The Eyes of Texas

You Can Lead a Horse to Water, But--

2012-01-25T07:15:00.000-08:00

Iraq is falling back into its authoritarianism and police state despite our government’s insistence the Middle East country is a fledgling democracy!

This not-so-shocking news was released by the Human Rights Watch out of New York to Brietbard News Alert.

Now my question is, does that surprise anyone?

Folks a lot smarter than me have stated that the democracy we enjoy in the US will never exist in the Middle East. Never, as in never, never, never.

Why?

Simple. Muslim intolerance.

I voted for Bush, twice. (no, not the same election-four years apart). I, along with millions of others, believed our leaders when they claimed Iraq had weapons of mass destruction.

Okay, so I’m an old codger, but not yet demented enough that I can’t clearly remember hearing of no such discovery even after one of our foot soldiers found Saddam hiding in a hole like a snake.

The tragedy of that ‘war’ is the almost 4500 US military were killed and over 33,000 wounded. They are all heroes as are their families that must find a way to live without loved ones.

Then we headed into Afghanistan after the Taliban.

Get rid of al-Queada and the Taliban, and everything will be peachy keen. That's the mantra Washington is waving over its head.

Nobody in his right mind believes that.

Look at the past. We strike, they hide, then vanish like puffs of smoke only to reappear in another place under another leader.

So, when we hear that Irag is tumbling back to a police state, we shouldn’t be surprised.

After we pulled out of the country with much fanfare, what happened? Irag’s new regime clamped down on freedom of expression and assembly by beating and intimidating demonstrations and the media.

A political crisis that broke between the Shites and Sunnis.

We could spend another ten years in there, and when we left, the same thing would happen.

Now, among the Republican candidates is Ron Paul. I’ll be honest, I can’t vote for him although I like a lot of his ideas, among which is for the US to stop sending American lives and billions of money to countries that do not want us there and will never change.

From time to time you hear of isolated instances of a Muslim individual switching to Christianity, but you hear much more of the Muslim persecution of Christian communities in Arab states. In fact, as more and more Arab countries elect Islamic parties, the persecution of Christian communities will increase.

A youngster brought up in a disciplined religion usually stays with those precepts throughout his life.

I see very few Catholics becoming Methodists; Church of Christ becoming Southern Baptist; Lutheran becoming Nazarenes. So why should we expect Muslims not to be Muslims.

Sure, I disagree strongly with their beliefs; those precepts are not mine. Never could be. The God I learned about is a loving and forgiving God who wants us to love others despite their faults. I deplore Islam’s abusive treatment of women; their savage and cruel laws; their drive to eradicate all who do not believe as they. But I can’t change them.

We can go in there and conquer, but unless we maintain a strong presence forever, things will slowly shift back to their religious beliefs.

So, let the Islamists run their own countries. The lives of our young are a heck of a lot more valuable than a futile effort to establish a democracy in a country that doesn’t want it and will not fight for it.

In case you’ve not thought of it, that’s the reason we have a democracy. Our forefathers wanted it badly enough to fight and die for it.

We can police the world, but only for our own protection, not to tell others how to live.

Let’s cut out a lot of bribes or as they are euphemistically known, foreign aid, we send to various countries, many of whom would slit our throats without hesitation. Let’s give our military the capability to protect our shores; monitor what is going on around the globe, and make sure every country realizes the catastrophic consequences they’ll suffer if they mess with us.

And prove it if we must.

Of course, we have our allies, and them we must support.

What we need in Washington are leaders who are not as concerned about themselves as they are the country. Make us energy independent, not with those whoopidy-doo green schemes, but by taking advantage of growing technology to extract energy we already have.

Just this last week, one of the largest natural gas suppliers in the country announced it would cut back on production this year because there is a glut of natural gas.

Right there is energy waiting to be used, and our government is simply funnel billions down the maelstrom known as ‘green jobs’.

We do need a change, folks, but not the kind that guy up there talked about. His changes will send us to four more years of the same quagmire we’re struggling in right now.

rconwell@gt.rr.com

http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/

www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell

www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

Medicare Premiums to Increase

2012-01-18T07:12:00.000-08:00

Medicare Premium Increase Ahead

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I opened up an email the other day that made my eyes pop wide open. Among other information, it detailed the increases in Medicare premiums for the next few years per person, courtesy the Obama Healthcare program now in effect. Read on. Your eyes will bug out too.

2011 96.40

2012 104.20

2013 120.20

2014 247.00

The message went on to explain that the increases were deliberately delayed so as not to affect the outcome of the 2012 Re-Election Campaign of the president, an explanation that any voter who wasn’t blind could see during the rush to push the health bill through a couple years back.

Now while I’m fairly naïve about some things, politics ain’t one of them. I’m as spooky about political moves as an old maid schoolteacher standing in the middle of a saloon.

So, I decided to find out the truth about the increases.

I did what we all need to do this election (all elections really). I looked up the truth myself.

On page 234 of the 2010 Annual Medicare Trustee Report, https://www.cms.gov/ReportsTrustFunds/downloads/tr2010.pdf, I found the following figures.

2011 120.10

2012 113.80

2013 117.20

2014 123.10

2015 128.10

And premiums continue to increase until 2019 when they will be $160.10. Look it up for yourself.

Now the report said something else that made my blood run cold. ‘These figures are just estimates that can change at any time depending on legislation.”

“Goody,” say all the Pollyannas in Lalaville. “That means premiums might go down.”

“Humbug,” growls the Scrooges. “We know better. The government never cuts taxes.”

I don’t know about you, but $160 bucks in a big increase for me. As things stand now, that will be a 57% increase, and you can bet my fixed income won’t go up that much. How about yours?

Now, I agree, $160 isn’t as much as $247., but the way things are now in Washington, just how long do you think it will take the government to go from 2019’s $160 to $247?

Now, I want you to stop and think about something. Obama jammed this healthcare through without ninety-nine percent of the Senate and House members having read it or having been briefed by their aides as is usually the case.

That’s how he plays the game of politics. Case in point. Remember sometime back when the two houses were deadlocked over extending the debt ceiling?

Remember Obama’s threat that perhaps Social Security retirees, Military retirees, Social Securty Disability recepients; and Federal retirees might not be paid?

He was trying to scare us, a common rought and tumble Chicago-Style political move.

A friend of mine pointed out just whom he did not threaten.

He did not threaten to stop payments to illegal aliens.

He did not threaten to stop internet access or the Disney channel for violent criminals.

He did not threaten to fire some of the thousands of unnecessary federal employess he’d hired.

He did not threaten to cut senators’ or representatives’ or their staffs’ salaries.

He did not try to stop his wife’s frivilous jaunts around the world.

He made no threat to stop welfare benefits, nor food stamp programs, nor foreign aid, nor anything involving his base voters.

Two months ago, pundits suddenly recognized that the president was in a full political re-election mode, and the at this very moment, propaganda spewing out of the White House is rewriting the history of the past three years.

(1984 hit it right on the nose, george)

And even as I write this, he is asking for more power so he can unilaterally make major decisions that could change the face of our country.

That’s the job of Congress, not a single individual who wants nothing more than to take hard-earned money from a working man’s pocket and give it to fourth generation welfare creeps.

And it isn’t just average schmucks like me, but now some of the misguided media are seeing what not enough of us saw three years ago.

Alan Caruba posted a very perceptive article concerning the president and the job he’s doing on the Wall Street Reader Comment Forum under the name of Eddie Sessions.

“I have this theory about Barack Obama. I think he's led a kind of make-believe life in which money was provided and doors were opened because at some point early on somebody or some group (George Soros anybody?) took a look at this tall, good looking, half-white, half-black, young man with an exotic African/Muslim name and concluded he could be guided toward a life in politics where his speaking skills could even put him in the White House.”

Caruba went on to point how Obama’s lack of political experience. “All those ‘gilded years’ leading up to the White House have left him unprepared to be President. Left to his own instincts, he has a talent for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. It swiftly,” continued Caruba, “Became a joke that he could not deliver even the briefest of statements without the ever-present tele-prompters.”

“Far worse,” wrote Caruba, “Is his capacity to want to ‘wish away’ some terrible realities, not the least of which is the Islamist intention to destroy America and enslave the west. Any student of history knows how swiftly Islam initially spread. Having gained a foothold in Spain, it began knocking on the door of Europe.”

With probably one of the most important elections in our history less than a year away, we must keep ourselves informed. Everywhere you’ll look, misleading garbage and outright lies will be flung in your face by both parties.

Take nothing at face value.

I don’t know which is worse, a president trying to turn our country into a socialistic one or an ignorant voter.

I think it is the latter. That’s how we got the former.

rconwell@gt.rr.com

http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/

www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell

www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Voter Ignorance

2012-01-11T07:13:00.001-08:00

If you’re like me, an ex-English teacher from the Neanderthal days when kids learned not only literature, but the dreaded grammar, then you’ll understand when I say I am bombarded daily by evidence of a growing lack of basic and practical knowledge of those around me.

Now, I said basic and practical, not technological. How well I know that twenty- and thirty-somethings on down can make an Ipad dance, a Smart Phone sing, and a Nook howl at the moon, but many are still lacking in various fundamentals. Me, I congratulate myself for being able to turn one on.

How many times have you heard about the dumb cluck behind the cash register that is stumped when a customer gives him and ten-dollar bill and eleven cents to pay for a snack that costs four eleven?

What really bothers me is that a certain percentage of these individuals actually go to the polls and elect others to lead our cities, state, and country. Maybe I’m way off base, but we’d better off if they’d just stay behind the cash register.

I take that back. We don’t need them where the money is. Brooms and mops are their forte.

Think I’m joking? In 2008, the city council of Chico, California issued a ban on setting off nuclear bombs in town. Anyone convicted of it would be fined $500.00.

Only idiot voters could elect idiot councilmen to make an idiot decision like that.

What prompted this harangue of mine was when I inquired of various veterinarians in regard to spaying a stray cat that has adopted us. Truth is, if it were left up to me, I wouldn’t spay her. I’d take her over to my brother-in-law Jim’s neighborhood and drop her off.

But if I did that, my wife wouldn’t forgive me, so I’m stuck with spaying or neutering strays that come along.

But, back to the call to the vet. I called several. Since this was just a neighborhood feline, I wasn’t interested in anything except preventing more felines, the tiny ones if you know what I mean.

Of the seven (vets, not felines) I called for prices, upon my asking if they spayed cats, four of the receptionists responded with “is it a female?”

Whoa there, partner. I’d pay a bundle to see the expression on someone’s face when they tried to spay an old ragged-ear tom cat.

Over the years, I’ve grown used to such mindless responses. They’ve become both understandable and humorous just like the story that came from a company that supplies goods for missionaries. Now, according to the article, one particular church requires all of its missionaries to carry a ministerial certificate showing they are authorized representatives of the church.

So the supply salesman was stunned when a woman from the church stated that the one last item on her list of needs was a menstrual certificate.

When questioned, she explained that ‘one of their elders had lost his menstrual certificate and needed a new one’.

The salesman rolled with laughter for five minutes before he managed to stammer out “ma’am, I think you mean a ministerial certificate.”

That’s as laughable as the young couple asking for a fecal heart monitor and explaining that it was to be used to hear the baby while it was still in the womb.

What they wanted was a fetal heart monitor.

These are voters, folks. Just what kind of intelligent decision can they make at the polls? They might as well eeeny-meeny-miney-moe at the various buttons or levers.

On the other hand, perhaps it is unfair to be so critical of their decisions. We’ve all make questionable, even dubious judgment calls.

Like the director of the Charlton Public Library in Massachusetts who sent the police to collect overdue library books from a five-year-old girl.

Oh, they collected the books and left, leaving behind a five-year-old in tears.

According to her mother, sending the police was like pounding a ten-penny nail with a sledgehammer.

In all fairness to the police, the department felt uneasy about going to the home, but the library insisted. (like the idiots they are)

Most folks suppose individuals in positions of influence render wise decisions. Not so. Not at all. There was a judge in Louisville who believed the jury went too far in sentencing the defendant to 5005 years.

He would show them the right way, the humane way.

So what kind of Solomon-like decision did this wiser-than-thou jurist hand down? He lowered the sentence to 1001 years.

Wow! Now the guy can ask for parole in only 600 years.

One of my classmates on my old high school chat group sent me a story concerning a conceited judge proud of his unusual sentences.

Once when a teacher came before him, he made her write 500 times, “I will not speed through a red light.”

But then his sentencing fancies caught up with him when a sharp (real sharp) attorney defending an accused burglar stated, “My client merely inserted his arm into the window and removed a few articles. His arm is not himself, and I can’t see you punishing the whole individual for an offense committed by his limb.”

The smug judge agreed, and replied ‘Using your logic, I sentence his arm to one year in prison. He can accompany it or not, as he chooses.”

The judge leaned back and grinned, but the grin suddenly vanished when the defendant rose, smiled, rolled up his sleeve, and detached his artificial limb. He laid it on the bench and walked out.

Now, this country is a republic, which means everyone has a say in the way it is governed. That’s good on the one hand, but on the other, when those voters are not informed, not educated, or fail to think problems through, then we end up with what we have today, an administration intent on redistribution.

Vote however you wish, but do yourself and the rest of us a favor, and stay informed-or stay home.

rconwell@gt.rr.com

http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/

www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell

www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

An Impossible Task?

2012-01-04T07:45:00.000-08:00

A brand new year is ahead of us. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years are past, leaving everyone, I hope, with pleasant memories and hopeful anticipation of the coming year.

I always enjoy those six weeks or so, especially when I recollect holidays past.

Often, I find myself wishing I could stay in those memories, but to do so is like the ostrich sticking its head in the sand. When he finally pulls it out and looks around, he recognizes nothing.

Life, however pleasant or unpleasant, has left him behind.

You and me, folks—we’re grown up. We’re children no longer with doting parents to solve our problems. That is up to us. And we have more than enough problems to solve.

We’re all facing a challenging year. If Big Banking isn’t turning the screws on us, then the politicians are feeding us lies. There are escalating problems in the Middle East. Genocide in Africa. Islam warns Christians in Nigeria to leave or be attacked. The job outlook is dim; money is tight; and neither Democrats or Republicans give a ‘Tinker’s damn’ about the middle class.

So we are, like the old homily says, ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t.’

You know as well as I there’s a whole slough of folks wanting to be president. I don’t know if a white Republican, a brown Libertarian, a red Whig, a black Democrat, or a green Martian will win.

Either way, I do not honestly believe you and me, the average Joe Sixpacks of this country, will find ourselves better off.

Washington, and I include all political parties here, has succeeded in setting up a convoluted set of connections that sheds accountability while enabling financial largesse beyond imagination. Those jokers get slaps on the wrist for behavior that would throw you and me in the deepest hole in the jail.

Perhaps, I should pause and take a step backward here and include local political entanglements also. There is more than ample evidence here in Southeast Texas as well as around the country and the world, that many elected officials are nothing more than crass barons of greed, perfectly willing to strip their constituents’ bank accounts for their own benefit.

Now, I have news for you. Maybe shocking; perhaps unbelievable; and certainly nothing new, but simply asking politicians to change won’t work.

Oh, they’ll agree that changes need to be made; they’ll assure us they’ll do all they can; and then as soon as we close the door behind us, they’ll stick another handful of greenbacks in their proverbial pockets.

Seems like to me these bloodsuckers are waiting in line for the plum political jobs; awaiting their turn at the trough of greed and wealth celebrated by the Potomac Two-Step.

Don’t believe me? Give me the name of a retired politician who lives on the median income of $50,000.00.

Like the Dodo bird, them fellers don’t exist!

What’s the answer, folks? Or is there one? Do we just simply move to the rear of the truck with the rest of the sheep?

I don’t know who coined the wry observation, but it smacks more of the truth than a lie. ‘An honest politician is one when he is bought, he stays bought.’

But there are a couple solutions, Blind Trusts or Term Limits.

Term Limits hasn’t worked. Sixteen states have term limits; nine for consecutive years, seven for lifetime. There were six other states with limits, but they were repealed, two by the state legislature; four by the state supreme courts.

I suggest term limits will not work for they must be put in place by legislators and judges, the very ones most affected by them.

That leaves Blind Trusts.

Lyndon Johnson was the first president to put his family wealth in a blind trust so there would be no question of impropriety; no question of using inside information for profit.

Why not require the same of Congress?

We send them to Washington to run the country. And we pay them well, $175,000 plus. Oh, yeah, and give them cost of living raises along with housing expenses.

Being in Washington, they are privy to financial information ahead of time, and more than one politician has made a fortune by that method.

Put their family wealth in a Blind Trust for the time they serve. They can’t touch it, so they won’t be tempted to do a little ‘insider trading’, a habit all too frequently taken advantage of by our congressional folks.

Now, most of those jokers up there currently won’t pass the necessary legislation, so we must do like the Tea Partyers and put in candidates who will carry out the wishes of America’s middle class.

An impossible task?

The realist in me says ‘yes’; the dreamer says ‘some day’.

rconwell@gt.rr.com

http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/

www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell

www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

An Epic Snowball Battle

2011-12-28T07:48:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

Here we are once again, staring at the one-time-a-year opportunity for another ‘do over’ or to use a golfers’ favorite word, a ‘mulligan.’

Even way back in Mesopotamia two thousand years ago, folks like you and me celebrated the chance to make amends for past behavior with new resolutions.(their new year wasn’t our new year, but that’s another story)

Down through the centuries, many life-altering events have occurred on January one. In 1660, Samuel Pepys made his first entry in his famed diary. Another was that in 1897, Brooklyn merged with New York to form the city, New York, and the next year, the Lightship replaced the Whistling Buoy on San Francisco Bay.

Earth-shaking events all, however, they all pale in comparison to that the momentous event that took place on the outskirts of Wheeler, Texas on January 1, 1944.

The Great Snowball Battle for Chapman’s Lake!

There had been several heavy snowfalls that year and ongoing snowball battles were common around our small town. Sneak attacks raged across the courthouse square, on the sidewalks, around the corners of the five and dime.

East of town, Chapman’s Dairy overlooked a ten-acre lake. To us boys, however, it was the Pacific Ocean. The pasture rose gently from the water’s shores to the milking barn about a quarter of a mile distant—a perfect sled run.

Now, Mister Chapman never minded us wild-haired boys traipsing across this pastures as long as we didn’t disturb his milk cows. We always gave the herd a wide birth, one of the no small reasons being there were three or four bovines with short tempers. One was especially temperamental. For some reason, her horns had grown down instead of up, and had to be cut to stay out of her eyes.

We called her ‘Crosseye” as well as a few other names when she chased us.

When the snowfall was extra heavy, the cows seldom strayed down to the pastures. Cows don’t paw at snow to remove it from forage like a horse. They push the snow aside with their noses, and if the snow is extra heavy or icy, their noses become tender and the dumbbells just stand there and starve.

Consequently, ranchers and farmers put out feed around the barn in covered troughs if possible.

That meant we usually had the whole snow-covered pasture to ourselves.

That year after Christmas, Jerry, Tony, Donald, and I were building a snow house when several older kids from the other side of town (six blocks away) showed up to challenge us to a snowball fight at Chapman’s Lake where they had built a fort.

We readily accepted the challenge and agreed to the winner-take-all-prize, next Saturday’s popcorn money, a whole nickel. All we had to do was take their flag down from the fort.

Nothing to it. Or so we thought.

When we arrived, we spotted a red flag waving over the small fort. One of the kids had cut it from his Pa’s discarded longjohns. They said it meant ‘no quarter’. That made no sense to me, but a flag was flag.

Leaving our sleds at the top of the hill, the four of us attacked the fort, but were quickly beaten back. Our leader, Jerry, decided we would attack with our tanks, meaning sleds.

We’d fly past the fort, loose a few snowballs, regroup for another pass. His plan sounded good in theory, but we soon discovered it was full of holes. Sitting on a whizzing sled and throwing snowballs called for a delicate balance none of us had mastered.

I fell off more than I rode; Tony crashed into the fort; Donald caromed off one side of the fort into the lake. Jerry was the only one who managed to ride and throw at the same time.

The battle surged back and forth. Each surge took us closer to the flag. Snowballs zipped through air. I guess all the whooping and hollering reached the herd of milk cows.

That’s the only explanation I have for the garbled bellow that rolled down the hill, jerking all of us around. Our eyes bugged out like stepped-on toad frogs when we spotted Crosseye shaking her head back and forth and charging down the hill in a bovine’s stumbling lope.

Pelting her with snowballs, wee took refuge behind what was left of the fort, but she didn’t hesitate. She went over the top, scattering us and taking down the flag.

When the last piece of snow had settled to the ground, Crosseye stood there in triumph, glaring at eight kids sprinting across the pasture in every direction like frightened prairie hens.

They claimed they won because we didn’t get their flag. We claimed Crosseye was our secret agent and since she took down the flag, we won.

They wouldn’t buy that. In the end, we decided upon another battle at another time, but it never came about.

Crosseye?

Well, we moved to Fort Worth five years later. She was still in the herd and still as ornery as ever.

rconwell@gt.rr.com

http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/

www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell

www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Christmas Magic

2011-12-21T08:30:00.000-08:00

If you’ve been out and around much at all the last few weeks, you’ve noticed it. It puts a smile on your face, a lilt in your voice, and a bounce to your step. It usually appears around Thanksgiving and unfortunately, lingers only a few weeks.

It is as warm as the smiling sun overhead, as solid as the ground at our feet, and as satisfying as a warm fire on a frigid night.

I call it the Christmas Magic.

Okay, so that’s corny, as in lame, but you can’t deny that in the last few weeks, most folks seem to be just a tad bit more jolly, a tiny bit more patient, and a teeny bit more cheerful.

That magic is intangible, beyond one’s touch, but, mysteriously, still as palpable as Aunt May’s homemade rum and bourbon fruitcake.

Caught up in the joyful ambiance of Christmas, I, as many, wish that intangible wisp of enchantment could last year around.

The pragmatic side of our psyches insist it’s only natural that after the first of the year to wake up with the disturbing feeling that something is missing. And no, I’m not talking about the hole in our bank accounts.

We’ve just spent days and weeks in anticipation of Christmas Day and then New Years. And because we were so anticipating the gaiety and cheerfulness of the holidays, once they are behind us, there comes a natural let down.

But there is no reason for that Christmas magic that fills the Season of Giving to fade away just because the calendar changes.

As I crept up the ladder of age, I came to realize why my father and mother always replied ‘I don’t need a thing,’ when asked what they wanted for Christmas.

Sound familiar.

At my age, I don’t need anything thing. I get a kick out of seeing the delight sparkle in the eyes of those to whom I’ve given what I could afford.

If you’ll look around, you’ll see that despite the problems we face, usually our blessings outweigh them. Might not seem like it at the moment, but Santa Claus is with us year around, or can be if we make the effort.

Don’t think so?

Recently, I read a delightful article in Newsweek Online of a mother’s concern that her seven-year-old would learn there was no Santa Claus.

Over the years, being the loving parent she obviously is, she had enhanced the magic of Christmas for her son by encouraging him to help with the decorations, add to the crèche, bake cookies, and yes, even spread reindeer food in the snow to light the way for Santa.

Can’t you just imagine the excitement coursing through that little guy’s veins? At the end of the article, she expressed relief that he had managed this Christmas still believing in old Saint Nick, but she had the feeling that sometime before next year, he would learn the truth.

She ended the article with the observation that despite what he might learn, as long as he believes, he will enjoy that special magic year around.

Perhaps that is where so many of us go wrong. Somewhere along the way we stop believing in Santa Claus just because those beliefs fly in the face of logic. I have a couple good friends who have reached the four score and ten mark who believe in Santa Claus, and I kid you not, nowhere will you find a couple jollier or more cheerful gentlemen. They brim with the anticipation of life and the excitement of each passing day.

F.P. Church said it much better than I in his response to Virginia O’Hanlon when she queried the New York Sun on the existence of Santa Claus. ‘Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.”

There was not a soul in the world who could say that Santa did not exist if they witnessed the sparkle in the eyes and the broad grin on the faces of my two youngest grandsons, Keegan and Mikey, as they hop on their scooters or fire up their space rockets on Christmas morning.

That same excitement is no different in homes around the world. It’s just that during the Christmas holidays the love for one’s fellow man is even more pronounced.

But if you look, if you pay attention, you’ll see proof of Santa’s existence throughout the year. Perhaps it isn’t as noticeable among the stories of mayhem and murder, but it exists.

You’ll never convince that single mother there’s no Santa Claus after her son was given a new wheelchair by the Shriner’s to replace his dilapidated one. And what about the little girl who won a raffle at school and put aside her own wish for a beautiful little doll so she could instead select a hand-sewn blanket she knew her invalid mother admired?

No Santa Claus?

In Minneapolis, a parent was hit with unexpected car repair bills just before the holidays, wiping out the family’s Christmas budget. When she went to pick up the vehicle, a stranger had paid the bill. You think that family doubts the existence of Santa Claus?

And who is it that drops a $1700. gold Kruggerrand in the Salvation Army’s pot every year? Who is it paying off Wal Mart and K Mart layaways around the country?

No one can tell me that the spirit of Christmas is not alive throughout the year. It’s just that in the midst of our hustle and bustle, it sometimes takes a back seat, but it is always there, waiting to be dusted off.

As long as the human heart is filled with understanding and compassion, there will always be a Santa Claus, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

Christmas on the Farm

2011-12-14T07:32:00.000-08:00

If you’ve ever passed through or spent time up in the Texas Panhandle during the winter, you know just how cold the weather can be.

The eastern Panhandle is rolling sand hills; the west is prairie land flat as a wet leaf. And I’m here to tell you that neither conformation does in now way inhibit the wind howling down from Santa Claus at the North Pole.

Of course, we kids always looked forward to the first snow, but the initial thrill quickly wore off. Slugging through ankle deep mud to feed the animals and milk the cows has a way of throwing and ice-covered blanket over any degree of excitement.

Growing up, we lived next door to my aunt and her husband. He had a couple cows. He milked them in the morning, and with Dad overseas, my job was to milk them in the evening. It was a tedious enough task when the weather was nice, but during the winter, the snow and rain and mud put a quick end to a fifth grade boy’s delight over a fresh snowfall.

I was never one to complain when one of the cows started drying up. Now, I don’t remember actually muttering the words, but I probably added a footnote to my prayers at night to assist the old cows in drying up.

Even spraying cats with warm milk couldn’t detract from the cold slithering up my coat or pant legs as I squatted at the old bovine’s side.

About the only thing colder than milking cows in the middle of the winter was utilizing the two-holer out back. That’s a cold beyond description. Even the spiders and snakes left.

Fortunately, baths were taken in a washtub in the kitchen in front of the stove with the oven door open and the burners going full blast.

Come February or March, I was ready for Mister Winter to move on back north.

Luckily for us, our relationship with the two-holer only lasted during of the war for upon Dad’s return, he built us a house with all the facilities a couple lots over.

Usually, we spent Christmas on my maternal grandparents’ farm out by Lubbock. That part of Texas was sometimes given the moniker ‘Great Plains’ or ‘Staked Plains’, because it was so flat.

Those Christmases have always held a special spot in my memory. We’d spend a week or so at Mama’s for Mom’s family was fairly large, three sisters and four brothers. Not all could make it the same time, instead trickling in over a few days.

You get eight couples and their kids together, and very soon bodies are poking out every window of a three-room clapboard house.

We usually made the trip with my aunt and her husband. Both self-employed, they could take off when they wanted. Dad always had to work, so he’d drive on out the night before Christmas Eve

Since the adults took up most of the space inside, we boys played outside despite the cold. From time to time, we’d scoot inside to warm up and dry out.

Naturally fireworks, then as now, were part of the Christmas celebration, and we cousins would save up for an ample supply. Now, firecrackers on a farm were a big no-no because of the animals, so we had to wander off down to the local creek some half-mile away to set them off.

Roman candles were another matter for they weren’t as noisy as a string of Black Cats. Other than a hissing whoosh and a low decibel pop, the Roman candle served as an ideal weapon when we waged battle with each other.

Now, cousins in our family were sort of stratified, I suppose you could say. Each strata was about four or five years older than the next group, which meant the younger ones were prime objects for unabashed bullying.

The one who gave Ed and me the most trouble was Dooley. His name was Henry, Henry Shoop, but he had been stuck with the nickname Dooley as long as I could remember.

Anyway, one winter, Dooley cornered me and Ed out in the barn, which was a cavernous structure with a dozen or more stalls, two or three lofts, and no telling how many tack rooms and feed rooms.

And oh yes, in the winter, the floor turned to squishy mud from not only the weather but the afterthoughts of the bovines loitering about out of the frigid cold.

That day, Dooley was chasing us with a shovel full of afterthoughts he had scooped up with the intent of dumping it on us.

Even though he was five years our senior, the cumbersome load plus the slippery footing sent him sliding into a pile of afterthoughts himself.

That gave us time to scamper across the farmyard to the well house where we’d cached our supply of fireworks in a milk can.

Just as we pulled out our Roman candles, Dooley yanked the door open. Before he could move, we touched matches to the candles.

He stumbled back, fell over his own feet, then jumped up, but not before we sizzled his rear end with a couple balls. Laughing like lunatics, we chased him all the way to the house.

Retribution?

You bet. He finally caught us without our equalizers, carrying out his initial intent, to toss us in the afterthoughts.

The women made us strip down to our longjohns on the porch in the cold so we wouldn’t smell up the house. I swore to get even with Dooley, even though I knew I would pay for any revenge.

That night, Dad handed me the answer. He had to go back to Wheeler and I was to go with him. We’d leave early, before everyone got up. Mom and my brother would come the next day.

That night while Dooley slept on the pallet next to mine, I dumped a cup of afterthoughts in his boot.

Sometime later, Dad awakened me, and we left. I giggled all the way home.

According to Mom, Dooley pulled his boot on, then jerked his foot out and tracked the stuff all over the house before the women ran him outside.

I pleaded innocent. Mom and Dad knew I was lying, but when I saw them grin at each other, I realized they knew the truth. I kept expecting some kind of punishment, but it never came.

Until that summer. That’s when I ran into Dooley once again.

rconwell@gt.rr.com

http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/

www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell

www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Panhandle Winters

2011-12-07T07:52:00.000-08:00

Last few days, we’ve had some nippy weather, at least to my way of thinking. Now, I know if you’re from Minnesota, North Dakota, or any of the northern most states, these past few days were probably short sleeve and flip-flop weather.

When I came down the gulf coast forty years ago, it would have been short sleeve for me also. Weather is quite a bit nippier up in Fort Worth, and a heck of a lot colder up in the Texas Panhandle.

How well I remember those Panhandle winters. And how glad I am they’re just memories.

Seems like beginning in October and lasting through March or April, it was bitter cold with the wind howling and blowing snow or rain or both with chunks of ice tossed in just to keep you on your toes.

In our little town, only the courthouse square and the two main highways crossing at one corner of the square were paved. All the other streets were dirt, which mean come the first really wet weather, Mister Mud showed up, gouging ruts in the road almost a foot deep.

One good thing about the ruts was that they kept you from slipping and sliding off the road. The bad thing about them was it was next to impossible to pull out of them to get into your driveway.

For us youngsters who walked everywhere, the water-filled ruts were a no win situation. If you waded them, water poured down your galoshes. If you jumped them, you buried up to your knees in mud.

And speaking of galoshes, which are rubber boots over shoes, they were an exercise in futility for seldom a day passed that we didn’t inadvertently yank a stocking foot from both shoe and boot and plant it squarely in the mud.

That was sure a sloppy mess to cram back into your shoe, but you had no choice. Even I wasn’t dumb enough to run around barefoot.

Early in the year, like idiots, all we school kids looked forward to the first snow, watching it stick against the school windows and slowly cover the ground.

Sometimes if it appeared to be thickening, the school sent the buses home earlier for the majority of the routes were over—you guessed it, dirt roads.

The rest of us, the walkers, were usually released some minutes later, and we tore screaming and shouting into the falling snow like wild heathens.

Sometimes, if the show was really heavy, I went over to Mama and Papa Conwell just across the street. Papa would take me home. Other times, a handful of us boys would carry on a running snowball fight the whole mile back to our neighborhood.

Like all kids, we build snowmen, forts, and stockpiled snowballs.

Such battles were common at recess in our small school, which sat next door to the high school. Usually sixth graders and we fifth graders stayed away from the high school crowd.

One particular day, however, the opportunity for sweet revenge came my way.

The high school boys were locked in a snowball battle with the school superintendent, who had paddled me once or twice (with more delight than I figured he should gain from administering my punishment). I was far off to one side, but I hatched a devious little plan to get back at him. I put together a solid snowball and sneaked around behind him. He was so occupied with the high school boys, he never saw me.

Stealthily, I crept closer and closer. Finally, all I could see was his broad back. Now I had him. I savored my revenge! I drew back, and at that moment, he jumped aside, dodging a well-thrown snowball.

Guess who didn’t dodge?

It caught me right between the eyes.

I bawled and squalled. He laughed and led me to his office where he turned be over to his secretary who dried my tears.

When the kids in my class heard about my misfortune, they laughed. It went on for a week. That was how long it took my black eye to finally go away.

Often we had snow on the ground for several days.

To be honest, snowball fights are entertaining for just so long, and after a few days, boredom takes over.

One winter, Jerry, Donald, and I set out to build us a small cabin where we boys could gather and while away the days.

Finding no material for a cabin, we decided to build it out of the bales of hay my uncle had under tarp. Don’t laugh. A small cave under a stay of hay can be pretty snug especially if you build a small fire for warmth like we did.

What we didn’t realize was—well, that’s another long story, better saved until we have more space.

rconwell@gt.rr.com

http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/

www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell

www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

December 7, 1941

2011-11-30T07:27:00.000-08:00

When I was five years old, I sat in the darkened theater in our little town watching a two-year-old film.

The theater, or picture shows as they were called back then in Neolithic times, was named ‘The Rogue’. The movie was ‘Wizard of Oz’, and the day was Sunday.

Dad was treating Mom and me to the town’s Sunday afternoon matinee, which always began at one pm, ran only one time, and then shut down for the day. Each Sunday film was shown again Monday night. Tuesdays, best I can remember, The Rogue was closed only to be open the rest of the week.

Dad wasn’t a movie-goer. In fact, not too many grownups back then were. Still the Guthrie family had enough business to keep the picture show in the black.

That was back in the country’s period of innocence. Our little town was so out of the way that delivery of new films was made at night and left at the front door of the movie house. Films to be returned were left at the same spot.

Try to imagine if you will the fate of films left in such a manner today? Probably before the delivery truck turned the first corner, the film would be in somebody’s car and heading for the pawn shop.

But, enough editorializing. Back to the movie.

That Sunday was a treat—while it lasted.

While the film enthralled me, what I remember most that day was the film stopping; the overhead lights suddenly flashing on; Mister Guthrie hurrying down one aisle and climbing up on the stage.

Holding up his hands to quiet the muttering of the audience, he told us the radio had just reported that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor.

Now to a five-year-old boy disappointed that the Munchkins had been turned off, that meant nothing. I didn’t have the slightest idea what a Pearl Harbor was. When I heard my Dad muyter a curse and Mom ask him what it meant, I knew something was wrong. It had to be something seriously wrong to shut down ‘The Wizard of Oz’.

At home, the family gathered, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins- all in front of the radio desperately seeking more news.

As the tragic figures grew, so did the family’s anger and resolve. Now, we had a vague idea there were problems with Japan. For months, the news carried bits and pieces concerning the rocky relationship between the U.S. and Japan.

But up there in the middle of nowhere called the Panhandle with only a couple ‘bobbed’ wire fences between us and the North Pole, the news meant little.

But as details trickled in, the words took on new meanings, and the anger and resolve grew in my family, as it did in millions of families across the country.

The surprise attack hit at 7:53 Sunday morning. The first wave damaged eight battleships, sinking five. Three light cruisers, three destroyers, and smaller vessels were lost along wit 188 aircraft. Fortunately, the main targets, the aircraft carriers, were not in harbor.

Casualties? 2,117 servicemen, 68 civilians, and over a thousand crewmen on the USS Arizona were killed plus 1,760 were wounded.

Sunday night, Japan attacked Hong Kong; Guam; Philippine Islands; and Wake Island. Monday morning, they hit Midway Island.

On Monday, December 8, President Roosevelt spoke to Congress, asking it for a declaration of war against Japan. He called the previous day ‘a date which will live in infamy.’

Congress did as he asked, and immediately infuriated Americans clamored to enlist.

I didn’t really understand what was going on, but I knew things were changing about me. And change it did. In its outrage, our country turned its bucolic existence into an all-consuming rage at its attackers.

A quote attributed incorrectly to Admiral Yamamoto, mastermind of the attack, states ‘I fear all we have done is awaken a sleeping tiger.’

That’s a movie quote, not his, but it proved apropos.

The Greatest Generation, outraged at such treachery, responded with fervor never before nor since witnessed in the history of the world. All the men in my family volunteered. I had cousins in the Air Corp, uncles in the Navy and Army, and my father in the Navy. Fortunately they all returned.

A few years later in Korea, my cousin, Dooley, was lost, Missing in Action. As of November 30, 2011, he is still missing. His DNA is on record, our one hope someday he’ll be back.

Of the 16 million plus Americans serving in WWII, over four hundred and five thousand died. You and I are here today courtesy of that generation and their supreme sacrifices. We dishonor their sacrifices if we do not keep America great.

rconwell@gt.rr.com

http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/

www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell

www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

A Feeding Frenzy

2011-11-23T07:11:00.001-08:00

You’ve seen videos of sharks in a feeding frenzy, ripping chunks from the prey, tearing at each other, filling the water with blood and slivers of raw meat.

That’s what the media appears to be doing today to the GOP candidates under the guise of impartial reporting. Maybe their onslaught is deserved. Maybe it isn’t.

What's the sense eviscerating a candidate when our primary concern should be to show our sitting president the road out of Washington and back to his daytime job as community organizer.

Case in point, old Herman Cain. That guy has been the center of the cold-eyed media’s frenzy for weeks now. They’ve torn him to pieces.

I’ll bet he’s glad Jerry Sandusky and Penn State came along to take over the headlines. Between that guy and the over-the-hill hippies at the protests, perhaps Cain can find a tad of respite from the heated accusations and innuendoes directed at him.

But in all fairness, you know as well as I, such recrimination, whether deserved or not, was due old Herman since he had the unmitigated audacity to surge to the top tier of GOP candidates.

The media reminds me of some of the wacky (read dangerous) deer hunters I’ve had the misfortune to run into over the last forty or fifty years.

Those are the crazies so anxious to take a deer that they shoot when a leaf moves, figuring they’d spotted a ten-point buck when in reality, all they manage is to put a hole through a maple leaf. But, they sure killed that sucker dead.

Seems like as if by magic, a bullseye morphs onto the chest of any GOP candidate who rises to the top, and the media takes aim, dreaming of Boone and Crockett headlines.

Now, I’m not defending Cain. Maybe he did, and maybe he didn’t. I have the same reservations as any of you who struggle to keep an open mind. We need to know all about our candidates, warts and all-within the bounds of credibility.

Accusers have stepped forward, then fallen back. Makes me wonder. Is it all a ploy paid by liberals or even opposing conservatives to demean and disgrace the man? Or is it the truth?

Such is difficult to define since the majority of the media has been in Obama’s back pocket since the campaign in 2008. Anyone who opposes him is fair game.

I’ll be the first to admit, some of the poor jokers on the receiving end of the media’s Spanish Inquisition deserve much of what they get, but I have yet to see the mainstream media nitpick at the current president the way they scrutinize every thread in the fabric of his opposition’s life.

Take Michele Bachmann. A good person, she is very sincere in wanting to put America on the right track, but she made too many blunders early on when she was in the top tier of candidates. Some were outrageous, such as implying the ‘shot heard around the world’ was fired in New Hampshire’ when it was in Massachusetts. Or her assertion that Perry’s HPV vaccinations caused mental retardation.’

What do you want to bet if Obama had made those remarks, we’d never heard of them? The media doesn’t appear to be taking him to task today for the politics he’s playing with the Keystone pipeline, dragging his feet until next year’s election, then approving it.

And then along came Perry, who rocketed to the top of the candidate list and back to the bottom just as fast. Why? The media honed in on him, his hunting club with the derogatory name; his loss of memory; his deplorable debating skills; even his twang.

In his favor, he didn’t name the lease; everyone is forgetful at the wrong time; great orators are not automatically good presidents; and what’s wrong with a twang?

The result of the media’s obsession with Perry? Old Rick tumbled down the hill right behind Jill—oops, I mean, Michele, and then along came Herman, self-made, Washington outsider with plain and simple ideas at which the media scoffed.

Can’t you imagine just how frantically the media struggled to dig up bad press? And they found it in the sexual harassment business, a sordid business to which they clung like cur dogs on a gut wagon.

Cain didn’t help himself during a couple interviews when he had to pause to put together a response. That was all it took to bloody the waters, and here came the sharks, gaudy headlines glistening off their curved teeth.

I think there might have been a few shreds of old Herman left to sink to the bottom. I’m not sure, for the predators did a pretty thorough job on him.

Then came Newt, who early on had been pilloried, but survived. When Cain tumbled, Gingrich hit the top tier. Now, they’re after him like fresh chum tossed in the water because he worked as a consultant for Freddie Mac to the tune of $1.5 million over seven or eight years. What is that, $200 thousand a year? Less than half of what Joe Paterno made at Penn State.

Now I don’t know about you, but I can understand many of these candidates messing up from time to time, and okay, the media takes them to task. That’s their job. Can you tell me Obama hasn’t messed up? What do we hear? Nothing!

But sometimes, the media, in their quest for blood, overreach. Bachmann made a remark that as a youth in 1961, her parents paid five bucks for a doctor’s visit. The media pounced on it, pointing out that 1961’s five bucks was $37.94 today.

So what? She was trying to make a point, although she was somewhat clumsy about it.

They jump Perry about a hunting lease with a derogatory name over which his father had painted. And they assume Perry is racially biased because of that?

And why did Cain’s accusers wait so long? As far as I know, only two identified themselves. I suggested it before, but paid hecklers and informers is nothing new in the political jungle surrounding us.

Even Romney has had his share of bad press regarding his flip-flopping and healthcare, and the president, with the media’s blessing, goes tiptoeing around the world without a care to his name.

You think the battlefield is bloody now, wait until the presidential campaign begins. You’ll see Chicago politics at its gaudiest.

rconwell@gt.rr.com

http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/

www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell

www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

The Thanksgiving I Became a Man

2011-11-16T07:53:00.000-08:00

Despite my age, I still look forward to Thanksgiving and Christmas just as much as I did when I was a youngster up in the Texas Panhandle, but for different reasons.

As I youth, three-quarters of my anticipation was getting together with cousins. The other 25% was the piles of food.

Today as an age-challenged individual, I count myself blessed to be able to look forward to the warm gathering of family and friends.

No question, Thanksgiving has changed over the years.

While turkey has always been associated with the holiday, as a youngster, our main fare was chicken, and usually it was fried, but we sure didn’t argue the point.

Today after a good meal, we settle back for a football game.

Sixty-five years ago, instead of after dinner TV (there was no TV), grownups gathered around a small space heater and brought the whole family up to date on their lives for the past few months. Outside, we boys ran wild.

Like most old codgers, I’ve romanticized those days. So what? We all pick the most pleasant days from the past to remember. that's how most of us make it from day to day.

As I think back to those days, the delightful aroma of dinner on the oversized stove seemed more palpable than what comes packaged from today's vendor; the friendly joshing and laughter merrier than the inane rattling from broadcasters and color men; the days brighter, and everyones' enjoyment more fulfilled.

Usually, we spent Thanksgiving at my maternal grandmother’s. They lived about forty-five minutes north of Lubbock, right smack dab in the middle of what is called the Llano Estacada or Staked Plains.

The story goes that the early Spanish explorers used stakes to mark their path back to their camp since there were no trees nor shrubs nor hills nor prairie dog holes to serve as landmarks. The country then, as today, is as flat as a wet saddleblanket.

The drive from our home in the Panhandle was only about two hundred and fifty miles, but it usually took us around six hours in the old pre-war vehicles. Even the post-war autos took five or so hours.

That time of year, the weather was chilly—well, not chilly, but cold.

Mama’s house had four and a half rooms. the pot-bellied stove in the living room and the stove in the kitchen kept the two rooms warm. The two bedrooms were like ice as was the bathroom out on the closed-in back porch. I tell you, there was no piddling around when you had to use the facilities.

One Thanksgiving that I remember so clearly was the year I shifted from boyhood to manhood, at least in my mind. It was around 1944. I was eight.

My Aunt Mae drove into our home at Wheeler with her husband, a bull of a man named Millard Coate. He was big and rough and his favorite curse was ‘son-of-a-buck.’ He was as amiable and friendly as he was rugged, and I instantly idolized him.

Most men in my family with the exception of Uncle Henry were only around 5’9”. Millard, or M.O. as he preferred for Millard Ore, stood well over six feet.

He drove a Studebaker bobtail with a arched plywood top over the bed. He had constructed it with twelve-inch sides so it would slip down over the sideboards and tailgate like a hat. He planned on taking the truck on to Lubbock for a job after Thanksgiving.

Since Mae had not seen her sisters, Mom or Elva, for several months, nothing would do but the three ride together and do what sisters always do, find out the skinny on everything that’s gone on since they last got together.

Me, I rode with Mo. Boy was I proud. Eight years old and traveling across the Panhandle without my Mom. A heady feeling for a younker like me.

I don’t remember much about the trip except somewhere past Plainview (the name clearly describes the how flat the land is around there), the top blew off the bed.

With a ‘son-of-a-buck’ curse, Mo pulled off and backed up.

I jumped out and almost froze when the bitter wind hit me. That land was so flat I swear I could see the North Pole. Clenching my teeth, I grabbed the top. I couldn’t budge it, but here came Mo, muttering under his breath. Without seemingly an effort, he lifted the top and propped it against the truck. He told me to hold it in place, which I barely managed to do until he shed his jacket. He bent over and grabbed the edge of the plywood, and heaved, sliding the cumbersome top back into place.

That was sixty-five years ago, and I still marvel at his strength.

Back in the truck, Mo laughed and slapped me on the leg. “By god, we got it back in place, didn’t we, boy? You did a good job. I reckon that calls for a cup of coffee and hot cocoa, what do you say?”

If you think I felt grown up helping him with the top, you can imagine how I felt when we marched in a nice warm café and sat at the counter, me beside that great hulk of a man who called out to the waitress, “Lady, I’ll have a cup of coffee and bring a hot cocoa for my partner here-with marshmallows if you got them.”

Mo’s been gone a long time, over twenty-five years.

I still miss that big old bear of a man.

Incidentally, I didn’t get the marshmallows. They were rationed, but I didn’t even notice. I was with my hero.

rconwell@gt.rr.com

http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/

www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell

www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Green America Turns Red

2011-11-09T08:41:00.000-08:00

If you didn’t know it, our president has been out on the road, riding in a great black RV constructed in Canada. The purpose of his journey is not to inform, but to campaign. After all, in a year from now the presidential election takes place.

Most sitting presidents do not to hit the trail so soon, but then, he is like no other president in our history. And no, I’m not referring to his race or eloquence, but to his inept attempts to administer the duties of his office efficiently and effectively. He’s learning the hard way that sophisticated educational theory hatched in an Ivy League all-nighter usually stinks like a rotten egg.

He does, however, possess a great deal in common with many federal and state bureaucrats in that he spends money like water. Of course, it is taxpayer funds, not his.

They say death and taxes are the only sure things in life, but I suggest there is a third that could claim a spot in that unholy Trinity, “No amount of money thrown at a project can ensure its success.’

That is what he and his administration of brilliant idiots have attempted since they first got their hands on the country’s purse strings. Their ideas bordered on the grandiose and ostentatious, never realizing that job creation, from which all else comes, cannot be generated by word or unproven ideas or fanciful theories, but by hard work, sweat, experiment, failure, regrouping, and working again.

And no, jobs do not come from sitting on one's tail drawing welfare either.

Today, our country is drawing near fifteen trillion in debt. That is almost $50,000. per individual.

Think back to the stimulus of 2009, over eight hundred billion.

Here’s one example among hundreds of waste. The administration gave the Department of Energy $500 million for green jobs. One hundred and eleven million was spent to train 21,000 workers for green jobs. To date, none of them are employed.

And then there was Beacon Power Corporation that filed for bankruptcy just a year after receiving $43 million guarantee from the Department of Energy.

Then you have Solyndra, maker of solar panels. They received a $535 million loan from the DOE. A couple years later, our president visited them and gushed just how proud he was of the way they had handled themselves. Solyndra, he claimed, was a model for all green energy companies.

And then what did they have the audacity and nerve to do. Why only months later, they went belly up, filing for bankruptcy.

Serves him right. No one, not even the president, has the right to take foolish chances with another’s money, but that is exactly what his administration is doing. And, to be fair, previous administrations also. Bush is in for his share of the blame. He can’t escape that.

Oh, they try to cover it up.

Another example.

How many of you out there own a Volt, GM’s electric car?

Not many, I can tell you that.

Why?

You see, the government anticipated building a 100,000 thousand Volts, but to date have sold only 928, a major, but well-deserved, embarrassment for Obama.

Why didn’t they sell?

Price for one thing--$41,000 plus it is a lemon among lemons.

The cars wouldn’t sell at that price, so GM lobbied Obama, who was pushing the Volt, for a federal tax rebate. They received a $7,500 federal rebate.

Federal rebate?

You know, don’t you, where that money comes from?

Think your wallet.

At a Detroit auto show, a Volt failed to start when it was demonstrated.

After testing Volt, Consumer Reports estimated mileage range on the battery is between 25 and 50 miles. And the only reason electric motor range is that much is because the heater or the air conditioner is not running. Range would be even less with either of the two in operation.

And oh, yes, the Volt requires premium fuel, so what little gas savings you get is consumed by the expense of premium fuel.

To save Obama’s face, General Electric (remember-they pay no taxes courtesy the present administration and Charley Rangel) committed to buy 50,000 Volts.

Everyone’s happy.

GM because they get rid of a dud of a vehicle.

Obama because it falsely appears he is greening the country.

GE because Obama is happy.

The only unhappy ones are the suckers, the US taxpayers We will be paying $5,000,000 for fifty thousand lemons.

Now, I never believed his ‘hope and change’ hype. If you still do, give me a call. I have a mountainside retreat in Galveston I’ll sell you at a real bargain.

rconwell@gt.rr.com

http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/

www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell

www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Coincidence or Politics?

2011-11-02T16:34:00.000-07:00

A couple days back, an old classmate of mine from decades past sent me a few interesting tidbits of information that caught my attention. After reading the first scrap of Washington nonsense, I started to skip the second piece, but for some reason I went ahead and read it.

I’m glad I did. Makes me wonder once again; just what is going on up there in Washington. At first, I figured the two incidents were simply coincidence, but upon second reading and a little research, I’ve come to the conclusion the two events are part of a larger game that is being played out behind the ludicrous façade of politics today.

You decide for yourself.

Now, everyone is aware of the ‘Occupiers’ in New York, a group of protestors endorsed by President Obama. I’m not exactly sure what they are protesting, but that isn’t as important as the spot at which they are conducting their protest.

I had heard the park in which they have settled, Zucotti Park, is not owned by the city. It is a private park owned by Brookfield Properties. I often wondered why the trustees of the park didn’t order the people off.

Naïve me.

Guess whom they recently hired as their attorney? Vice-President Joe Biden’s son. But that’s not all. Sitting on the board of Brookfield Properties is New York Mayor Bloomberg’s live-in girlfriend, and now guess what company just received some of the last of Obama’s billions in stimulus?

If you guessed Brookfield Properties, go to the head of the class.

How is that for coincidence?

No wonder Brookfield doesn’t mind folks squatting on their property.

But our President doesn’t just have his finger in the New York pies. He’s also hard at work in the kitchen over in Wisconsin, a state that could be ‘the’ swing state in 2012.

Now, I’m sure this is just coincidence, but do you have any idea who will be tabulating the electronic votes in Wisconsin in 2012?

No one but George Soros.

And who is George Soros, you ask.

He is none other that the biggest financial contributor to Obama, that’s who.

Talk about a fox in the hen house.

Anyone care to give odds on who will win Wisconsin?

My ex-classmate closed his message with a quote from Joseph Stalin. I didn’t verify the quote, but it seems apropos here. “He who votes does not have power. He who counts the votes has power.”

I’ll bet Florida would second that.

Over the last few years, I’ve seen too many Washington ‘coincidences’ to believe very few are anything but carefully constructed events to achieve political gains.

Think back, if you will, to the days prior to the first Republican debate. A time was designated for the debate. The next day, the president and the White House announced a request for a joint session of Congress on that same date so he could give his jobs speech. He was forced to back down, but can you tell me with a straight face that such an announcement was a coincidence; that he was not deliberately trying to disrupt their debate?

I’m gullible, probably more than the average person, but I’m not that easy to fool.

Ever since the first stimulus, I’ve wondered about the recipients of the grants or loans.

I hadn’t thought much about the loan to General Electric until I ran across it during research of several sources online. To my surprise, many of the sources utilized the expertise of one writer, Walter Korschek.

According to Mister Korschek, sometime back word surfaced that General Electric had over a billion in worldwide profits as well as a billion in domestic earnings in 2010. In addition, they paid no income taxes, receiving in fact a two billion dollar tax refund.

For years, GE had been making overseas loans and receiving interest. According to a loophole in our tax codes, they paid no taxes on the interest.

The Democrats got their nose out of joint and swore to their sorely taxed constituents that GE would indeed pay taxes. Charley Rangel, at the time Chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee, decided to rewrite the code so GE would have to pay taxes.

And then a funny thing happened on the way to the forum.

One day Rangel stood ready drop the floor from under GE, tightening the noose about the neck of their loophole. The next day, he inexplicably removed the rope and tore down the scaffolding altogether.

An then a miracle. A few days later, a GE Foundation donated millions to New York City schools, several million of which went to schools in Charley’s Congressional District.

Coincidence? Or politics? Or a miracle?

You and I both know the president is always talking about spreading the wealth around.

Personally, he’s doing a lot better job at it than I care for. I don’t know how the wealth could be spread around any better than what old Charley Rangel is doing.

Rangel’s district is a model that Obama would love to see spread to the rest of the USA. The majority live in government housing, cash government checks, utilized government food stamps, accept government cell phones, use government health services, and take advantage of government social services.

On the other hand, it might be we should thank Obama. Had he not tried so overtly to move our country into a socialistic society, we might never have noticed just how far we’ve already slid as a result of back door politics and Congressional greed.

Irate Americans put many new faces into Congress in 2010. Our only salvation is to send that many more new faces to Washington in 2012.

Give us time, and we’ll win out.

rconwell@gt.rr.com

http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/

www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell

www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

America's Ace in the Hole

2011-10-26T07:42:00.000-07:00

I recently ran across a sobering observation by an Eighteenth Century University of Edinborough professor, Alexander Tytler, a statement I’ve heard several times previously.

President Reagan even quoted Professor Tytler in a 1964 speech when he was stumping for Barry Goldwater. While some believe Lord Thomas Macaulay or Arnold Toynbee coined the conclusion instead of Tytler, the veracity of the observation is beyond question. Failure after failure of democracies from Mesopotamia to Rome have proven its chilling truth.

In referring to the fall of the Athenian Republic two thousand years ago, the statement was made that ‘A democracy is always temporary in nature; it simply cannot exist as a permanent form of government. A democracy will continue to exist until the time that voters discover they can vote themselves generous gifts from the public treasury. From that moment on, the majority always votes for the candidates (plug in Democratic Party here for its liberal policies) who promise the most benefits from the public treasury, with the result that every democracy will finally collapse over loose fiscal policy, which is always followed by a dictatorship.’

Now, I’ll be honest. When I first read that assertion in college back in the medieval days of dragons and damsels in distress, I scoffed. But today—well— our current situation does give pause to wonder.

Still I don’t believe it will come about, but much will have to change for its conclusions not to hold true. I think we have an ace in the hole, but only if we citizens will play it.

The professor continued. “The average age of the world’s greatest civilizations from the beginning of history has always been about two hundred years. During that span, nations have always progressed through the following sequence.

a. From bondage to spiritual faith
b. From spiritual faith to great courage
c. From courage to liberty
d. From Liberty to abundance
e. From abundance to complacency;
f. From complacency to apathy;
g. From apathy to dependence;
h. From dependence back into bondage

You can’t deny we’re somewhere between apathy and dependence, most having waved a joyous adios to complacency a couple decades earlier.

But the ace in the hole is the fact we are not a democracy, but a constitutional republic. That gives me hope and the country an edge.

Now we always hear we are a democracy, but is that all we are? Is that all the founding fathers intended?

Democracy is a form of government in which all people have an equal say in the decisions that affect their lives, including equal participation in the proposing, developing and passing of legislation into law.

A republic is a state in which the head of state and other officials are representatives of the people and must govern according to existing constitutional law that limits the government’s power over all its citizens. Because the head of state is elected; because its representatives are elected, it is a republic, not a monarchy.

The framers of our constitution were well aware of the inherent problems of a simple democracy, so that is why they labored over a set of laws that limited the government’s power. That set of laws became the constitution.

In a constitutional republic, the executive, legislative, and judicial powers are broken into three distinct branches.

That a constitution exists limiting the government’s power makes the state constitutional.

That the heads of state and other officials are chosen by election rather than inheriting their positions and that their decisions are subject to judicial review makes the state a republic.

I’ve voted Democrat. I’ve voted Republican. Once, in a state of temporary insanity, I even voted Liberal.

That is our ace in the hole. We can vote the scoundrels out—if we simply choose to do so.

Those already on the dole who enjoy the largesse of liberal policy make up about 47 percent of our 311 million population, almost one half, a shocking increase over the last century, an increase that parallels the problems of social security solvency.

For example, in 1940 when Ida May Fuller of Vermont received the first SS check, there were 160 workers for every retiree. Today, there are three for every retiree.
Same thing is happening with entitlements.

If our citizenry will shake the apathy from its shoulders, don the cloak of independence that was once a driving force in America, then we can pull ourselves out of this morass of welfare, which daily is carrying us closer to a socialist state.

That’s why I applaud the Tea Party, and the Occupiers.

They’re making themselves heard. Now some might be crackpots protesting just to protest; some are there to party; some are there because they have nothing else to do; but some are there for a purpose.

Like the Tea Party or not, you can’t deny they put many new faces in Congress.
What we need to do to add more new faces, individuals who will serve the people and not themselves.

We have enough professional politicians in Washington, those shylocks who want to control us by deceiving us into believing they re doing what we want while instead they do as they wish.

If you’ll take time to look at demographics, you’ll see that politicians who have served numerous terms represent constituencies receiving a much higher percentage of entitlements

Look at Charlie Rangel, D-Harlem. Unemployment in his district is out of sight; so are food stamps; so are every entitlement across the board. He is convicted of eleven ethics violations, yet his voters put him back in.

They’re afraid they’ll lose the welfare he provides them.

Jokers like Rangel and his ilk need to go. The task won’t be easy, but I’d like to see my grandkids enjoy the same America as I.

Wouldn’t you?

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

Dad and the Texas Rangers

2011-10-19T08:01:00.000-07:00

I hope you don’t mind a break from politics, at least for today. I just read something in the newspaper that brought back those halcyon days of my childhood in the little town of Wheeler up in the Texas Panhandle.

Our community was one of those ubiquitous small villages all over the USA where a dirty-faced boy or freshly washed girl, after a day of hard play, would drop dead in their bed without a care in the world.

We never questioned our security, our safety, or world.

So, what was so mind-grabbing in the paper?
Splashed across the headlines in Sunday’s paper were the bold words “Texas Rangers Return to World Series.”

If Dad were alive, I wouldn’t have had to wait until morning to hear the news. My phone would have been ringing off the wall as the game was over.
Dad was a big Ranger fan. He listened to every game after the team came to town in 1972. The move came after spinning seventy less than memorable seasons as the Washington Senators.

I promised myself when I started this column, I’d stay away from politics, but golly, the fact as Washington Senators, they accomplished nothing worthwhile in seventy years seems awfully familiar. Don’t you think?
But back to Dad and the Rangers.

When a Ranger game was on, you’d find Dad out on the patio with the radio and his flyswatter. Under the shade of a latticed roof covered with vines, he’d sit at an old table covered with a red and white checkered tablecloth with his cigarettes and ashtray, killing flies and sipping beer.

I was a big baseball fan also, starting as far back as the mid-forties. Dad had just come back from the war.

During those summers, almost every day, my best friend, Jerry Lewis, and I would lie on the grass in the shade of a giant cottonwood by the small creek just below our homes, listening to the afternoon ball games and spooking old fawn-colored jersey milk cows that grazed too close.

Usually, Jerry and I agreed on everything except he was a Yankee fan, and I always pulled for the Dodgers. Fortunately, they were in different leagues.
I can still hear the announcers’ voices and remember their names, (I think) Mel Allen, Jim Britt, Red Barber.

Looking back, I try to call up the magic of those days, Jerry and me sprawled out, leaning up against the rugged bark of a tree, cooled by the breeze sweeping across the hayfield and under the shade of the cottonwood. The sky overhead was blue as a robin’s egg. Puffy clouds that looked like elephants and goats and people tumbled past.

We probably had a RC Cola or Nehi Orange at our side.

The announcers’ voices were clear and crisp as they called each play. To this day, I can hear the crack of the bat striking the ball, the sharp sound cutting through the roar of the crowd. Even before the crack of the bat died away, Jim Britt or Red Barber would shout, “A homerun, ladies and gentlemen. A home run, and the Cubs lead it one nothing in the bottom of the seventh.”

We’d clap and shout with excitement.

That afternoon, when Dad came in from work, I’d run up to him and my words tumbled all over each other as I related the details of the game.

I’ll never forget how crushed I was when a bunch of us boys were talking baseball at recess one day. One of our friends sniffed and said. “Those guys who call the game ain’t really there. They just use sound effects.”

“What? How can that be? They got to be there.”

He calmly informed us his brother was in radio, and each station had a announcer who sat in a room listening to the game on headphones, then relating the plays to his own audience. “Why,’ he exclaimed, “he even has the sound of crowds on a record, and he taps his pencil against the microphone to make it sound like a bat hitting the ball.”

That night, Dad studied me a moment after I told him what I’d heard. He gave me that funny grin of his and tousled my hair. “Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

That was good enough for me. In my mind, I could see those announcers high in the booths looking down on the field.

Years passed. I grew older. Major changes came about. We sort of relegated baseball to a lesser priority although we attended several Fort Worth Cat’s games after moving to that city.

Dad never got real interested in baseball until the Rangers came to town. They were pretty bad, but he hung in there. He always assured me that they were just rebuilding. Wait until next year, he would say. For the twenty odd years until he passed away, he faithfully followed the Rangers with all their warts and moles.
Well today, he’d sure be crowing. “See. Just what I said. They’ve been building up to this.”

I can see him now, flyswatter in hand, sitting at a table with maybe St. Peter, and the two of them looking down as the Rangers take the field in this years World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals. He’d give St. Peter that funny grin of his and announce. “I always knew they’d make to the series. And this year they’ll win it.”

When I think about him and baseball, those carefree days so long ago come sweeping back, carrying me back to those misty days in my memory. I hold so precious and dear.

Enjoy the series, Dad. You deserve it.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

Campaign Mode

2011-10-12T08:19:00.001-07:00

You know what the definition of Campaign Mode is, don’t you? That’s when politicians tell you exactly what you want to know even if they have to lie about it. Hey, often, they’ll lie to us when the truth would serve better.

If you’ve noticed, in the last few weeks our president has gone back to his campaign mode he so successfully utilized in ’08. You remember, sleeves rolled up, collar unbuttoned-just a regular good old boy.

And he’s doing exactly what he did back then, telling us what we want to hear regardless of truth.

For example, a few months back at a Democratic National Committee meeting in Austin, he made the remark that we had doubled our exports.

The truth is in 2009, exports totaled $1,571 trillion. The first quarter of 2011, exports totaled just over $505 billion. If you multiply the first quarter of 2011 by four, you’ll have $2,020 trillion, which is an increase, but only 29%, not the doubling he claimed.

Why do they deliberately misrepresent their accomplishment to us? Obviously, to be re-elected, and if they don’t have something positive to say, they’ll make it up.
The old saw ‘believe half of what you see and nothing of what you hear’ is as valid today as when old Ben Franklin coined it.

Have you grown as sick of the budget mess we have up there?

I'd like to say, take heart, but I can't.

The president claims his budget ‘will help reduce the deficit to $400 billion over the next decade—the lowest level since Dwight Eisenhower was president.’

But a strange thing happened on the way to the forum. Using Obama’s own summary tables from his budget proposal, PolitiFact found that the deficit for 2011 will be $1.645 trillion. In 2021, the end of the span of which he spoke, the deficit is projected to be $774 billion, almost double his claim of $400.

In his effort to defend his healthcare, he stated categorically “twelve judges have thrown out legal challenges to the health care law because they rejected the notion that health care law was unconstitutional.”

Twelve judges did dismiss the case, but not because of ‘the notion health care was unconstitutional’ but because upon procedural grounds. They did not even look at the merits of the case.

Four more judges have ruled on it, two for, two against.

But doesn’t it sound much better to claim twelve tossed it out? He blatantly stated, “they rejected the notion that health care law was unconstitutional “, which they did not.

In another fairy tale, he claimed he had not raised taxes. If he didn’t then it was his clone who signed into law raising taxes on cigarettes and other tobacco products.

His clone also signed into law the new healthcare law that taxes those who decide not to have health insurance. By 2016, penalty/tax will be from $695 per uninsured person up to a maximum of three times that amount or $2,085.

No taxes, he claims. How would you explain that starting in 2013, individuals who make over $200,000 and couples making over $250,000 will see additional Medicare taxes as well as begin paying Medicare taxes on their investment income.

Another false statement.

Had enough?

No, well, this idea of cronyism has been bandied about in the last few weeks.
If you’ll think back, in his State of the Union address last year, the president stated “we’ve excluded lobbyists from policymaking jobs or seats on federal boards and commissions.”

According to PolitiFact, he did sign legislation barring lobbyists, but, as usual in politics, there was a loophole. That loophole was that he could, by executive order, issue a waiver okaying a lobbyist to work for the administration.

And that is what took place.

He issued a waiver for:

William Lynn to be deputy secretary of defense, the No.2 positional at the Pentagon.(think defense weapons) Lynn was a Raytheon lobbyists for six years, lobbying on defense-related issues.

Jocelyn Frey, director of policy and projects in the office of the First Lady. (this one states she is director of policy)

Cecilia Munoz, director of intergovernmental affairs in the executive Office of the President.

In addition, the White House has issued seven more waivers and among various federal agencies, fifteen more waivers had been issued.

I’m tired of listening to such dribble as ‘health reform will give every American the same opportunity to buy health insure the way members of Congress do.

Or preventive care saves money.

Or –never mind. The list of half truths is interminable.

I could go on and on relating his remarks, but the point is that up until the next federal election, citizens should remember Ben Franklin and be skeptical of all they hear, not just from the president, but from all politicians.

Now in all fairness to him, probably ninety-five percent of our politicians do the same thing.

They just don’t have a big a platform from which to speak.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

Is America Turning to Socialism?

2011-10-05T07:30:00.001-07:00

Unless you've been stuck away in an attic for the last few years, you've heard the word 'socialism' batted around more than a volleyball in a five-game match.

Socialism advocates the means of production, distribution, and exchange of wealth should be owned and regulated by the community as a whole.

The philosophy is very much like communism in which all property is publicly owned.
Each person works and is paid according to their abilities and needs.

The difference in the two is that communism advocates class warfare, a word you’ve heard bandied about in the media over the last few years.

Joseph Stalin once said that "America is like a healthy body and its resistance is threefold: its patriotism, its morality and its spiritual life." He continued. "If we can undermine these three areas, America will collapse from within."

To that end, a platform of forty-five communist goals were established to insinuate destructive philosophies into the American model. In fact, these goals entitled 'Current Communist Goals' were published in the U.S. Congressional Record in 1963.

You're probably saying that was over sixty years ago, so what does that have to do with today? Read on.

Forty-five is too many to cover in such a short space, but there were some that leaped off the page and struck me between the eyes.

Goals twenty-four through twenty-six:

24. Eliminate all laws governing obscenity by calling them ‘censorship’ and a violation of free speech and free press.

25. Break down cultural standards of morality by promoting pornography and obscenity in books, magazines, motion pictures, radio, and TV. (what explanation is necessary? Take a look at what Hollywood and the printed word offers today)

26.Present homosexuality, degeneracy and promiscuity as "normal, natural, healthy."
(gay marriage had dominated headlines for the last several years)

In fact, take a gander at your TV schedule for the next week and tell me these three goals have not been achieved.

What a change from the sitcoms of the sixties and seventies. We had ‘Leave it to Beaver’,‘My Three Sons’, and the 'Brady Bunch-, all of which provided healthy lessons on life. We had heroes then such as Batman, the Lone Ranger, Superman. And we had the light-hearted 'Gomer Pyle', 'Dick Van Dyke Show,' and 'Betwitched'. The cartoons were light, always concluding with the good guy winning, not vulgar like the current South Park or King of the Hill or Family Guy, all three of which are laced with obscenities.

How did all this come about?

Here’s how.

Communist Goal 21 states 'Gain control of key positions in radio, TV, and motion pictures.’

Do you think this happening? The most recent example I can point out is last week, Hank Williams Jr made the remark that Obama and House Speaker Boehner playing golf was like Hitler playing with the Israeli Prime Minister. When asked to explain, Williams replied, "They, meaning Obama and Biden, are the enemy." His remark got his Monday Night Football opening canceled by ESPN.

Now, I'm not saying ESPN is communist. I’m not saying any media is communist. All I’m saying is that over the last forty or fifty years, our country has leaned more and more toward that particular philosophy.

Over the decades, government has been insidiously insinuating itself more and more into our lives.

Is this just coincidence?

Goal 27 calls for infiltrating the churches and replacing revealed religion with 'social' religion; it calls for discrediting the Bible and emphasizing the need for intellectual maturity, which needs no religious crutch.

Goal 28 states eliminate prayer or any phase of religious expression in the schools on the ground that it violates the principle of "separation of church and state."
We've seen that come about. We've witnessed students punished for praying in school. We can’t pray in school. We can’t pray at ball games.

And then there is the furor over ‘In God We Trust’ on our coinage.

I'm not smart enough to have a solution satisfying everyone, but our country was founded upon and by religious principles. We're not floundering around now because God is punishing us; we're floundering because our country has moved away from the principles upon which it was founded.

In Washington today, the thrust is to take from those who've worked hard, who've worked smart, or who hit a streak of luck, and give part of their income to those who don't have as much. Pure socialism.

Communist Goal 29 states ‘discredit the American Constitution by calling it inadequate, old-fashioned, out of step with modern needs, a hindrance to cooperation between nations on a worldwide basis.’

Don 't think so, then explain why North Carolina Governor Beverly Perdue suggests we skip--yep, skip (as in forgettabout it) Congressional elections.

And then farther up north, we have Peter Orzag stating that what our country needs is less democracy. Who is Orzag? A graduate of Exeter and former Obama staff member.

Are they communists? No, but they are leaning in the direction the communist philosophy espouses.

Fifty percent of households pay no income tax. How to you reconcile that with the socialist philosophy? Fifty million Americans are on welfare. That's not counting the twenty-three million illegals, the majority of whom are drawing some type of welfare. Aren't taxpaying Americans taking care of them?

Any way you cut the cake, it stills comes out socialism.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

Living Through Chaos

2011-09-28T07:41:00.000-07:00

We’ve all been in situations when the unexpected forces us to change plans we’ve had in place for weeks or months. And when that happens, we’ve no choice but to make the best of it. Sometimes that’s hard to do; sometimes the repercussions are not what we had anticipated; sometimes, but not often, it all turns out much better than we expected; but always, we’re grateful when it is all over.

That is the sort of frustrating situation in which we found ourselves a couple weeks back for the Pecan Festival hosted by the city of Groves. Instead of the weekend being fun and relaxing, it became a hectic frenzy—not the festival itself, but the days leading up to it thanks to the unanticipated--and Mother Nature’s blessings.

We always try to attend the Pecan Festival with the grandkids, Mikey and Keegan. Now, we never attend opening day because it is too crowded. We usually opt for Saturday. This year, the festival’s dates fell on my grandson’s, Mikey, birthday.
Mikey's birthday party was Saturday at two.

Well, we talked about going Friday, but since Keegan was spending the night with us. We had planned to take him fishing at the rocks at Sabine Lake. Keegan is crazy about the place, and he’s turning into a good little fisherman.

Then things started going down hill.

Keegan was sent home from school ill. There went the fishing for when I picked him up, that little feller was as droopy as a wet noodle. Usually when he’s over, we jump in the pool, but all he felt like doing was lying around watching Spongebob Squarepants on TV.

I know, I know, erudite psychologists have claimed watching just nine minutes of Spongebob will turn a child into an idiot. In my years on this earth, I’ve not grown very smart, but I’m smart enough to know such conclusions are drawn only by idiots.

The same thing was said about the Three Stooges fifty years back, and while that might be the explanation for the idiocy of most of our current politicians, for the most part, American kids who enjoyed the Stooge’s silly antics turned out to be fine citizens.

But, back to the festival or actually the days leading up to it. We realized Sunday would have be our day at the fair. Open from 1-6, there was plenty of time for the boys to enjoy the rides and games.

I mentioned ‘frenzy’ earlier. Well, Keegan’s mom and dad worked Saturday, which meant we would also have his little sister, Kenli, who was almost one.

If you haven’t been around a one-year-old in a spell, I’ll tell you they are never still. She’s a climber and a crawler (though she is close to walking). As of this writing, I guess I could say she is walking for yesterday, she took about eight or ten wobbly little steps before plopping down on her plump little derriere.

Keegan still felt puny, so his folks decided he didn’t need to play in his peewee football game that Saturday morning, which was fine with me being the bus driver so to speak. But he also been invited to a couple birthday parties, Mikey’s being one of them.

Strange how a birthday invitation can perk a sick kid up. You ever noticed that?

Anyway, the first party was at Doornbos Park at eleven, and then his cousin’s, Mikey, at two.

Leaving Kenli with Gayle, Keegan and I headed for the first party.
Birthday parties aren’t like I remember with a handful of kids. Not only did youngsters show up, their parents were with them. I’d guess seventy or eighty folks altogether.

The hosts had a pony ride and petting zoo for the kids.

Great fun, great company, great people.

I lost track of the number of pony rides Keegan took, and his favorite animal in the zoo was an ancient turtle almost three feet long.

We didn’t want to leave, but we had to pick up Gayle and Kenli and head for Mikey’s shindig.

By then, Keegan was over whatever he’d had the day before. He hit the swimming pool with the others, and for three hours, the kids tried to drown each other.

Gayle and I were exhausted, but we still had the fair the next day.
That night, the drought around broke—big time.

We knew we were taking a chance of being soaked if we went to the fair. We were right. For the first hour, we huddled with thirty or forty others under a 20x20 pavilion out of the pouring rain witnessing a dog show.

Now I like dogs, but a dog show is not my idea of a fun time at the fair.

When the deluge finally slacked, we were all soaked, but we headed for the midway through ankle deep water with grim resolve to have fun despite the drizzle. Have fun or die-that was the motto we adopted.

The boys rode what rides were open, and we all took shelter under the canopies of game venues with each passing shower. The prizes they won probably cost all of five bucks althought we spent fifty to seventy on them, but it was worth it.

I kid you not, those three days, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday wore me to the proverbial nub. I even dozed through the Texans' football game.

That night, Gayle and I were asleep before our heads hit the pillows. I didn’t move a muscle.

How soccer moms do it, I’ll never know. My hat’s off to them.

Now, I’ve got to rest up for next year

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Rick Perry and the Great Ponzi Scheme

2011-09-21T07:22:00.000-07:00

Seems like some folks are upset about Rick Perry’s assertion that Social Security is a Ponzi Scheme.

Now, I don’t know if I’m for Perry or not. I don’t trust him. He possesses many of the attributes of the consummate politician, both good or bad. That means nothing.
There are only a few politicians I trust, and most of them are local folks. Even among the locals, there are those who put their own agendas above those of the public.

So, when I say, let’s talk about his remarks, I’m not supporting him, although I believe if you look at his assertion with an open mind, you’ll be able to see his point.

I’m not trying to change your mind. Most of you are too wise for that, but I just want to explain his point-of-view.

First, just what is a Ponzi Scheme?

It is a fraudulent investment operation that pays returns to investors, not from actual profits earned, but from money paid by subsequent investors.

The scheme draws new investors by offering returns other companies can’t guarantee. These returns are short term and offer abnormal and consistent returns. When other investors see that old Joe Moneybags’ investment with ‘Pie in the Sky Mutuals’ is drawing twenty percent, they fall all over their own greed to get in on the action.
The only way for the scheme to continue is to entice new investors--continually--as in day after day—to feed on itself.

Most of you have heard of Bernie Madoff who scored billions off a long running Ponzi Scheme.

A la Perry, let’s compare his plan to our Social Security system, shall we?

Bernie: took money from investors with the promise that the money will be invested and made available to them later.

Social Security: Takes money from wage earners with the promise that the money will be invested in a ‘Trust Fund’ and made available later.

Bernie: Instead of investing the money, old Bernie spent it on nice homes and yachts.

Social Security: After depositing money in a ‘Trust Fund’, politicians borrowed from it to supplant monies for the General Revenue Fund, using it for general spending and vote buying.

Bernie: When the time came to pay the investors back, Bernie simply used funds from new investors to pay the older investors.

Social Security: When benefits for the older investors became due, politicians paid the old codgers with money taken from younger and newer wage earners.

Bernie: When Bernie’s scheme was discovered, you-know-what hit the fan. New investors scattered like quail. Money dried up.

Social Security: When Social Security runs out of money, politicians try to force taxpayers to send them more or they cancel or pare down benefits to all those who paid into it.

Now, there you have it. That’s the point Perry is trying to make.

If you can see a difference in a Ponzi Scheme and Social Security, I’d appreciate you let me know. I’ll even print your response (as long as it is printable).

Now the old boy in my high school chat group who put me on to this comparison added one more comparison.

I think it is interesting enough to repeat here.

Today, Bernie Madoff is in jail.

Today, politicians remain in Washington with fat medical and retirement benefits or have retired to bask in the fact they are rich as Croesus and have federal buildings and libraries named after them.

Does Madoff deserve prison?

Definitely! His actions were deliberate, bringing about devastating ruin to hundreds of lives.

What about the politicians who’ve taken from Social Security?

I don’t know about you, but I see a double standard here that has no place in our country.

What to do about it?

Term limits.

House members-three terms; Senate-two terms.

A keenly perceptive activist in the intellectual life of our country, Milton Friedman, once remarked. “If you put the federal government in charge of the Sahara Desert, in five years, there would be a shortage of sand.

Ain’t it the truth.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

A Way Out of This Mess

2011-09-14T10:18:00.000-07:00

No one disputes the chilling fact that our country is $14 trillion plus in debt. No one can dispute that when Clinton left office, we had a surplus. No one can dispute the debt started under Bush and escalated under Obama.

Today, we stand here like dummies staring at a stack of thousand dollar bills 945 miles (miles, not feet) high. Nine hundred and forty five. That’s a greater distance than from Orange, Texas to El Paso.

Even such a simple explanation of the enormity of the debt is still almost too confounding for me.

Nine hundred and forty-five! Why that’s almost as many miles as your teenager puts on his car over the weekend, right?

Fourteen trillion, and now the administration wants and half trillion to do the same thing all over again.

Remember Einstein’s definition of insanity- doing the same thing and expecting different results.

How did this all happen?

Most of us know exactly how it came about because unfortunately, the same thing has happened to many of us. We’re rocking along, holding our own, and than bingo, we’re broke. How?

Well, it’s a lot of little things we overlook.

But then someone shouts. Hold on! We’ve been fighting wars for ten years now. Them wars ain’t little things.

And he’s right. The Iraq and Afghan wars aren’t little things.

So, let’s talk about them. How much have we spent?

No one really knows.

Believe that? You should. We’re talking about Congress here, folks, not forthright, plain-speaking Americans.

You see, Congress has allotted the Defense Department $1.3 trillion for the wars through this fiscal year. President Obama said the wars cost about $1 trillion.

But those numbers are incomplete. In addition to that which Congress appropriated, the Pentagon spent an additional unknown amount from its $5.2 trillion base budget over the same period. According to a recent Brown University study, the wars and their ripple effects has cost the U.S. $3.7 trillion--over $12,000 bucks per person, even for the newest little guy or gal to pop into this world.

Other reports put it over $5 trillion, others a tad under, but I figure if we set the monetary cost at $4 trillion, we’d probably be in the ballpark.

I was no math whiz in school, but even I can subtract, and $4 trillion from $14 trillion still leaves $10 big T’s.

Though many disagree with the war, everyone can see where those funds went. What about the others? The $10 trillion?

There are the entitlements, social security, Medicare, Medicaid, and others, all of which were designed to support those citizens who had fallen on hard times.
What about those who discovered the loopholes in the system? The illegals? How much do they cost us?

How about $340.000,000,000.00 a year? If you’re like me and all those zeroes confuse you, the figure is three hundred and forty billion a year. A year!

Cut that out, and in three years, we’d have a trillion cut off the debt.
Don’t believe the figures?

According to FAIR, the Federation for American Immigration Reform, a national, nonprofit, public-interest organization that believes our nation's immigration policies must be reformed to serve the national interest stated that every year up to $22 billion is spent on welfare for illegal aliens. Another $22 B is spent on assistance programs such as WIC, free school breakfast and lunches, and food stamps.

Two and a half billion is spent on Medicaid while $12 billion is spent on public schools for illegals who cannot speak a word of English.

Seventeen billion is spent annually on the education of anchor babies, the children of illegals.

Three million a DAY is spent incarcerating illegal aliens who comprise 30% of all federal inmates.

American taxpayers spend ninety billion annually on social services for illegal aliens.

Two hundred billion a year in suppressed American wages are the result of illegal aliens, and to add insult to injury, $45 billion a year is remitted to their countries of origin.

And every day, every year, our Congress sits on its thumbs seeing who can one-up each other.

It’s time for term limits on those jokers.

Right now, the Democrats and Republicans are playing footsy with each other--business as usual while trying to make it look as if they’re governing.

Ask any individual who has pulled himself out of bankruptcy or overwhelming debt, and he will admit he had to make some tough decisions.

It is time for Congress to do the same thing.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

Rick Perry Revisited

2011-09-07T06:57:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks back, a gentleman stopped me in front of the post office and questioned me about an article I’d written about Rick Perry. He had considered voting for Perry until he read the article. Now, he had questions.

Well, we all do, and I hastened to explain that while I had strong reservations about our governor, what I considered his negative aspects no way precluded my voting either for or against him.

I was just stating facts. And I could name more issues such as the birther stuff, seceding from the U.S., and his penchant to be a bedfellows with Cintra, a Spanish-based toll-road developer/operator and Texas-based Zachry Construction

But then, you and I could take each candidate and find a list of negatives as long as your arm.

Perry’s a farm boy. He was an Eagle scout, A&M graduate, and an Air Force pilot.

He started out in politics as a democrat, but along the way switched sides. Much is made of the fact he has never lost an election, although in 2006 he won only by a plurality over Chris Bell, Carole Keeton Strayhorn, Kinky Friedman, a Libertarian candidate, and a write-in independent.

Perry polled 39 percent; Bell 29.8 percent; Strayhorn 18 percent, and Friedman 12.6 percent. The Libertarian and the write-in polled 0.6 percent.

It is interesting to note that less than 40 percent of registered voters participated in the election. So, out of approximately 10.5 million registered voters, he receive 1.7 million votes.

Put another way, he was elected by 17-18% of Texas citizens. Certainly not a majority choice. Perhaps just the lesser of six evils, huh?

He became only the third governor in state history elected by a plurality of less than 40 percent of votes cast.

Other elections, he solidly defeated his opponent.

It is true during his tenure, almost half of the new jobs in the country have been created here in our state. How much credit he should get, I don’t know. I do know he used taxpayer money to entice companies to create jobs in the state, but then, isn’t a governor supposed to take steps to help his state prosper?

Texas is a right-to-work state, meaning we’re not at the mercy of unions (although in their way, they do good). We have no state income tax nor state tax on capital gains, all choice plums for businesses looking to relocate or start up. You can’t give him credit for that. We had that before him.

This last legislative session, he tried, but failed to ban sanctuary cities-those that do not allow municipal funds or resources to be used to enforce federal immigration laws, usually by now allowing police or municipal employees to inquire about one’s immigration status. I applaud him for the effort.

Austin, Baytown, Brownsville, Channelview, Denton, Dallas, El Cenizo, Fort Worth, Houston, Katy, Laredo, League City, McAllen, Port Arthur, and San Antonio are all considered sanctuary cities. That means illegals can live there without fear of arrest and deportation while at the same time milking cities of funds designed to support legal citizens of need. Those city officials should be real proud of themselves.

In 2003, Perry managed to get tort reform, which means he put caps on non-monetary medical malpractice damages. Such legislation was instrumental in bringing more doctors into the state.

Texas has always been a litigious state, with Jefferson County having one of the most favorable environments for trial attorneys. This last session, Perry signed a ‘loser pays’ bill, which, depending on the situation, makes a losing plaintiff liable for the other party’s attorney fees.

On the flip side of this legislation is the concern that the poor will not pursue legitimate claims out of fear of losing.

He signed the voter I.D. bill, which is designed to prevent fraud at the ballot box.
Would I vote for him?

To the gentleman in front of the post office, I’ll admit I’m not sure. Besides, we’ve a long way to go. I can’t help thinking that someone who packs a .380 magnum while jogging could very well shoot himself in the foot.

The gentleman with whom I spoke is like most us, desperate to get the country going again. Many probably share his feeling when he said, ‘if the election was between Mortimer Snerd and Obama, I’d vote for Mortimer.’

What if it were between Perry and Mortimer?

You call it.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

First Day Magic

2011-08-31T07:23:00.000-07:00

“School days, school days, dear old golden rule days.’

Remember that? What was the rest of it? ‘Reading and ‘riting and ‘rithmetic taught to the tune of a hickory stick—‘

It goes on, these words of an old song written by Gus Edwards and Will Cobb back in 1907.

As kids up in the Panhandle, we used to sing it, at least the first few lines. After ‘hickory stick’, it continued ‘you were my queen in calico. I was your bashful barefoot beau’. That’s as far as we ever went, but it was a favorite for us back in the forties.

Now, we knew about the reading, ‘riting, and ‘rithmetic, but as third and fourth graders, we weren’t just real sure about ‘queen in calico’ or ‘bashful barefoot beau’ stuff.

Back then during the summer, if anyone had asked if we were ready to go back to school, we’d have grimaced and cried out ‘no’. Same way today. The truth is, then, as now, most of us were eager to get back to school, especially those who lived on farms and had daily chores.

It is easy to understand just how much more preferable it was sitting in an English class diagramming sentences rather than out in the hot sun chopping corn or pulling
cotton.

And as an educator for forty-one years, I always felt the excitement of that first day back in class. There was a sort of magic about it, and although most of the magic had worn off by the second day, it continued to come back year after year.

And if there is a teacher reading this, he knows of what I write.

After my first year in a school district on the outskirts of Fort Worth, I landed a position as a Penney’s manager trainee, a job that almost half again the size of my paltry $3900.00 teacher’s salary.

I had thoughts of staying with Penney’s. One of my friends was a trainee also. His dad managed a store in Conroe at a princely income of around $25 thousand.

That folks, was good money back in 1959-60.

But a strange thing happened on the way to the forum—oops, sorry, on the way to financial security.

The first of September rolled around.

What an eerie feeling.

For some reason, about a month before the start of school, I started thinking about what we were going to do that year. Unconsciously, I began laying plans.

Now this was before curriculum guides and politicians’ big noses; before George Bush doubled educational testing with ‘No Child Left Behind’ just after his brother, Neil, got into the educational testing business. (What a strange coincidence, but then seems like politicians and coincidences follow one another. Isn’t that a strange coincidence also?)

I was scheduled for a senior English class, which at that time focused on British literature the first semester and grammar the second.

As appropriate, I gave Penney’s my two weeks notice, and being a compassionate business, they appropriately suggested I just take the two weeks off and rest up.

I protested that I needed the pay, and in their sympathetic manner replied, ‘tough.’
But, I was back in the school business.

Even after forty-one years and more changes than I like to think, the first day always remained magical, exciting.

I’ve witnessed the transition from a bucolic educational system to one loaded with stress for students to achieve higher test scores. And if they don’t, the teachers, the schools are blamed, not the kids, not the parents.

Today’s system is more concerned about helping a youngster build self-esteem than readying him to face the world beyond the comfortable confines of high school. What does your boss pay you for, producing for him or feeling good about yourself?

That’s what I’m talking about.

When my daughters were in high school, a teacher friend asked if they were going out for the drill team. He was surprised when I replied they were staying in the high school band.

“But,” he said. “Drill team will be the highlight of their lives.”

“If being on a drill team is the highlight of someone’s life, they don’t have much ambition or any goals,” I told him.

The importance of education is just that, education and skills that give each youngster a chance in a world that is changing by the day.

Every year, kids will return to school, and every year, that first day magic will be there.

I miss it.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

Rick Perry, PPP

2011-08-24T08:24:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks back, our own Rick Perry, PPP, (Professional Politician for President) tossed his Stetson in the ring for the top honcho of the country.

I don’t know how far he’ll go. I’ve no idea if he’ll even get the Republican nomination, and if he does, I have no idea how he’ll fare against Jimmy Carter the Second.

I’ve never met the man, but those who have say he is very charismatic. I don’t know about that, but I met Bush once at a Workforce Commission reception in Port Arthur. I can testify that guy is charismatic. Maybe not real smart, but—well, magnetic is a good word.

I did vote for Bush. Unfortunately, he left the country in worse financial condition than he received it. Despite partisan efforts to ignore the fact, Clinton did leave us a surplus.

Of course, Bush was hit with a couple wars, which does cost a little more than an afternoon movie and burgers. And then he came up with a couple unfounded initiatives, a stimulus and Medicare drugs, that stuck us deeper in the hole.

As even the most fanatic of Republicans must admit, he, despite the reasons, started digging this hole of debt, and then the bizarre policies of Obama dug the hole even deeper and much faster.

Can Rick Perry solve our problems?

He hasn’t solved Texas’ deficit, but he won’t demean our country as the current POTUS. He won’t kowtow to other countries.

But will he solve our problems?

Much was made about his August Prayer conference, but the fact is in the last eight or nine years, he earned $2.68 million and gave only $14 thousand to religious organizations. That is about one-half percent of his income while average Americans donated 1.2 percent. And they call him an ‘evangelical’ candidate?

Excuse my cynicism, but I’ve got a nagging feeling the Reliant Stadium Prayer thing was more political than religious.

And then five or six years back, he tried to ramrod through the I-35 Trans-Texas Corridor that would have displaced thousands of farmers and ranchers, taking from them hundreds of thousands of acres at distressed priced. Citizens protested so vehemently that the project was dropped last year.

A couple years later, he came up with an executive order to vaccinate all sixth grade girls in the state against cervical cancer without parental consent. Oh yes, and the vaccine came from Merck, which was represented at the time by Perry’s former Chief-of-Staff. Coincidence? Not hardly.

(You know why Perry, Obama, and others use the executive order, don’t you? It is a underhanded way to sneak a lousy idea around a legislature or congress that won’t go along with it.)

What about the Texas budget?

When Anne Richards left office, Texas had a surplus. George W and Rick Perry took us into the dizzying heights of 27 billion dollar shortfall.

While railing against federal waste and stimulus, Perry used the 6.4 billion of Obama’s stimulus money to help balance the last two Texas budgets. Oh, yeah. Almost forgot. Texas is paying higher taxes since he became governor.

I don’t have to tell you how hot it has been this summer, but Texas under Perry is holding on to millions of dollars slated to aid thousands of low-income and elderly folks pay for electricity.

The Dallas Morning News said Texas has collected $130 million to help those unlucky Texans to cool their homes, but has actually provided only $28 million, half of what they were providing ten years ago.

Why?

The budget shortfall--that he helped bring about. (tlk about Obama-Bush clone)
There’s a lot of political rhetoric out there, but here is truthful example of how Perry and politicians of both parties are kicking the unfortunate and old folks in the teeth.

Now, I didn’t know this, but according to the Beaumont Enterprise, in 2004 and 2006, Perry gave Countrywide Mutual $20 million to create 7500 jobs in Texas by 2010 or repay $834 for every job less than the agreed up total.

They failed, repaying Texas $6.04 million. Still, Countrywide came out with a tidy $13.9 million profit.

The flip side of that is that each job Countrywide created cost the Texas taxpayer $2,666.

It appears to me like many politicians, Rick Perry plays loose and careless with tax money.

Let me give you another example. When the governor’s mansion burned, Texas was about $11 billion in the hole. Since then, he has spent over $600,000 in public money to rent a sprawling estate in the hills outside of Austin.

Now, I wouldn’t want our governor to live in shack while the mansion is being rebuilt, but $600,000 is outrageous.

Considering the guy presently in the Oval Office, Perry might fit right in as president.

At least, we’d have him out of the state.

But then, we’d have Dewhurst.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

The Last Hurrah of Summer

2011-08-17T06:53:00.000-07:00

The other day, I did something I’d never done in the forty plus years I’ve lived here.

I spent the night at the beach.

Now, I know that might not seem like much, and I suppose in the Grand Scheme of life, it isn’t. On the other hand, the experience was a good lesson in how so often, many of us fail to take a break and simply relax—just let the world go by for a few days.

It’s amazing how that sort of downtime refreshes enthusiasm, perks up your energy, and helps redefine some of your goals in life.

And strangely enough, it almost didn’t come about.

Months ago, my two daughters suggested spending a few days at the beach. I didn’t think anymore about it until a few weeks later when they gave us some dates.

Four days and three nights. And to our surprise, at no cost.

Can’t beat that, huh?

So we decided to drive down the second day, spend the night, and come on back home, back to the growing grass, feeding the cats, cleaning the pool, cussing the heat—you know, those favorite activities that seem to never end.

We found the house, and when we saw it, our jaws hit the ground. My daughter had told us about it, but the reality was still difficult to absorb.

Three stories, several bedrooms and baths, beautifully furnished, three decks—a heck of a lot nicer than our own home—There had to be a mistake somewhere. There wasn’t.
We spent time at the beach with the kids enjoying the water. One of my son-in-laws even tried some kind of beach surfing in the shallower water, taking several tumbles.

That afternoon, we headed to Galveston, walking the Strand, prowling in the shops, finishing up with a delicious meal at a superb restaurant, Casey’s, on the seawall.

The seawall! I’d forgotten just how long it was and just how many people frequented the beach. Automobiles were parked end-to-end along every inch of the 10.4 mile seawall.

That night, we gathered on the first deck facing the beach. The moon was almost full, laying out a golden fan on the shimmering gulf. From time to time, someone would spot a shadow in the water, and like giggling school kids, we’d speculate the return of Jaws or Mega Shark or even Godzilla. We laughed and reminisced until well after midnight.

Reluctantly the next morning we came back home, pulling in the drive about ten-thirty.

While we had not intended to return, the kids’ entreaties, and the fact we’d probably never again in our life spend the night is such luxury was too compelling. And the fact they planned to grill hamburgers, hot dogs, and boudain on the deck that night was like dangling a carrot in front of a plow horse.

We pulled in about three o’clock. The kids were down at the local waterpark, so Gayle and I sat in the shade on the first deck, enjoying the salty breeze and a cold libation.

We looked at each other and nodded. Life was good.

And as the night before, we sat on the deck until late, enjoying each other’s company while indulging in gourmet repast of wieners, burgers, and boudain. That’s how the magic of the beach works—simple pleasures become treasures.

The kids? They had a barrel of fun; they had no trouble sleeping. In fact, I found the two grandsons asleep on the couch around eight or so. And no, I didn’t wake them.

For three days and two nights, I didn’t know what was going on in the world, and you know something, I didn’t care. The sobering reality of the cataclysmic problems facing us today is that they are very unlikely to ever go away, at least in the years I have left.

I just hope my little ten-month-old granddaughter, Kenli, or four-year-old Mikey or six-year-old Keegan will see the problem solved.

Well, summer's about over with the kids going back to school. This trip was our last hurrah of the season, but as for me, I think I’ll set up another little savings account for next summer. A night at the beach is a sure way to rub out stress and strengthen the family ties.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

Publish a Book-For Free

2011-08-10T09:28:00.000-07:00

That’s true. I’ve done it within the last few weeks, which have really been busy for in addition to putting the books together, my wife and I have been spending a lot of time with our grandkids.

Those little squirts are a handful, though a joyous one. The boys, Mikey and Keegan are two years apart, and as cousins, they have a great time together—for a few minutes, and then war breaks out.

Most of you are smirking because you know exactly what I’m talking about here.
Now Mikey is going on five and Keegan seven. If we buy something for one, we automatically buy one for the other.

Soon, we’ll be buying a third for the other grandchild, Kenli, who is ten months. We’ve taken pains not to spoil her, not much.

Right now, she’s crawling, and doing her best to stand, so the days we have her keeps us moving. Fortunately, she takes long, long naps.

Ooops. Sorry. Got carried away with the kids. We were going to talk about publishing a book.

I’d been working hard on my mysteries and westerns. When I dropped a western in the mail to my publisher a couple weeks back, I finished off an effort to get about a year’s worth on the shelves ahead of time. I decided then it was time to look into ebooks.

By the way, I will shamelessly inform you that one of my westerns, ‘Reckoning at Dead Apache Springs’ is coming out sometime this month. A mystery, ‘Diamonds of Ghost Bayou’ is coming out sometime after the first of the year.

Anyway, I found myself with some extra time, so I pulled out some of the Young Adult mysteries and thrillers I’d tried to market in the past. They were similar to the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew mysteries I enjoyed as a youth. Of course, they’re set in the Twenty-First Century, but have, I hope, the same fast pace and suspense as those two series loved by so many.

From my repeated rejections over the years from probably three hundred agents and publishers (just kidding-more like 275), suggests they believed that type of YA novel was passé’ as in out-of-fashion and outmoded.

I didn’t think so. Still don’t.

Now, I don’t know if ebooks are a thing of the future or simply a passing whim, but I can tell you from personal experience that one of my other publishers dropped a mass merchandising line of paperbacks and headed for the ebook and trade paperback business model.

On impulse, I decided to put those three YA, two mystery/thrillers and a paranormal horror, on Amazon’s Kindle.

Believe me, it wasn’t as easy as I thought, especially for an old coot like me whose computer savvy pretty much ends with turning the machine on and off.

There was special formatting, but instructions led me through it.

I had to have book covers. Oh, they’d put one on, but it was plain, like unsweetened oatmeal. If I wanted one that caught a reader’s attention, I had to come up with something myself.

That meant I had to delve deeper into Photoshop and learn the ins and outs of images and putting words on them. I managed to put them together after a lot of mistakes and frustration. I even figured out how to put them on my facebook page. Take a look and see what you think.

But, all three are currently on Amazon’s Kindle at $2.99 each.
My next ebook challenge is for Smashwords, a big player in the ebook business. Their requirements are much more stringent for they market the book in several formats so they be readable on any e-reading device including Kindles, Apple iPad, personal computers, iPhones, Sony Reader, Kobo Reader, Android smart phones, etc…
The big question with for any writer is ‘will they sell?’

I don’t know, but I know for a certainty, they sure as heck won’t sell sitting on the shelf of my bookcase or residing in a file hidden away in the cyber netherworld of my computer.

To be honest, the major problem in this sort of publishing is that you must do ALL the work, the writing and copyediting. If you don’t have a command of grammar, sentence construction, etc.., then you might have to pay for those services.

Neither venue, Smashwords or Amazon, charge to publish the book. Of course, like I said, you do all the work, writing, editing, covers, editing, editing, and more editing.

I have a couple friends on various chat groups who publish ebooks, but they hire people to edit their stuff.

If you’re curious, go to either Smashwords or Amazon and research the process. Oh, there are others, but I haven’t looked at them yet.

Will you make any money at it?

If you’re like me, probably not, but then, miracles happen.

What do you have to lose?

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

Reaping the Whirlwind

2011-08-03T07:49:00.000-07:00

If you’re like me, you watch how you spend every dollar. Now, I’m not talking to those almost fifty percent of American citizens and global corporations who paid no tax. They’re part of the problem.

Florida’s Senator Rubio stated the problem succinctly. “We don’t need more taxes. We need more taxpayers.” Right now almost half of the population pays no income tax. The rest of us pick up the tab for them.

In the earliest days of our democratic republic, citizens and businesses complemented each other. From the very beginning, fees, tariffs, taxes, call it what you may, were essential to help government provide in its small way that which would serve the citizenry in a beneficial manner.

I know I’m probably stepping into Never-Never-Land when I state that ‘you’d think the president would take into consideration the economic difficulties we face today before making any financial decisions.’

But, you can decide for yourself when you see how he volunteered a hundred billion (100 B) of your tax money to the United Nations over the next three years.

According to the U.S. State Department, the Obama Administration has agreed to contribute $4 billion to the United Nations Global Fund to fight AIDs, tuberculosis, and malaria.

That is a 38% increase of previous U.S. commitments and comes at a time when our jobless rate is over 9% and the economy is still staggering to recover from the recession and we have just increased our debt limit.

Says U.N. Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon, a total of $11.7 billion has been raised from all countries for this global fund.

Do the math. Obama generously volunteered the American taxpayers to account for one-third of the Global Fund. One-third!

Oil rich nations like Saudi Arabia, Abu Dhabi, and the Arab Emirates will contribute next to nothing. China, which as you know holds most of our $14 trillion dollar debt, agreed to contribute an embarrassing $14 million.

I don’t know what the man was thinking. Sure, I know we’ve always been the biggest contributor to the UN, but in hard times like this, that extra $1.4 billion could have been used here at home for the people from whose pockets it came.

And that isn’t all.

In addition to this contribution, President Obama agreed to provide billions more for various other United Nations projects.

Take a look. Here’s what else you’re giving the UN.

· $63 billion to the Global Health Initiative during the next six years
· $1 billion annually to education programs
· $475 million to the Global Agricultural and Food Security Program’
· $800 million from the Overseas Private Investment Corporation to Muslim-majority countries in the Middle East and North Africa. An additional $3.2 billion will be provided by private equity capital sources to these Muslim nations
· Unspecified millions made available through USAID for developing tech hubs in Uganda, Kenya, Cameroon, South Africa, and Senegal.
· $80 million through the Overseas Private Investment Corporation for small to medium enterprises in the Middle East and North Africa.
· $2.5 billion annually to 90 countries to “strengthen governance and democratic institutions.”
· $30 billion for Obama’s Climate Change Initiative to reduce greenhouse gas emissions.
· $100 billion a year will be provided through taxpayer and private resources to deal with the alleged threat of global climate change.
· The United States pays 22% of the U.N. regular budget and 27% for the U.N. peacekeeping budget. The president has requested an addition $516 million for the regular U.N. budget and more than $2.182 billion for the peacekeeping budget for this year

It isn’t just Obama; it’s all those jokers in Congress. They haven’t done their jobs. They’re too interested in being reelected to make tough decisions. And if we keep letting them get by with it, we’re as much to blame.

A democratic republic must have an informed and conscientious citizenry. Since only about forty percent of us vote, that means the rest of you are shirking your responsibility to our country.

In Hosea from the Hebrew Bible is the quote “They that sow the wind shall reap the whirlwind.” Best we remember that.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26
l

Cat Poor

2011-07-27T08:03:00.000-07:00

We’re cat poor.

I imagine many of you know exactly what I mean. Oh, you might not be cat poor, but maybe car poor, or dog poor, or gun poor, or clothes poor—you get the idea. You have so many of a particular item that its cost is outrageously out of proportion with your other expenses.

Folks dump cats our in our area, and my wife hates to see any animal abused. I don’t know how many times we’ve sworn ‘no more cats!’

Guess what?

Next morning, a soaking wet kitten wanders up meowing pitifully. Naturally, we have
a new boarder.

It’s nice to have one or two cats around. When they’re small, they’re cuddly and bouncy, darting here, jumping there, pawing at first one thing, then another.
As they get older, they’re not as cute. They eat more. Some grow surly. Whenever you go outside, they rush to meet you, curling around your ankles, doing their darnedest to trip you.

It’s next to impossible to maintain a neat yard, for they sleep everywhere, doo everywhere, leave their hair everywhere, leave piles of feathers from unlucky birds everywhere, and strew half-eaten rats about everywhere.

If you provide sleeping quarters for them, you have to include litter boxes, which they not only fill up regularly, and I mean regularly, and cost to refill. And then you have to buy plastic bags in which to dump the used litter and carry it out to the road for the garbage truck. Contrary to the widely held myth that cats are clean, they can soil an area faster than Obama can blame Bush for the next crisis.

Naturally, if one becomes ill, there is the visit to the vet. Suddenly you find yourself involved in shots, preventive tests, and necessary treatments. More expenses.

Cats are expensive, make a mess, take time to clean up after, tie us down, and seems like they always are trying to trip us.

And that is something to look forward to?

Without them, I’d save money, the place would be clean, we’d have extra time and wouldn’t be tied down, and as we aged, we wouldn’t have to worry about tripping over one and busting a hip or arm.

In the last six years with about the same number of cats, food and care have escalated by twenty-six percent. Another fifteen years, my bill will have jumped by 100%.

Retired teachers have not had a raise in the last six years; social security recipients in the last three. If this continues, I’m going to have problems in the next ten or fifteen years.

I would imagine there are millions out there just like me, making it today, dreading it in the years to come.

With no changes, in the coming years, I’ll have to choose between air conditioning and cats; food and cats.

Party’s over.

Essentially the same relationship exists between 50% of the American citizens and their local, state, and federal governments.

When the financial meltdown comes, and as things are now, it will, what will that 50% do when there are no more handouts? Cats can survive. They can forage.

You say it won’t happen?

You know yourself, governments spend like the proverbial drunken sailor, but when he’s out of money, he has a ship and bunk at port.

Unless you’ve been hiding with Alice down in Wonderland, you are aware of the country’s 14 trillion mess; of Beaumont’s Ford Park’s fiasco that will never be forgotten. Now Beaumont’s neighbor, Port Arthur, is falling into the same trap.

They’re buying an armored car, but, their selling point is that the taxpayers only have to pay a hundred thousand, saving three hundred that the government will provide.

That is the core problem defining our wasteful spending.

The feds will give us our tax money to buy something we could well do without, but because they give such a large chunk, our ‘leaders’ (a laughable use of the word) decide to spend our tax money on an object that would indeed be nice to have, but which we’ve done without for decades and will probably collect dust in the garage except on days the city puts it in a parade.

Port Arthur and Beaumont’s leaders can’t complain about federal waste of money. They waste taxpayers’ money with the best of the Washington spendthrifts.

Forget the armored car. Put that hundred thousand to work on infrastructure; instead of cleaning one block a month, hire unemployed to clear ten blocks a month. That helps more of the citizens.

Unfortunately, you can’t put clean city blocks in a parade.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

Chicken Little Is Alive and Well

2011-07-20T08:08:00.000-07:00

The last few weeks, we’ve been bombarded with dire threats that the sky will fall if we don’t raise the debt ceiling. The president’s Treasury Secretary, Timothy Geithner claims a financial crisis more severe that the one from which we are now recovering will occur if the ceiling isn’t raised.

The president also insists that eighty percent of the American public wants the ceiling raised. If it isn’t raised, Armageddon is upon us.

He says, if we don’t, perhaps no social security checks, mortgage rates will rise, housing sales will plunge, panic on the world market, destruction of the value of the dollar, and no more kid meals at McDonalds.

Whew!

Now, I’m not the brightest bulb on the tree, but there’s enough incandescence remaining to realize I’ve just been subjected to a prime example of Chicago politics, 2011 style.

Bully and frighten the people with unverifiable consequences that threaten that which they hold most dear.

Armageddon? Not quite. Despicable politics? You bet!

Did you know that in December, 1973; March, 1979; November, 1983; December, 1985; August, 1987; November, 1995; December, 1995; January, 1996; and September, 2007 that debt ceilings were not raised by the deadline, and the sky didn’t fall? Yep, there was no default.

How can the president and his staff claim such when the 14th amendment to the constitution explicitly says debt payments must be made before any other spending?
If I’m not mistaken, the president is a constitutional lawyer, so he has to be aware of that law.

In late ’95 and early ’96, during a government shutdown, President Clinton used incoming revenues to pay interest on the debt to ward off default.

Many of us who haven’t the good fortune to be born with a silver spoon have been forced at one time or another to pay interest on a bill. You might not have thought of it as interest on your loan, but simply as a gesture to your creditor of you intention to maintain your credit. That’s all the whiz kids in Washington have to do, pay the interest, a mere 20 billion a month.

Let’s talk more about the social security checks. He said he didn’t know if there would be enough money to pay them. He is either prevaricating or ignorant, and no way could you convince me he is ignorant. If he is the ‘professional politician’ he claims, he knows very well over two hundred billion a month flows into the government coffers.

That is enough to cover all social security, Medicare, Medicaid, children’s health insurance, defense, federal law enforcement and immigration, all veterans’ benefits and—and interest on the debt, according to John Lott, economist and author of ‘More Guns, Less Crime’ from University of Chicago Press, 2010.

The present administration claims mortgage interest will rise if the debt ceiling isn’t raised. That doesn’t make sense. If there is less money available, there will be less spending. Lending institutions would be foolish to raise rates, making those reluctant to spend even more disinclined.

I find it hard to believe in policies that have yet to cut the deficit, lower unemployment, or create 200,000 jobs a month.

Now, what about the dollar losing value?

Look at it this way. If the government doesn’t borrow more money, it won’t need the taxes to pay additional debt. If it doesn’t need the taxes, rates could drop eventually, and lower taxes would make the United States more attractive for businesses from other countries.

Pie in the sky? No more than the misrepresentations designed to frighten those on social security and other entitlements.

Oh, yeah, he mentioned that eighty percent of the public supported raising the debt limit, yet CBS News and New York Times poll showed Americans against raising it by 69-24 percent.

Our president dismissed the poll with the condescending response that American citizens do not have the comprehension of the debt ceiling like ‘professional politicians’.

You know what the definition of ‘professional politicians’ is, don’t you? Professional crooks.

You and I have to share some of the blame for this mess. After all, we, the citizens who voted and the citizens who did not vote, are the ones who put those guys up there.

The hubbub reminds me of the spoiled kid whose parents finally got tough and refused to give in. The kid falls down on the floor, kicks his heels, bangs his head, and says he hates you.

Sound familiar?

The sky is still there, and it will be there long after you and I are gone from here.
rconwell@gt.rr.com

http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

A Billion Here; A Billion There; Just Money!

2011-07-13T07:42:00.000-07:00

If you’re like me, I’m getting tired of every time I pick up the paper or watch the news, I’m slammed between the eyes with horror stories about the lousy economy.

And it is lousy, although throughout most of Texas, it isn’t as lousy as elsewhere.

What if you lived in Reno or Detroit or Flint? All three have 16+% unemployment and staggering job losses from industry that will never return.

General Motors once employed 80,000 workers in Flint. Today, 8,200. Detroit has lost 323,400 jobs; Reno, 36,000.

We could go on and on, but why torture ourselves?

The economy stinks and Washington is doing little to help.
I know one step to take, and after reading this, I believe you will agree.

I’ve often wondered why our government doesn’t cut out some of the monies sent to other countries and instead use it here, in our country. I don’t mean as gifts, although recent statistics on taxes suggest that almost fifty percent of our citizens (those who paid no taxes) would kill to be first in line for something for nothing.

I’d like to know what percent of that group of non-payers are the true deadbeats; the third and fourth generation entitlement recipients; the welfare cheats; the unemployment thieves; the social security swindlers—

Sorry. Didn’t mean to get carried away on our deadbeats.

Last year, the U.S. handed out billions in foreign aid to other countries for various reasons. That’s bad enough, but wait for the kicker. Sixteen of those countries each hold at least ten billion in U.S. Treasury securities-many hold much more.

In other words, we’re giving foreign aid to some of the world’s richest countries.
Ready for another kick in the rear? We then turn around and borrow money from those to whom we’ve given it.

No wonder we have a $14 trillion dollar debt those incompetents in Washington are arguing over.

That doesn’t make sense to me, but that’s Washington. What do I know? I’m just a average Joe Dunderhead trying to stay within my own budget and pay my bills.

What they’re doing is like you making a gift of a hundred bucks to your neighbor, then turning around and borrowing fifty with the obligation to repay it.

Make sense to you? Doesn’t to me either.

And that isn’t all.

One third of all foreign aid goes to Israel (2.25 billion) and Egypt (1.5 B)for armaments, yet neither is a ‘developing’ country, a prerequisite. (and Egypt hates us except for the few seconds they stick out their greedy hand for the annual check)
Columbia received 561 million for drug abatement; Jordan 540 million to leave Israel alone (that’s right- no mistake); Pakistan 734 million to chase terrorists (your guess as to where they chase them is as good as mine); Indonesia, 159 M for oil reserves; Kenya, 437 million to do as it wishes (no lie here either); and then amounts from 69 million to 474 million for drug abatement to over another twenty-odd countries ranging from India to Russia.

Oops! I forgot Bosnia--43 million for reparations. What reparations? The war ended sixteen years ago over there, and our only involvement was NATO and brokering a treaty between the warring parties.

The list goes on and on.

China-27 million; Brazil-25 million; Mexico-316 million; Philippines-128 million, and Thailand-16 million. Oh yeah, can’t forget Turkey at 8.2 million. And Obama signed a bill that, among other things, gave the Palestinian Authority 500 million.

Now, I know you don’t like looking a figures- math ones at least, but bear with me.

To whom do we owe money? Where to start?
Well, let’s begin with the big boys.

China-1.1 trillion; Brazil-193 billion; Russia-127 billion; India-39 billion; and Egypt-15 billion.

There are more, but you get the idea.

So tell me, how do we stop such flagrant waste of our tax money? Seems to be we get nothing in return.

This suggestion is a simple one, but I’m a simple person. If we give money to a country to whom we are in debt, they must deduct the amount we tender them from what we owe.

We need to do something. I’m no ultra-conservative or ultra-liberal. Sort of a mish mash between them, but I know that sooner or later, money will either run out or we’ll have hyperinflation of 50% monthly like Zimbabwe.

What kind of spark will it take to ignite outrage against the wastefulness with which Washington blows our money?

If I knew, I’d sure as heck touch a match to it.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
http://www.kentconwell.blogspot.com/
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

On Reflection of Paul Revere's Ride

2011-07-06T07:10:00.001-07:00

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

Most of us have been able to quote that particular stanza of Longfellow’s from memory since childhood. I don’t know if it is still taught in public schools or not.
But, I bet when old Paul leaped into the saddle that night and spurred the animal for Lexington, he had no idea the furor his ride would create over two hundred and thirty-odd years later.

Of course, everyone reading this knows exactly to what I am referring, the brouhaha a few weeks back over Palin’s remark about Paul Revere warning the British.

I’ll be honest. I thought she had goofed. Warn the British? No way!

So, I did what many of her critics should have done. I researched the ride, discovering a letter Revere had written of that particular ride to Clergyman Jeremy Belknap, a gentlemen who held counsel with many of the rebels like Revere.

On page four of his letter, he writes of being captured by the British. They asked his name. Here is what he wrote, without editing. “I told him. it was Revere, he asked if it was Paul? I told him yes He asked me if I was an express? I answered in the afirmative. He demanded what time I left Boston? I told him; and added, that their troops had catched aground in passing the River, and that There would be five hundred Americans there in a short time, for I had alarmed the Country all the way up.”

His words, as he wrote them.

‘There would be five hundred Americans there in a short time.’ Now I don’t about you, but to me, that is a warning.

So why all the fuss about Palin?

Some say she is intellectually dishonest; some say she tries to dictate other people’s opinions; and others claim she is ignorant. (and all this time, I thought those were the prime prerequisites for a successful politician)

Not being a national pundit who is smarter than everyone else, I can’t say whether she is guilty of the assertions.

I do know it was not Sarah Palin who said “I’ve been in fifty-seven states. I have one left to go.” Nor was it Palin who uttered the unbelievably insensitive remark “On this Memorial Day, as our nation honors its unbroken line of fallen heroes, and I see many of them in the audience here today. . .”

Nope, those eloquent observations were delivered by the silvery, but slippery tongue of President Barack Obama.

One pundit jumped her case because in her discussion of Paul Revere, she rambled. I saw the video, and she did. Who doesn’t as Obama’s speech at a recent campaign stop illustrates all too clearly.

“What they'll say is, 'Well it costs too much money,' but you know what? It would cost, about... it. .it. . . it would cost about the same as what we would spend. Over the course of ten years it would cost what it would costs us. All right. Okay. We're going to. It. . . It would cost us about the same as it would cost for about. . hold on one second. I can't hear myself. But I'm glad you're fired up, though. I'm glad."

Now the previous paragraph has to be a strong contender for a playoff spot in the World Series of ‘Rambling’.

All politicians ramble. That’s how they avoid answering us, but the media plays favorites, and Palin makes a good target, which gets them off the hook when they overlook Obama’s pathetic explanation for health reform in this disjointed remark.

“Everybody knows that it makes no sense that you send a kid to the emergency room for a treatable illness like asthma, they end up taking up a hospital bed, it costs, when, if you, they just gave, you gave them treatment early and they got some treatment, and a, a breathalyzer, or inhalator, not a breathalyzer. I haven't had much sleep in the last 48 hours."

All of us garble our messages at times. I always got a big kick out of George W and his Bushisms, but Barack O can match the W goof for goof.

When I first read the following remark, I honestly attributed it to George, but it belongs to our president, “The reforms we seek would bring greater competition, choice, savings, and inefficiencies to our health care system."

I knew immediately the source of the next remark because of the first sentence. “Let me be absolutely clear. Israel is a strong friend of Israel’s.”

Obama? Right. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never known someone to want to be so absolutely clear about everything.

Palin is a politician like the others. Good points, bad points.

You know what tickles me. The media who pushed to have her emails made public came up with zilch—called egg-on-the-face.

If the media isn’t careful, they’ll start pushing voters her way. No one likes to see another treated unfairly, and that’s they way it seems to be going.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
www.goodreads.com/author/show/13557.Kent_Conwell
www.amazon.com/-/e/B001JPCK26

www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Fourth of July, 1940s Style

2011-06-29T10:33:00.000-07:00

Why is it that many of the most pleasant memories we have are those when we were young? Well, I could ruin the nostalgia of the moment and stay it’s because psychiatrists say our brains weed out the bad from the good, but I won’t.

Let’s just say we remember them because they were they way we want them to be.

And that’s how I remember the Fourth of July in the little town of Wheeler up in the Texas Panhandle.

The small town was home to eight hundred and forty-eight people, counting sixteen Indians camped just inside the city limits on a small creek north of town.

The only reason I know the last little tidbit is because Dad did the census.

The Fourths most vivid for me were around the mid-forties. I was ten and going into the fifth grade.

For a month ahead of time, along with my best friends, Donald and Jerry, I hoarded every penny I could scrape up for fireworks. To us boys, the Fourth was fireworks. Black Cats, torpedoes, baby giants, and rockets. The spray type fireworks were too tame for us.

We wanted noise and excitement, which we achieved by seeing who could explode a can highest into the air. We mangled every can on the premises, and some we shouldn’t. But, the truth is a ten-year-old boy with firecracker in hand can come up with some far-out ideas.

We even tried tying a string of Black Cats to the tail of a kite, but could never manage to get it airborne before the string blew itself out.

And then we’d play ‘naval war’ by tying a rock to a box of Rit Dye, stick a baby giant in the box, light it, and toss the whole conglomeration in the pond.

When it exploded underwater, the dye swirled to the top, just like oil from enemy submarines did in the Hollywood movies. That was great fun.

Black Cats would not work in the submarine trick. Their fuses were not waterproof like the baby giants.

Now all of this was usually going on around the periphery of the family or community get-together, a feast with every imaginable sort of goody from fried chicken to chocolate meringue pie. And Mama Conwell always included a couple of her bean pies.

I know, I know, ‘Bean Pie!’ Ugh.

Well, you can say ugh all you want. Just let me have your portion. They taste
somewhere between sweet potato and pumpkin pie. Absolutely delicious.

One of the most spectacular fireworks events I ever witnessed was the Great Watermelon Explosion. At the moment of the event, I regretted not thinking of it, but when I witnessed the retribution given to one of my chums, Donald, I thanked my lucky stars I had no part in it.

There were about sixty or seventy folks down at the park, which consisted of a meandering creek, thirty or forty giant cottonwoods, two croquet courts, and about a half acre of freshly mown grass.

Folks were sitting in clusters; kids were running around and laughing; some of us boys were chasing each other with torpedoes; everyone was having a good time.

I had stopped for a glass of iced tea when I spotted Donald with his family gathered around a could split watermelons. Without warning, one melon exploded, sending red chucks of melon flying in every direction.

Curses broke through the startled exclamations. Donald took off running. His older brother took off after him.

Now, Donald was small but fast. Unfortunately, his brother was bigger and faster. He caught Donald at the creek, and to everyone’s encouragement, grabbed him by the shirt and seat of his pants and tossed him into a deep pool, after which he jumped
in and held Donald under water, not once, but half-a-dozen times.

Old Donald came up coughing and gagging, but his ordeal was far from over. His brother dragged him back to the destroyed watermelon and made him pick up the pieces and eat them.

He ate most of it, then threw up. He threw up a second time when his brother told him if he threw up anymore, he was going to eat that. Somehow Donald kept it all down.

Now those are memories.

They just don’t make Fourth of Julys like that anymore.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

The Legal Truth About Anchor Babies

2011-06-22T07:01:00.000-07:00

I had an interesting response a few weeks back in regard to an article I’d written concerning the president’s birth certificate.

The writer presented a very intelligent and insightful look at the ‘natural citizen’ requirement set by the constitution for the office of president. There is a simple citizen requirement also, but that counted only back at the time the constitution was adopted, 1789, and there ain’t none of them folks walking around now. That means a natural (born here legally) citizen is the one citizenship requirement for the presidency.

Now, all of us know that the Fourteenth Amendment states, "All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside."

If foreign diplomats and like persons give birth to children while in this country, the child is not an American citizen because the parents are subject to laws of their own country, not ours. That’s what the ‘jurisdiction thereof’ means.

Now, that is pretty simple to understand. (except in Washington and by many judges who render culturally biased decisions)

Countries around the world use various methods to determine citizenship. The U.S.A. uses jus solis, which means citizen-by-location, location meaning within American boundaries. Japan on the other hand uses jus sanguinis or right-of-blood, which means only children whose parents are citizens can acquire Japanese citizenship. No naturalized citizens. In the U.S., just being born here gives babies citizenship.

Or does it?

Not in every case, and here is why.

Raoul Berger, the Charles Warren Senior Fellow in American Legal History at Harvard University, wrote “that for a better part of a century the Supreme Court has been handing down decisions interpreting the Fourteenth Amendment improperly, willfully ignoring or willfully distorting the history of its enactment.”

Now, that is pretty strong stuff, but he happens to be right. Here’s what took place.
In 1898, The Supreme Court in United States v. Wong Kim Ark 169 U.S. 649, in a 6-2 decision, rejected arguments that the petitioner was not subject to the jurisdiction of the United States because the phrase meant to exclude children born to foreign diplomats and children born to enemy forces engaged in hostile occupation of the country’s territory.

The Court held the petitioner, a child of subjects of the Emperor of China whose parents were lawfully living in the United States where he was born, was a U.S. citizen by birth. His citizenship status could not be revoked just because his parents were not American citizens at the time of his birth.

In simple language, the 1898 decision said if foreign parents are lawfully living in the U.S., their offspring are born citizens. But, you ask, if the parents are not citizens, how can they be lawfully living here? Simple, they came legally and are in the process of becoming citizens.

The other side of this sword obvously is that if parents are unlawfully living (i.e. illegal aliens of all cultures) in the U.S., their offspring cannot be citizens.
This is Raoul Berger’s point. A pretty simple one.

Illegal aliens’ offspring cannot become automatic citizens.

The 1898 decision became law, yet for over a hundred years, court decisions have ignored it.

Deeper research into the 14th Amendment also reveals that, as Mister Berger stated, “the authors of the amendment . . . intended only to protect the freedmen from southern Black Codes that threatened to return them to slavery."

It does not protect anyone who sneaks into the country at night to drop an anchor baby. (I said that, not the authors of the amendment)

Now, don’t go expecting lawmakers in Washington to do anything about the situation. The majority are too busy working on their next election or covering their indiscretions.

Oh the other hand, a few lawmakers and activists have proposed abolishing jus soli in the United States.

That might not be a bad idea. From jus solis to jus sanguinis.

Simply put, children whose parents live lawfully in the U.S. can be granted citizenship according to the 1898 Supreme Court decision. That includes parents who are natural citizens and parents who are here legally.

If the current Supreme Court refuses to support the Constituion which strangely enough happens to be the Law of the Land, what next?

Just more of the following.

Parkland Hospital Dallas is the second busiest maternity ward in the U.S. In a recent year, 70% of the women giving birth were illegal aliens. For the 11,200 babies, Medicaid paid 34.5 million to deliver, the feds 9.5 million and Dallas taxpayers 31.3 million.

Makes a gent want to cuss, don’t it?

Letter to My Father

2011-06-16T10:43:00.000-07:00

Dear Dad,

Well, it’s been twenty-five years. And never a day goes by that I see something and have a thought that reminds me of you. The good stuff, you know. And, perhaps a few incidents that weren’t so good.

But that’s life.

And if I had it to do over, you’d be the father I’d pick to make sure I grew to be a man meeting the responsibilities that a man will face in this world today.

You know, when I was in elementary school in Wheeler, I never could figure how you always knew when I got in trouble. It was years before I realized that you didn’t have magical powers, but that you and the superintendent often visited.

Carrick? I think that was his name. I was grown when you revealed that you had specifically requested he contact you whenever I broke any school rules.

One thing you should know is that I would have taken five paddlings from him than to get one from you.

As a Dad, I never could match your skill and finesse with a leather belt. Now, if you were here today, you’d be cussing the namby-pamby discipline many parents pass on to their children.

I have no question there are very few problem kids today that you couldn’t handle. Remember the old spanking merry-go-round?

I’ll never forget you holding my arm, me screaming and trying to run from the belt.

All I succeeded doing was running in circles while you just pivoted on your feet and flailed away at my legs with your belt. If you only knew how many times I considered making that leather strap disappear. But then, you would have known who did it.

Today, some bleeding heart would claim such discipline was child abuse. Nonsense. It’s child abuse not to discipline kids, but the idiots can’t see it that way. And they’re always wondering just why kids are so much trouble today.

Spankings weren’t the only way you managed me. I was mischievous, sneaky, lied if I thought I could get away with it. I had so many things wrong with me only a hard-headed Panhandle boy with the nickname, Nubbin, could have kept me straight.

You always were one step ahead of me like the time the Haltom City police stopped me for reckless driving. I was only fourteen, so they called you and tossed me in jail. I was scared witless. For the next fours, it was all I could do to hold back the tears. Then they took my license away from me.

Remember that?

It was all of fifteen years later out on your patio listening to a Texas Rangers baseball game that you laughed and revealed you had asked them to throw me behind bars and you were the one holding my license.

Well, you sure made your point.

And who can ever forget that Christmas when Mom and Sammy came down with pneumonia out by Lubbock and you and I went back to Fort Worth for—well, I don’t know why we went back, but I remember you telling me to pick up my trumpet.

You mentioned that night many times in the years to come. There we were in a 1947 Nash speeding through small towns shut down for the night, and I’d stick my horn out the window and blast out the cavalry signal for ‘charge’. Then we’d laugh as lights popped on.

You were always there for me, even when your work took you out of town. I’ll never forget the second year I boxed in the Golden Gloves. That was about ’51 or ’52. You were on the road back from Houston listening on the car radio. When the announcement was made that I forfeited the bout, you stopped at the first house and paid them to use their telephone.

Gosh, Dad, there’s so much I’d like to talk to you about.

I’d like to sit around a campfire like we did on our deer hunting trips and shoot the breeze. I’d like to go fishing up in Oklahoma with Mo and Mae. You and Mo always had such a great time together. Mo passed away. So did Mae. But you already know that. You and Mom have probably already gone fishing with them.

There’s a lot I’d like to do with you. I can’t, but I can do it now is with my children and grandchildren.

You understand what I mean?

I can’t say exactly when it came about, but somewhere in the mid-sixties, we became friends, good friends.

The most rewarding moment of my life was not long before I moved down here to Port Neches. You and I were on the patio with Jim Beam and talking about what lay down the road as well as a lot of other philosophical mumbo-jumbo. Just before I left, I hugged you and said for the first time, “I love you, Dad.”

You simply hugged me back and replied. “I love you too, Boy. You take care now, you hear?”

I heard, Dad. And thanks for everything.

What's in a Name, Old Glory?

2011-06-08T11:45:00.000-07:00

June 14 is Flag Day, first proclaimed such by President Woodrow Wilson in 1916 and by an act of Congress in 1949.

Our flag is sometimes called the ‘Stars and Stripes’, sometimes ‘The Star Spangled Banner’, or sometimes ‘Old Glory.’

The first two nicknames are obvious. The third, ‘Old Glory’ has a story that personifies the core of those beliefs that makes America the country she is—to be what you choose and do what you wish.

Now, I’m a sucker for the American flag, for what it symbolizes-a free country that guarantees its citizens the inalienable rights God intended for every human being. I’m one of those throwbacks who actually folds a worn flag properly and takes it to the nearest military office for proper disposal. I revere it, just like the old sea captain who gave her the name.

Captain William Driver was born on the morning of March 17, 1803. One Sunday in 1817, fourteen-year-old Bill set out for Sunday School in his home town of Salem. Instead, he went down to the harbor.

By sheer determination and persuasion, he talked himself into the position of cabin boy and was on the high seas by nightfall. He sailed to Calcutta, Gibraltar, Antwerp and Gothenburg. His next voyage took him to the Fiji Islands, and then on, his career centered in the South Seas.

Seven or eight years later, Bill sailed back into Salem harbor as captain of his own ship, The Charles Doggett although some sources say it was The Seawood.

As a birthday and farewell gift on an 1831 voyage, his mother and several young ladies in Salem, Massachusetts, sewed him a large American flag twenty by twenty-four feet.

When the flag was unfurled in the sea breeze, Captain Driver was asked what he thought of it. He replied, “God bless you. I’ll call it Old Glory.”

The 1831 voyage was his longest. He sailed the Charles Doggett to the South Pacific. During a port of call at Tahiti, he met some of the descendants of the H.M.S. Bounty crew. They had moved to Tahiti from Pitcairn Island where the mutineers who had taken control of the Bounty had marooned them. They wanted to leave Tahiti, so they asked him to give them passage back to the island. During the return trip, Captain Driver slept on the deck of the Charles Doggett so the women and children could
sleep in the bunks below. Altogether, “Old Glory" and Captain Driver sailed twice around the world and once around the continent of Australia.

Six years later, he retired to Nashville, Tennessee, taking with him his flag from his days at sea. By the time Tennessee seceded from the union years later, everyone in the city knew of the elderly sea captain’s ‘Old Glory.’

The story went that Rebels were determined to destroy the flag and its symbolism, but despite numerous intense searches and threats, no trace of Old Glory was ever found.

No one knew what had become of the flag, not even Driver’s own family for they were all southern sympathizers. He could not afford to share the secret of where he had hidden it.

And then on February 25, 1862, Union forces captured Nashville and raised the American flag. It was a small flag, and immediately, citizens asked the aged captain about ‘Old Glory’. Did she still exist, or had he destroyed her to keep her from the Rebels?

Accompanied by Union soldiers, Captain Driver went upstairs to his bedroom, which had been searched dozens of times by frustrated Confederates. He began ripping at the seams of his bedcover. As the batting of the quilt top unraveled, the soldiers looked inside and saw the twenty-four stars of the original ‘Old Glory.’

Although Captain Driver was sixty years old, he gathered the flag he had so jealously guarded and loved for the last thirty years and hoisted it to the top of the tower to replace the smaller ensign. The Sixth Ohio Regiment cheered and saluted, and later adopted the nickname, ‘Old Glory’.

The captain is buried in the Nashville City Cemetery. His tomb is one of three sites authorized by Congress where the Flag of the United States may be flown twenty-four/seven.

Think of what he risked to save the flag, and then ask yourself what that irascible old sea captain would say to those protestors in Arizona desecrating the American flag by spray painting ‘deport Arpaio’ and ‘impeach Brewer’?

I imagine it would have been too blistering for delicate ears.

Old Glory today? In the Smithsonian, courtesy Driver’s granddaughter.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

D-Day- A Name to Remember

2011-06-01T08:16:00.000-07:00

Within the military ranks, the terms D-Day and H-Hour are routinely used for the day and hour on which a combat attack or operation is to be initiated. They designate the day and hour of the operation when the day and hour have not yet been determined, or where secrecy is essential. The letters are derived from the words for which they stand, "D" for the day of the invasion and "H" for the hour operations actually begin.

Such protocol meant nothing to a small town in the Texas Panhandle on June 6, 1944. The day was the first Tuesday after school was turned out for the summer in Wheeler, Texas. It meant nothing to any of us. We had never heard the term ‘D-Day.’

We had no idea D-Day was just a common name routinely given to the date of every planned offensive during World War II, or that it was coined in World War I before
the massive U.S. attack at the Battle of Saint-Mihiel in France.

We kids in that little Texas town far up in the Panhandle knew nothing of such procedure. For us, it was summer, free, joyous summer. As every summer, the first couple weeks, we’d ride our bikes along the hard-packed roads, through the forest the community called a park, jump the creek, rumble over ancient, wood-plank bridges, and lie in the shade after dinner (our noon meal) staring at the fluffy clouds drifting by in the sky as blue as robin’s egg. If you used your imagination, you could spot every animal on Noah’s ark.

After all these years, my memory’s sort of shaky, but it was either Wednesday or Thursday of that week that to my chagrin, I learned had had to chop corn the next couple days instead of a carefree ride around town on my battered but trusty New Departure bicycle.

Dad was overseas, and Mom had planted five acres of corn that she planned on us selling in nearby Pampa and Shamrock to earn some extra money.

So I wasn’t in a good mood, and I probably chopped more corn stalks than I did weeds until she caught me. The third time she yelled at me, she started looking around for something to switch my legs.

To my relief, Papa Conwell drove up about then. My brother, Sammy, was just a toddler, so Mom picked him up and we hurried to the end of the row to see what Papa wanted. I was hoping he wanted to take me out to his lake, but that wasn’t why he was there.

Wartime in a small town back then was much different than it would be today. Everyone was caught up in it. Radios were always turned to the news. Of course most of the news was weeks old, but for the last month or so, rumors had been thick and heavy that something big was going to happen. All the grown-ups speculated as to what might take place.

From the old boys down at the pool hall to the local preachers, everyone thought he knew what the Allied Forces had up their sleeve. Now, let me point out here that there was never any doubt in anyone’s mind that America would win the war. No matter how long it took, we would prevail. I wouldn’t want to repeat in mixed company what some of those old-timers back then would think of us today.

Anyway, back to my story.

When we reached Papa’s car, he didn’t even say ‘hi’. All he said was ‘We invaded Normandy.”

The only thing I understood in his statement was we. I wasn’t really sure what invaded meant, and I certainly had no idea what a Normandy was. I guessed it was a nearby town back south around Shamrock although I’d never heard of it.

Mom was excited, and a bit frightened.

For the next few days, our little town didn’t come to a standstill, but it came as close as it could and still keep functioning. Crops had to be looked after, animals tended, mail delivered, and such. Everything else was just about shut down. Folks were glued to the radio while others frequented the newspaper office.

Over the next few days, we learned more. There was happiness and joy in our little town, and unfortunately as the news came in, with it came some grief.

The Invasion of Normandy was epic, a savage battle that lasted for eleven months until May 1945 when Germany capitulated.

And then we turned the Lions of War loose on Japan.
Within a few months, it was over.

The nearest train station was in Shamrock, sixteen miles to the south of us. I’ll never forget that day we drove over and waited on the platform for Dad to step off the train.

The Greatest Generation had brought peace back to America and pulled a common name from military obscurity and held it up for the world to forever recognize.
D-Day!

Why the Poppy?

2011-05-25T07:10:00.000-07:00

You’ve probably noticed a number of veterans on the street offering red poppies for a donation for Disabled Veterans.

Have you ever wondered why the poppy? Why not a white rose? A yellow zinna?
Why is it the red poppy was chosen as the symbol of the respect and gratitude we owe those who have fought and died to keep America the land of the free?
Why was the red poppy selected as an icon of Memorial Day, which was once called Decoration Day?

Poppies have long been symbolic of sleep and death; sleep because of the opium and death because of their blood red color. In Roman and Greek mythology, poppies were used as offering to the dead, as emblems on tombstones to symbolize eternal sleep.

Remember The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy, the Lion, the Scarecrow, and the Tin Man ran through the field of flowers and went to sleep? A field of poppies.

The seeds of the flower can remain dormant for years, but if the ground is turned, they will blossom spectacularly. There are over a hundred types of poppies of all colors in Europe where they grow like weeds according to my encyclopedia.

But, how did the poppy become the symbol of Memorial Day?

During World War I, a great battle occurred in the fields of Northern France, near Flanders. The ground was literally turned upside down from the devastating explosions.

The first of the flowers to bloom after the fight was red poppies, creating a beautiful red carpet covering the rolling hills and hiding the war-torn battlegrounds.

Lt. Col. John McCrae was a professor of Medicine at McGill University of Canada before World War I. He had served as a gunner in the Boer War, but went to France in World War I as a medical officer with the first Canadian Contingent.

In 1915, McCrae served in a Canadian hospital on the Essex Farm at the second battle of Ypres. Overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness at the futility of the horrifying war, McCrae stepped out of the operating room for a breath of fresh air.

The beauty of the vast fields of red poppies blanketing the undulating hills suddenly struck him. Taking pencil and paper, he captured that moment of artistic inspiration.

He managed to incorporate the vigor of the red poppy, the sacrifices made by the wounded and the dead, and the intensity of his obligation to them on that scrap of paper.

He did it with a poem that lives still today, one we’ve all heard, ‘In Flanders Fields’.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row by row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard among the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If yea break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

McCrae’s poem gained instant popularity.

He died three years later from pneumonia and meningitis. He was buried in a military cemetery near Calais on the English Channel, thus becoming one with those of whom he wrote in his famous poem.

Now, recognizing a day of respect for veterans goes back to 1866 when both the Union and Confederate dead were honored, but according to ANZAC, by the time of his internment, John McCrae's verse had forever bound the image of the red poppy to the memory of the Great War.

The poppy was eventually adopted by the British and Canadian Legions as the symbol of remembrance of World War One and a means of raising funds for disabled veterans.

And down through the decades, as the name of the day has broadened from a limited few to include all veterans of all wars, the poppy, that tiny red flower, has remained a shining symbol of a country’s respect and gratitude.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Technology $32.44; Me-0

2011-05-18T07:17:00.000-07:00

I’ve pulled more dumb stunts in my life than I can count, but one of the dumbest was forgetting my cell phone in the pocket of my jeans when I tossed them in the washing machine.

Did you know those little cell phones are not waterproof?

Yep, the engineers never designed those little suckers to swim. At least mine wasn’t. Maybe some of the more expensive models know how, but they’d be way too expensive for me.

Anyway, I took the phone apart, used a hair dryer to dry it out, put it back together, and clicked it on.

I really wasn’t surprised when nothing lit up. The screen was blank. I plugged it in to the charger and got a few lights, but that was all.

Next morning, half the numbers functioned. The others were deader than a beaver hat. I may be dense, but even I recognized there was no way I could get by with only half the numbers.

While I’d had the phone six years, the extent of my expertise was limited--flip it open, punch in a number, hit speaker, and talk. Oh yeah, and hope my brain wouldn’t short-circuit trying to adjust to the pauses between each exchange of conversation.
So, knowing the little phone was beyond resuscitation, I bought a new one.

My first cost thirty-five a month. Naturally, taxes, service fees, transportation fees, FDIC fees, bird hazard fees, and any other they could tack on brought it up to forty-five.

Since I seldom use the phone, I purchased the cheapest package, the thirty-five dollar one, which I knew would be forty-five. When I learned I could receive pictures, I decided I wanted to send pictures also. Another five bucks plus fees and charges for a tidy fifty bucks.

My first bill was fifty-five. The extra five was some kind of tax. Antidisestablishment cybersocial services or something like that. They get you coming and going.

With this phone, I did more than with the first. I learned how to put in a contact list (I told you I was a virtual idiot with them), take and send pictures, and do some texting, which has to be the most boring, wasteful activity in a person’s life other than listening to a Republican harangue or a Democrat’s promises. (an Obama self-aggrandizing speech with all his posturing would fit in here also)

I even learned how to send pictures to my or another’s email, a chore that took me a couple weeks to master. In the time I’ve owned this phone, I’ve become a pest with questions at the small store where I purchased it. First time in, I couldn’t get pictures. The clerk looked at the phone, his fingers blurred as they punched numbers before he announced with a hint of disdain. “You’re not online.”

I stared blankly at him. “Am I supposed to be?”

He sort of sneered. “How else can you send and receive pictures?”

“Beats me. Magic?.”

He didn’t laugh. “Well, you don’t have them.”

Brilliant deduction. “I know that. How do I get them?”

“Oh, I can do it for you. No problem.”

His fingers blurred once again. Moments later he announced the job complete. When I asked why I hadn’t been online, he replied “No idea.”

It took me a month to figure out how to put in periods, question marks, and other forms of punctuation. I still can’t figure out to change the ringer, but I did discover how to increase the volume of the ear set. So now I don’t have to turn on the speaker each time I use the phone.

And then I discovered I could go online with that little jewel. I couldn’t believe it. For only fifty-five dollars a month, I could talk, take pictures, send email, text, and go online.

You idiot, I told myself, look what you’ve been missing.

I took pictures of everything, even my Siamese cat sleeping in a dry birdbath, and sent them to everyone. When out shopping with my wife, I passed my time going online and keeping up to date on various current events.

All was right with this great big wonderful world.

The next month when I received my bill, my great big wonderful world exploded. $87.44!

Let me tell you, I lost no time calling the store and demanding why my bill was thirty-two dollars more than it was supposed to be.

The young lady was very patient. “Did you use any data?”

“Data? What’s that?”

“Did you take pictures, go online, or anything like that?”

Uh oh! The grim truth ballooned in front of my eyes. “Ah, well, yeah, I might have,” I replied weakly.

“You have to pay for that,” she said primly.

Technology-$32.44; Me-0, an all too familiar score whenever I take on the modern world.

My only consolation is the old saw, ‘fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.’

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Deliberate Deceit?

2011-05-11T06:54:00.001-07:00

Are you as tired of hearing about the president’s birth certificate as I am? Probably. To be pragmatic about it, at this time in his term, it doesn’t make any difference one way or another.

Say convincing, absolute proof emerged he is not a natural citizen. So what will happen? You think the FBI is going to scurry into the White House and lead him away in handcuffs?

Get serious.

After the certificate of birth was made public, you probably noted many of the president’s supporters reminding ‘birthers’ with a smug I-told-you-so that President Obama was—oops, sorry, Freudian Slip, is indeed a natural citizen.

Some of the pundits even went as far as gloating over the revelation of the birth certificate.

And in all honesty, I understand their delight. Their beliefs are vindicated. Their man had been unjustly accused. Now he has been exonerated.

Or has he?

As far as I’m concerned, he answered the question of citizenship and nothing more should be said about it.

But, that just isn’t the way things are.

A couple days after the revelation, I received an email concerning discrepancies in the certificate. It sounded legitimate, and the truth is, the discrepancies were legitimate as far as they went.

The document was a perfect example of why one should never take for gospel what he reads or hears, especially online.

Here’s the story.

The certificate listed Obama’s birth as August 4, 1961. It also listed Barack Hussein Obama as his father and his age as twenty-five. It stated his father was born in ‘Kenya, East Africa.’

The author jumped on that. He said ‘Kenya did not exist until 1963, two years after Obama’s birth, and twenty-seven years after his father’s birth. Up until 1963, the country was called British East Africa Protectorate.”

His point was ‘How could the father be born in a country that did not exist?’
His second point is that Obama was born in the ‘Kapi’olani Maternity and Gynecological Hospital’. The problem says the author is that in 1961, there were two hospitals, ‘KauiKeolani Children’s Hospital and Kapi’olani Maternity Home’. They merged in 1978 under the name ‘Kapi’olani Maternity and Gynecological Hospital’, seventeen years after his birth.

The email seemed convincing, but I researched the data myself.

It’s true, Kenya did not become an independent republic until 1963-64, but even as the British East Africa Protectorate, from about 1939 on, it was called Kenya Colony.
The author was right. In 1961, Kenya, the independent republic, did not exist, but the Kenya Colony did.

The second question concerning the hospitals was much simpler to answer. In fact, I can’t see why there was ever a question in the author’s mind. In 1918, the Kapi’olani Maternity Home was established. Thirteen years later in 1931, it changed its name to ‘Kapi’olani Maternity and Gynecological Hospital. Now it is true there was a merger in 1978, but the name was already in existence.

I’ve run across a dozen different conspiracies concerning the birth certificate. It’s time to let it die a natural death, but that will never happen.

The third point the author made is one that I wonder about. I’m not going to lose sleep over it though he does raise a good question. “Why,” he asked. “Did it take over three years and 1.7 million dollars in court fights to keep the document from being released?”

Personally, I don’t care, but it does seem like a waste of taxpayer money.

On the other hand, look around. What else is new?

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

I Remember Mama

2011-05-05T06:38:00.000-07:00

I'm sure you won’t be surprised to know there’s over a dozen theories of the origin of Mother’s Day. They range from the ancient Greece festival of Cybete to West Virginia’s Anna Jarvis after the Civil War.

My Mom was special, just as yours. I mean, after all, where would you be if not for her? Okay, bad joke, but all mothers, real mothers and not simply birth machines, possess an intense, unique love for each of their children. It’s curious how there is no limit to a Mother’s love. She loves with all her heart, and when another child comes along, so does the love.

The only love greater than that of a mother is that of God’s, and hers is a mighty close second.

You know, poetry is almost a lost facet of literature. It’s a shame for some poetry contains nuggets of wisdom that are pure gold.

One of my favorite poets is Robert Frost. In his poem, “Death of a Hired Man,” a husband and wife argue over the return of their hired man, Silas, who jumped from farm to farm, but always returned to the home of Mary and Warren.

Warren doesn’t want Silas back because he is so undependable. Mary tells him, ‘he’s come home to die.’

“Home,” says Warren, “Is when you go there, they have to take you in.”

Mary replied, “I should have called it something you somehow haven’t to deserve.”
Every time I read the poem, I substitute the word, ‘Mother’ for home. To paraphrase Frost, ‘Mother is something we somehow haven’t to deserve.”

That’s true with me as I’m sure it is with you

Mom was a farm girl who, along with three sisters and four brothers, fed chickens, milked cows, slopped hogs, grained cows, pulled cotton, and any of another number of tedious farm chores from Montague County in North Texas to Wheeler County in the Texas Panhandle.

She was like all Mothers who put herself last. I wish I had a dollar for every meal she made for herself from her sons’ leftovers.

She was a true Texas girl, unwilling to back away from any challenge. When Dad was sent to Los Angeles during the war, she was right with him. From there it was Albuquerque, then Hutchinson, Kansas.

Finally, we returned to Wheeler when Dad went overseas. Mom planted corn on our five acres, harvested it, loaded it in the car, and drove to neighboring towns to sell it door to door. That we didn’t sell, we ate. She came up with dozens of ways to prepare corn.

There was no task she’d refuse to tackle if it had to do with the welfare of her children. I can’t count the number of jobs she held down, but always while we were in school. She was always home when we came in.

And, like all mothers, she was snoopy. There was nothing of mine private. I had no secrets. Fortunately, she never told Dad everything. Otherwise, I might not be here.
Of course, she thought her sons hung the moon, and if any other youngster proved to have more talent than Sam and me, she sniffed and said they were nothing but ‘shameless showoffs.”

One of the most valuable gifts she gave me was the opportunity to explore the world beyond the farm. That was all she had known, but through her travels with Dad, she realized there was a whole world out there for her sons.

When Dad had a job offer in the Fort Worth-Dallas area, she urged him to do take it. For me, it was like Bubba goes to town. I discovered worlds I never knew existed, worlds completely alien to rolling sandhills of the Texas Panhandle.

Mom wanted Sam and me to have the opportunity, and she didn’t rest until we had it.
I was fortunate to have a mother like that. Oh, we had our ups and downs, sometimes big ups and downs, but we managed to work through them to our own separate peace.

So, you can see why that whenever I read Frost, I think to myself, “A mother is something you somehow haven’t to deserve.”

She and Dad have been gone many years, but not a day passes I don’t think of them, grateful for their love.

Happy Mothers’ Day.

The Truth and Nothing but the Truth

2011-04-27T12:43:00.000-07:00

If you’re like me, you quickly grow weary of the name-calling, back-stabbing, vilifying, mudslinging, and muck-raking that goes on in Washington. And that’s just between friends. Heaven forbid what happens to enemies.

I’ve had my fill of politicians from every party delivering a speech or granting an interview one day, and then standing up the next and with angelic innocence blatantly denying the meaning of the words they spoke.

‘I misspoke.” That’s the new mantra for so many. “I misspoke’.

One most recent ‘misspoke—misspeak?’ was the budget cuts from the Senate. From what the public was told, over sixty billion dollars had been cut when actually, only 322 million was carved from the bulbous budget. Seems like the difference was simply moved back and forth in accounting tricks, a fact both parties failed to mention.

They bragged. ‘We cut sixty billion.”

Haven’t you noticed the growing usage of the expression?
According to the Bodhi Tree Swaying Blog, ‘misspoke’ is a weasel word.

Like the time Hillary Clinton remarked she ‘misspoke’ when she claimed she’d run across a tarmac airfield in order to avoid sniper fire after landing in Bosnia as first lady in 1996.

Weasel words are derived from the weasel’s habit of sucking the contents out of an egg without destroying its shell. A weasel word is deliberately misleading or ambiguous language used to avoid making a straight–forward statement while giving the appearance of having made such.

People today buy into such weasel words because by their use, they avoid the truth of their behavior, lying.

That’s what the then primary candidate Clinton really did in her Bosnia remark, she lied.

She isn’t by herself. They don’t misspeak. They lie. And they’re well aware of it when they do.

All right, so it isn’t fair to say all misspeaks are deliberate. Some come about out of sheer ignorance.

But the ones to whom I refer are the politicians. Far, far too many of them believe such linguistic gymnastics is essential to their success.

Do you remember when the then aspiring Supreme Court candidate Sonia Sotomayor remarked “I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life?”

And when confronted with the statement, claimed she meant that all judges should render decisions without regard to any bias.

Or the time in 2005 she said a ‘court of appeals is where policy is made.” Immediately she added “And I know this is on tape, and I should never say that because we don’t make law. I know. O.K. I’m not promoting it. I’m not advocating it. I’m—you know.”

All I know is she does believe courts shape policy despite her protestations.

And then we have politicians who misspeak unintentionally. If we follow to the definition of ‘misspeak’, unintentional misspeaking is not really misspeaking, but simply a mistake. Make sense? Doesn’t to me either, but on with the story.

Our former president, George W. was a master at mangling the English language. I think it was playwright George Bernard Shaw who remarked that the British and
Americans were two people separated by a common language. Well, that common language was how old George got into the act.

I suppose the one remark of his that sticks in my mind was when he said, “They misunderestimated me.”

Stop and think about it. He knew what he meant to say. I know what he meant to say. We all know what he meant to say. But he didn’t say it.

Or what about the time he said “I’ve abandoned free market principles to save the free market system”?

That one, I can’t figure out.

Both of his remarks, though vague and ambiguous, are mistakes, not misspeaks.

When was the last time you went to a doctor and he prescribed medicine with the comment, “Take this and let’s see what happens?” Never? Right? Nobody’s going to experiment on me.

Instead, he says, “Let’s see how well you tolerate it.”

Same thing.

Misspeak?

Looks to me, it’s everywhere.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Our Next President

2011-04-20T14:33:00.001-07:00

You ever think about running for president?

Yeah, that president. Of these United States.

Talk to anybody, and around sixty or seventy percent believe he or she can do a better job than whom we now have in the office.

That is a common political phenomenon.

Curiously, our current president has already started campaigning. Now, I don’t know why he started so early. Could it be he’s running scared because of the poor job he’s done, or because of the poor job he hasn’t done?

I don’t know. It just seems to me a two-year-long campaign is a mite too long. On the other hand, maybe it’s because he is an excellent campaigner. You can’t take that from him. Could it be he knows he knows he’s failed as president, but can excel at campaigning? So, he decided to campaign instead of president. (okay, so it isn’t a verb. Big Deal. Disrespect wasn’t a verb either)

Surely he can’t believe Americans are that dumb? Or are we?

Certainly, he didn’t begin campaigning so early because of possible candidates the other parties might throw at him.

English teachers always emphasize to their writing students not to use clichés; but here’s one anyway. Remember the old saying, ‘too many cooks spoil the broth’?
Same with the candidates the other parties want to throw at him. A bunch of cooks-result? A tasteless broth.

If you’re like me, I don’t see anyone out there who could beat him except maybe Hillary, and she’s in the wrong party. On the other hand, do you think that perhaps she covets the office so passinately that she might switch parties?

Now there’s food for thought.

Lots of folks around our neck of the woods have been switching parties. To hear them, their impeccably honorable reasons are based upon their sterling integrity and a slavish desire to lift their constituents’ quality of life to higher levels.

Right? And if you believe that, I have a long lost map showing where the pirate, LaFitte, hid gold at the juncture of the Sabine and Neches Rivers.

Or I can put in on the trail of the severed finger of Benito Jaurez, the Mexican bandido, for only a few bucks.

Most of those guys are cutting deals left and right.

But back to—ah, yeah, Obama and his campaigning.

A friend and I spoke recently of Donald Trump’s entry into the fray. Or maybe I should say, his considering entry into the bloodlust milieu to come.

My first impulse was ‘hey, maybe this is the guy.’ He’s got a lot of baggage, but who hasn’t? Many politicians are saying his candidacy is a joke. They, by the way, are considering running also.

You can’t believe what prospective candidates say about each other. Joe Biden commented during the primaries that ‘Obama was 'not yet ready' for the presidency, an office which did not 'lend itself to on-the-job training'.

Now he’s vice-president, working for the guy whom he claimed couldn’t handle the job. Make sense to you?

But, who will run against Obama?

First on many lists is Sarah Palin. I like her, but women hate her. She couldn’t do any worse than Obama, but somehow that just doesn’t seem much of a reason to vote for her.

Then there is ex-Massachusetts’ Governor Mitt Romney. Many say he is the front-runner, but he has run so many times it’s getting to be a joke. Besides, he was behind the horrible health bill in his state. Obamacare is Romney’s briar patch.

Mike Huckabee is back with his conservative religious group. Huckabee is a nice guy, but he wasn’t any too sharp as governor in Arkansas.

One of the big names for the office is Newt Gingrich. I heard a comedian remark ‘How do you get a divorce from Newt Gingrich? Simple, get uterine cancer.” That sums him up. This guy makes Bill Clinton look like a saint.

And the list goes on and on and on. Mississippi Gov. Haley Barbour, Indiana Gov. Mitch Daniels, John Thune, Chris Christie, Tim Pawlenty, Mike Pence, Jim DeMint, Ron Paul, Nikki Haley, Jeb Bush, Rick Santorum, John Bolton, Michelle Bachman.
Whew!

Oh, I forgot Louisiana’s Bobby Jindal.

So, you tell me. Who will it be?

My prediction?

Obama in 2012.

The Democrat party has only one cook in the kitchen. That’s the difference.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

The Yellow Rose, a True Story?

2011-04-13T07:11:00.000-07:00

How can a ragtag army of misfits and rapscallions soundly defeat one of the best-trained armies in the world? And in only twenty minutes, give or take a minute or so?

Some of you already know what I’m talking about. And no, it isn’t Gaddafi’s forces and the rebel Lybians.

The battle of which I speak took place 175 years ago on the banks of the San Jacinto River and Buffalo Bayou.

The battle at San Jacinto, April 21, 1836, when Sam Houston and his makeshift army routed a far superior military force in the blink of an eye by historical time.
Screaming at the top of their lungs “Remember the Alamo; Remember Goliad,” the savgage Texians charged across the Mexican fortifications, stampeding the nodding Mexicans. The outnumbered Texians, at the cost of nine lives, killed more than 600 soldados and overran the rest, according to historian Kent Biffle.

Since that date, historians have cussed and discussed just how in the blazes Sam Houston pulled off such a victory.

There have been numerous theories posed, but one of the most intriguing is the story of Emily West who came to be known as the Yellow Rose of Texas.

It was she, many historians claim, who delayed Santa Anna long enough so the surprised soldados could only stumble about in confusion from lack of leadership.
Says Biffle, “The Yellow Rose of Texas is fancifully famous for bedazzling Santa Anna out of his fancy pants at the Battle of San Jacinto on April 21, 1836.”

Possibly he gleened that information from William Bollaert, an English ethnologist who wrote in an 1842 essay “The battle of San Jacinto was probably lost to the Mexicans, owing to the influence of a Mulatta Girl (Emily) belonging to Col. Morgan. She was closeted in the tent with General Santana at the time the cry was made ‘the Enemy! They come! They come!’ She detained Santana so long that order could not be restored readily again.”

Could all this be true? Could the great state of Texas have been given birth with the midwifing help of a ‘mulatta girl’? And was she the real ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’?
Chances are a fairly certain ‘yes’ to both questions.

A long time friend of Houston, James Morgan, of Morgan’s Point, sought to bring emigrants to the fledging colony that would soon be Texas. One of the emigrants was Emily West, a mulatto, from Bermuda.

Emily was a bright young woman who volunteered to be indentured to escape the prejudice against her mixed race. As custom for indentured workers, they took their employer’s last name, so she became known as Emily Morgan. She had met Houston on more than one occasion at her employer’s plantation.

Colonel James Morgan’s settlement, New Washington, sat on the shores at the mouth of the San Jacinto River where he loaded flatboards with various supplies for Houston.
With Santa Anna’s approach on April 18, settlers fled New Washington; however, Emily and a young black boy named Turner were captured by the Mexican army. Santa Anna was struck by her beauty.

Emily convinced Turner to escape and inform Houston of the Mexican general’s arrival. Turner has to be the ‘mysterious visitor’ some historians say paid Houston a clandestine visit a couple nights before the battle.

Santa Anna was a ladies’ man. Though married to a woman in Mexico, he remarried teenage captives throughout his Texas campaign. Emily appeared to be a suitable replacement.

So, he set up camp on the plains of San Jacinto despite vehement protestations from his colonels who insisted the location severely violated wartime strategy.

They were right.

On April 21, Houston, said to be perched in a tree, saw Emily preparing a champagne breakfast for Santa Anna. His supposed comment was “I hope that slave girl makes him neglect his business and keeps him in bed all day.”

And the rest is history.

Morgan was so impressed by Emily’s heroism that he repealed her indenture and gave her a passport and funds back to New York where all trace of her faded away.
Did it happen that way?

Well, the stories hold water, and ‘Yellow Rose’ was the expression for mulatto females during that period. And James Morgan did spread her story to anyone who would listen all the way from Texas to his influential partners in New York.

Now, whether true or not, the tale does make for a good story. And I believe it.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Pogo's Congress

2011-04-06T07:11:00.000-07:00

Notice came out a couple weeks back that almost a quarter of a million Mexican citizens along its northern border had disappeared.

I’m not making this up. The 2010 Mexican census stated that down in Praxedis G. Guerrora, a border town east of Juarez, sixty-one percent of the 3,616 homes are uninhabited, as in empty, vacant, unfilled.

And Reynosa follows with 33% and then Juarez with 23% of its half million homes. All abandoned, left to crumble. That’s a heap of Mexican citizens bidding adios to their homeland.

Well, I have news for those wise census officials and their missing citizens. Those 230,000 Hispanics ain’t disappeared. They’re in my back yard, and my neighbor’s, and his neighbor’s.

I can’t blame anyone for wanting to get away from the violence wracking Mexico along the border. At the same time, I blame our own Congress for doing nothing over the last several years to stem the arterial spurting of illegal immigrants into the United States, regardless of reasons.

And I hold our Texas legislators as much to blame. They didn’t even have the guts to make an effort as Arizona. They dump it off on the feds, claiming the big boys up there prevent any local efforts.

In 2000, the U.S. census bureau claimed eight million illegals lived in the U.S. In 2010, it was up to an estimable twelve-twenty million. That is a fifty to one hundred and fifty percent jump. In fact, a Hispanic columnist claims it is over fifty million as of today.

To put controls on this tsunami of illegals flooding us won’t be easy, but surely, those jokers up there in the legislature or congress who were slick enough to con a majority of votes should be slick enough to come up with a solution.

The obvious starting point to a simpleton like me is to admit they ain’t no way we’re going to send 23-50 million illegals back.

That said, where do we start?

First, let’s understand what caused it.

As usual, it was a screw up in Washington.

The Civil Right’s Act of 1866 (read it if you don’t believe me) declared that people born in the United States and not subject to any foreign power are entitled to be citizens without regard to race, color, or previous condition of slavery or involuntary servitude.

It does not say folks can pop in from Mexico, Canada, China, or Pluto, have a baby, and it is a U.S. citizen. Why can’t they? Because they are already citizens of another country. You know, A FOREIGN POWER! Get it?

A similar provision was written a few months later in the proposed Fourteenth Amendement to the United States Constitution. Section One states in the beginning: “All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thererof, are citizens etc…”

To repeat, the Civil Rights Act of 1866 granted U.S. citizenship to all persons born in the United States, as long as those persons were not subject to a foreign power.
You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know babies are subject to the whims of their parents. If their parents are citizens of another country who come here illegally, that means they are not subject to U.S. jurisdiction, but that of the country in which they hold citizenship. They do not go to the American Embassy if they have problems, but they go to the Mexican Embassy or the Russian or the Polish, or whatever.

How did this misinterpretation come about? Simple! Some of the 1866 framers of the Fourteen Amendment were probably lawyers who tried to get fancy with words and stuck in the vacuous expression ‘jurisdiction thereof’ instead of using plain, simple words like ‘not subject to a foreign power.

If we were to obey that intended precept, the inflow of illegal immigration would decrease dramatically. No citizenship? Then, Amigo, let’s vamoose our los extremos out of here.

But what about those youngsters who’ve been here for years, who are in school, some of whom have children of their own?

If they want to become legal citizens, give those who have been here five years or longer and completed high school a temporary residence for six more years during which they must complete two years in the military or two years at a technical school with a certificate or a four-year college degree.

And we have to accept the fact that many illegals will be with us forever, but at least, this way we have a start of putting some kind of control on it.

Now all of this is based upon the assumption that those who conned us into electing them will take steps to seal the stinking border, and that I am afraid is a lost cause because of the rampant congressional and legislative disease, ‘Deterioratous of the Backbonis’.

Don’t forget Pogo’s edict, ‘we’ve met the enemy and he is us.’

The T-Word

2011-03-30T08:06:00.000-07:00

Perhaps to most, this isn’t earth-shaking news, but it does testify to the fact that sometimes the little guy can eke out a win over the big boys.
Seems like down in San Antonio, Domonique Ramirez, the winner of the Miss Bexar Beauty competition had her crown stripped for chowing down on too many tacos.
According to Ryan Owens and Jessica Hopper of ABC News, Miss Ramirez was told to lay off the tacos or else she would lose her crown.

Obviously she didn’t, and she did.

She sued and got her crown back.

Sort of a flaky story, but stay with me.

Lay off the tacos! Saying that to a Hispanic is like telling Hermie Swartz he has a nose that looks like a bagel or Joe Nyguen to stop smoking the Lotus leaves.

The entire argument between Ramirez and the pageant was a typical ‘she said,’ ‘he said’.

She claims she was ousted because of her weight in her bikini pictures. Said Ramirez, “She (the president of the organization) told me I need to drop thirteen pounds and I needed to lay off the tacos.”

The president of the Miss Bexar County organization testified the bikini pictures were ‘unusable.’

Now, I don’t know what ‘unusable’ means here. I saw the bikini picture. She looked okay to me although she did have a little pooch-out on the outside of her thigh. What I’ve heard called ‘saddleblankets’. I’ve seen better pictures, and I’ve seen worse.

The president added that the committee did not believe Ms. Ramirez would represent San Antonio well. (talk about flaky excuses)

There are many arguments for beauty competitions, and I know their proponents can rattle off a list of benefits. Still, what those contests boil down to is the measure of physical beauty and charm, paying little attention to the inner strengths of some young women.

Now, I know I offended someone there, and yes, I know many beauties have inner strengths. Don’t all beauty competitions have questions involving moral vigor and inner strength? You’ve heard the questions, and all seem to have the same perceptive answer, ‘World Peace.’

But can you honestly tell me that if Joan of Arc was as ugly as me and competed in a beauty contest, she would win—or even place—or even be allowed on the boardwalk?
I doubt it.

I’m sure the Bexar County pageant officials are all nice folks, but they’ve got to be a couple pickles shy in that barrel of political correctness so prevalent in our namby-pamby society for telling a Hispanic to lay off the tacos.

The courts obviously agreed.

Does this mean we can’t say taco? Will it become the T-word to go along with the N-word and S-word. I even heard some dude mention a ‘D-word’, whatever it might be. Surely we have not outlawed the obsequious ‘damn’. If that’s the case, I have several friends who will go mute.

I was teaching a writing class a couple weeks back and our discussion turned to the flap over Mark Twain’s classic novel, ‘Huckleberry Finn’ and its use of words prevalent back in the Nineteenth Century.

Seems some over zealous reformers with nothing better to do want to replace words in books they’ve never read. They’re probably on the Miss Bexar County Beauty Competition Board.

I grew up in another time and culture. Expressions I heard from my birth on were part of my vernacular, a vernacular I have over the years modified to conform to present expectations.

When I first heard it, I was amused at the expression, N-word, for to me it personified the abysmal ignorance and lack of historical significance to those demanding the use of the term.

The only time I hear the word today is among those of the culture it identifies. And when I hear it, the word is always a slur.

Yet, among other groups, Caucasians are often referred to as crackers and honkys.
What I propose is establishing an integration of vernacular among various cultures. If the expression ‘N-word’ is acceptable, then I say let us also accept ‘C-word’ and ‘H-word’ for cracker and honky.

Turn about you know.

Oh, yeah, and let’s don’t forget to put in the ‘T-word’. Can’t leave out our neighbors to the south.

How Long is Too Long?

2011-03-23T07:17:00.000-07:00

I’m sure everyone is overjoyed to know that in another few weeks, you’ll have the opportunity to vote once again in local elections.

What’s that, you ask?

Local elections. You know, where you have the opportunity to decide who will shape the future of your city and school district.

That’s right. Come May 14, you can waltz right down to the ballot box and with no one looking over your shoulder, make your own statement regarding who you want to direct the path of the two most immediate governments in your life, your school district and your city.

Have you ever noticed how here in Southeast Texas some school board members or city councilmen—whoops, excuse me, councilpersons, have served multiple terms?
In some cases, I don’t mean simply multiple, but multiple multiple. I’ve always admired those individuals’ dedication to public service.

Although it is not politically wise for them to admit the fact aloud for fear of offending their constituents, public service is a thankless job, demanding time, energy, and usually a considerable loss of hair.

Please understand, there is nothing curmudgeonly intended, but I often have wondered just how effective these dedicated individuals are after three or four terms. With rare, rare, rare exceptions, constant power subtly insinuates arrogance into the blood of elected officials. At first, they’re fresh and eager. After a few years, six or seven, they begin to feel a sense of entitlement to the position. Another few terms, and there is no way on earth you will ever convince them that their methods, their ideas, and their beliefs are not the ones that are best for their constituents.

Now, I could get into Ford Park all over again. You remember that fiasco when county officials took it upon themselves to dig that hole to pour tax money down. If we had a law holding such idiocy financially responsible for boondoggles like that, what do you want to bet they would cool their heels in a New York minute?

But, let’s don’t talk about that. Let’s talk about how Beaumont wasted tax money by stubbornly refusing release of public information about the firefighting situation. The council knew better. They knew they could not hold onto the information, but they did and the state jumped them. Now, they’ve wasted more time and money because they ‘knew what was best for the city’.

In a pig’s eye.

Somewhere along the way in that exhilarating ride of power and influence, they forget that ‘myself’ is not how you spell ‘constituent’.

Before I talk about my own city council, let me stay with Beaumont a few moments longer. Actually, we could stay with them for weeks and not run out of the foolish ways they waste taxpayer money.

You know about the lake under construction. I can tell you right now, hundreds of drug dealers, homeless people, rapists, muggers, and those other denizens of the dark are panting at the opportunity to explore the dark shores of Thomas Lake.
Wise choice of the city council, a haven for undesirables instead of good roads for its taxpayers.

Sometime back, Port Neches came up with a long-term plan to develop the riverfront. They built Tugboat Island and then a splash park.

Great venues. I take my grandkids there often. I don’t even complain about visitors from everywhere utilizing the either spot. It’s for kids, and they enjoy it. Our city did a super job there.

Initially, they toyed with a venue much like Kemah, but finally let it drop (I thought) because of lack of easy access and absolutely no drive-by drop-in possibilities.

Now, word has surfaced they’re considering dumping more funds into the proposed scheme. I tell you folks, the scheme is a fool’s errand. They can spend millions upon millions and a solid hit from a hurricane will wipe it out. And don’t say it can’t happen.

These are just two or three situations where voters should consider perhaps new blood. Some of the long time incumbents think they know what is best for us if even we disagree.

So, throw the old ones a party, give them a gold watch, and show them the door.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

World's Greatest Lie

2011-03-16T07:41:00.001-07:00

“The check’s in the mail’ is the world’s second biggest lie. The first is the government’s patronizing remark, ‘trust me, I’m here to help you.’

Now, we know the government is said to be ‘of the people, for the people, and by the people’, but too often those little prepositions, of, for, by, are supplanted with the possessive pronouns, me, my, mine by the politicians in Washington.

In their Quixotic quest to help us, they end up hurting us much more than if they’d just picked up a club and bopped us on the noggin.

Look at the automobile industry. Over the years, administrations have constantly made new regulations regarding transportation. Now, I’m kinda like Fox News, fair and balanced, so I’ve got to say in all honesty, some good has come of Washington’s regs.

But, with the good also comes a bad side.

You remember how automobiles had to be maintained decades back. Unless you were well heeled, tinkering with your car was a given if you wanted to keep it in running condition.

With automobiles of the last decade or so, we’ve not had to face that problem. That’s good.

So what’s bad about that? To butcher a Lewis Carroll warning, ‘beware the Jub-Jub bird’ of the nanotech convenience of sophisticated technology for it brings higher repair bills.

Technologically superior vehicles are a two-edged sword. Other than regular maintenance, they require little, if any under-the-hood work from the average Joe Car-owner, but the work they require costs a pretty penny and a sophistication far beyond our puny grasp.

The only time I look under the hood of my cars today is to replace a battery or add a special mix of liquid to the water reservoir. I have the oil and fluids changed regularly.

My first car was a 1949 Ford convertible, baby blue. It was a good, dependable car. I worked on it, tuning, repairing—all the requisite maintenance.

Since then, with two exceptions, an MGB and Ford Fairlane, I’ve driven General Motors products.

Up until my current automobiles, I worked on them.

Today, I wouldn’t dream of it.

One night, I was coming back from the library in Beaumont when the ‘service engine soon’ light came on in my Chevrolet Silverado.

Now, I had run into that once on our Pontiac (General Motors). It turned out to be the gas cap wasn’t on tightly enough. (that was a first for me—I can remember driving with just a rag in place of a missing cap)

I wasn’t as lucky this time.

The service man plugged it into the computer. I learned the thermostat was stuck. The engine wouldn’t heat properly. I also found out the reason I was adding water to the reservoir that both the manifold gasket and the water pump leaked. And I also discovered that the water system was under pressure, which meant it would have to be drained, refilled, and all the air siphoned from it.

“Eleven-seventeen,” the service man said nonchalantly.

I blinked once or twice. “Eleven seventeen?” That seemed awfully cheap to me.

“Eleven hundred and seventeen,” he explained.

After fighting off a heart attack, I replied. “I don’t want to refinance it, just fix it.”

I have to give my purple face and gasping for breath credit for the ten percent customer request discount.

I can remember the time when I bought a thermostat for five bucks, yanked off the input water hose, jerked out the old stat and stuck in the new, then topped off the radiator. Total cost plus one beer, $5.75. Gaskets and water pump? A few bucks, my labor and grease, and I was done. Total time for whole job, an hour.
Not today.

Eight hours, nine hundred and ninety bucks including labor, which was six sixty-five. (And I was a teacher. I should have been a mechanic.)

When I look at all the whistles and bells on the newer automobiles as well as the prices, I figure I’ll keep my little Chevrolet pickup as long as I can afford it.

And my Pontiac. After that—I don’t know.

Yeah, yeah, I know. That’s progress, but dadgum it, sometimes progress hurts.

How Much is Your Government Helping You?

2011-03-09T07:11:00.000-08:00

Feel like taking a little true and false quiz today? It is a simple one based upon the conservative Heritage Foundation and the liberal Huffington Post.(like Fox, fair and balanced) It just measures how much you know about how our government is helping us. By government, I mean all parties and all administrations for the last several decades.

I think you’ll be surprised at the results.

1. Since 2000, the amount of money the federal government spends per household has risen by twenty-five percent to a staggering $20,000.00 per family.

2. In the next six years, interest will double on our national debt.

3. In 2009, 64.3 million Americans—almost one of every five—depended on government for their daily housing, food, and health care.

4. Congress passed a law that will force you to replace all your old reliable light bulbs with more expensive ones—bulbs that don’t work as well and include chemicals dangerous to your health

5. New federal standards on auto emissions will add about $500 to the sticker price of a new car!

6. When Washington passes a regulation, it is not legally required to estimate the financial cost of the new red tape on families, individuals, or businesses.

7. A former Obama official accused current administration of being indifferent to immigration problems.

1. False. $20,000 per household is the amount Washington politicians spent back in 2000! Today, they are spending $31,000 for every household, and increase of 33%.

2. False. In the next six years, interest will triple! Imagine your own personal debt tripling. If you’re like me, that would be catastrophic.
No wonder more Americans predict that their children’s lives will not be as prosperous or free as their own. But there is still time to act. Cutting federal spending, cutting regulations, and lowering taxes will unleash America’s economy and help reduce annual deficits and our total national debt

3. True. You tell me. Should one out of five Americans totally depend on the rest of us for all of their housing, food, and medical bills? Government welfare has created a class of dependent people. And unless steps are taken, this class will continue to grow. Right now, we’re into the third generation of welfare with the fourth baking in the oven.

4. True. In 2007, Congress imposed energy standards that effectively banned the traditional incandescent light bulb invented by Thomas Edison, which had faithfully served Americans for decades. The last American light bulb factory, in Winchester, Virginia, has closed. Soon, Americans will be forced to buy more expensive compact fluorescent bulbs, mostly made in China, which have higher malfunction rates and can expose you to dangerous amounts of mercury when broken.

5. False. It’s actually worse! Experts estimate those new emissions standards will actually add a thousand bucks to the price of a car! That car will now also be harder and more expensive to fix. And will this cut down on air pollution from autos? Not likely, because research indicates the regulation will force more people to hold on to older cars that pollute more. It’s another example of big government making things worse all around.

6. True. Incredibly, Congress enacts suffocating regulations without any requirement to identify the costs they impose on people like you and me.

7. True. According to Andrew Becker in the liberal ‘Huffington Post’, Roxana Bacon, who served as an Immigration Official for the current president claims the administration has shied away from vision and practical leadership on immigration because they were both indifferent and timid.

I hope you did better than I did. I missed three out of seven. Scary.

As far as I’m concerned, the kind of help the government is providing is help we don’t need. On the other hand, I don’t see any major change coming about despite all the hoopla in Washington. I hope I’m wrong, but I’m afraid Washington is going to help our country into the grave.

Was Bowie the Last to Die at the Alamo?

2011-03-02T07:11:00.001-08:00

One hundred and seventy-five years ago, last Saturday, March 6, around 1500 (by most counts) Mexican soldiers overran the Alamo, killing every combatant.

Most accounts of the battle place Bowie in a back room of the low barracks, sprawled on his bunk with two pistols in his hand and his knife between his teeth.

Battering rams slam into the door to his room, smashing it open. Mexican soldiers, teeth bared in feral savagery, charge him, bayonets gleaming.
He kills two with his pistols, another with his knife before dozens of bayonets penetrate him.

Sound familiar?

Whether the story is true or not is uncertain, just as many of the legends that surrounded Bowie and his famous knife, which incidentally was designed by his brother, Rezin.

The Bowie brothers wore many guises, among them land speculators, slavers, gamblers, and devil-may-care ruffians, caught up in adventures from the Sand Bar Fight to the Alamo.

This thirst for adventure probably came from their Scot ancestry and their most famous ancestor, Rob Roy. Jim’s Pa, Rezin Sr, according to Jeff Lee, rode with Swamp fox Francis Marion’s dragoons during the Revolutionary war.

Bowie settled in Mexico in 1828, married, and became a respected citizen of the community despite some shady dealings. In 1830, he answered the call for Texas Volunteers.

When the siege of the Alamo began, Bowie was forty, a seasoned frontiersman and Indian fighter. As researcher Jeff Lee states, Bowie was absolutely fearless. He commanded the volunteers in the Alamo.

Twenty-six-year-old Travis, sometimes moody, commanded the regulars with stern discipline

The difference in their ages and philosophy of discipline portended angry and violent disagreements concerning command of the garrison.

That he was bed-ridden that last day is fact, but what brought about the incapacitation is still argued.

One story is that while helping construct a gun garrison, he fell off the scaffold and broke either his hip or leg.

Others have called this story ‘hogwash’ says Mister Lee.

Some say he suffered from tuberculosis, diphtheria or typhoid-pneumonia.
He went to his sick bed around February 22 or 23 in the Low Barracks.

One fact on which most agree is that he was killed in his bunk except for his nurse, Madame Candelaria. She claimed he died the day before the final onslaught. However, years later in a newspaper interview, she contradicted her initial story when she showed two wounds on her back, swearing she received when she threw herself over Bowie to shield him from the Mexicans.

Bowie, most agree, must have lived until the end of the battle because the Low Barracks was the last to fall. Was he killed in his bunk? Most believe so.

But, according to Jeff Lee, one of the most chilling reports “claimed that as the funeral pyres blazed high and soldiers heaped dead Texans on the pile, some soldiers carried out a man on a cot, a man the captain of the detail identified as "no other than the infamous Bowie." Although the man was still alive, Santa Anna ordered him thrown into the fire along with the rest.”

Would Santa Anna be so cruel?

Probably, if the man were a Mexican citizen fighting in the Texan army. And Jim Bowie was a Mexican citizen, having married nineteen-year-old Ursula Veramendi in April 1831, the daughter of Don Juan Veramendi, the vice-governor of Coahuila-Texas.
In Santa Anna’s eye, Jim Bowie was a traitor. And as such deserved no mercy.

And for most of us, his place as the last to die at the Alamo is firmly entrenched in our beliefs.

Put in the Good Writing; Kick out the Bad

2011-02-24T18:11:00.000-08:00

As writers, we all go through a long and arduous process of learning our strengths and weaknesses. Unfortunately, I discovered I hosted a whole lot more of the latter than the former.

Over the years, I devoured books and magazines on writing. I networked. I attended conferences. I finally learned that all writing is a mixture of good and bad. Even those writers who have best seller after best seller turn out sentences and ideas that are real stinkers.

I have a digital camera. I suppose in the last six years, I’ve taken a couple thousand shots. Most of them are insignificant as far as the art of photography is concerned.

A few, a very few, are pretty good. How did they come about? Beats me.
But, I think the fact might be why professional photographers take so many shots. They’re looking for that single exposure that reflects the mood or concept for which they are striving.

Ansel Adams’ striking black and white photographs have no equal, but I’ve no doubt for each one with which he was satisfied, he snapped a thousand—well maybe a couple hundred.

Say you attend an art show. The finished product on the wall might have taken years to perfect, years struggling with mismatched highlights, lack of contrast, and half-a-dozen other artistic techniques of which I am in complete ignorance.

Of course, you will always see those weird paintings that look like an eight-year-old dipped a chicken in a bucket of multi-colored paint and tossed it on a canvas. I’ve even seen published books like that. (to each his own, I suppose)

When each of us sit at that desk that very first time and begin our sojourn into the world of writing, we write bad sentences. Bad, bad sentences, but usually stuck back in that myriad of very forgettable prose will be one or two structures that are actually good.

Separate the good ones from the bad. Next figure out why some were keepers and others throwbacks. When you figure that out, keep the good ones and throw the others away.

How do you know what is good or bad? By writing and writing and writing; by showing your writing. If you are ever so fortunate to discover an honest critic willing to read your stuff and be candid with you, cherish them; learn from their comments; buy them nice Christmas presents, grovel at their feet.

If you can’t find such a gem, learn by reading and critiquing good writers. Who is good? Ask a dozen folks and you’ll get a dozen different answers.

No one, absolutely no one writes seventy thousand perfect words at the first sitting. No one. And you won’t, so don’t sweat it. Just keep plugging away.

But regardless of how fluid and graceful your words, unless there is a point to each sentence, to each paragraph, and to each scene, they are no more than fragile sand castles on the beach.

Search for those moments in your story that are most important. Explore them.
Pick important moments. Forget about the good guy hopping out of bed, showering and shaving, grabbing toast, and racing for the elevator just so you can get him from one place to the other.

Instead, put him at the operating table with a scalpel in his hand. Put him facing a deranged killer holding a child as hostage. Such conflict is much more riveting that grabbing a piece of burned toast.

Do all that, and I promise you, your writing will be noticed.

Legends of the Alamo

2011-02-23T08:13:00.001-08:00

One hundred and seventy-five years ago as you read this, Santa Anna was assaulting the walls of the Alamo in the sleepy village of San Antonio, back then sometimes called Bexar.

Not too many actual facts exist regarding the battle. We know the Mexican army assailed the walls for thirteen days. We know the Alamo fell. We know over one hundred and eighty defenders perished. We know that neither Travis, Bowie, nor Crockett walked away from the battle. We know the bodies were burned.

Other than those few absolutes, the rest of the story is based upon hearsay.
One interesting facet of the story is that the wheels for the battle were set in motion twenty-three years earlier.

According to Lee Paul, on April 6, 1813, Bernardo Gutierrez de Lara spoke to an impassioned crowd of Mexican citizens tired of Spain’s oppression and planted the seed of revolt that led to Mexico’s independence from the tyrant country in 1821, some eight years later.

Upon gaining her freedom, Mexico unknowingly gained another tyrant, Santa Anna, a self proclaimed President and Dictator of all Mexico.

Santa Anna swore to rid Mexico of all intruders, including emigrants from the United States living in Texas. After fifteen years, the dictator still had not rid the country of those he deemed unfit. When he learned his brother-in-law, General Cos had been defeated in San Antonio in December of 1835, he exploded. He swore revenge, and began his arduous trek into Texas.

In his way, stood a rundown church called the Alamo. Behind its wall stood 183 (189) men from dozens of states, all determined that the ‘Napoleon of the West’ should not succeed.

The most well known combatant was Davy Crockett who raced in with seventeen men only a few yards ahead of a Mexican patrol of lancers hot on their tail.

Innumerable stories have been told of his death. None can be verified. So, take your pick from some of the more widely claimed assertions. The truth is, no one will very know how he died.

When news of the massacre spread, rumors raced rampant across the country. One claimed he had not died with his men. Another claimed he along with two others survived but were put to death by the enraged Santa Anna.

Another story has it that Santa Anna instructed Alcalde Francisco Ruis to identify the bodies of the dead Texans, especially the leaders. The mayor said, “Toward the west end, we found the body of Colonel Crockett.”

But, from his prison cell in Anahuac after San Jacinto, General Cos told his doctor that Crockett survived by locking himself in a room, then asking for mercy, but Santa Anna refused.

Four years later, word spread around the country that Crockett had survived the siege and was serving a prison sentence in the Salinas Mine near Guadalajara, says Lee Paul who researched the issue.

Forty-two years later, Joseph Conn Guild claimed Crockett and five others survived. They surrendered to General Manuel Castrillon under promise of his protection, a promise rendered worthless by Santa Anna.

According to Guild, “Crockett fell with a dozen swords sheathed in his breast.”
Probably the most believable story came from the lips of Susanna Dickinson, wife of Almeron Dickinson, Travis’s lieutenant. She knew Crockett on sight. She stated in her memoirs that she saw Crockett and a handful of others lying mangled and mutilated between the "church and the two-story barrack building. She even remembered seeing his peculiar cap by his side as she was led from the scene by a Mexican officer.

So what is the truth?

We’ll never know.

What most of us will always believe the truth is the rendering of the heroic figure in the painting that hung on the north wall of the chapel for years. It portrayed Crockett standing in the thickest of the fighting, using his flintlock like a club until Mexican bayonets and bullets cut him down.

That’s how I see him, a John Wayne hurling a torch into the powder room as lances
slam into his body.

So maybe legend has supplanted fact.

I can live with that.

Twenty-First Century Education

2011-02-16T08:26:00.000-08:00

Where has the time gone? It’s almost as if some sneaky shyster stole eighteen hours from every twenty-four. And most of you approaching three score know what I’m talking about.

I’ve suddenly reached the age that when I look in the mirror, I see my Dad. And it is now easy for me to understand my grandparents’ wonder at the drastic changes that took place during their lifespan.

My paternal grandmother who came to Texas in a covered wagon saw not only the first automobile, but also the first airplane and then the first moon landing. That had to be one heck of a cultural shock for her.

And now, as many old codgers, I find myself in the same confusing dilemma. I remember the old crystal radios, and today—golly, we have the internet and twit or tweeter or twickel—whatever those things are.

But, I don’t believe anything has changed so dramatically as public schools. I spent forty-one years in education. I enjoyed it. From time to time over the last five or six years, I’d even toyed with the idea of doing some substitute teaching, but then a very good friend told me, “Kent, you wouldn’t survive. You and me,” he said. “Could never fit into it today.”

And I guess maybe he’s right.

Last year, the coach at Texas Tech was canned because he allegedly stuck a player in a dark room. Can you believe it? I couldn’t help laughing—not at the consequences, but at the idea a dark room was some kind of punishment.

I must have spent a third of my grade school days in the book room. Now, I’m not going to say I sought punishment just to go there, but being a book room, there was all kinds of books in the book room. Duh! (this was well before the days of sleaze)
One of my favorites was the pen and paper sketchbook with dialogue of the birth of Texas. I just about memorized that booklet. I still have one. For someone like me, the book room was a treasure trove of reading, whether it was old library books or literature books. I remember one set of ancient encyclopedias called ‘The Book of Knowledge’. There were about twenty volumes, and each had not only several stories, but also eight or ten of Aesop’s Fables.

Punishment? Not hardly. I was Brer Rabbit in the briar patch. Remember that?

Until you’ve had the palm of your hand torn up by a ruler or an apple switch wrapped around your legs, you don’t know what punishment is. You hear talk about the sting of a willow switch, but I kid you not, apple switches put the puny willow to shame.

Something is out of kilter today. Schools punish kids for being kids. A kindergarten boy gives a classmate a kiss on the cheek, and he is suspended. I’m surprised that some of those idiots who call themselves administrators haven’t tried to file sexual harassment charges in such situations.

Oops! I apologize. In Canton, Ohio, a six-year-old boy was taking a bath, naked naturally, when he heard the school bus approaching. He ran outside to stop it. Yes, he was still naked. And the school, it all its smug idiocy, suspended him for sexual harassment.

Such stupidity isn’t confined to Ohio. At Denair Middle School in California, a young boy rode his bike to school. For two months, he flew the American flag on the bike. Students complained, and the boy was ordered to remove it because it was racist.

Racist, mind you. Racist! Only in California. (if enough of us wish for it, maybe it will fall into the ocean)

He did as he was told, but when word spread, and it did, over two hundred American veterans on their Harleys escorted him to school, each one waving a flag.
The school backed down.

And then elsewhere in California, during art class in one middle school, the teacher asked the students to draw a picture of whatever they chose. One young girl drew an American flag with the words ‘God Bless America’ written between the red stripes.
Her teacher said it was offensive, and in the next breath, praises another girl for her drawing of Obama.

The teacher refused to explain why she considered the drawing of the American flag offensive. In all fairness to the administration, after several months and numerous complaints, moved the teacher to elementary.

Smart move, huh?

Now she can mess with the little elementary kids’ minds.

Someone like that has no place in education.

Ask any educator, current or retired, and he can name half a dozen people who don’t need to be in the business. And I wager in every case, administration is well aware of the problem. They do nothing for they want no trouble.

Today, it is extremely difficult to fail a student. The most painless solution, the one that keeps the parents off the school’s back, off the principal’s back as well as the teacher’s, is to pass them. Let someone else worry about them.

Is it any wonder that colleges must offer more and more remediation classes for incoming freshmen?

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Teaching Kids about Work

2011-02-09T11:24:00.000-08:00

Nederland, Texas is a small town mid-way between Beaumont and Port Arthur, down on the Texas coast. This is a column I wrote for local papers.

Good Job, Nederland Rotary

I had an enjoyable morning last Tuesday. Not only was the sun shining brightly, but there was not a single cloud in the sky. And I was looking forward to visiting with a group of Nederland eighth graders.

The previous week, I had agreed to be one of the guests for Nederland Rotary’s Annual Career Day for Nederland eighth graders at the Montagne Center.

Having spent around ten years in the English classroom and the next thirty or so in Career and Technology Education at Port Neches-Groves ISD, I was no stranger to Career Days. For years, we held them at the Christian Church down on Ninth Avenue. Those Mid-County Rotary guys did a bang up job. I don’t know if my old district still has them or not, but if they don’t they should.

Youngsters don’t learn about different career fields by osmosis, although I have run into more than one individual who seemed to believe that was the way for them to learn, that time away from school to listen to people talk about jobs was a waste of time.

I’ll say this about Nederland Rotary. They did a superb job, and they are to be complimented for the work and effort that went into the planning and carrying out of such a prodigious event.

One of the reasons I believe Career Day is so exceptional is because it gives students an opportunity to listen to and question experts in three or four career fields in which the young person has interest.

Nederland’s Career Day offered around fifteen broad occupational areas with eighty or so specific occupations. A big logistical job, but they pulled it off in spades.

Bright-eyed and alert, students expressed keen interest in the various breakout sessions, peppering the speakers with questions, some perceptive, some humorous, but all enlightening.

I was in the Art, Audio/Video Tech & Communications. In my group were an artist, photographer, meteorologist, radio/tv, advertising, and editor/writer/reporter.

The photographer was from Nederland, and she spent several minutes giving the youngsters an excellent overview of the various types of photography and how they could prepare for the occupation.

The gentleman from the advertising agency provided students a clear picture of his business, what it entailed, the number of different skills the business demanded.

The meteorologist did an excellent job. We’ve all seen him on Channel 6, James Brown. He instantly captivated the students with his humor and pertinent information regarding his field. The kids loved him.

Luckily, I made my short presentation before him. He’s a hard act to follow.

One important fact all speakers covered however was that upon graduation from high school, a young person’s education is not over.

Whether he goes on to college or the military or to work in a craft, he has to learn the mechanics of the career he’s chosen. And in this age of exploding technology, learning is never over.

Unfortunately, many school districts insist its counselors guide students toward college. Some districts don’t even have interests inventories to suggest to students their strengths and weaknesses. When asked how they guided students into fields of interest, one counselor blithely stated, “We ask them.” When further asked about interest inventories, the counselor dismissed the measure with the same indifference. “Why? We ask them.”

You might be puzzled at such indifference, but when you realized that the higher percentage of seniors entering college is a plus for the district, you can understand (but not agree) why.

Another reason I was so impressed with the program developed by Nederland Rotary and Nederland ISD was they recognized that not all graduates are cut out for college. In fact, do some checking, and you will discover almost two-thirds of jobs in Southeast Texas, the country for that matter, do not require a college education.

Having said that, I hasten to add that those who pursue the majority of those fields and seek additional education in the way of certifications, associate degrees, or degrees will find their income rises accordingly.

Education is wealth.

We have an obligation to provide our children with essential information to make sound career choices. Anything less is shameful.

I’m sure there are many other districts like Nederland who have their act together. And those that don’t, should.

Truth about Health Bill

2011-02-02T07:53:00.002-08:00

Despite the lockstep mentality so prevalent in Washington for the last few decades, the newly elected Congressmen and Senators are making themselves heard. And well they should for they comprise a considerable percentage of both legislative bodies.

One of the Republican mantras has been ‘repeal Obamacare’, a mantra not shared by many of the newly elected. From what I’ve been able to discern by listening to them and reading their opinions, they are indeed in favor of health reform, but not the government-controlled reform engendered by the recently passed conglomeration they call a health bill.

That’s why last week, we talked about eight or nine of the health care claims and promises made by the administration and its supporters, pointing out the truth in cold hard facts, not with their pie in the sky assurance made with a lick and a promise.

Another promise made by the proponents of this bill was that it employs nearly every cost control idea available to bring down costs.

The truth is, the bill does not bring down costs and leaves out nearly every key cost control measure including: Public Option; Medicare buy-in; Drug reimportation; Medicare drug price negotiation; and a shorter pathway to generic biologics (some doubt the cost-saving effectives of generic substitutes for biologic drugs).

Then they promise us that the bill will require big companies like WalMart to provide insurance for their employees.

Are you ready for this? The bill was written so that most WalMart employees will qualify for subsidies to pay for their insurance, and the U.S. taxpayers will pick up a large portion of the cost of their coverage.

I can’t count the number of times I heard the remark, “the bill “bends the cost curve” on health care.”

No, no, no. According to watchdog group, Firedoglake, the bill ignored proven ways to cut health care costs and still leaves 24 million people uninsured, all while slightly raising total annual costs by $234 million in 2019.“Bends the cost curve” is a misleading and trivial claim, as the US would still spend far more for care than other advanced countries.

In 2009, health care costs were 17.3% of GDP. In 2019, the cost of health care in 2019 will be 20.9% of the GDP.

A great deal has been made about uninsured for pre-existing condition. The bill claims immediate access to the uninsured because of a pre-existing condition.

Sad to say, but access to the “high risk pool” is limited, and despite the astronomical premiums, the pool is underfunded. It will cover few people, and it will run out of money in 2011 or 2012. On top of that, only those who have been uninsured for more than six months will qualify for the high risk pool.

You cannot be dropped in individual plans from coverage when you get sick.

The bill does not include a regulatory body to keep people from being dropped when they’re sick.

Many states have laws prohibiting people from being dropped when they’re sick, but they have no agency to enforce the laws. Without an enforcement mechanism, there is little to hold the insurance companies in check.

The bill does say consumers have access to an effective internal and external appeals process to challenge new insurance plan decisions. The “internal appeals process” is in the hands of the insurance companies. The “external” one is up to each state.

Internal appeals simply means the insurance companies have to review their own decisions. And each state is to provide an external appeals process. There is no funding or regulatory agency at the federal level.

Time and again we heard proponents claim this bill will stop insurance companies from hiking rates 30%-40% per year.

Another lie. The bill does not limit insurance company rate hikes. Private insurers continue to be exempt from anti-trust laws, and are free to raise rates without fear of competition in many areas of the country.

The claim that the bill creates that much ballyhooed pathway for single payer(a concept that could possibly help relieve our deficit) is hard to believe.

You see, the waiver does not start until 2017, and does not cover the Department of Labor. That being the case, it is nearly impossible to see how it gets around the laws of the Employee Retirement Income Security Act of 1974..

The bill will end medical bankruptcy and provide all Americans with peace of mind.

If you know someone who filed bankruptcy for medical purposes, you’ll find they probably had insurance. That’s the case with most. Out-of-pocket expenses will continue to be a burden on the middle class.

In 2009, 62% of bankruptcies were medically related, and according to Firedoglake, three-quarters of those had health insurance.

And now, to add a little fuel to the fire, did you know that the Obama administration has granted over 740 healthcare-reform waivers to unions, corporations, and nonprofits in order to stave off massive policy cancellations and rate hikes affecting 1.5 million workers? And that information comes straight from documents posted online by the Department of Health and Human Services.

What I'd like to know is when do I get my waiver?

2011-02-02T07:53:00.001-08:00

Dirty politics, Dirty Minds

2011-01-12T10:20:00.000-08:00

Dirty Minds, Dirty Politics

It never ceases to amaze me how some political zealots will grab at any opportunity to demean and degrade their opponents. The latest example is a result of the horrific tragedy of the Arizona shooting.

Everyone has heard about it by now. A crazed shooter went on a rampage leaving behind dead and wounded, and within minutes political left wingers were hurling accusations at Sarah Palin for her website.

If you haven’t seen the website, too late. It’s down, but being the intense competitor she is, the site had pinpointed Democrat positions around the country the Republicans wanted to take over.

So what was the problem? Seems like the site marked those positions with the crosshairs of a rifle scope.

And so what happened? Zealots seized the opportunity of trample over those wounded and dead to place the blame on Palin and her supporters for influencing the killer to act.

Several right wing media faced the camera and with an holier-than-thou countenance, expressed their concern and regrets that she should have approved such a site.
Politicians around the country have spoken up, saying we should all civilize our rhetoric.

Well, I’ve got news for them. Such inflammatory, irresponsible rhetoric has savaged politics since Fred Flintstone first ran for pooper-sweeper.

In fact, some of it was even more despicable than that taking place today. Last week in an interview with CNN, Nancy Pelosi blamed unemployment on the Bush
administration two years into the Obama administration, asserting the Democrats lost the House because of former President George W. Bush’s policies. How is that for irresponsible and inflammatory?

I wish someone would explain that logic to me.

In all honesty, that remark was pure Pablum compared to the flack Andrew Jackson
caught in his presidential run. During his military career, he was forced to order the execution of six deserters. In a subsequent political race, an opponent printed up handbills with six black coffins and the accusation that Jackson had deliberately murdered them. On top of that, he was accused of adultery, vilified for running off with another man’s wife, and that wife, Rachel, was accused of bigamy.

You’ve got to admit that sort of mud-slinging is a little stronger than suggesting Obama was not born an American citizen.

Now, Jackson was no saint. During his battle with John Quincy Adams, Jackson’s supporters spread the rumor that Adams, while he was ambassador to Russia, procured an American girl for the sexual services of the Russian Czar. Adams was labeled and pimp and his great success as an ambassador was a result of his service to the Czar.

And then there was Thomas Jefferson who was accused of being a misogynist and of having an affair with a black lady. Ironically, in the decades to follow, the latter accusation was proven to be true, although such interracial practices in that period were much more common than one would believe.

According to Joseph Cummings’ book, “Anything For a Vote,’ Thomas Jefferson hired a writer to attack opponent John Adams, Quincy’s father, as a “repulsive pendant” and “a hideous hermaphroditical character that has neither the force of a man, nor the gentleness and sensibility of a woman.”

In a later campaign, Davy Crockett accused Martin Van Buren of wearing women’s corsets, and James Buchanan, whose congenital condition caused his head to tilt to the left was accused of unsuccessfully trying to hang himself.
And poor old Abe didn’t escape the onslaught. He was said to be ape-like because of his lean appearance and beard. And oh, yes, he was also accused of having stinky feet.

In the 1912 campaign, Teddy Roosevelt, wearing his western regalia, referred to William Howard Taft, the sitting President, as ‘a rat in a corner’. Another rodent accusation was when FDR called Alf London, his 1936 opponent “the White Mouse who wants to live in the White House.”

But the dirtiest campaign of all, says Cummings’, was Johnson versus Goldwater in 1964.

Johnson, says Cummings, put a subversive group together to demean Goldwater, first by putting out a book under his name entitled “You Can Die Laughing’ and then a coloring book for kids with Goldwater dressed in Ku Klux Klan robes.
In addition they spread editorial letters around the country under false names expressing their fear of Goldwater. The group even influenced a well-known financial writer into writing two columns explaining how the stock market would melt down with Goldwater’s election.

The slander campaign ruined Goldwater forever.

So, take the nonsense you read today with the proverbial grain of truth. Dirty politics and dirty minds have always been around, and it ain’t going nowhere anytime soon.

How to Wear a Suit Well

2011-01-07T07:29:00.000-08:00

The holidays are over, and if you’re like me, once the last decorations are stored away, the house more or less back in order except for the hole in the wall Uncle Jack made when he stumbled over the dog to show he could balance a glass of beer on his forehead, you’re ready to plop down on the couch by the window for a nice long rest in the sun.

The grand kids got pretty much what they wanted, and right on schedule, busted up some of their gifts before the sun went down that first day. All seemed pleased with their gifts.

It was fun watching their faces. After all, Christmas is about giving and expressing your feeling for one another.

I know just enough about other religions to be dangerous, but I’m guessing those cultures who celebrate Diwali, Ramadan, Hanukkah, or other beliefs, all are wishing and hoping for goodwill and blessings to all just like us even if their celebrations come at a different time of the year.

I can’t remember where I read it, but a couple weeks before Christmas, the story was told of a children’s Christmas pageant where at the end, children lined up across the stage, each holding a cardboard square on which was printed a letter. The signs were supposed to read, CHRISTMAS LOVE, but the little girl holding the M had it upside down. It read CHRISTWAS LOVE. Folks snickered, then grew eerily silent as the real meaning struck them, CHRIST WAS LOVE. Accident on the girl’s part? Yeah. Could it be there was a hand involved, but not man’s?

Whether the Christian’s Christ or the other religions’ God. that’s what it’s all about——it’s all about love.

And it took a little girl to remind the crowd of the truth.

Now that the holidays are over doesn’t mean we have to toss the feeling aside. It really isn’t too difficult to keep the spirit.

I have a friend who enjoys purchasing a supply of gold dollars periodically and passing them out at random to passing individuals, usually youngsters.

Sometimes when folks are in a hurry to check out of a store, or when the customer ahead of then has twice as many items as he should, they take it out on the clerk. Have you ever noticed how some clerks never smile? Next time, put a smile on your face and talk to them—just a tiny compliment. You’d be surprised how it will boost their spirits—and yours.

I’ve tried to do that ever since a very successful businessman in Groves spoke to one of my D.E. classes over thirty years back. He told us he always searched for a way to compliment a customer. “Once,” he laughed, “A gentleman wanted to buy a suit. He looked like a gorilla.”

My prize wise-cracking student popped up. “How did you compliment someone like that?”

He smiled, and with the wisdom of the elderly, he said, “I told him he wore the suit well. And he did,” my friend added. “Very well.”

We don’t have to go out and give hundreds or thousands to charities (although if you can pull it off, more power to you), but a small, inexpensive compliment can provide the recipient a hundred bucks worth of ego for the remainder of the day.

I never knew who wrote them, but I remember a time years earlier at school when anonymous notes showed up in teachers’ boxes. They were short in length, but grand in praise, ‘Thank you for what you did yesterday,’ ‘You’re a fine teacher’, and others along that vein. Anonymous praise.

The notes lasted for a couple years, then stopped. I’ve gone back at times looking at who left that year, but I never came close to learning the identity of our Literary Samaritan.

A lady down the street from me walks the block every day or so. One morning as I was carrying garbage to the road, I noticed dogs had gotten into my neighbor’s garbage across the street, scattering it everywhere. He had already left for work.

I glanced down the road. Here came my neighbor down the street with a garbage bag. Now, I doubt if my acquaintance across the street knows our neighbor even performed such an act of kindness, but it is those small acts that help fulfill our lives.

The Dalai Lama, a Buddhist, said it best. “This is my simple religion. There is no need for temples, no need for complicated philosophy. Our own brain, our own heart is our temple, and the philosophy is kindness.

And that just about says it all.

Merry Christmas the rest of the year.

Sleep Well, America

2010-12-29T07:26:00.000-08:00

The following speech made a big impression on me. It will make the same kind of impression on every freedom-loving American.

On December 13, Blackfive reported that Lt. General John Kelly, USMC delivered a speech to the Semper Fi Society of St. Louis four days after his son, Lt. Robert Kelly, USMC was killed by an IED on his 3rd Combat tour.

Kelly spoke of the dedication and valor of the young men and women who step forward every day to protect us. He never mentioned the loss of his own son. He closed with the moving account of the last six seconds in the lives of two young Marines who, with rifles blazing, died protecting their brother Marines.

‘On 22nd of April 2008, two Marines, Corporal Jonathan Yale, 22, and Lance Corporal Jordan Haerter, 20, assumed the watch at the entrance gate of an outpost in Ramadi that contained a makeshift barracks housing fifty Marines and a hundred Iraqi police.
‘Yale was a dirt-poor, mixed-race kid from Virginia with a wife and daughter, a mother, and sister he supported as well as he could on a yearly salary of less than $23,000.

‘Haerter was a middle class white kid from Long Island.

‘Two complete different worlds. Had they not joined the Marines they would never have met each other, or understood that multiple Americas exist simultaneously depending on one's race, education level, economic status, and where you might have been born. But they were Marines, forged in the same fiery crucible of Marine training, and because of this eternal bond, they were brothers as close, or closer, than if they were born of the same woman.

‘The mission orders they received from the sergeant squad leader went something like: "Okay you two clowns, stand this post and let no unauthorized personnel or vehicles pass. You clear?"

‘Yale and Haerter probably rolled their eyes and said in unison something like: "Yes, Sergeant," with just enough attitude that made the point without saying the words, "No kidding, sweetheart, we know what we're doing." They then relieved two other Marines on watch and took up their post at the entry control point of Joint Security Station Nasser.

‘Minutes later, a suicide truck with 2,000 pounds of explosives charged the entry point. It failed to penetrate, but it exploded, killing them both, and devastating everything within a hundred yards. But, it did not reach the barracks with their brother Marines and Iraqi police.

‘The two Marines deserved recognition, but there were no American witnesses and the General knew Washington bureaucrats would never accept the testimony of Iraqi policemen.’

In Ramadi, Kelly questioned half-dozen Iraqi police. They told the same story.
‘The blue truck turned down toward the entry point. The Iraqis knew what was going on as soon as the two Marines started firing. Some of them fired, but as the truck grew closer, they ran. The two Marines continued blazing away at the oncoming truck. Remembering their orders, they were determined it would not get past them and kill their brother Marines. The Iraqis also fired, and then to a man, ran for safety just prior to the explosion. All survived.

‘One Iraqi admitted, “We ran like any normal man to save his life. What I did not
know until then was that Marines are not normal. No sane man could have done as they. They saved us all."

‘A security camera supported his revelation. It took exactly six seconds from the time the truck entered the alley until it detonated.

‘Perhaps it took a second for the two Marines to come to the same conclusion about what was going on once the truck came into their view at the far end of the alley.
‘They had no time to talk to anyone, to consult their sergeant, only to act, and only five seconds to live.

‘Another two seconds to present their weapons, take aim, and open up. By this time the truck was half-way down the alley, gaining speed. Here is when the Iraqi police scattered.

‘The two Marines had three seconds to live. The recording shows the Marines' weapons firing non-stop. The truck's windshield exploded into shards of glass as their rounds take it apart and tear into the body of the SOB who was trying to get past them to kill their brothers bedded down in the barracks, totally unaware of the fact that their lives at that moment depended entirely on two Marines standing their ground.

‘If they had been aware, they would have known
they were safe because two Marines stood between them and a crazed suicide bomber.

‘The truck slammed to a halt immediately in front of the two Marines. In all of this instantaneous violence Yale and Haerter never hesitated. By all reports and by the
recording, they never stepped back. They never even started to step aside. They never even shifted their weight. With their feet spread shoulder width apart, they leaned into the danger, firing as fast as they could work their weapons. They had only one second left to live.

‘The truck exploded. The camera went blank. Two young men go to their God. Six seconds. Not enough time to think about their families, their country, their flag, or about their lives or their deaths, but more than enough time for two very brave young men to do their duty into eternity.

The General continued. “That is the kind of people who are on watch all over the world tonight - for you. We Marines believe that God gave America the greatest gift He could bestow to man while he lived on this earth - freedom. We also believe He gave us another gift nearly as precious - our soldiers, sailors, airmen, Coast Guardsmen, and Marines - to safeguard that gift and guarantee no force on this earth can ever steal it away.”

General Kelly concluded by saying, “Rest assured our America, this experiment in a democracy started over two centuries ago, will forever remain the "land of the free and home of the brave" so long as we never run out of tough young Americans who are willing to look beyond their own self-interest and comfortable lives, and go into the darkest and most dangerous places on earth to hunt down, and kill, those who would do us harm. God Bless America, and...SEMPER FIDELIS!"

After reading his speech, all I can say is “Sleep well tonight, America. Your military is looking over us.”

So, What''s Your Resolution?

2010-12-22T07:25:00.000-08:00

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions.

Why? Truth is, I never kept any that I made, so I figured, ‘what the heck’. Just a waste of time on my part. On most peoples’ part.

Case in point. Forty years back, a friend of mine tried to stop smoking. That year, he resolved to stop cold turkey. The next year, he resolved to smoke no more than a pack a day; the next, smoke no more than a carton a week; the following year, it was no more than two cartons, and the next year, it was to purchase a small cart to carry the oxygen tank that helped him breathe.

And then there is this friend of mine who in 1991 resolved to give up his girl friend and stop cheating on his wife.

In 1992, he resolved to take his illicit liaisons out of town.

In 1993, he resolved to buy his wife a four-carat diamond ring in an effort to reconcile.

In 1994, he resolved to limit his gifts to his girl friend so he could pay alimony.

Now, having said all of that, I’ll admit that if someone is going to make changes in his life, the first of the year is the time. New Years signifies a new beginning—maybe not new or a beginning, because in reality you’re still stuck with the problems you had on December 31.

But, I suppose it is as good a time as any to begin.

New Years originated in 46 B.C. with Roman emperor Julius Caesar who established January 1 as New Year’s Day. Janus, the Roman god of doors and gates, had two faces, one looking forward and one back. Caesar felt that the month named after this god, January, would be the appropriate “gate” for the past year and the “door” to the new year.

How did he celebrate that first New Years? Why by ordering the violent routing of revolutionary Jewish forces in Galilee. Eyewitnesses said blood flowed in the streets.

In later years, Roman pagans observed the New Year by engaging in drunken orgies—a ritual they believed constituted a re-enacting of the chaotic world that existed before the cosmos was put in order by the gods.

Leave it to the human psyche to recognize a good thing. That same celebration has survived down through two thousand years. Mark my words, come December 31, there will be thousands of Bacchanalian celebrations around the world.

And if you’d seen some of the parties I have, you’d realize we are still re-enacting the chaotic world that existed before the cosmos was put in order by the gods.

Still, the fact that probably three quarters of the world will make an effort to alter their lifestyles does offer a psychological boost to one’s psyche if he is considering change. In other words, you’re not alone in your wishful thinking.

And if it will make you feel better when you break your resolution by the middle of January, three quarters of the world has probably already broken its resolution.

Once during a discussion on the pros and cons of resolutions, a friend asked what mine was. I told him I didn’t make them any longer, but if I did, it would to be a better father and husband.

His response? “You mean you aren’t a good one now?”

His reply reminded me of the old ‘have you stopped beating your wife yet’ question. I ignored him.

Some people go for resolutions in a big way.

The guy who blogs “Weird Meat” resolved this year to eat as many weird meats as he could. According to the Courier Mail, that includes raw yak, crickets, ostrich sandwich, and deer heart wine.

Personally, I think he wrote that for its shock value and the possibility of gaining more followers for his blog. Nobody could be serious about a concoction called deer heart wine.

On another blog, “Gala Darling” made one resolution, to learn a party trick such as weird stomach contortions or learning to belch the alphabet. If not those, then learn to do hand-stand pushups. Now, that’s something worth knowing.

But, back to you and your resolutions. You know why most of us don’t keep them?

Because we don’t think them out.

They are usually knee jerk decisions, right?

It has been my experience that to make a major change, it must come about in your lifestyle. In other words, ‘keep doing what you’re doing, then you’ll keep getting what you got.’

Resolutions are tough to keep. Like the comedian once said, ‘I dieted for a month, and all I lost was a month.’

But, give it shot. And good luck.

Shootout at the Sam Holley Corral

2010-12-15T07:13:00.000-08:00

I was probably twelve before I learned that sleeping on the floor and riding bucking calves was not part of the Christmas celebration. That was also the Christmas of the Shootout at the Sam Holley Corral.

You’re probably thinking, now what’s the idiot talking about?

You see, I was one of the fortunate youngsters who was surrounded by a large, and I mean large family. How large, you ask? When we got together, we took up two zip codes. And this family gathered every Christmas.

Mama and Papa Holley had eight children. Now you give each of those children a spouse and kids, and the numbers explode exponentially to the fifties and sixties.
During his seventy-odd years, Papa Holley had four farms. The two farms I remember most were near Littlefield, some thirty miles or so north of Lubbock where the country is flatter than a wet saddle blanket.

The one out near Hart Camp had two family homes, one a three-room, the other, two. The next farm, back south of Littlefield, had four rooms. When the clan gathered, people slept everywhere, and in the middle of the night, if someone unfortunately felt nature’s calling, they had to tiptoe and stumble over dozens of bodies to get outside.

Oh yeah, this was way back in the days of outdoor facilities.

It was a joyous time for me and my cousins. Gifts back then were spare, but a cap pistol, a couple boxes of caps and being with each other more than satisfied us.
And that’s what brought about the ‘Shootout at the Sam Holley Corral’ on the farm near Hart Camp.

Papa’s barn with its loft and stalls and surrounding corrals made an excellent playground for cowboys and Indians—or marines and Nazis or good guys and bad guys.
Riding our stick horses, Ed and I climbed and rode through every inch of the barn, planting bad men in the ground with our trusty cop pistols(not to mention spooking Papa’s cows).

Our older cousin, Dooley, was always picking on us, and as I remember one particular day, Ed and I had grown tired of shooting imaginary outlaws, so we holstered our sixguns and took up bronc busting. Of course, having no wild horses around, we had to settle for Papa’s calves.

Ed, having lived on the farm, could stay on the bucking calves longer than I. Of course, if you know anything about corrals, the animals that inhabit them leave behind copious evidence of their presence.

Now, one of the natural laws of Nature is that when you are thrown from a bucking calf, odds are astronomical against your missing any of the numerous deposits the animals have left behind. And believe me, we didn’t beat the odds at all. Never came close.

Once, when I was trying to scrape some of the deposit from my shirt, a marble-sized rock slammed into the dirt at our feet. We looked around and spotted Dooley on top of the pole shed attached to the barn. He was drawing back on his slingshot.

We broke in different directions while he laughed maniacally and continued shooting at us. Now, we were just kids, but we weren’t stupid. Cap pistols couldn’t compete with his slingshot.

Darting under the shed, I grabbed a broken plank about two feet long. At first I didn’t know what to do with it, and then my feeble little brain gave birth to a brilliant idea. I scooped up a load of manure with one end, raced back into the corral, and slung it at Dooley.

The plank was just like a catapult. We could hurl that stuff almost fifty feet. My first shot, I missed by a mile, but now, we had a means to fight back.

Dooley was good with the slingshot, but it’s hard to hit a nine-year-old boy darting about like a crazed banshee. He did connect a couple times, but so did we.

When Ed caught him in the side of the head and Dooley started gagging, we figured flight was the better part of valor and raced for the house and the protection of the grown-ups.

Mama Holley ran us all out of the house to clean up. That’s when Dooley caught up with us. You don’t want to know what happened then.

Looking back, I was one lucky kid. It’s a shame they don’t make Christmases like that any more.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Too Much Transparency?

2010-12-08T07:27:00.000-08:00

Most of us have heard about Wikileaks dumping all sorts of classified documents out into cyberspace for everyone to read.

The furor over the dumping exploded like a runaway forest fire. Congressmen shouted ‘terrorism’ at the top of their lungs. Representatives screamed the action was treasonous. Others want to try him for espionage.

In fact, the outrage has been so forthcoming that around the first of December, Wikileaks was taken off numerous sites or servers through which it could be accessed. Paypal even stopped the company’s capability of receiving donations.

I can’t help wondering if a great deal of the protestations might not be more in line with Shakespeare’s “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” Could it be that old husband defense, ‘deny, deny, deny, deny,’ is coming into play?

When a senator calls it a disaster, how much is he referring to the country and how much to himself? How much does he have to hide? Probably a lot more than he wants known.

With all the corporate sleeze; government lies and waste; nosy technology baring all secrets; and hundreds of other scams and swindles swirling about us everyday, no wonder there is so much protesting and posturing.

To be honest, I don’t really know what to think about the whole thing. On the one hand, if people’s lives are placed in jeopardy, then the decision to air the cables was abhorrent. If that’s the case, then charges should be filed.

On the other hand, if they simply relate the gossipy behavior and observations of various individuals, who cares?

Who cares if Silvio Berlusconi, Italy’s PM and most prolific braggart, profited from secret deals’ with Russia’s Vladimir Putin regarding energy contracts? What’s new about any country’s upper administration working out sweet deals among each other? We know ninety percent of them are crooked. That’s why this last election removed so many of the old timers who were on the take.

Then there was the cable revealing that during the Bush administration U.S. officials tried to influence Spanish officials to head off court investigations into Guantanamo Bay torture allegations, secret CIA flights, and the killing of a Spanish journalist by US troops in Iraq.

My one question is, why shouldn’t such behavior be shouted from the rooftops? If someone is guilty, they should pay for their crime. On the other hand, you know as well as I that greasing palms with money, favors, or deals goes on every day, not only in Washington, but Mainstreet, USA.

In another cable, according to Robert Booth and Julian Gordon of ‘The Guardian’, a classified directive which appears to blur the line between diplomacy and spying was issued to US diplomats under Hillary Clinton's name in July 2009, demanding forensic technical details about the communications systems used by top UN officials, including passwords and personal encryption keys used in private and commercial networks for official communication.

Why such underhand duplicity? To give us a leg up on other countries?
Then there were inane reports such as the Afghan corruption is overwhelming (as if that is a surprise); Hillary Clinton questioned the president of Argentina’s mental health(who knows why?); the Bank of England’s president played back room politics; or that often, the US ignores British input.

I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to lose any sleep over stuff like this.
Now I can understand one’s chagrin to learn confidential observations, usually negative, being revealed regarding an individual. Such behavior certainly doesn’t enhance friendship or trust. Perhaps, the individual should have thought twice before putting his comments down on paper.

We’ve all been in that situation, but is it criminal if one repeats lurid gossip?
However, I’m quite sure that somewhere in that humongous batch of cables are some that should not have been revealed, that would indeed compromise the safety of individuals.

So, who do we blame, Wikileaks or the idiot dumb enough to put inflammatory words down on paper?

Where Were You When the Bombs Fell?

2010-12-01T07:22:00.002-08:00

I was watching ‘The Wizard of Oz” sixty-nine years ago with my parents at the Rogue Picture Show in Wheeler, Texas, a sleepy little village in the Panhandle. Right in the middle of the show, the lights came on. Mr. Guthrie, the theater owner, climbed up on the stage and announced that Pearl Harbor had been attacked.

Most of the audience just looked at each other, not knowing what he was talking about. What’s a Pearl Harbor, some asked. As he went on to explain what had taken place, their puzzlement turned to disbelief and shock. But, all it meant to a five-year-old boy was that the Dorothy and Toto movie had stopped and the cartoon wouldn’t play.

I had no way of knowing then that date marked the end of U.S. isolationism; that from then on, my world and that of those about me would forever be changed.

Back then, most folks remained in close proximity to the their birthplace, so there was always a family gathering for holidays and other special occasions.
That night, the family gathered at my aunt’s next door.

We kids had no idea of the grownups’ concern.

Over the next few days, I came to realize things had changed. There was a different mood at home, in town, at school.

Then a couple uncles shipped out.

I came in from play a few days later and Mom was crying. I remember how she hugged me and said from then on, I’d have to be the man of the house. I had no idea what she was talking about.

The next day or maybe the next, Papa and Mama Conwell stopped at the house, and we all loaded into his 1940 Chevrolet.

We headed to Shamrock and the train station.

We stayed home while Dad went through boot camp on the east coast, Norfolk, Virginia, if I remember right.

When Dad returned, he then headed for California, and he took us with him. That was the beginning of two or three years of constant moving. From there Albuquerque, then Hutchinson, Kansas, and then overseas.

We stayed in Wheeler.

I don’t figure I’ll ever again witness the degree of dynamic energy created by the unified drive and motivation of the American populace supporting our country in those years. We were a juggernaut of determination and purpose.

Just about everything was rationed. Victory gardens were a way of life. Kids roamed the neighborhoods in paper drives. Farmers hauled in rusted and broken implements that would be melted down into war weapons.

If you lived back then, you remember how it was. I don’t know what percentage, but I’d guess three-quarters of everything went to support the war.

Soft drinks for example were next to impossible to find.

Once on the way to California, we stopped at a station in the middle of Arizona. My uncle and I went inside and in soft drink box, found a lone Seven-Up.

We drank it. When we went to pay, the owner exploded. He had brought that over forty miles so he could enjoy it himself.

That was how the rationing was.

I’m sure folks complained back then, but can you imagine the tenor of their complaints if called upon for such sacrifices today?

Women were taking over jobs men had once held, doing as competent and often better work.

America buzzed with the ‘can do’ and ‘never quit’ spirit, and that bulldog determination is what brought our country its greatest victory.

Times change. Today we’re facing an enemy we can’t eradicate with an atomic bomb. To me that makes it doubly dangerous, much more costly, and a battle that might never fully be won.

I hate to think the last eight or ten years being perpetuated decades into the life of my children and grandchildren.

Don‘t you?

I might be wrong, but I feel in the years to come 9/11 will prove to be as significant, and maybe arguably more so, than Pearl Harbor.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Whee

2010-12-01T07:22:00.001-08:00

Where Were You When the Bombs Fell?

I was watching ‘The Wizard of Oz” sixty-nine years ago with my parents at the Rogue Picture Show in Wheeler, Texas, a sleepy little village in the Panhandle. Right in the middle of the show, the lights came on. Mr. Guthrie, the theater owner, climbed up on the stage and announced that Pearl Harbor had been attacked.
Most of the audience just looked at each other, not knowing what he was talking about. What’s a Pearl Harbor, some asked. As he went on to explain what had taken place, their puzzlement turned to disbelief and shock. But, all it meant to a five-year-old boy was that the Dorothy and Toto movie had stopped and the cartoon wouldn’t play.
I had no way of knowing then that date marked the end of U.S. isolationism; that from then on, my world and that of those about me would forever be changed.
Back then, most folks remained in close proximity to the their birthplace, so there was always a family gathering for holidays and other special occasions.
That night, the family gathered at my aunt’s next door.
We kids had no idea of the grownups’ concern.
Over the next few days, I came to realize things had changed. There was a different mood at home, in town, at school.
Then a couple uncles shipped out.
I came in from play a few days later and Mom was crying. I remember how she hugged me and said from then on, I’d have to be the man of the house. I had no idea what she was talking about.
The next day or maybe the next, Papa and Mama Conwell stopped at the house, and we all loaded into his 1940 Chevrolet.
We headed to Shamrock and the train station.
We stayed home while Dad went through boot camp on the east coast, Norfolk, Virginia, if I remember right.
When Dad returned, he then headed for California, and he took us with him. That was the beginning of two or three years of constant moving. From there Albuquerque, then Hutchinson, Kansas, and then overseas.
We stayed in Wheeler.
I don’t figure I’ll ever again witness the degree of dynamic energy created by the unified drive and motivation of the American populace supporting our country in those years. We were a juggernaut of determination and purpose.
Just about everything was rationed. Victory gardens were a way of life. Kids roamed the neighborhoods in paper drives. Farmers hauled in rusted and broken implements that would be melted down into war weapons.
If you lived back then, you remember how it was. I don’t know what percentage, but I’d guess three-quarters of everything went to support the war.
Soft drinks for example were next to impossible to find.
Once on the way to California, we stopped at a station in the middle of Arizona. My uncle and I went inside and in soft drink box, found a lone Seven-Up.
We drank it. When we went to pay, the owner exploded. He had brought that over forty miles so he could enjoy it himself.
That was how the rationing was.
I’m sure folks complained back then, but can you imagine the tenor of their complaints if called upon for such sacrifices today?
Women were taking over jobs men had once held, doing as competent and often better work.
America buzzed with the ‘can do’ and ‘never quit’ spirit, and that bulldog determination is what brought our country its greatest victory.
Times change. Today we’re facing an enemy we can’t eradicate with an atomic bomb. To me that makes it doubly dangerous, much more costly, and a battle that might never fully be won.
I hate to think about the last eight or ten years being perpetuated decades into the life of my children and grandchildren.
Don‘t you?
I might be wrong, but I feel in the years to come 9/11 will prove to be as significant, and maybe arguably more so, than Pearl Harbor.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

A Week Never to Forget

2010-11-24T07:14:00.000-08:00

Now, everyone be honest when you answer this question?

Was there anything significant about last Monday, November 22? How about the twenty-fourth—or the twenty-fifth?

Think hard, for there is also a little touch of irony mixed in.

After all, it was only forty-seven years ago.

If you can’t pin it down, you aren’t by yourself. I was surprised when none of the local media I read and watch failed to feature it. I had to go online to MSNBC to find any mention of the incident. In all fairness, a few stations did pick it up on the evening news—you know, sort of a knee jerk reaction when they realized the significance of the date.

Reminds me of the lack of exposure for D-Day; Pearl Harbor; and others.

Forty-seven years ago last Monday, November 22, John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas.

There isn’t a person who was alive back then who doesn’t remember where he was when the news hit the airways.

I was teaching at Haltom High School in the Birdville School District (yep, that is a real school district) on the outskirts of Fort Worth.

There was a great deal of animosity toward the president back then. He was Catholic; he was rich; his ideas were too liberal; and half-a-dozen other common gripes when folks don’t like a president. Many voters felt he was leading us in the wrong path although he had earlier stood up to Russia and forced them to remove missiles from Cuba.

In case you don’t remember that incident, I’ll just remind you the U.S. was only hours away from a nuclear war.

Our country had never had a Catholic president. I didn’t know much about Catholicism, so I was concerned about the influence the Church would have on Kennedy as president. Consequently, I voted for Nixon who had served as vice-president under Eisenhower.

I know, I know. I was much younger and lot dumber. And sometimes I wonder if I’ve ever gotten any smarter. My wife says I haven’t.

But anyway, on that day, a Friday, during my conference period, I popped in the men’s lounge for a cigarette. Two or three of us were sitting there discussing Kennedy’s visit to Fort Worth the night before and his parade currently underway in Dallas.

The door burst open and the shop teacher stuck his head in. “What do you think about shooting Kennedy?”

Now the sixties were a different time, a different period with little or no political correctness.

Thinking he was just joking, I popped off and said, “I think it’s a good idea.”
The other guys laughed with me.

The shop teacher gaped at us. “No. I mean, it happened. Some Dallas idiot shot the president.”

We were all stunned and mortified by our joke.

The principal came on the speakers, announcing the news.

The rest of the day, we sat in classes with our students, everyone listening to the
minute-by-minute report of the tragedy that had taken place not thirty miles from us.

There wasn’t a sound in that whole school building when the announcement came that the president had died.

I didn’t see the TV, but word was that Walter Cronkite broke down when he announced
the president’s death.

That year Thanksgiving came late, the twenty-eighth, so instead of just Thursday and Friday holidays, the district turned us out for the entire week. We stayed glued to the TV. On Sunday, November 24, we saw Jack Ruby shoulder his way through the crowd and shoot Oswald.

Kennedy was buried Monday, the twenty-fifth. Everyone in the country watched the procession. None can forget Jackie’s tender kiss on the flag draping the casket, nor Caroline’s tiny hand touching the coffin, nor the poignancy of little John-John’s salute.

None of us moved a muscle as the casket was placed on the caisson and the procession began.

Those days will always be etched in my memory just as Pearl Harbor and the other significant events that mark the passage of our civilization from an age of innocence to the global miasma of uncertainty and confusion facing us today.

The irony? The assassin of the president died the day before the president was buried.

I once scoffed at the Camelot allusion regarding the president and his wife. If I had it to do over, I wouldn’t laugh at it. I would embrace it.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

A Thanksgiving for Slim

2010-11-17T07:40:00.001-08:00

A few weeks back, I was looking through some old family photos. Some of them go back almost a hundred years. The one that caught my attention was a line of grinning men and women standing in front of a clapboard shack. One young man held a baby.

Me. That was seventy-four years ago, but what caught my attention was an old man in his sixties standing at the end. His name was Slim.

I’ve mentioned Slim before. I never knew his last name. He wasn’t blood kin, but he was as much of the family as anyone.

As long as I can remember, he was always around. An old broken down cowboy from the Frying Pan Ranch up near Amarillo, the rigors of cowboying had sent him to the farm.
When I was growing up, he’d bounce me on his knee, then later let me ride on his back. I was around five or so when I heard his story the first time.

An orphan, he grew up bitter and angry, resenting everyone and always looking for a fight. He got in trouble once too often in Mobeetie, and the judge gave him a choice of jail or work, and if he quit work within two years, he’d end up in the calaboose. The next day, he hired on at the Frying Pan Ranch back west.

He remained wild and angry. After a few brawls in the bunkhouse, the foreman assigned him the hated job of repairing fences, all one hundred and twenty miles of four-strand wire.

The young hellion had a choice, barb wire or jail. He took the wire, which kept him away from headquarters a month at a time. And out of trouble.

Now he always looked forward to holidays, the Fourth, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. That was about the only time he could get away from his fence mending other than paydays.

Fence mending shut down at Thanksgiving for the winter.
Slim was counting the days.

Two days before he was slated to head back to headquarters some thirty miles distant, a blue norther swept across the Panhandle.

According to Slim, for one of the few times in his life, he was scared. He had seen too much evidence of the devastation those snow storms brought.

Headquarters was out of the question. His only chance was an old shack with two walls missing about three miles distant.

Hours later, he had not found the shack. His fears grew, but he plodded ahead.
Not long after, he spotted the cabin, and to his surprise, there was a light coming from around the edges of the cowhide covering the window.

Inside, an old man greeted him, explaining that seeing the shack deserted, he had repaired it and moved in for the winter. He had even rigged up a partial windbreak for his horse, and there was room for Slim’s animals.

The cabin was warm and a mouthwatering aroma arose from the pot bubbling on the potbellied stove. It was only rabbit, but the ‘best Thanksgiving dinner I ever had’, he said.

Four days, the storm raged. On the fifth, the skies cleared, and despite the snow, Slim headed to the ranch before the next storm blew in.

‘Everyone thought I was froze to death,” he said. “They didn’t believe me about the old man. So, the foreman and me went back the next day.”

The shack was deserted; two walls were missing; and a foot of snow covered the pot bellied stove.

No one could explain how he had survived four days in such a storm without shelter, but he had.

Now, I never heard Slim say this, but Mama Holly once told me that Slim had confided in her and Papa that he knew how he had managed to survive. Someone wanted him to live. ‘I reckon it was God,” he told Mama and Papa.

Gone was the anger, the resentment, the bitterness that had caused him so much trouble.

Slim stayed on the ranch even after a bronc busted him so badly that all he could do was cook, and for the next few years, he did that with a ready smile and a
willingness to go out of his way to help other cowboys.

You know, old men, especially cowboys, like to tell stretchers. I’ve often wondered over the years if Slim was just making all that up. I don’t think he was, because after Slim passed on, Mama told me an old cowboy from the Frying Pan Ranch showed up at the old man’s funeral.

Maybe it didn’t happen—or maybe it did.

I like to think it did.

Eleven, Eleven, Eleven

2010-11-03T07:28:00.000-07:00

Last year as I sat at my desk on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, an eerie feeling ran up my spine. It may seem hokey to some, but at that very moment, to the minute exactly ninety-one years after the event, a strange feeling washed over me, a sense of deep gratitude for our fighting men and women who have struggled to preserve our country’s freedom.

I’m talking about Veterans’ Day, the day set aside to honor all the women and men who have served in our armed forces.

November 11 is the anniversary of the Armistice, which was signed by the Allies and the Germans in 1918 in the forest at Rethondes near the town of Compienge ending World War I.

At five a.m. that morning, an agreement was struck, signatures were fixed to the document, and an order to cease all firing was issued. Six hours later at eleven a.m., the Armistice went into effect. Arms were lowered, whistles blew, impromptu parades erupted, and businesses closed in celebration.

While I enjoy all holidays, the blessings of Thanksgiving, the gaiety and joy of Christmas, the holiness of Easter, the exuberance of July 4, Veteran’s Day is most precious to me because so many in my family shouldered the arms of war and went out to do battle to preserve the freedom I enjoy, and my children and grandchildren now enjoy.

Twenty years passed after that signing before Congress agreed upon a bill that each November 11 would be celebrated as Armistice Day. Fifteen years later on November 11, 1953, instead of celebrating only WWI veterans, Alvin King of Emporia suggested all veterans to be honored.

Representative Ed Rees, of Emporia, Kansas, was so impressed that he introduced a bill into the House to change the name to Veterans' Day. After this passed, Mr. Rees wrote to all state governors and asked for their approval and cooperation in observing the changed holiday. The name was changed to Veterans' Day by Act of Congress on May 24, 1954.

In October of that year, President Eisenhower called on all citizens to observe the day by remembering the sacrifices of all those who fought so gallantly, and through rededication to the task of promoting an enduring peace. The President said the change of name to Veterans' Day was an honor to the servicemen of all America's wars.

Many of my family served. My father spent a year on the west coast and a couple years in South America; a cousin served in the Army Air Corps; an uncle served in the army; and one in the navy. Another uncle served earlier in the Philippines, but was discharged with a blood disease that, according to oral family history, eventually took his life. Another cousin served in Korea and is still listed as a MIA after over half a century.

During the war, despite the efforts of those behind, family gatherings were filled with empty holes. Word always turned to those not present. I can remember seeing my grandmother’s and aunts’ eyes filling with tears as their innermost prayers went out to their loved ones.

We were one of the lucky families. Dad returned. My uncle in the army returned having received a shrapnel wound on Okinawa. My uncle in the navy made it back. My Air Force cousin returned safely. The only casualty we faced was my uncle who had served in the Philippines.

Then five years later, another cousin, Henry Shoop, whom we always called Dooley, shipped out to Korea.

We never saw him again. We never heard a word of his fate. All we know is he went out on patrol one night. The patrol was attacked. None returned, and no bodies were found.

I look around now at those brave men and women giving their lives for America, and I want to cry. I know the families of those serving realize just how dear the sacrifice our military is making, but I wonder about the rest of America. Do they understand?

If they don’t, they should drop to their knees and pray for that understanding be given them.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

A Halloween Story

2010-10-26T08:09:00.000-07:00

A Halloween Story

I don’t know how many of you are like me, but I still get a big kick out of Halloween. Unfortunately, over the past few years, only a handful of youngsters have come by.

Once or twice, none showed up.

My wife said it was my fault because of the recording.

Oh, I didn’t tell you about the recording. It’s nothing really, just an old 33 1/3 record of Halloween sounds, wolves, owls, vampires—you get the idea. I’d put out a speaker in the shadows of the front porch, and when trick or treaters showed up, I’d turn it on.

Talk about running and screaming. I should have felt bad, but I didn’t.
Today, most little goblins attend church- or neighborhood-sponsored activities. I feel kind of sorry for the little ones who will never experience a full moon shining down on a deserted lane winding through the woods.

When the girls were in elementary, they hosted a Halloween slumber party for six or seven friends.

We roasted wieners and marshmallows, told ghost stories, and then unknown to my wife, I touched off the recording. It was set on the wolf howls.

Fifteen seconds later, I knew I’d make a mistake for everyone of those girls were clinging to Gayle and me like Velcro. We had to pry them off.

Finally, after they calmed down some, they decided they wanted to go down Sarah Jane Road and see the hanging tree.

The isolated road is as gloomy and scary as the spooky road old Ichabod Crane traveled the night he confronted the Headless Horseman. A perfect road for the Living Dead—and highly impressionable young girls.

We only had to drive about half a mile, so I loaded the girls in the back of the pickup and we headed out.

I pointed out the tree and suggested they get out an look at it.
They did not budge. No way they were going to approach that tree.

I knew how they felt. One Halloween on my grand-mother’s farm, an uncle told my cousin, Ed, and me that every Halloween, the ghost of an old farmer that had been caught in a combine and chopped to pieces came back looking for his missing hand.

We laughed the story off.

That night, Ed and I trudged down the lane to trick or treat the only neighbor. Their boys accompanied us back to my grandparents so we could trick or treat them. Before we left, we told our friends about the farmer’s ghost. They snickered at us.

Now, you’ve got to get the picture here. The full moon was straight overhead. On either side of the lane were pastures dotted with mesquite, and I promise you, in the dark, the twisted mesquite limbs took on mighty scary shapes in the eyes of spooky ten and eleven year old boys.

And the fact we were talking about ghosts and werewolves and such didn’t help. Our frightened eyes made every shadow into Dracula or the Frankenstein monster.

And then we saw it. In the pasture, a floating white object. The wind seemed to be carrying it toward us, and then a mournful, whining moan came through the mesquite.

We set a world-record time getting back to the house. It took ten minutes to stammer out what happened. One uncle grunted. “Yep, that was old Burl. How long’s it been now, fifty years since he got cut all to pieces. He’s still looking for his missing hand.”

We listened to him with our eyes bugged out like a stepped-on toad frogs.

And I don’t have to tell you how big they got when my grandfather said, “Well, Kent, it’s getting late. You and Ed walk your young friends back home, and then hurry back.”

Wild horses couldn’t have pulled us from that house.

One of my uncles had to take our friends back home.

And they couldn’t get us outside the next day.

Years later, we learned the whole family had played a big joke on Ed and me. It was my Uncle Bud, Ed’s daddy, who played Burl in a sheet.

I tell you this, folks, those are memories I’ll never forget. And that will probably never come again.

Leave Education Alone

2010-10-20T10:28:00.000-07:00

Leave Education Alone

I will bring in jobs; I will lower taxes; and I will reform education.”

You know what those are, the meaningless words of garrulous politicians spouting
promises like Moby Dick spouted water.

The most frequent promise is to reform education.

Well, excuse me for saying, but that has been tried time and again. Obviously the reforms do not work because there’s a new reform every four years. The first time I heard it was from Price Daniels, and every governor, senator, and representative candidate since them has said the same thing.

About thirty years back, the legislature started tying teacher raises to various tasks such as test scores, teacher evaluation—a jump through the hoop sort of thing. Of they do is botch things up.

One of the current whims is merit pay based upon student test scores, which is simply another futile attempt to change education by throwing a ton of taxpayer money at a problem.

With forty-one years behind me, I can tell you that money is not the solution.
Another movement is to pay additional money to teachers who go to low-achieving districts. On paper, it sounds logical. In practice, it is not only a waste of money, but also a garish display of the proponents’ ignorance.

Why?

I retired from what I consider one of the best school districts in the state—and I might add, with some of the lowest salaries in Southeast Texas when you compare it to districts of it’s size or larger.

Yet, we always had teachers from higher paying and lower achieving districts trying to find a position within the district. Some tried for years before they made it.

I know for I hired some from those districts. You tell me, why would they be eager to take a cut in pay to come to our district?

Even the idea of paying teachers extra if students score better is like trying to catch water with your fingers.

I used to joke with some coaching friends that I’d hate for my job to depend on 17 and 18 year olds. You never know how they will perform from one week to the next.

Sure, kids are hard to figure, to motivate. Like the old saw, raising a teenager is like trying to nail jelly to a tree.

But seriously, how do you hold a kid’s feet to the fire when he knows mom and dad will sue the district for him? How do you motivate a student when he knows regardless of how poor his work may be, he’ll still get a fifty or higher and probably pass to the next grade just to preserve his precious self-esteem? How do you get extra effort from a kid who sees other students treated differently because they are athletes?

So what happens? Reformers ignore the real problems, serious problems that would make a can of worms look like a simple five-piece puzzle for a three-year-old.

Now if you say ‘it isn’t the students’ fault, then I’ll say you’re right.’ On the other hand, you can’t blame a top-notch teacher for not wishing to undertake such a staggering job when the odds are against him.

States have thrown measuring devices at teachers for decades, and none of them work. They can’t because the basis of measurement is as intangible as a puff of smoke, a student’s effort or lack of.

The big problem in measuring teacher performance is that the reformers go to the wrong ones for input. You don’t ask school board members, senators, state education CEOs, college professors, or local political representatives. Most of them are like those ubiquitous education instructors I had back in the fifties, all theory, and little substance.

I conducted my first student teaching class as the professors taught, and the kids ran all over me. My cooperating teacher, a short, bowling ball of a lady, came in and promised to mash each unruly student under her thumb if they didn’t behave.

They behaved, and I taught. Poorly at first, but over the years, my classes were disciplined with only a few failures because parents and I made the kids study and pass.

When the smoke clears, all that is really left to help education are the parents and community following the discipline of:
1. Parents insist kids do homework
2. Parents stop making excuses for kids
3. Parents stop living their own youth through their children
4. Communities show the same pride in academics as athletics.

Practice those four disciplines, and I promise you, the kids will benefit.

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

Enough is Enough

2010-10-14T07:26:00.000-07:00

I try not to pay a whole lot of attention to what goes on in New York City. We’ve plenty of problems down here without taking on any more.

But, I couldn’t help shaking my head in wonder when New York City Mayor Bloomberg and the New York Governor Paterson asked the federal government to ban the purchase of soda pop and sweetened fruit drinks with food stamps.

You know what food stamps are, those federal vouchers used by 42 million low-income Americans to buy food.

According to Reuters, the two gentlemen from New York called sugar-sweetened beverages the largest contributor to the growing obesity epidemic.

Said Bloomberg, ‘There’s nothing wrong with an occasional one. But the kids are dinking a enormous amount of full-sugar beverages.”

And then the American Beverage Association jumped into the fray and started swinging by insisting the proposition is “just another attempt by government to tell New Yorkers what they should eat and drink, and will only have an unfair impact on those who can least afford it.”

Sound familiar?

Well, it isn’t much different down here in Texas. Forty percent of New York’s public school children are obese. Here in Texas, it is 35%--and growing. (no pun intended)

Now the food stamp regs do forbid purchase of harmful items such as tobacco and alcohol, but jiminy crickets, even a rocket scientist can get around that. Who out there has not witnessed items purchased with stamps or cards, then cash paid for the cigarettes or beer?

New York’s request has nothing to do with telling Americans what they can eat. All it does is state, ‘if we give you free money, then you are giving up the right to spend it anyway you wish. You must spend it according to the guidelines laid down.”

What is difficult about that? And what is wrong about that?

On the other hand, people are mighty slick at finding ways around rules and regulations.

My wife and I were waiting to check out at a supermarket in Beaumont when the lady in front paid for her groceries with a Lone Star card. I didn’t think much about it until the checker handed her twenty-five dollars in cash. Then the lady used the card to pay for her teenage boy’s one liter orange drink, and once again received twenty-five dollars in cash. She laughed and told the cashier she needed extra cash for the boat in Lake Charles. (for those who don’t know, the boat is a gambling boat)

I didn’t know welfare recipients could get cash, but when I went online, I discovered I was wrong. Recipients can receive a percentage of their benefits in cash-at least with the Lone Star card.

It isn’t my place to judge others, but you can’t help wondering upon witnessing another situation where a young couple, both seem perfectly healthy, paid for two baskets heaped with groceries with a Lone Star card.

Oh the other hand, when friends and acquaintances are subjected to various drug tests in order to keep their jobs, it somehow seems unfair that no such tests are required for those who apply for welfare. What it boils down to is that many must take drug tests to work so their taxes can buy drugs for those who do not have to take drug tests to draw welfare.

Am I wrong? If so, explain it to me.

Now this isn’t confined to just Texas and New York. The abuse is rampant across the entire country.

The LA Times reported that 69 million in California welfare funds to help the needy had been spent outside the state on a variety of luxuries including Las Vegas slot machines, Hawaiian vacations, and luxury cruises out of Miami.

How is that even possible when the benefit for a single parent of two is about $500.00 in California? It isn’t possible, which means those individuals have additional and unreported income. I think they call that fraud. Obviously those agencies involved are doing nothing about it.

I sympathize with the lady who told the president she feared for the American dream. We all should. This sort of abuse is pushing the dream far beyond our reach.

Let’s help those who really need it, not the moochers who are always trying to get something for nothing. Let’s hold their feet to the fire for once, not the American workers’.

The Little Man's Party. Really?

2010-10-06T07:36:00.000-07:00

I’ve told you, probably too often, about my two little grandsons, Mikey and Keegan. Well, guess what? We now have a brand-new little granddaughter, Kenli Marie Johnstone, Keegan’s little sister.

She was born October 1, only four days before Keegan’s birthday on October 5. Can’t you just visualize just how chaotic that birthday week will be in the coming years?

But, she’s healthy, ten fingers, ten toes, black hair, 20 inches long and topped the scales at six pounds, nine ounces.

Now, I know there isn’t a grandparent out there who doesn’t believe their grandchild is even prettier than Kenli. And that’s okay. I know the truth.

She came along a day so after I ran across some rather startling data online. Aware of just how online data can be manipulated, I checked all the information, and the results were very interesting.

Why? Well, you see, as soon as little Kenli gave her first cry at 1:21 pm October 1, that bundle from heaven was already $43,572.43 in debt thanks to our government. When I say government, I don’t mean just the present administration although it has set records that I hope will never be matched.

They spend money they don’t have. Why?

In the name of helping citizens.

Does it really? Take a look at the following data, and then you decide if the government has really helped.

The ten poorest cities over 250,000 in America.

City % below poverty Democratic mayor
1 Detroit 36.4 since 1961
2 Buffalo 29.9 since 1954
3 Cincinnati 27.8 since 1984
4 Cleveland 35 since 1989
5 Miami 26.9 since 1947
6 St Louis 26.8 since 1949
7 El Paso 25.3 since 2001
8 Milwaukee 26.2 since 1908
9 Philadelphia 25 since 1952
10 Newark 24.2 since 1896

See what they hae in common? They all adhere to the principles espoused by democrats. Now we all know that the Democratic Party is known as ‘the little man’s party’, a moniker of which that party’s politicians are proud.

What I see here are cities wallowing in an economy of entitlements. Naturally, those recipients are voters. And naturally, they do not want to lose free money. It is the poor who habitually elect Democrats based upon the promises of help and aid.

But you know what? Those poor are still poor after all these years. You tell me, what good have the Democratic mayors done for the cities?

The majority of those percentages want the government to take care of them. They want something for nothing. And obviously in those cities, that’s exactly what they are getting, nothing.

Oh, the politicians—hey, they’re cleaning up like bandits while the citizens are still waiting for handouts.

Now before any one becomes too rabid over what I’m saying, understand, we must help the sick and infirm as well as those who are making an effort to shed the shackles of poverty.

The others?

In 1942, Presbyterian minister William J.H. Boetcker published the pamphlet, Lincoln on Limitations. He also added ten of his own quotes to those of Lincoln, and often, writers have attributed those quotes to Lincoln. Some have attributed them to Reagan.

1. You cannot bring about prosperity by discouraging thrift.
2. You cannot strengthen the weak by weakening the strong.
3. You cannot help the poor by destroying the rich.
4. You cannot further the brotherhood of man by inciting class hatred.
5. You cannot build character and courage by taking away man’s initiative and independence.
6. You cannot help small men by tearing down big men.
7. You cannot lift the wage earner by pulling down the wage payer.
8. You cannot keep out of trouble by spending more than your income.
9. You cannot establish security on borrowed money.
10. You cannot help men permanently by doing for them what they will not do for themselves.

If you think about our present administration honestly, not with the colored lens of party affiliation, you’ll have to agree their actions are the opposite of these ten philosophies.

And that spells nothing but trouble.

I don’t want my little granddaughter or you grand children $43,572.43 in debt because of irresponsible congressmen and their leaders.

Do you?

There You Go Again, Mr. President

2010-09-29T07:40:00.000-07:00

You’re doing it again, Mr. President. You’re jumping into new projects without completing any that you’ve begun. Oops, I apologize. You did push through the health bill that will not only drive the deficit higher, but also dig deeper into the American pocketbook. Oh, yeah, the stimulus—that will-of-the-wisp dream that stimulated hundreds of CEOs to award themselves obscene bonuses. Good job there.

But look at where we are today. The economy is sputtering along like an old Model T. Of course, the old Model T usually got where it was going. I have my doubts about your economy.

And yes, despite your fervent insistence that it is all ‘George’s’ fault, after almost two years, it is your economy. With the firepower you have in Congress, you’ve had ample time to make things better—like you promised over and over.

You were voted in because many wanted change. In their eagerness to make their lives better, they grasped at straws, and you were the straw they grabbed. So desperate, they never thought to ask what kind of change you had in mind.

I voted for the first time back in the fifties. I always voted for that individual I thought best for the job. When I looked at your record and when I listened to your speeches, I didn’t like what I heard and saw. That’s my right. The majority disagreed with me.

You know something, Mr. President. The majority doesn’t disagree now.

In a way, I hate that for I don’t believe you’re a despot like many say. I don’t believe you want to rule the world.

I think you sincerely believe all you say. I think your advisors believe that they say.

The problem is, you and your advisors come from another planet, that of Academia where cute little theories tossed around in the upper atmosphere in the tea rooms of Harvard and Yale seem Utopian, but actually pale in comparison to the harsh realities of hardworking people struggling day in and day out to put food on the table, educate their children, save a little, and perhaps enjoy life on the weekends.
And now you plan on reforming education in America.

I suggest you listen to people who know education. I have news for you. Three-quarters of the superintendents, chancellors, and commissioners to whom you have spoken are as inept as some of the teachers you are blaming for failing the children.

Other than you’re both Chicago boys, I can’t figure out why you chose Arne Duncan as Secretary of Education. If I handed out report cards to school district CEOs, Mr. Duncan would get a bright red F.

Why?

Greatschools, a nation wide non-profit organization that provides K-12 information about all private, public, and charter schools, ranked Chicago schools as a 4 out of 10 while rating Nederland and Port Neches, Texas as sevens and eights. A sobering comparison, huh?

If after eight years as CEO, Duncan couldn’t even get Chicago to a passing score, why listen to his ideas on how to better American education? Get real, Mr. President.

You talked about longer school days. You have no glimmer of what is going on there. You get an F also—also in red.

According to the Associated Press, Duncan’s rationale for longer school days was ‘Young people in other countries are going to school twenty-five, thirty percent longer than our students here.” He added to the AP. “I want to just level the playing field.”

Sounds noble, you think?

That’s B.S., Mr. President. That’s just another of the many fabrications to make your administration appear as if it cares.

In fact, according to the AP, U.S. kids spend more hours in school (1,146 instructional hours yearly) than kids in Asian schools who outscore us in math and science.

True, Japan and Hong Kong, said the AP, have longer school years by up to twenty days, but only spend 1,005-1,013 instructional hours yearly—less than our schools.
I predict this reform of yours will not succeed.

Why? Because the last two years have been eye openers for many of us. We might not have Harvard degrees, but we ain’t dumb. And we learned a long time back what B.S. smells like.

We’re doing okay down here. We’ve got a lot of bright kids graduating and going on to college and into the work force.

Sure we have problems, but our communities are working on them. We don’t need outsiders with completely alien cultural beliefs running our schools for us.

By the way, while you were enjoying your vacations, over five hundred Southeast
Texas teachers were in summer school working on advanced degrees and honing their skills as teachers.

Just thought you and your people might like to know.

Time to Haul Back on the Reins

2010-09-22T07:30:00.000-07:00

Say you’re making preparations to attend college or to send one or more of your children off to school. If you’re like most of us, you’ll have to make financial sacrifices to achieve your goals.

But, what if you had a fairy godmother in Washington who could get you all the scholarships you needed? Just pluck them out of a never-ending supply of money.

Dreaming?

Nope, that’s what happened when nine-term Dallas Congresswoman Eddie Bernice Johnson awarded $31,000.00 in college scholarships to her grandchildren and a top aide's two children, using foundation funds set aside for black lawmakers' causes.

According to the Dallas Observer News, Ms. Johnson claimed she did not understand the anti-nepotism rules for the scholarships. Seems like she did not consider grandchildren as part of her immediate family. And this from a single woman pulling down two hundred thousand a year as a lawmaker.

Now Ms. Johnson is not by herself. Innumerable members of Congress have bent the rules for personal use of someone else’s money.

Two of the most recent instances of ethics violations have concerned Rep. Charlie Rangel D-NY and Rep. Maxine Waters D-California facing ethics charges.

During my research, I was stunned when I saw just how many of our lawmakers had been charged with ethic’s violations, a Pablum expression in the parlance of Washington insiders that covers just about everything under the felony statutes.

You know how it goes, a senator from the state of Xanadu takes a fifty thousand dollar bribe, and the accusation is not bribery, but ethics violations. Sounds better, you know?

Political correctness at its apex.

Would you believe that ninety percent of those accused of various violations of the law have served three or more terms.

The three representatives I mentioned earlier are all in the thirty-forty year brackets serving the people—no, let me rephrase that. I should have said “‘thirty-forty year brackets taking” from the people that long becomes a habit, just like entitlements become a habit.

In a recent survey, three quarters of all voters favored term limits. Only 16% opposed them. (I don’t have the details, but I can guess the demographics of that 16%-elected officials)

So why don’t we have them?

Let me tell a little story. According to watchdog U.S. Term Limits, opposition comes from legislative or judicial actions overturning the results of popular elections.

In fact just last year New York City leaders arbitrarily tossed out the results of two citywide elections that would have denied themselves additional terms in office.

Now this could never happen in the political process laid out by the Founding Fathers.

U.S. Term Limits noted that female historian Mercy Otis Warren, the Conscience of the American Revolution, protested exclusion of term limits from the constitution, pointing out the corrosive influence career politicians would have over the populace.

She wrote, “There is no provision for (rotation in office), nor anything to prevent the perpetuity of office in the same hands for life; which by a little well timed bribery, will probably be done.” --1788

Richard Henry Lee, George Mason, Thomas Jefferson, all Founding Fathers and along with many others feared that without a restriction on tenure, career politicians would take over the country.

History has proven Mrs. Warren correct in her assessment of the situation.
Until we follow the wisdom of our Founding Fathers to correct this fallacy in our elective process, we’ll continue with the same as we have now.

Albert Einstein is supposed to have remarked, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and over and expecting different results.”

A neighbor said it a little differently, but it means the same thing. “Keep doing what you’re doing, and you’ll keep getting what you got.”

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

So Says the Constitution

2010-09-15T07:34:00.000-07:00

There are two initiatives I feel are essential to all of us, issues that will have a definite effect on us and our children in the years to come.

Now, don’t laugh when I mention the first, term limits for all elected individuals. We can talk about that later.

The second, and the one I wish to address today, has to do with birth granted citizenship for offspring of individuals who are not American citizens.

The latter topic is naturally much more volatile than the first for it is what ties many of the illegal aliens to the U.S. You know how it goes, a young couple sneaks over the border in time for a child to be born, and Presto! Instead of Instant Oatmeal, you have Instant American.

Now, I’m not talking about the right or wrong of it. America is basically a fair-minded and compassionate country, willing to help others. It takes a cold-hearted person not to understand why so many aliens wish to be a part of this great nation.
And one of the slickest means is for an illegal to have his child born in the United States.

Now there is a great deal of talk about changing the XIV Amendment so such a finesse becomes a thing of the past.

The kicker is that when the amendment was first ratified in 1868, the idea behind the law was not as it is interpreted today. I don’t know when it changed precisely, but it is different. Somewhere along the way, some judge, whether Republican, Democrat, Libertarian, atheist, or Wiccan, was too full of himself and issued an interpretation of the amendment. That interpretation stuck so today we have a back door that is flooding country into bankruptcy.

The XIV Amendment begins “All persons born or naturalized in the United States and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside."

The first nine words mean exactly what they say, right?

The rest of the statement is also clearly laid out, “And subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside."

Now the word ‘jurisdiction’ is the culprit. Noticably so for it is a multi-syllabic, and most politicians and judges can’t handle more than two syllables.

Do you really think that if a Cheyenne maiden had given birth to a child in one of the Philadelphia hospitals that the country would have given the little tadpole the mantle of citizenship? Not likely. That was a privilege not given to the American Indians until 1924. So can one of you Constitutional Scholars out there provide evidence that the intent of that portion of the XIV Amendment was to cover any child of any pair of non-citizens even it the infant is born on our soil?

I think not, so let’s talk a little further about “Subject to the jurisdiction thereof.”

As you are well aware that those folks that Lincoln’s Dmancipation Proclamation liberated still did not enjoy the sames rights as those who freed them?

In 1866, the Civil Rights Act tried to rectify the 1863 proclamation by stating--now, read this carefully. “All persons born in the United States, and not subject to any foreign power, excluding Indians not taxed, are hereby declared to be citizens of the United States. ... All persons within the jurisdiction of the United States shall have the same right in every State and Territory to make and enforce contracts, to sue, be parties, give evidence etc. . .” It goes on to list all the rights of citizenship.

Now follow me here. “Not subject to any foreign power.” You and your spouse have a child. That child is yours. If you are a citizen of Mars, that child is a Martian, not an American. I don’t care if you’re in the middle of Times Square. If you and your spouse are Hispanic, Asian, Polish, Russian, you name it, that child is the same race. If you don’t have legal papers, he doesn’t have legal papers. He is still subject to the foreign power from which he came.

It is truly that simple.

Now we all know politicans seldom read what is put before them. It’s about time they do, and this is something with which they can begin.

That’s how all this mess began, with some full-of-himself judge interpreting a law he had probably never read.

What Kind of Country Are We?

2010-09-08T07:16:00.001-07:00

I cringe every time I witness another decision that diminishes our country’s allegiance to God. Unfortunately, evidence of such is everywhere.

A few weeks back, I mentioned that Richard Henry Lee, the Virginia statesman who called for the colonies’ independence in the Second Continental Congress, harbored the fear that the absence of legal limits to political tenure could create an oligarchic structure, a structure that allows a ‘rule by the few’.

His fears were echoed by Thomas Jefferson who worried that the Courts would overstep their authority by ‘Making Law’ instead of ‘Interpreting Law.’ Such endeavors create an oligarthic configuration in which select individuals in power determine what is best for all of us.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is what is taking place today. A few, who think they ‘know best’, are doing all they can to herd us like sheep into various pens.

That isn’t what our Founding Fathers had in mind. What they intended is that each of us would make his own decisions based, for better or worse, upon the relationship or nonrelationship we had with our Lord.

Man should take care of himself, not the other way around.

Recently I received an email from my old high school chat group that attributed several remarks to Andy Rooney, that admirable old curmudgeon.

I couldn’t determine if he were the author of the article since many articles have been falsely attributed to him. On the other hand, it seems to me this would be his type of wry admonition to those who harbor the notion they are better than everyone else.

You cannot deny that many court judges around the country are rendering decisions that cast God from our lives, despite the undeniable fact that 235 years ago, a handful of dedicated men established a republic based upon Christianity.

Now this Christianity is not a specific faith, but an adherence to God’s basic tenets of brotherhood and love.

Our country once believed that. Honest.

For example, did you know if you stand in front of the U.S. Supreme Court building and look up at the gable of the structure, you will see a row of world’s law makers. Each one faces the one in the middle who is looking out over the country. That middle lawmaker is Moses, and he is holding the Ten Commandants.

Then as you enter the Supreme Court, the two massive oak doors have the Ten Commandments engraved on the lower portion of each door. Inside, above where the judges sit is another display of the Ten Commandments.

Just about anywhere you go in Washington, you’ll find buildings and monuments covered with verses from the Bible.

James Madison, the fourth president, “The Father of our Constitution” said, “We have staked the whole of all our political institutions upon the capacity of mankind for self-government, upon the capacity of each and all of us to govern ourselves, to control ourselves, to sustain ourselves according to the Ten Commandments of God.”

And of the fifty-five founders of the Constitution, fifty-two were members of established orthodox churches in the colonies.

Patrick Henry, a Founding Father, exclaimed, “It cannot be emphasized too strongly or too often that this great nation was founded not by religionists, but by Christians, not on religions, but on the Gospel of Jesus Christ.”

Something else you might not have known. Every session of Congress since 1777 has begun with a prayer by a paid preacher. Oh yes, and his salary has always been paid by the taxpayer.

John Jay, appointed the first Supreme Court Chief Justice in 1789, stated “Americans should select and prefer Christians as their rulers.”

We could go on and on here, but the shame of our present situation is that for over two hundred years, our country prospered as a Christian nation. Now in the last few decades, either our leaders’ spines have turned to jelly, or they’ve forgotten God, or they simply do not believe in God.

They think because they try to accommodate everyone’s wish, they are doing that which is right and moral.

I wouldn’t be surprised if ‘In God We Trust’ were taken off our coin and replaced with ‘Praise to Allah’ or ‘Viva Zapata’ or ‘Hot’cha Sweet Mama.’

That’s how ridiculous it has become.

The Joy (and Torture) of Putting Words on Paper

2010-09-01T07:55:00.000-07:00

Ask anyone who is a serious writer, and that individual will tell you that in many ways it is a very demanding and often lonely vocation or avocation.

I added avocation because one of the mantras writers’ groups try to impress on members is ‘don’t quit your day job.”

No question now that some writers’ rewards have been quite substantial, both fiction and non-fiction.

Many people want to write. That’s fine. A common remark among retirees is that “Yep. I’ll retire and write that book I’ve always thought about.” Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all. More power to them.

That’s why for the last few years, I’ve taught fall and spring classes in Lamar’s Continuing Education. The writing program was put together by a writer friend of mine who lives over in Lake Charles. At first, I wasn’t too sure about conducting writing classes, but I decided to give it a shot.

Believe it or not, I have been known to make perhaps one or two smart decisions in my life. Marrying my wife was the smartest, and teaching the class wasn’t a bad one either.

You see, writing is sort of like boxing. When you’re in the ring, there is only one person to save your skin, you. Same with writing except the beatings you take from it don’t bruise your skin or black your eye, only your psyche. And believe me, psyches taken longer to heal than a black eye.

Training as a boxer is lonely and demanding. Writing is lonely and demanding. I doubt if there is a successful boxer or writer out there who won’t admit that more than once, he considered tossing the whole idea in the garbage.

But he didn’t. He hung there, clawing and scratching, fighting the odds, and finally won that first fight or published that first piece of writing.

It’d be nice if at that point, you could say, “Well, that’s it. I can sit back and enjoy what I’ve achieved.”

A boxer can’t; a writer can’t unless the book is a mega-hit like Margaret Mitchell’s “Gone with the Wind,” or Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

It all honesty, when my first western, “Panhandle Gold”, was published by Avalon in 1991, I secretly expected I might be able to retire.

What a joke!

Dumb me finally figured out that while there was a market for the type of western
and mysteries I wrote, the demand was not sufficient for me “to quit my day job.”
My westerns are historical, like those I enjoyed years ago. The mysteries are light whodunits, retro of the forties and fifties.

These are some of these ideas I try to pass on to my writing classes. In doing so, for six weeks twice a year, I have the privilege to talk and discuss writing with other writers.

I’ve kept up with some of the writers with whom I’ve helped with their craft. They come from every walk of life. One gentleman is in construction, and he recently placed in the top ten percent of the screenplay competition at the Austin Screenwriters Conference. He interviewed with several Hollywood producers. I haven’t had the chance to contact him, but he could have a contract by now.(hope he doesn’t forget me)

One very talented woman gave me the good news a few days ago her book was going to the publisher, while another, one of her critique partners, has completed her novel.

It is satisfying to know that I contributed a tad to some person’s success.

While some from the classes continue writing, sadly, many give up. And I can understand why. They write to be published, but after a numerous rejections, frustration, then aggravation sets in. Finally, they just throw up their hands and say the heck with it.

You’ve got to be bull-headed about it, convinced of your own capabilities, and the likelihood of success down the road.

A friend of mine, now deceased, Bill Johnstone, wrote for seven years without being published. “I got mad,” he said. “And swore I wouldn’t quit.” He didn’t, having published well over three hundred westerns, horrors, and action adventures.
All it took was guts.

If you’re interested in the writing schedule for this year, take a look at my blogspot or email me at rconwell@gt.rr.com or go to www.kentconwell.blogspot.com. Look for my August 21 blog.

Or call Rhonda at 880-2233.

Oh, yeah, my first class begins September 14.

The Yellow Brick Road

2010-08-25T07:30:00.000-07:00

I can make the following remark because I am neither Democrat or Republican.
“No one, not even those Republican-bashing Democrats way out in left field who support the present administration’s policies can deny our country is in debt, big debt.”

Nobody sneezes at thirteen plus trillion bucks in the hole.

So what is the Fed doing about it? In all their so-called wisdom, they are printing more money. They’re buying debt with debt, according to Bob Livingston. “It’s shuffling money piles around. It’s taking money from one pocket and putting it into another.”

Meanwhile, writes Laurence Kotlikoff of Bloomberg News, the International Monetary Fund declares the United States is essentially bankrupt.

Bankrupt!

I can remember back in the post war years reading how well the automobile factories up North paid. The amount was a few times the $3,900 I earned my first teaching year in 1959.

Don’t misunderstand. That’s no complaint. I could’ve moved north for one the jobs, but I opted to teach. So, I’m not complaining.

It is just that over the years, I noticed, as I’m sure you, the increasing number of imports, some good, some shabby, but all produced at a wage considerably less than what I made as a teacher. I don’t think it is a stretch to say that during any year in my career, if I’d had that income and lived in one of those countries, I would have been considered wealthy.

That’s when I began to wonder when the bubble would burst.

Now it has.

And our government isn’t really helping us in the long term by continually printing up money and handing it out.

On the one hand, I’m glad for those teachers and firemen and police the last bailout bill helped. But then, I resent it because the 39 billion is not paid for. It is just another chunk added to the debt.

The bill kicked unemployment up to 99 weeks, almost two years. If I were in the unemployed shoes, I’d be grateful for it, but what will help more than the benefits are jobs.

It is a Catch 22!

What is so disgusting is that there are businesses wanting to hire workers, but cannot find qualified employees.

According to the Personal Liberal Digest, Mechanical Devices, which supplies parts for heavy equipment manufacturers like Caterpillar, say they’ve been looking for $13 per hour machinists for months. If they could hire forty, the company’s sales would increase by as much a 20 percent.

Trips to job fairs have been almost fruitless, said Mark Sperry, co-owner of Mechanical Devices. Many of the applicants just go through the motions so they could continue to collect unemployment checks.

A 52 year-old mechanic in North Carolina told The Journal he had turned down more than a dozen offers in the 59 weeks he’s been unemployed because they didn’t pay more than the $450 a week he collects for unemployment.

This is happening all over the country, said Bob Livingston. People used to making fifty to sixty thousand a year are not willing to take a thirty thousand dollar a year job when they can sit home drawing $23,000 per year and do it for two years.

Jobs are out there. Maybe not the plush jobs, unless you’re a federal employee. Federal civil servants earned an average $123,000 per year in salary and benefits in 2009 compared to the private sector that made about $61,000.

The present administration, in an election year vote-buying scheme, prints more money, passes it along to certain states to save state jobs. I told you who received the money in those states, teachers, firefighters, and police, each with unions that were among Obama’s and the Demo’s biggest supporters. (no, Texas isn’t one of those states)

What the present administration is doing is creating an ever-growing dependency class of government workers and handout takers, all of whom just happen to be voters. And for whom do you think they’ll vote? Not George W!

Don’t anyone try to convince me we aren’t on the yellow brick road to socialism!

What else can you call it?

Tell you what. Read Ecclesiastes 10:2.

Think the Lord doesn’t know what He’s talking about?

rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com