seen that scene in my lifetime. Another goodie, is,”Methinks he protesteth too much.”

I keep reading and hearing about convicted felons who are complaining about our terrible Justice system. Some of them even admit that their behavior was against the law. Mostly they seem to be saying,” Hey man,what’s the big deal? They gave me twenty-five years for selling a few bales of grass. My cellmate shot his wife between the eyes and he only got ten.” Good question.

I like the song from the Opera “The Mikado”.”Let the punishment fit the crime.” Then old Bill says, “Oh! what a tangled web we weave; when first we practice to decieve.” Ghengis Khan the Mongolian Warlord had a good idea. In his country, the only crime was lying. If you did something bad and got caught; you’d better ‘fess up and pay for the damage done. If you lied about it and got caught; they threw you in a sack; filled it full of rocks and dropped the sack in the nearest river. Sometimes, just for fun, they tied a horse to each arm and each leg and then whipped the horses off in four different directions. The Mongolians didn’t need prisons. They didn’t have any cars. They didn’t need any license plates.

JAMES E. BREEN *96PU BOX 188

8RISTOL,FL 32321

To hear some of the convicted felons talk; we are doing a

- lousy job running our prisons. Some of them are not air conditioned or heated properly. The food is lousy and monotonous. Little or no effort is being

made to help them see the error of their criminal way and when they get out of prison some people are hesitant about accepting them back in society. One guy hacked a girls arms off and raped her. When he was released from prison he had a hard time finding a place to live. Would you believe that there were people who didn’t want him living in their neighborhood?

One big thing these folks complain about is that they are sometimes asked to work while in prison. The prison makes a profit from this labor and only pays them enough to buy a pack of cigarettes every now and then or maybe an extra cup of coffee or a soft drink.

All of this leads me to wonder about the answers to a few questions.

If I sell you a handfull of dope; you take the dope and go looney tunes; you go to the hamburger joint and gun down twenty citizens; do I have any blood on my hands? Have I been part of a violent crime? Back to Bill, “Out,out damned spot.”

Should the convicted felon be held responsible for the cost of being kept in prison?

Is there any real relationship between the time spent in prison and the amount of damage done by the crime?

Most of us have at one time or another at leasted twisted, if not broken the law. Most of us have no intention of applying for sainthood. Maybe some of us realize that we have been very fortunate that the “fickle finger of fate” didn’t point our way but instead got the other fellow. We still are faced with the terrible

choice; anarachy or corrupt authority.

“All the world’s a stage. We are but players.” Says Bill.JAMES E. BREENPD BOX 188 ~g7 Lights Out

BRISTOL,FL 32321

I feel a lot better today than I did

yesterday. I’ve been busy with a project the last couple of weeks that about has me worn out.

I keep reading in the papers and hearing on the TV that the US of A has gone to pot. American workers, are lazy, money grubbing, uneducated bums. They expect to live high off the hog without raising a sweat. Our CongresspersOns (Gotcha!) think like the lady who went to the bank to complain about a bad check charge.She said,”I don’t see how I could be overdrawn. I still have blank checks,” Woe is piled upon woe. I’n still thinking about moving to Tahiti. My big problem here is that I’m not sure how I would handle all of those nubile, half dressed native girls.

I do wish that the “media” would quit using words they don’t understand. “Kite” doesn’t mean writing checks without having money in the bank. “Kite” means raising the value on someone else’s check to a higher value. In the old days it was fairly easy for a thief to change the numbers on a handwritten check.It was and is, a felony. Don’t bother to look that up in your brand new Webster’s. Old Dan’l would turn over in his grave if he knew some of the dumbness they’re putting in the new copies of his sainted book. You’ve got to be old to know and understand some of these things.

But, my ancient brain wanders!

My wife and I were watching the TV the other night. Things had just gotten to the turn around spot. That’s where they start solving the problem and move toward the scene where everyone smiles, shakes hands, kisses, hugs and agrees to meet again next Tuesday. In our story, the hero had just threatened to blow himself, his boat and the hospital wharf into the next county. The kindly missionary Doctor politely asked him to move his boat to the middle of the river, and have at it. At this point,

the silly lights went out!JAMES C. GREEN * 9? P2PD BOX 188

BRISTOL,FL 32321Suddenly, everything was black dark

and silent. Scary silent! What’s up!

~ reached for my trusty pistol. I knew that the pesky Redskins were about to attack. My wife, being of sound mind and body, reached for her trusty kerosene lamp and lit it. She assured me that the pesky Redskins were too busy making millions running Bingo games to waste time attacking “white eyes” with fat wallets. We decided to pile in the truck and find the problem.

It didn’t take long. An enormous limb from an ancient pecan tree had splintered away from its main trunk and fallen on the power line; breaking the line and shattering a couple of poles. We decided to park along the side of the road, out of the way. and watch the doings.

We stayed until the wee hours of the morning as the electric people slowly but surely did what needed to be done to restore power and keep my ice cream from ~ filling up the bottom of the freezer with a gooey mess.

-A~t first, we noticed that there were half a dozen men standing around with hands on hips or pointing. They sure weren’t doing any work. Aha! Then we heard the whine of a chain saw and watched the branches that were holding down the lines fall away. That was at least one working! More trucks arrived.

More men stood around and watched. The chain saw kept whining. First one.C

Then another. The watchers stepped in and began moving the trash away from

the lines. Slowly the downed lines move back toward their original place. Suddenly, the watchers scattered. One did this. One did that.A stooped old man roamed about pointing, speaking quietly,and looking hither and yon. A monster of a truck snatched a new pole off its back; raised it high in the air and lanced it into the ground. Others scurried up the new pole and fed it the downed lines. We could plainly see, that each one knew what to do and how to do it. It was better than a Greek play!

Hey man! Don’t mess with the US of A!

I feel much better today! I wonder where we can find a real leader?

Excuse rue. I’m gonna go get a nice dish of ice cream!

JAMES E. BREEN *98 Womans WayP1P0 BOX 188

BR!STOL,vL 32321

I was watching TV the other night. The program had to do ~~th the latest great threat to the good old US of A. It seems that some Asian War Lord has control of several million acres of mountains. The chief money crop in these mountains is heroin; made from morphine; made from the poppies that are grown there.This heroin is then shipped to the US of A and sold on our streets at enormous profits. To bear these people tell it heroin is taking the place of the present drug of choice, cocaine. That’s like saying “ More people get killed driving to town than driving home.”

I noticed something on the program that seemed a hit strange. Every time someone spoke about the situation; every voice of authority on the program; was female. They had some men putting in their two cents worth but like two cents; it wasn’t much. The ladies went on

- ‘d on about what little luck they were having getting the drug problem under control. Nothing seemed to work really well. Aha! Methinks! Maybe! Just maybe! Therein lies the rub!

Maybe they are trying to cure a male problem using female ideas. Hold on! Before you men shake your right fist and shout “Right on!” Before you women get on the phone and form a posse to run this rascal out of town. I don’t mean what you think I mean. But just in case I don’t weasel my way out of this one, I’ve got the truck gassed and packed.I’m going to New Orleans to the Jazz Festival. I’ll be back after you calm

down.

I really think we might have a

problem. For six thousand years, the world has been dominated by male thinking, planning and doing. Everything is set up along the lines of what men see as the best solutions to

nblems. Work tools are designed for men to use not women.We males go about things in ways that suit us best. After all the momma is at the house cooking supper and watching the youngun’s. Its of no concern to her. What or how we !lo

JAMES C. AREENPG BOX 188 *98 P2

BRISTOL,FL 32321

After the Revolution of 1941. It began on December 7. Things e no longer the same. The kids are at the day care center. Supper

comes precooked from a factory in Yankeeland and is warmed up in the micro wave. Momma is out trying to make some kind of sense of a man’s world. I don’t think she’s having much luck.

I may get a “letter bomb” from Gloria Steinhem but I’m going to say it anyway.Females and males are different! Ladies. You can riot and speechify. You can’t change facts. Don’t mess with mother nature. Females look at things differently than males do. They certainly march to a different drummer. I’d be the last one to say that their way is wrong;or right. Being a male, I don’t have the foggiest.

I’ve often thought about what would have happened if the last great War, WW II that is, had been run by females in the female way. F’pecialy if the ladies in charge had all been mothers. I think the result would have been the same. I believe that the ladies would have managed to kill off just as many millions.

I can see it now. All firing would have ceased at six each evening. A man needs a good supper after a hard day of killing and maiming his fellow man. Then certainly he needed a good hot bath and a chance to brush his teeth. No self respecting military man would want

to be sent wounded to the hospital with dirty underwear. The night should be time for a good eight hours sleep not for skulking about each others lines slitting throats and generally messing the place up. Firing in the morning could not begin until one and all had a proper hot breakfast. I say again. The final result would probably have been the same.

The point is simple. If the women of the world are going to be co—runners of the world, somehow they are going to have to get the men to do things the female way. At least a little!

JAMES C. BREEMPG BOX 188 * 99 Police Brutality P

1BRrSTOL,FL 32321

Believe it or not, there were times in the early days, when

I found myself on the nether side of the law. It wasn’t difficult for me to tell that I had a serious problem on my hands. Most of the time, I had sense enough to not. aggravate the situation. It was, I decided, a time for a great deal of “yes sir and no sirring”. I learned early that dealing with the boys in blue was quite different than explaining to the teacher why your homework wasn’t finished.

In those early days, I did from time to time “hoist a few”.One evening after leaving a party, I was “wending”my way home in my trusty “36” Plymouth. The road I traveled was old and cobblestoned. To avoid bouncing around too much I drove from side to side on the rough surface. (Why do I get the feeling that you are not going to believe that?)You know what comes next. The man in the patrol car ordered me to the

~de of the road. He then gruffly told me to get out of the car and put both hands on the hood.

I got out of the car, turned toward the hood and then decided that a brief explanation about the condition of the road would clear things up. I looked over my left shoulder in the direction of this minion of the law and started “Sir “. Thats as far as I got. That sucker rabbit punched me just above the right shoulder. I went down on my face. The gentleman then placed his size 12 boot between my shoulder blades and stepped down hard. He says,” Don’t even breathe deep” Having recieved Underwater Demolitions Training, I knew how to make a breath last a long time. I put learning to practice.

Was I angry at this treatment? Yeah. Did thoughts of million dollar law suits flick through my mind? Did I think about flipping ~~ver real quick; grabbing his ankle and bashing his head against the

cobblestones? You better believe it.JAMES C. BREENP0 BOX 188

BRISTOL,FL 32321 *99 p 2

Then I heard a strange sound. Zoopt! Wboopt!NOw folks; you don’t ~rvive two wars without learning what that sound means. For you stay at homes, it means that some one has chambered a round in their automatic. He says,”Son. If you don’t get tricky. I won’t”. I’m smart enough to figure out when the other fellow has the best hand. I replied, “Yes sir.”

Was that police brutality? Was he using unecessary force? Maybe! One thing is for sure. He was doing what we all do. He was protecting himself. I’m just glad he wasn’t a shoot first and ask later kind of guy. Or worse yet. a “kill ‘em all let God sort them out” person. I did exactly as I was told and got away with an uncomfortable fine. I also decided that “hoisting a few” could cause some problems. What didn’t the policeman know when he pulled me over? Was I an escaped Homicidal maniac from the local happy farm? Had I just robbed the neighborhood liquor store? Did I have my own automatic nestled neatly in my belt. When I turned to speak to him; was that the beginning of the old “ look left;wheel right and deck ‘em” move.”I’ve pulled it a few times. It can be deadly. As I lay on the ground, did he feel my back muscles coil up in preparation for a move?

I don’t know. Neither do you.

I worked for the High Sheriff for a while, as a Dispatcher. You couldn’t print enough money to get me to strap on a weapon and go out and argue with the bad guys. They’re out there! Sure. Sometimes the good guys act like bad guys. The had guys almost never act like good guys. Sometimes its hard to tell which one is which.

What would you do? Be honest.

I think that we need to go with what we’ve got until the protesters and rioters come up with a better solutiun. Looting and rioting resolve

injustice?20Apocalypse Now ?JAMES E. BREEHP0 BOX 188

BRISTOLPEL 32321 *100 Do something

The old Sarge said,”Don’t just stand there.Do something!” I wondered if maybe my hitting him up side the head with my rifle butt would somehow get him off my case. Considering the fact that he loomed over me a head higher and forty pounds of muscle heavier, I decided that assault might not be a proper response to his request. I just turned my head to the side;

cleared my throat and spit. The old Sarge says,” private. How would you like a nice fat lip?” A ridiculous question if I ever heard one. Being of sound mind and intending to keep a sound body, I replied,”NOt today. Thank you sir.

The older I get and the more I wonder about it, the better I realise that the old boy spoke words of wisdom.We spend so much of our time;wondering;fussing; complaining; planning and just staring at the wall that we throw away bushels of good “doing” time.

I need to paint the screened in porch. I have to check my paint brushes.I’ve used them for ten years.and they are about ready for the trash can. I’m going to run down to the store this afternoon and check out the new ones. The bolts on the step ladder are loose. Better tighten them up. The three year old paint in the can might not be enough to cover the whole porch. I don’t want to mix shades. I’ll check on some new paint when I check on the brushes. I better check several stores. I need to get the best buy for the money. The porch is loaded with stuff for the garden. Its too hot to fool with that this afternoon. I’ll wait ‘till it cools off. Maw! I’ll get started on it in the morning. Before things get hot. Sure! If I’d just grabbed a brush and the old can of paint, I’d already be finished the job.Then I could start worrying about the next idea.I could just take a nap.

That’s when I do my best planning.4AMES C. BREENPD BOX 188

BRISTOL.FI. 32321 * 100 P 2

The worst part about doing something, is that you can seldom do just one thing. Not only does one thing lead to another but doing something usually sparks the old brain into doing something else. Maybe that you couldn’t have done if you didn’t do the first thing. (Take a Valium on that one all of you Creative Writing Teachers.) If I had not raised the corner of the rug to sweep dust under it; I would never have seen the stain that needs scrubbing.

As you sit there in the evening staring blankly at the tenth re—run of ‘ Nightly Cheers” decide to go get yourself a cold drink. I’ll bet you fourteen cents that you can’t make it all the way to the fridge and back without doing something extrea on the way. Or at least see something that you decide will be done in the not too distant but hazy future. Like throw out the last remains of the Ohristmas Plum Pudding. If your like me, you may get so involved with other things on the way

to the fridge that you end up back on the sofa without the cold drink.

About Christmas time, I had the need for one of those little stadium cushions. You know. The kind you take to the football games so you can lean back and take a little nap when they call a time out, to discuss whether the Defensive tackle had malice in mind when he broke the Offensive Quaterbac]~s arm. That’s quality nap time. But.I digress.

I went to our utility building for the stadium cushion, found it and gave it a jerk to retrieve it from its nesting place. I was pinned to the wall by the fall of an avalanche of priceless treasures stored their by various members of my extended family unit. I spent the next several weeks puttting things in proper ordar.I gathered a couple hundred old chicken boxes and sorted things into them sensibly.

No outsider has been near the building since.

JAt.i~S E. BREEN i~!P0 BOX 188BRISTOL,FL 32321P1

My poor old brain has a hard time dealing with the idea of :eality. It doesn’t want to handle the idea that what is;is. It wants to decide that a thing is right or a thing is wrong. If it is right, then it should be. If it is wrong, then it shouldn’t be.

1?The big problem here is that I can’t decide which is which. If I decide that the idea of Welfare payments is wrong, then I have to decide that they shouldn’t be. If I do that, I can’t decide what to do about the Welfare babies who would starve to death or worse yet, end up in a dumpster if Welfare was no more.

It is truly a puzzlement.

We do so many things that don’t really make much sense. We do them because our reality tells us, that we must, or drop by the wayside. Think of all the people who drive a hundred mile round trip every working day. Their reality tells them that this

is the best way to keep a roof overhead and food on the table. Others are going to say that all this driving is just a waste and helps that hole in the ozone grow. Why not move to the big city and be done wi~j~ it?

Don’t ask me. I don’t know. I will guarantee you that those who are doing the driving have it figured out. Does it take more gas and time to drive through big city stop and go traffic than it does to drive fifty miles at a steady pace on a straight country road? Is the early morning drive a good way to take time to plan the day? Can you use the time coming back to let the problems of the day drain away? I wonder, how much more it costs to live in the big city? Maybe those who live in the big city don’t know much about living in the country. Maybe they don’t know what quiet sounds like. Maybe they have not heard a million frogs “rebopping” intune.JAMES C. BREENPU BOX 188 * 96P2

BRISTOL,FL 32321

The papers and the TV rave on and on about the unbelieveable cost of Health Care. Everyone wants the very best care that modern medicene can offer. When the bills come in, we see to it that they are taken care of. Our stomaches turn flip flops as we look at the numbers. We ask ourselves, how it can cost that much. The bills get paid. If you want to waste some time; go to the hospital and ask them why a glorified aspirin cost two dollars. If they give you an answer, it will have no real meaning. Just pay it. Is it right? Is it wrong? Does it make any difference?

The ad in the paper said,”For sale; prom dress; size 5; used one time; $75.” I decided that the following things were true.A young girl wanted to be a part of some school activity. The momma was determined that her baby was not going to be left out. They spent more money on the dress than they could afford. Now they wanted to get some of the money back. Maybe they missed a payment on the washing machine. Maybe they hadn’t paid for the’dress yet.

What is going on here? Who is responsible for putting the momma and—her baby in this position. We all are? We have

created a reality that says, being a part of the whole is more important than being who and what we truly are. We no longer say, “ I am me”. We say instead,”What do you want me to be”?

I once had a sixth grade girl student who wanted to be a part of an Elementary School event. She had a couple of problems. She needed a gown. Her mother could not pay for the gown and continue to make payments on the shining new trumpet the girl was learning to play. I refuse to insult your intelligence by finishing the story.

Oh well! As the lawyers on the TV like to say when the rapist gets by with a slap on the wrist,” It is not a perfect system”.

I think that we could do a lot better, if we just tried a little more.

HiUSTUL,FL 32321 fr 4Qi Reality

My poor old brain has a hard time dealing with the idea of

reality. It doesn’t want to handle the idea that what is;is. It wants to decide that a thing is right or a thing is wrong. If it

is right, then it should be. If it is wrong, then it shouldn’t be.

1?The big problem here is that I can’t decide which is which. If I

decide that the idea of Welfare payments,is wrong, then I have to decide that they shouldn’t be. If I do that, I can’t decide what to do about the Welfare babies who would starve to death or worse yet, end up in a dumpster if Welfare was no more.

It is truly a puzzlement.

We do so many things that don’t really make much sense. We do them because our reality tells us, that we must, or drop by the wayside.t Think of all the people who drive a hundred mile round trip every working day. Their reality tells them that this is the best way to keep a roof overhead and food on the table. Others are going to say that all this driving is just a waste and helps that hole in the ozone grow. Why not move to the big city and be done with it?

Don’t ask me. I don’t know. I will guarantee you that those who are doing the driving have it figured out. Does it take more gas and time to drive through big city stop and go traffic than it does to drive fifty miles at a steady pace on a straight country road? Is the early morning drive a good way to take time to plan the day? Can you use the time coming back to let the problems of the day drain away? I wonder, how much more it costs to live in the big city? Maybe those who live in the big city don’t know much about living in the country. Maybe they don’t know what quiet sounds like. Maybe they have not heard a million frogs “rebopping” intune.

!~U hUA Aab * 101P2

BRJSTOL,FL 32321

The papers and the TV rave on and on about the unbelieveable cost of Health Care. Everyone wants the very best care that modern medicene can offer. When the bills come in, we see to it that they are taken care of. Our stomaches turn flip flops as we look at the numbers. We ask ourselves, how it can cost that much. The bills get paid. If you want to waste some time; go to the hospital and ask them why a glorified aspirin cost two dollars. If they give you an answer, it will have no real meaning. Just pay it. Is it right? Is it wrong? Does it make any difference?

The ad in the paper said,”For sale; prom dress; size 5; used one time; $75.” I decided that the following things were true.A young girl wanted to be a part of some school activity. The momma was determined that her baby was not going to be left out. They spent more money on the dress than they could afford. Now they wanted to get some~of the money back. Maybe they missed a payment on the washing machine. Maybe they hadn’t paid for the rdress yet.

What is going on here? Who is responsible for putting the momma and her baby in this position. We all are? We have created a reality that says, being a part of the whole is more important than being who and what we truly are. We no longer say, “ I am me”. We say instead’, “What do you want me to be”?

I once had a sixth grade girl student who wanted to be a part of an Elementary School event. She had a couple of problems. She needed a gown. Her mother could not pay for the gown and continue to make payments on the shining new trumpet the girl was learning to

play. I refuse to insult your intelligence by finishing the story.

Oh well! As the lawyers on the TV like to say when the rapist gets by with a slap on the wrist,” It is not a perfect system”.

I.think that we could do a lot better, if we just tried a little more.