Thursday, December 09, 2010

Broke Part 2: Glenn's charts, my words

I intended to get this one posted yesterday, but damn it, I had to clean the bathroom and refrigerator. How come I can't I get the government to do this?

What is a better government than one formed under the verity: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness? I say there is not one, for when men proved to be free of the whims of others, whether they were kings, dictators, oligarchies, potentates or democracies, men secured in life and liberty thrived in the pursuits of freedom. (5000 Year Leap)

Are we free? Some of you have yet to make the connection between bigger government and smaller individual. We are no longer free when the government dishes out “entitlements". What the government gives, and we depend on can be taken away. Entitlements are not free. They come out of our very souls, robbing us of our self-determination.

Let’s look at some numbers. Some scary numbers.

In this chart compliments from that right wing radical organization called the Heritage Society, but based on data from The White House and Treasury Department (who are you going to believe?) the following organizations are examples of big government spending. All for your benefit.


  • Department of Education: Our kids now place 30 to 40 nations behind China in math, science and reading. I saw this on the news last night. On ABC! It's not "no child left behind", it is "everyone left behind."
  • The Department of Housing and Urban Development: Have you been to Detroit lately?
  • Department of Homeland Security: Been to the airport lately?
  • The Department of Agriculture: Can you say Monsanto?
  • Department of Labor: Can you say SEIU?
  • Environmental Protection Agency: Here’s a good one. Carbon Dioxide is a pollutant.
Supporting all these programs cost you your freedom, because you have less and less of your own hard earned money to spend. In essence, you've traded your sweat, your time, your efforts for a bigger government. (Oh, by the way House Democrats just turned down keeping your takes from going up January first. Lame Ducks, aren't they great?)

But the kicker is that the government spends more and more of your money on servicing the national debt. It is one thing to say you traded your dollars for a poorly run education system. It is quite another to say you gave up your pay check for interest.

Notice that the middle bar is in red. That’s because that is a monthly number, not annual like the others. In other words, multiple that by 12. Yes, servicing the debt is $31.9 billion dollars a month or $382,800,000,000 a year.

But wait. The big entitlement programs everyone is talking about is Social Security and Medicare. And coming soon to a government-run clinic not so near to you, ObamaCare. But let’s just look at the old pieces of this sweet entitlement deal.

Medicare and Medicare along with Social Security costs about the same amount of money as most nation’s economies. Okay, let me not exaggerate. Let’s just say we spend more on these programs than Russia’s entire economy. And that is just this year. By 2020 we will dish out over $2.5 trillion for these goodies.

You see when our rights come from God, they can never be denied when government’s job is to protect those rights. But when government declares you have a right to an education, and housing and food and the damn internet….

So I ask, “do you think we might be in some serious shit?” Don't be afraid to say yes. Be afraid to deny it. By the way, did you see the riots in England today? Why? They raised tuition three fold. What government gives...

What you can do about it, next. I know the suspense is killing you.

Tuesday, December 07, 2010

Broke Part 1

I went to the Glenn Beck Broke presentation last week. Now for my liberal friends, before you choke on your health care, I want you to know that I make no apologies for doing so. (gasp)Your perceptions of Mr. Beck and his rhetoric are as firmly glued to your psyche as the long standing despise a Red Sox fan has for the Yankees. Nothing said or done will change your mind. Unfortunately, the crisis our country faces is hardly as trivial as a fan rivalry.

You can go back to sleep now, but for those who would like to know what was presented beyond his usual hate-mongering (not), fear-baiting (not), Christian smashing(not) drivel (not), you might want to read on.

My sister wanted to attend, but she had been feeling crummy, so she asked me to send her my notes. Well, really, now. You know my hand writing is as legible as a faded Egyptian Hieroglyph. During the satellite presentation, I sat in a darkened theater just below the projector’s booth. It added nothing to the legibility of my script. Therefore, I'll summarize here.

The first half of the presentation was Shock and Awe. A stab was taken at Michelle Obama’s quest to curb our trans-fats appetites when Glenn wheeled in 400 Primanti’s sandwiches, Pittsburgh’s distinctive staple by the inclusion of coleslaw and fries inside the sandwich. The sandwiches illustrated the insanity of a diet when a worm size piece of lettuce is removed from the mound of calories. Similarly, this is government’s response to rein in spending and the deficit. It ain’t going to happen using this tactic when the problem is so huge.

Now you may feel that Chicken Little is merely yelling that the sky is falling to scare you. There is no need to fear the troubling deficit. Perhaps you have heard of the European Union’s crisis and have surmised that the bail outs and riots in the streets in Greece just won’t happen in America. After all, this is the good old US of A, not Europe, despite liberal attempts to make us like Europe.

Consider the following. The EU’s debt is $16 trillion. Greece, the 27th largest economy in the world, had only 2.5% of that debt. When Greece was about to default the EU feared that it would cause the rest to falter. The EU bailed them out. The EU which is the largest economic collective couldn’t let other countries fall like dominoes. Disaster! Imagine, little old Greece crashing the EU’s economy. Combine Greece with Portugal and Spain, which are burdened with debt and rumored to be the next bail out recipient and you got $1.96 trillion of the EU’s debt.

Bored yet?

What has this got to do with you? After all, burning cars in the streets of Greece don’t mean jack in Detroit.

Let’s look at the US which is just under $14 trillion in debt, smaller than the EU. Yet in our collective economy of 50 states California, New York, Illinois and New Jersey make up $4.007 trillion. That’s twice the debt of those at risk of failing next in Europe. The monster we have is California with 13% of the debt. It’s economy is the 9th largest in the WORLD. If the EU was so worried about little old Greece bringing down the house, should we not be petrified that California will destroy us? And how are you going to feel when your taxes go to more social welfare programs in California, where many on such programs belong in Mexico.

But it can’t happen here. Back in May I wrote a blog disputing Paul Krugman’s claim that we are not Greece. I wrote: I’m not a liberal intellectual like Paul Krugman. I can’t get away with speculating about the economy with unproven theories and flat out denial about the economic situation. I’m just a smuck like everyone else who experiences reality.

I realized I had to deal with reality. Back then, I decided to build an ark. Oddly, I heard Glenn Beck say the same thing the other day. Now who is following who?

Next Up: More scary numbers and what you can do.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Aracely Gonzalez-O'Malley

When young men and women enlist to serve their country the effects of their decision seem not to extend beyond the stress and anxieties, and the pride and the gratitude that their families, their friends and their fellow service members hold. Dad has often commented how so many Americans go about their lives a safe distance from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Unlike when he served in WWII, there is no rationing of raw products, or food. In many non-military communities few may even know a soldier. It is easy to compartmentalize the wars, to safely put them aside. On most given days, the wars don’t appear on front pages of our local newspapers. Rarely is there a mention on the nightly news. The wars are as remote as the snow capped peaks of Hindu Kush.

Lost is the impact a young soldier’s life may have on one citizen. How could one have such an influence? Sure there are those who find themselves engaged in battle throwing themselves into peril for buddies, for unit, for God and for country. Take Staff Sgt. Salvatore Giunta, who was a 22-year-old Army specialist when he raced head-on into an enemy ambush to save the lives of two American soldiers during a deadly fire fight. The humble hero received The Medal of Honor. On the flip side there is Army intelligence expert Bradley Manning, 22, who boasted he downloaded hundreds of thousands of documents which were then posted on Wiki Leaks. Two men. Two soldiers. Both received media attention for their actions. One man made me proud. One man caused disappointment.

Then there was Aracely Gonzalez-O’Malley (1979-2010). Aracely Gonzalez-O’Malley, 31, passed away on Thursday October 21, 2010 in Homburg, German. She was born February 19, 1979 in Brawley, California. I never had the honor to know her.

Aracely served with the U.S. Army as a Communications Staff Sergeant for eight years. She had served in deployments to Iraq, Afghanistan, and Africa. She enjoyed music, photography, scrapbooking, dancing and San Diego Chargers Football.

One person. One solider. This list hardly defines who she was or who she became to me.

What follows is from Face Book's the Military Wall Of Honor posted on Monday, November 1, 2010 at 10:23pm

Aracely loved her husband, Ryan, and her family very much, but made a career in the military assigned to the 307th Integrated Theater Signal Battalion, 311th Signal Command based at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, to fulfill her wish to serve her country and protect those who weren’t able to protect themselves. Aracely not only left behind her husband, Ryan P. O'Malley; but her children, Sidney, Riley and Sean; parents, Armando and Juanita Gonzalez; brothers, Santiago and Armando Gonzalez; and sisters, Lizbeth and Paulette Gonzalez.

On April 11, 2010, Aracely posted on her MySpace page that she was getting back her pre-pregnancy body and was very happy about it, but was also hoping that she could keep her shape through their vacation. Life was good for her and her family. Her name was announced on the Staff Sergeant promotion list on April 30th. She was deployed to Mazar-e Sharif, Afghanistan in July of this year.

On July 27th Aracely posted on her MySpace page “that her unit was in an area where they were living in tents, and the showers for the soldiers are trailer showers which do not always have water. The power being used for the tents are 110. They were able to drop off their laundry and pick it up when it was done. The amenities that we so often take for granted were minimal. They had refrigerators with freezers, but no microwaves, and she was representing the Battalion as the BOSS representative.” Her last post was the 24th of September. Her last day as the BOSS representative was the next day.

During support of Operation Enduring Freedom, in a non-combat related incident, Aracely was injured on October 12th. She was flown to Homburg, Germany, for treatment. She was receiving treatment for several days, but on October 22nd, Aracely’s battle ended.

Her husband, brother, and family members were devastated. Friends, family members, and patriots have posted their heartfelt sympathies and memories of Aracely on numerous sites. Some mention that her smile and laugh was always contagious, and she had a wonderful sense of humor. Others state how full of life she was and that she will forever remain a Hero in their hearts and minds. SSgt Aracely Gonzalez O’Malley will never be forgotten.

The Patriot Guard Riders attended the memorials and services. California Governor Schwartzenegger ordered the flags on all the State buildings to be flown at half-staff in SSgt O’Malley’s honor and issued a message of sympathy to her family in her hometown of Brawley.

Aracely gave the ultimate sacrifice for the betterment of others with bravery and without hesitation. She leaves behind many family members, friends, and fellow soldiers who will forever miss her. Salute SSgt O’Malley.


So why does any of this matter?

SSgt O’Malley received two packages from my sister, Jennifer. Jennifer has been sending packages to soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq for years. Jennifer quietly clipped coupons to buy packages of cookies, puzzles, bottles of shampoo, and numerous other items. She stored a huge supply of "things" for them. She even cut crossword puzzles out of the newspaper. When she collected a half dozen or so boxes full of "stuff", she'd mail them off to foreign lands to unknown soldiers. Nothing send was of huge value, but everything became priceless to those on the receiving end. (Don't I know when I received similar packages when I was in the Peace Corps.)

Jennifer always knew she could lose one of her soldiers, but that never deterred. Each package was her way to say thank you. To let them know that they were not forgotten. That they were appreciated for their duty. She never lost any soldier, until this week.

SSgt O’Malley wrote two letters to my sister, thank you notes for the packages she received. Jennifer read each word trying to imagine the conditions in which it was written. And like the letters from all her soldiers she saved every precious piece of paper.

In early October, Jennifer sent another package to Mazar-e Sharif, Afghanistan, bound for SSgt O’Malley’s unit. On Tuesday when she came home she found the package sitting on her front porch. She knew something was wrong.

History remembers the causes, and its wars, but it is the individual who remembers the pain. She wept. And I cried too when I heard of my sister’s loss.

One could argue our grief is tiny compared to the sorrow that the Gonzalez-OMalley families suffer. But that misses the point. As a soldier, SSgt O’Malley’s life reached beyond the circle of her family, friends and fellow soldiers. Her life, dedicated to serve those who daily enjoy their freedom, also reached far beyond her what might be considered a circle of influence.

Many times have I caught a member of the Armed Forces off guard when I extend my appreciation. Whether in the airport, grocery store, the mall or the YMCA their response is the same. A huge smile, a firm handshake, and a humble "you’re welcome." I wonder if they teach that polite humbleness in basic training. We part and they vanish or paths don't cross ever again. They continue their lives. Of the hundreds of thousands that serve many return home, safely.

Not so for SSgt Aracely Gonzalez-O’Malley. I won’t forget how she touched a patriot when she said thank you. No SSgt O’Malley, thank you.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Veterans Day 2010

Dad and I will head out to the Veterans Day Ceremony at the Gerlad B.H. Solomon National Cemetery in Schylerville, NY. The usual suspects in attendance. The aging heroes of World War II and the prisoners of wars will be seated in a neat row of white chairs planted in the frosty lawn amidst the now naked pear trees. In front of these aging icons the American flag will smartly snap in the November wind as an honorary speaker addresses the assemblage of family, friends, and citizens.

Sprinkled through those who gather will be those who once served their country. Some come in anonymity. You’ll never know that they gave a part of their youth to the military. Some come in black vests and biker bandanas carrying flags over their shoulders, the lost Viet Nam vet. Others wear ball caps that display their War, their ship, their branch of military service.

An honor guard will present arms. Taps will drift over the headstoned fields, the lonesome notes disappearing into the thick woods where revolutionaries once fought the British. After a brief proclamation made on behalf of an absentee governor and a few patriotic songs the crowd will disperse. Like Christmas after all the presents are open, the holiday is over.

There is nothing particularly exciting about these ceremonies. There are no lights and action is slow. There is nothing that makes the jaw drop or eyes pop. Nothing that tantalizes and pushes the adrenaline. The speeches can be so-so. The entertainment marginal. Even the prayers can lack inspiration. And yet, people come. Every year, they come. Somehow people drop busy lives and make their way to the cemetery. For an hour people of all ages gathered to wade into a pool of history.

For a moment, you can stand in the very presence of greatness. Not the sensationalized greatness made of media blitzes and much fanfare. But greatness made of humbleness. They will be there. The one with an untold story. The story of laying on the beach for 30 days at Iwo Jima and not seeing one Japanese solider but instead thousands of dead Americans. Of the night chopper landing in a damp jungle while fighting vertigo but, determined to resupply the guys on the ground. Or securing 10,000 detainees at Abu Ghraib. Of 26 missions over Germany before being shot down. Of one night in a sleeping bag buried in a snow cave thinking the whole damn exercise was stupid.

We come to say thank you for doing something we never could have done, or couldn't ever imagine.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Go Vote, Wisely

We are living in a truly momentous time. On November 2, you will cast one of the most important votes of your life. Don’t stand on the side lines scared of where the country is headed. You are part of the solution. This is truly important.

Don’t be confused. This fall’s key issue is not about the economy. Surely, it is disheartening and discouraging to be out of work and trying hard to make ends meet. It appears that there are two choices: believe that jobs are yet to come because of the stimulus program or the promise of yet another one, or believe the stimulus is not going to employee you in any of the never-really-was shovel ready projects. Providing for one’s family is foremost on the minds of Americans who carry that responsibility. But don’t be fooled, this is not what November’s election is all about. It's much bigger.

Too much is at stake. America is an exceptional country, threatened by an ever increasing federal government. As the government gets bigger, the citizen’s liberty becomes smaller. Nothing illustrates this more than when the individual works for themselves. That is liberty. When the government takes more and more of your wage in taxes, it curtails your freedom. You have less and less left to spend as you see fit. Therefore, your decisions, your choices, your freedoms are diminished. Instead your money goes to the government to be redistributed.

Staggering debt, increasing payments to government workers and their pensions when the private sector is squeezed, the use of czars to increase governmental power usurping congressional constitutional responsibilities, and the use of executive powers to threaten passage of burdensome cap and trade laws are crushing your freedoms. It is out of control and ever growing. With Social Security, Medicare, and debt service projected to comprise 90% of GDP by 2020, how are we to afford mundane services like the defense of the country and border security?

Today, the bottom 50% of wage earners pay just 3% of collected income tax. Real America is no longer vested in themselves, but into a system of perverse behavior. When participation in the income tax becomes a minority enterprise we create a moral hazard. We are creating and our children will inherit a bigger government with ever shrinking tax base. Do you really believe this formula can be sustained? And when it does crash, what will you have but your sold liberties?

We can’t dodge the consequences of dodging our responsibilities any longer. It is time reexamine what our government is suppose to do for us. That is as little as possible.

The strength of our country is based on three values that are under attack.

  1. It is God-centered not secular.(Do you believe it is wrong and unconstitutional for students to be told, "God bless you" at their graduation?)
  2. It is E pluribus Unum, from many one.(Do you believe bilingual education for children of immigrants, rather than immersion in English, is good for them and for America?)
  3. And it is liberty. (Do you believe the government should fine its citizens for not purchasing a consumer product?)

When you vote on November 2, please consider your candidates’ beliefs. It is not about their platform on tried and failed litmus issues. It is about preserving our exceptional country and the liberties provided to all. It’s time to slash the tyranny of big government and the lurch to the left.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Nuts!

I now add a new skill to my resume, the ability to make acorn flour. The application of this skill won’t land a corporate job in Human Resources with any company other than NOLS or Outward Bound. And even that is doubtful.

Last week when visiting my sister the bombardment of acorns on her deck, barbecue grill, the roof, backyard, neighbor’s RV etc., resembled a siege. The pinging non stop. Ventures outside seemed full of peril. And all those nuts had to be good for something more than cute leprechaun craft figures with painted faces. I gathered a bucket load and toted them back to New York.

Mom always claimed the nuts were poisonous. Actually they are not, but the tannins contained within the meat make the little nut about as bitter as a New York State Gubernatorial race. The nut is edible, but if something tastes that awful, then what is the true definition of edible?

Acorns have long been a favorite nut, because of the memories. One of my earliest recollections of the little nut with the cute tam-like cap was on McGregor Mountain. It was a family outing with Uncle Harold and Aunt Doris who had come to visit from New Jersey. In the short walk through the woods to the place President Grant once lived and to where the silent sentry cannon stood amid tall oaks, I discovered the origin of trees. Yes, they came from little nuts. I could hold a whole forest in my cupped hands. But my discovery of a forest-in-hand waned when I was told the nut was poisonous. What a bitter pill to swallow after such an amazing discovery. Squirrels and worms could eat these things presumably because they were immune. More like they would starve otherwise.

Knowing the resourcefulness of the Native Americans, I could never imagine that such an autumn harvest couldn't be used for anything more than pig or squirrel bait. And indeed, I was always right.

Yet, I was never compelled to make flour because I don’t bake much and when I need flour, I stick with the Gold Medal. Now with too much time on my hands and a sense to prepare for the day of doom when economic markets collapse and governments run amuck, I’ve decided to acquire skills that would entice others to pick me for their survival team. Or maybe one day CBS’s Survivor will cast a show in the Adirondacks and I can wow national audiences with my wilderness prowess that doesn’t involve a bikini.

Meanwhile, Dad’s electric bill will be July-high from the hours of boiling the tannins out of the shelled nuts and more hours drying the meal out in the oven. Will I now whip up a batch of acorn raspberry muffins the size of cat heads? Guess what my sisters are getting for Christmas?

Monday, September 13, 2010

No ID Required

The other day morning we lost power at the house. There were no ice storms, high winds or other weather related calamity associated with living at the forty third parallel. Earlier the scream of sirens ran through the woods, escaped sounds from Route 9, the road down the hill from the house. The disturbance mixed with the stuttered chatter of leaves, conversations of fall arriving on the fresh breath out of Canada. “A car most likely wrapped around a telephone pole,” I told Dad. We cranked the generator so I could take a shower before work.

I left for work. At the bottom of the hill an EMT flagged me when I signaled to head south. I rolled the passenger side window down to let the man dressed in rubber boots and a huge yellow jacket explain.

“Road is closed.” I imagined a mangled car fused to a pole. The jaws of life munching metal. Probably some tourist. Maybe a drunk, but it wasn’t even noon.

“How are far down Northern Pines do I need to go? Worth Road?” I knew the detour. Northern Pines was a parallel route, and once a back road that now carried a volume of traffic to and from the condos and fabricated homes that sprouted in the old corn fields and abandoned dairy farms. Springtime dandelions didn't grow as fast.

“No, The accident is at Worth.”

Hell, I thought to myself. If I got to do that I might as well go all the way into town pass the elementary school and come out by the mall. Do I need anything? Before I could compile a list to pick up at Wal-Mart, the EMT asked, “Are you a Perez?”

Okay, here’s the point of my blog. I was eighteen when I left Saratoga, and although I have lived here part time for the last three years I’m more recognizable than the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted. If I didn’t know better I’d say my face was pinned to a wall in the Post Office. It’s certainly not my one-book authorship or my blog reader ship, or my run-away twittering cat or even my right wing conservative hate monger activities in Washington DC that promotes my fame. No, it’s my genes.

That’s right, I look like my father. Everyone tells me. No matter how causal the relationship people will tell me this. The greeter at Wal-Mart. An ancient member of the Wilton Historical Society. All the Bank of America tellers. The owners at Allerdice, the local hardware store. They all recognize me as Manny’s daughter. I even have people I don’t know, like the clerk at Lowes, ask me “How’s your dad?”

With this kind of recognition who needs to carry identification? It won’t get me through any airport security, but it gives me the privilege of using his credit card anywhere in town, no questions ask.

The EMT explained he was a Hellenek. Since he looked a good ten years younger than me, I figured he had to have been eight when I left town. I didn’t recognized him. Oh well.

Being told I look like my father isn’t bad unless I take it that I look like an 86 year old man.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Lest We Forget

On the street, a row of middle class homes, no flags dance on the front porches in the early morning breeze. The skies are as clear and blue as they were a distant nine years ago. We may not want to admit it, but we are forgetting. Memories faded away like the flags I once posted in the windows of my Jeep. The very fabric of our lives was torn that day, September 11, 2001. We are somehow different, although we won’t admit it because we are tangled in our own righteousness. It's a change no one promised.

Some things have been mended over the past nine years, but like a tear carefully woven back together it never is the same. The thread’s hue is slightly off, a bit brighter than the original and that’s not right. The texture a bit softer and that’s not right. It smells a little fresher than the old and even that isn’t quite right. Yet somehow, the cloth is stronger where the tear had been, exposing the entire fabric as weak. The flaw is unnoticed by the wearer, but seen clearly by the enemy.

In a country of "me, me, me" we excuse ourselves and make amends by saying "you, you, you". And that clearly doesn’t work. Nine years later we have the fractions of protests and outrage instead of consolidated reflection and prayer. What united the country as one nation under God, indivisible has been able to expose naivety about our very history, principles, values and worth.

It’s not about me. It’s not about you. Lest we forget, and we have, we are doomed when we forget to hold ourselves to the higher standards and principles on which this country was founded. It’s not about our first amendment right that frees us from a government that makes “no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech,”

When free men assemble in prayer and in voice they know that such a privilege is given to them by other free men. Both know and acknowledge the freedom is not owed to them, but given to them by the other, without interference or precious price. It’s called respect. It’s not a right, it is an obligation borne by all. It's not about what feels good. It is about what is good.

So when mosques are built in sacred places or Korans are burned by fools remember each has that right, but sadly each has forgotten their obligation as free men to his fellow citizen. And sadder still we have leadership that inconsistently addresses both, reminding us of one man's rights, admonishing the other for exercising his and ignoring the obligation of both.

May our Lord never treat us in the same way that we treat each other, in an arbitrary selfish manner.

I thank my God, He doesn’t.

Tuesday, September 07, 2010

Good-bye to those MIA

It seemed like everyone knew everybody. Obviously, that wasn’t true. I was new and so were many others. I recognized some from my training class, a cursory explanation of duties and responsibilities, the dos and the don’ts, some legal stuff and the difference between a misdemeanor and a felony. Totally useless stuff. The day had been mostly a rambling tale of incidences that had happened at the Saratoga Race Track. It could have taken ten minutes to summarize what they really wanted us to do. Above all else, as a security patrolman all situations are handled in the following manner. Call your supervisor. On my own I discovered what I needed to know. Where the phones were to make this call. And all the other needed stuff—where the bathrooms, the ATMs and the Customer Service booths—were located. Other than that, amuse yourself for a security guard is nothing more than a uniformed information booth to assure patrons have a good time, don’t get hurt or destroy any property.

When I showed up to my station everyone was settled in. I started later than others so introductions already had been made. And even if they were in my class, they were already working, learning the ropes. They had the basics…your name, where you were from, what you did before the track, how long you had been here and who’s that?

Yeah, everyone knew everybody. But at the end of the six weeks, I was part of the family of track hires saying goodbye to co-workers who dispersed to engage in lives beyond the red and white canopies set between Nelson and Union Avenue.

Yesterday ended my third year. We didn’t count down like we had previously. Sure Peter, the on-track judge, came down the horse path waving three fingers, then two, then one indicating the last races- The Hopeful, The Glens Falls and a conglomeration of maidens trying to leave Saratoga broken.

And then it was over. The goodbyes and the hugs almost taken and given as an obligation. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. I’ll see you next year. As casual as “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Taken for granted.

But then this year we missed several who never came back.

There was John Salerno, the overweight ticket taker at the restaurant called At The Rail. For two decades he serenaded beautiful women with his charm and his voice, breaking into song for any good reason. And there were many. His rendition of the Star Spangle Banner filled me with great pride and humbled my patriotism. And yet he could growl to reminded me that I was just a security guard, I had a place, and it wasn’t to casually mingle with the big shots that he could surround himself with. John died a day before Thanksgiving. Heart Attack.

There was Security Guard Dave, who become known as my Boy Friend. He would mysteriously appear at the gate coming out of the crowd like a Gila monster out of the desert. He carried the poison, a hot tip on a horse. Yet his tips were good as gold. If I wasn't there when he showed up, Dave never gave the info to anyone else. The other guards teased me, “Your boyfriend was here.”
“Who?” I would ask.
“The guy with two teeth and three missing fingers.”
Dave would return later, staying just long enough to stick five dollars in my hand and relay the info, “the five horse in the next race.”
I never knew how Dave knew. He just knew.
He and his wife changed their shifts and I never funded my retirement this year.

There were the Mount Rushmores, the name I gave the two old stone faced maître d’es. Slip them a fifty and you could enter their domain. Be dying of thirst and they would invite you to drink out of the bucket left for the outriders’ ponies. And there was the guy I called Joe Montana, because he looked like Joe Montana. He was the maître d' at the paddock tent of fine dining. It was replaced by the Blue Smoke and Shake Shack, the two hot snack venues flanked by a mutuel bay and a tented bar with beer on tap and no bathroom. Economic times took this Centerplate crew out.

And there was Lois, a sweet lady who quietly played the horses, something her husband had done years earlier. She came alone. Occasionally she came with her son who looked nothing like her and was engaged to a person not interested in horse racing. Lois watched all the races except the steeple chases. To watch the horses and riders sail over the hedges made her too nervous, afraid of the consequences should one hoof not clear the hazard. She sat away from the fence at the clubhouse horse crossing in a little blue chair tucked in the smallest space by the oak tree. I coaxed her to the fence to watch the post parade. We shared picks and hunches. At the end of last year’s meet she gave me a gift card from Target. "For making my time so pleasant." I used it in Hawaii this January. Lois never returned to the track this year. I never saw her son either. I may never know what happened.

On Friday afternoon I stood outside the Main Gate watching the race enthusiasm fizzle through the wrought iron. Yet I wished good evening to all and bid them good bye. There wasn’t much else to do out there, so I assumed myself, just like I had been taught. I asked a few if they funded my pay check.

A middle aged couple (okay, about my age) passed through the gate speaking French. At the last second, he turned and asked in English, “What time do the races start tomorrow?”
“1 PM.”
“And on Sunday?”
“1 PM.”
He was delighted with this information. I learned they were from Quebec. By then his wife was taking a photo of the entrance. I offered to take their picture. While doing so I continued to wish the other patrons a good evening. More times than not, my bid was briefly acknowledged.

As I handed the camera back to the woman she said, “You know everyone.”
I laughed, “Just about.”

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Victor Peterson from Minnesota

I walked right by him. Never saw him. But Nancy saw him sitting in the lobby. Dressed in a long sleeve khaki shirt and pants, he looked like an old safari hunter with white hair and wind blown sideburns. He had been invisible, like so many others like him today.

"Did you see the World War II vet?" she asked.

“Where?”

“Back there, sitting by himself.”

I wheeled around to return to the lobby. There he was with a red lanyard hanging around his neck, suspenders draped down his short torso and his World War II hat. Would anybody but a WWII vet wear such a hat?

He watched the hotel guests check out and arrange for the valet to retrieve their cars, or ask the concierge for advice - the best places to go, to see and to experience New Orleans, to cram as much as possible into the morning, before the temperatures scorched 100, before they wilted into the sewer drains beneath the broken slate sidewalks in the French Quarters.

I offered my hand. “Thank you for your service.” He shook with a firm grip, similar to my father’s. (My theory is those with good handshakes are due for a long life.) And like Dad, he humbly thanked me and declined to accept that what he had done years ago was anything special. He “just got on with life.”

But life almost didn’t happen for young Victor Peterson. He had left home when he was fifteen. He took to the trains. Flat broke he never asked for a handout, but knocked on doors and asked for odd jobs. This way of life took him to Alaska where he helped build the Alaskan Highway. But when the war broke out, he came home and he went to his draft board.

“They asked me if I was married. I told them yes. They asked me if I got married to get out of being drafted. I said no. So the stamped my papers.” He became a cook onboard the ship to England. When he got there they asked what he did. He said he was a cook. They said they didn’t need cooks, so they put a rifle in his hands. Two weeks later he was a sergeant and headed to Czechoslovakia.

As a squad leader, Victor saw himself as a mother hen, responsible for younger soldiers, boys who had never been away from home, away from mom. He was 22. So he never let his charges go into the woods first. He was point and that was how he got shot in the head. He pointed to his head. Was that to emphasize the place he got shot or to show me where in the head he took the bullet? I don’t know. His finger landed on his forehead above his right eye. There was no visible scar.

Was he a real New Orleans’ saint? He was shot in the head. As if he knew what I had been thinking he explained, “I yelled at the Germans that they couldn’t shoot me. Those SOBs. I was cocky. Then I took one. My platoon couldn’t get to me. They thought I was dead. I lay on the ground. Then I sat up. My men couldn’t believe it. The docs said just this much further…” Victor had head aches for three years after that.

It wasn’t Victor’s time. He came home and raised seven children with his wife who passed away a few years ago. His eyes filled when he spoke of her. I fought back my own. Now he visits his wife’s grave on the 8th day of each month. “I got ten more years until I’m 100. Then my wife and I will go for a walk together." I believe this will be true.

Victor was in New Orleans to attend the annual 90th Tough Hombre Division. The division has gathered ever since World War I. While we talked, a couple came up and thanked him for playing the piano last night. He entertained the group with a collection of hymns. “I can play for hours. Non stop. Until I played Lili Marlene. Then my wife would yell, ‘don’t play that.’ She’d accuse me of thinking about the war. I guess I was.” He laughed.

Somehow time moved rapidly forward. He shared a story about a trip he took to Texas. He was lying in bed eating peanut brittle when his stomach acted up. Diarrhea. He had it for 4 months and lost forty pounds.

"Okay, Victor, I got to get back up to my room." I thanked him again for being a hero.

“No, I’m not.”

“What you did back then, made me who I am today. That makes you a hero.”

Friday, August 13, 2010

Graveside

“How much further you got to go?” It was meant to be a joke. Something told me he wasn't going to say, "to China." He looked at me, his black eyes on the same level as mine. With a shrug he dismissed my question. The crowbar thumped into the earth with the hollow sound of a summer melon. He stood knee deep in the neatly shaped rectangle.

For the past hour I listened to his rhythmical thuds followed by a short series of metal biting into dirt. Now the shovel speared the grass. His wet t-shirt clung to his torso like a burial cloth. The interruption gave him the opportunity to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. He readjusted his ball cap. “If I was working over in Franklin, I’d be done by now. This is nothing but fill. I even find bits of old cans and glass.” He stepped out of his hole. A harvest fly’s complaint scattered the still air.

The ground behind the church pitched the headstones in short waves and trailed off down a slope. There he had dumped wheel barrels of dirt and returned with small rocks.

“I guess you have to dig that by hand.” It was a statement as much as a question. He wasn’t a grave digger, but instead a headstone placer. Something about the hole fascinated me. I figured there must be a special machine to dig these holes. A bobcat maybe? Like steak I never think about the process beyond the butcher saran wrapping the Styrofoam. Head stones don’t grow at gravesides, but I never saw anyone put one in before.

“You got a business card?”

“Nope. If you need me, contact the church.” He didn’t offer his name.

“My cousin needs a headstone. I pointed to a marker just a few feet behind me.”

“Ramirez?"

“Perez.”

“When did he die?”

“Last October.”

“No offense, but you should wait a year. The ground needs to settle. It’s better to wait, although the guys here do a good job packing.”

He noticed my license plate. “You from Tennessee?”

“No, Hawaii. I was cleaning the moss and lichen from my grandparents’ headstone.”

“You got to be careful. Some stones are limestone and bleach could eat away at it.”

“I used a paint scraper and a brush. A dry cleaning. It’s still stained, but at least you can read the dates.”

“Some get worse than others.”

“The west sides are worse than the east. That seems strange.”

He wandered down a couple rows and agreed with my observation. Then he picked up his crowbar and returned to his hole.

Saturday, July 31, 2010

Stupid, NYRA, Stupid

It’s a long standing tradition for the track to sponsor a Give-A-Way when some nearly worthless promotional item draws people to come to the races. The idea is that once they are there, they will place a few bets adding to the take. In past years, stein mugs, collector plates, blankets, coolers, chairs and umbrellas sporting the Saratoga Track logo have been featured. Nice items indeed. But as the economy soured, and the New York Racing Association moved closer to bankruptcy the items have been come less frequent and cheesier if not suspect of being made by child labor in some third world country like Honduras or Pakistan.

Recently – like Thursday – the track gave away a thin white t-shirt with a single color logo that wasn’t even Saratoga red. Okay it was a St Patrick’s Day celebration in July. And the people came, as usual, even on the unusual Thursday Give-A-Away. (It’s normally Sunday.)

I always said that if I ran the Zoo, this is how I would do it, but, yesterday was a clear illustration that I’m not in charge. Nevertheless, as it was I stood before the not so happy public as a public relations disaster unfolded.

As a Peace Officer without a permanent post, I get assigned to fill unmanned spots or special situations. Give-A-Ways are special situations. My first duty was to assist in directing the flow of humanity that seeped toward the tables where boxes of t-shirts were stacked. Here patrons redeemed their vouchers received free at the gate with paid admission. Managing the crowd was like fighting an oil spill with a dishrag. People disregarded instructions to exit left insisting on going out the entrance or by ducking under the yellow rope, as useless as a containment boom in a hurricane. They grumbled about the long wait, seeming unaware of the fact that no one required them to stand in line and get the t-shirt. Very optional. A free choice. Admission is just Three Dollars! There is no requirement that forced them to get one give-a-way, let along an arm load of them. Grumble, grumble, nevertheless.

Upon receiving the shirt many will unfold and inspect the item to consider the hell they just went through measured against the value of value of the shirt. Trust me it doesn't hold.

But this was the unfolding PR nightmare. On any Give-A-Way Day the track can expect forty to fifty thousand. The long standing tradition is those enterprising if not totally greedy individuals who “spin”, that is those who repeatedly go through the turnstiles gathering vouchers for the give-a-way. It mobs the gates. So a few years ago the track set up a multiple ticket booth inside where the admitted public could buy five-at-a-time vouchers. Of course people “spin” at the booth and collect upwards to fifty or more vouchers. You’ll see people leaving the track with arm loads give-a-way items. Once the vouchers are gone not even those who come in with paid admission can get a voucher. In Thursday's case they had only 18,000 vouchers. The spinners gobbled them up by 12:05 pm.

I watched the t-shirt supply dwindle by 1:30 pm. Yet, a lot of people with multiple vouchers were still coming for t-shirts. Not wanting to catch their wrath when they discovered no more t-shirts, I began to back away, but the sergeant corraled five of us to be stationed behind the tables where the irate and stressed customer service people were handing out shirts one at a time. The mob of now anxious and desperate shoved vouchers at the customer service personnel. A few managed to get on the other side of the tables. Images of Haitian refugees waiting for food floated through my head. Sad, but this crowd was mad, not starving. Lots of pushing and shoving. Shouting and complaining. A few actually did a snatch and run, grabbing a shirt offered to another. Too much paperwork for the sergeants to engage in a pursuit.

Once the last shirt was gone the customer service people disappeared and five guards were left standing to answer questions about a situation we had nothing to do with.
“I bought all these vouchers, where do I get my money back?” It’s like betting on a horse...
“I didn’t get a vouchers, how do I get a shirt?” You don’t.
“How come you gave out more vouchers than t-shirts?” If I’m wearing this uniform you think I had anything to do with that?
“What do you mean there are no more t-shirts? I got a bus load of people who need t-shirts.” Are they naked?
“My dad has been getting t-shirts for fifty years. You people should know better.” You’d think your dad would have enough t-shirts by now.

Okay, that was what I was thinking.

Security guards get lots of questions, mostly about the location of the nearest bathroom. It got worse when the hottest tip of the day leaked that there were shirts in the Guest Services office. A mini-give-a-way ensued. I spent the rest of the afternoon among the irate individuals outside the door of Guest Services listening to them explain something that had no good explanation other than We Screwed Up.

The afternoon waned as customer complaint forms morphed faster than losing tickets on the grandstand floor. Bold Victory crossed the finish line, last horse in the last race that day. Hardly a victory for NYRA either. Yes, if I ran the Zoo, I would have done this differently. If I indeed ran the Zoo, I’d take every one of those complaints, call the person and invite them back to the track on one special day for a private party hosted At The Rail and take my lumps. Wasting an opportunity to make amends is worse than making a disaster in the first place.

By the way, if you didn’t get that t-shirt, it is now on sale for $12.50 on Ebay. Here’s the link.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Where's Joe?

By the end of the fifth race I started to believe I stood in the place of a legend. I was at the historic Saratoga Race Track, the place of racing greats like Man O War, Sea Hero, Gallant Fox and well, somehow, Joe fit into the tradition.

Not Injun Charlie. Joe. Just plain old Joe. Everyone – and as a writer I know never to use the extremes like never and every, but I’m not exaggerating – everyone asked me where Joe was. They assumed I knew. Few know that there are over 200 security personnel at the track. Everyone (oops) assumes we know each other. It’s kind of like assuming everyone (oops, again) who comes to the track knows who Sea Biscuit was. Anyway, I began to pretend I knew Joe too, rather than I look like a fool. Turned out it was easier to pretend than to explain I didn’t know.

My assignment was on the fourth floor of the Clubhouse, the upscale seating a horseshoe toss from the finish line. Table linens, waiters dressed in black and white, over priced shrimp cocktails, and stray pigeons in the rafters. But a great view of the green turf courses, the infield lake speckled with geese and a heart stopping vantage to see your horse miss by a nose. Perched at this elevation are the race stewards, the press and Tom Durkin calling each race. My duties: keep out the riff-raff, the impostors and anyone violating the long standing rule – no short. It’s hardly enforced accept when you’re going to eat and I’m on the job.

It began as soon as they stepped off the elevator. “Where’s Joe, the guy who was here last year?” I politely shrugged a reply as I opened the gate for a couple fire marshals with the tough tour of hanging around the air conditioned hallway leading to the announcer’s booth.

The wait staff, his pants rippled over the top of his shoes like the neck of a Shar-Pei and his shirt hung like a sail without wind offered an explanation, “He said he wasn’t coming back. Said it was his last year last year.”

“Gee, imagine that,” responded one of the fire marshals. “Joe finally got sick of the place.”

“Good for him.” His companion said, like Joe just robbed the mutuel bay, made off to Florida, sticking it to The Man.

I settled into my post to find out more about Joe. "Been here for three years." "Been here since 2001." "Been here ever since I was here. 15 years." Throughout the afternoon, I wove pieces of information together and later bounced my theories around when asked.

“What happened to Joe?”

Deciding to offer some good news about Joe I said, “Retired to Florida.”

The man dressed in a yellow plaid jacket grabbed his heart. He staggered, but looked relieved, Fred Sanford style. “Whew, I thought maybe he died. Joe has been here for 28 years.” That number increased as the afternoon's card dwindled. I finally pegged the number of years Joe sat outside the elevator door at thirty-two. I would be lucky to be back there the next day. When asked if I would be Joe’s replacement I said, “For today.”

I bet Joe knew the details of each person who worked there. Kid’s names. Spouse. Where they had gone to school. Where they lived in the off season. Medical ailments and other aches and pains. Whether they voted for Nixon. Yankee or Red Sox fan. Joe had been on a personal detail gathering mission of 32 years. Yet, only the kid with the shirt tail knew Joe wasn’t coming back. Only he paid attention to what Joe had said.

After all the inquiries about Joe, I felt a little like the last race’s losing ticket crumpled, tossed and trampled beneath humanity's driving urge to continual move ahead. They accepted Joe’s absence too easily. A few shook my hand, introduced themselves with an expectation that I was to remember them. After all, they will be back tomorrow.

I walked through the grandstand after the races. No more crowds, stewards, or wait staff. Tom Durkin had jumped on his yellow scooter and headed off for a cold one. Spanish conversations accompanied the swishing sounds of brooms. Dust rose in the air. Tree tops captured the long afternoon rays. I thought about Joe. Thirty-two years sitting outside the elevator. I wasn’t going to come back this year. Two had been enough for me. But here I was. Could that be me three decades from now? Well, I like to be alive, but not be a security guard.

I hope you got a new dream now Joe. Good luck, where ever you are.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Communist Among Us

Okay, okay, I’ve heard just about everyone complain how tired they are looking at Greece. It's been so long I almost forgot my UserName. So here’s the first blog about the next forty days. (You’re crazy to think I’ll write a daily blog about the going-ons at the Saratoga Race Track. I’ll leave that to the insiders like Injun Joe.)

Leaving Greece and coming back to America. I got to ask. How can you walk into a crowd of twenty thousand people who suddenly stop dead in their tracks, drop conversations and turn attention to the nearest flag as “Oh say can you see” ripples through the oaks and maples surrounding America’s premier racetrack? Only the limp flutter of Old Glory itself high above the Travers’ canoe and the pages of the New York Post reserving the benches under the mutual bay stir in the stilted summer air. The pause is as noticeable as a cough in a concert hall. Yet some will continue to meander through the hush, oblivious. It’s not surprising when a kid acts the fool, but it is curious to witness a senior clutching his absorbed thoughts as the National Anthem asks if the Flag is sill there.

Do major league ballplayers notice the Star Spangled Banner before every game or is it such a part of the 160-plus-game season that routine numbs its representation? At ten minutes before noon the Francis Scott Keys composition signals that another day of thoroughbred racing is about to begin. Post time is 1 PM, so the Anthem, played an hour before the first race catches most people off guard. At a ball game the Anthem is played just before the beginning of the game and the crowd has their attention turned toward the field in anticipation. Those at the track generally are not in the grandstand an hour before the first race. Instead, they mill about the yard searching for a picnic table, thumbing through the program handicapping the first race or fishing deep inside a cooler looking for a Bud Light. They are getting ready for the day, but not ready for their attention to be drawn elsewhere.

Nor is there any announcement. “Ladies and gentleman, please rise for the playing of the National Anthem.” Indeed, some must be told. Even I can miss the first drawn notes if I’m standing away from the PA systems. Nevertheless, there are those who refuse to take notice and act respectful. There is a loss of appreciation to pay tribute and respect to the National Anthem. The question is not if the flag is still there, but we could ask if there are any free and brave left among us.

My noon shift begins with the National Anthem. I’ll stand and salute. I’ll do it everyday of the meet. Forty Days of racing. Forty days to reflect on my God, my Country and my Founding Fathers. There is something that stirs my heart when I heard the Anthem. In my head I’ll sing, for the tune is difficult to carry and I have difficulty with the simple stuff like Itsy Bitsy Spider. I could cry when I hear the National Anthem if I wasn’t watching commies walk past me.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

We Are Greece

Why do we argue if we are Greece or not? That’s as stupid as standing in the middle of a burning house with a pack of matches in your hand and saying, “but I didn’t light it.” Who the hell care? Your standing in the middle of a burning house. Got out.

I’m not a liberal intellectual like Paul Krugman. I can’t get away with speculating about the economy with unproven theories and flat out denial about the economic situation. I’m just a smuck like everyone else who experiences reality. If I don’t have enough money coming in, I must either earn more money or cut my spending. I’m responsible to do this because no one is going to bail me out. I can safely say I’m not Greece. I get no bailout. And you probably aren’t like Greece either.

I do know that the US Debt to GDP ratio is over 10%. (For the economically challenged this is not healthy.) The United States is 13 trillion in debt. And here comes Congress – like a seagull to shit over everything – to add another $500 BILLION in spending on top of everything else. This could happen by the end of the month. Are you serious that my concerns about the debt are only a ploy to attack Congress' spending on social welfare? Well, hell yeah. Otherwise it is the same as your spouse saying in response to your lay off, “It’s okay honey. Let’s go and get that new car and take that vacation anyway. We’ll just borrow more money and worry about it later.” Later is now.

No the US is not like Greece. California which must close a $20 BILLION dollar budget deficit is. Huge slashes welfare, school spending, hospital programs, etc. are needed. Not little cuts, deep cuts. It hurts all. But it slaps those who have grown dependent on government created ballooning bureaucracies, the government union.

80% of workers in the US have defined pension plans. Those plans are in the market. They have already taken a wallop in the debt crises of 18 months ago. Unions held firm on their strangled hold on government and you the taxpayer. Public sector employees represents just 15% of the workforce, but they are paid by federal, state, and local governments who are all at risk when these governments go belly up.

Begin to dump this workforce into the 10% already unemployed and what do you think won’t happen? Riots in the street? Because we are not Greece? I’m sure Greece didn’t even think this would happen. We are humans and we are all greedy. Give us something and then try to take it away. What will happen? Greece? Isn’t New Jersey getting a little contentious?

Interest rates are going to rise. The economy is going to choke on new taxes. What we need is a credible solution and that does not include $500 BILLION more in spending. Spending needs to be reigned in now or we will face drastic cuts. Congress hasn’t the stomach to do it. Idiots like Jack Krugman say we are not like Greece. If we don't get a grip, we will be. Please, you can hide under a rock if you want. I’m building an ark.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Callie

This may cause some of you to scoff, “Valerie, you need to get out more.” Scoff if you will, but this clearly illustrates the amazing power of the Internet’s social networks.

Throughout the ages man has been able to stir emotions through the use of various media. It would seem impossible to compare emotion caused by “art” to that caused by life. Nevertheless, the protagonist portrayed in novel or film suffers a loss, we feel that loss. He experiences triumph; we too bask in the glory and success. Every emotion is possible to evoke by word, photo, painting, music, etc. We never discredit the emotion as fake, but applaud the artist for the skill to capture our heart and soul, for bringing us along on the escape, an escape that brings us right back to the reality of human experience, an emotional connection to our world and others. (Aren’t we all going to cry when the last episode of Lost airs?) Friendships borne on the Internet suffer no loss in the ability to tap into a connection of human experience.

For the last year I have been on Twitter communicating with those who responded to the insane, poignant and humorous musing of my cat Diablo, known as Southbound Cat. My twittering cat is not novel. Millions of others do the same. For Southbound twittering was the next step in the evolution of expression. Diablo and her—yes Diablo’s online persona is a male, an often confusing point for others when I discuss my cat—companion, Phoenix, have blogged since my book tour in 2006.

There were only so many observations the cat could make in the confines of the house, and since my imagine lacks at times, I allowed Diablo to escape and begin a four month journey across the country. Ultimately, she would end up in Hawaii just about the time I would leave.

Along the way Diablo has brought with her a pile of followers, mostly other felines, the occasional airport, marketing firm and a few XXX’ers. I can’t explain it. She kept her reciprocal following to a minimum to filter out the drivel and concentrate on a special few who regularly have something entertaining to say. I am socially challenged and can not keep track of much more than a couple hundred others. Diablo’s cadre of followers is now over 1000. By the way, my own twitter account has only 23 followers.

She has developed some unique friendships with equally feisty if not wittier felines, cats with cat-titudes suffering the embarrassment of living with humans just because they can’t operate a can opener. It is an opposable thumb, not a lack of intelligences issue. Of equal attachment she has a community of humans with a fondness for the felines.

Diablo conspired to take over the world with the help of a few other felines. They have developed The Code, and have weaseled enough Tuna out of their humans to put Charlie the Tuna out of business. Diablo has been invited to stay with numerous feline and human friends and even a hedgehog during her transcontinental traipse. While most communication has been banter from a cat’s perspective behind the scene real life occurs. And that is were the connections rest.

Diablo shared in the joys of new kitties and loveable adoptions. "He" laughed out loud at hilarious antics and comments. "He" especially enjoyed taking stabs at foibles. Diablo shared the pains of illness and death, which included Boots, my mother’s cat. Some cats twitter the daily tribulations of their battles with disease and sickness. We watch, listen and pray. Others never mention their woes. Humans share their experiences in the similar fashion. Diablo offered sympathy to those whose pets have crossed over the Rainbow Bridge. In Direct Messages Diablo has come out of character to extend prayer to a friend whose father-in-law is gravely ill. While the adventures and tales of the Twitter characters are unreal (come on, a typing cat?), their personas, created by the person behind the keyboard are no less real.

Of this group, Diablo’s best friend and partner in crime has been a cat named TooncesCat. Toonces helped develop Diablo’s bad ass yet, loveable male character. As Diablo morphed on Twitter a connection to other fellow Twitterers, both cat and human grew. You may say virtually, but that does not diminish the resulting friendships.

I acknowledge all the emotions I have experienced on Diablo's behalf, yet I was caught off guard this morning, when I received a message that one of Toonces’ sibling house kitties passed away with kidney failure. Sadness met my heart and filled my eyes with tears. A real loss. I so felt the loss of a cat I had never met, never twittered to, and rarely discussed. But this cat belonged to Toonces’ owner. My heart goes out to The Human of Toonces on the loss of Callie, a beautiful 15 year old calico, the sister of Toonces, the friend of Diablo.

Weird yes, but that little bit of me that hurts is no less real.

Saturday, May 08, 2010

$75 Tomato

The only thing I’ve ever been good at growing has been my toenails. As a little kid, my first gardening attempt involved peas. I netted five pods and ever since I’ve never been a fan of peas. When I attempted tomatoes I lost the battle to cutworms the size of hotdogs. In January, when I was making a salad I sliced open a tomato and found little sprouts. I decided to see what would happen if I planted them.

It started as a simple whim, an experiment in my backyard, kept it simple and inexpensive, after all, condo rules state no fruit bearing plants. Something about attracting rats. If I got caught and had to remove the plants, I didn’t want a lot of money sunk into a few illegal plants.

It began with some dirt taken from beneath my palms and a cottage cheese container. No big investments. Four days after I planted them I took off for two weeks. I stuck the plastic container in one of my ti pots hooked up to a drip irrigation system. I placed the pot in a shady area of my lanai so the sun wouldn’t fry them. The tiny sprouts were not given much chance to survive. When I returned I had two dozen plants about three inches tall. That’s when I got emotionally involved in the experiment. And that cost money.

My nursery of little seedlings needed something larger than a cottage cheese container. And they needed more dirt. My Hilo cousin, an organic fruit and sheep farmer explained dirt was what you get on your clothes. What I needed was soil. I bought two bags soil and a window box size flower container, although I was advised I needed bigger containers. I transplanted the tiny plants expecting to lose some to shock, but all twenty seven seedlings made the first transplant. Surprised me. I knew I had to thin the herd, but like I said I got emotionally attached to the little guys. Pulling some of them up by the roots seemed criminal.


Over the course of the next few weeks they grew to be a foot tall. I needed more dirt and more pots. Cha-ching, cha-ching. I culled some of the plants and transplanted the rest into four more pots. Again, I expected some to die in the process, but all made it. In the culling process, I pulled one plant up and then decided to jam it back into another pot. The next day it lay limp. I continued to water it and it regained its upright posture, although stunted. Eventually it began to grow. In all I kept ten. They grew. I purchased tomato cages. (That was a sight. Traveling home on my scooter with four cages strapped to my basket. Looked pretty much like a scene from Bangkok, minus five other passengers.)


Bugs attacked the leaves. I bought a biological insecticide. Later the leaves started to yellow. I began to feed them Miracle Grow.

The plants are on the west side of the condo. By the afternoon, when they could get direct sun, the clouds have moved in. They are lucky if they get two hours. When I read that tomato plants need 6-8 hours of sunlight I went all out and bought a 120 watt grow light which are damn expensive in Hawaii.





My experiment was a measured success. I harvested my first tomato today. It cost about $75, not counting the cost of the original tomato purchased at the local farmer’s market back in January.

Monday, March 29, 2010

PHOTOS MISSING

Welcome to my blog. As of this morning, morning Hawaii time, there seems to be a major blogger problem. Photos are missing. I've communicated with others and they are experiencing similar losses. I hope this gets fixed soon. At least the words have not gone missing. CRAP if they do as I have never backed up posted documents.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

American Evil Exceptionalism

Last week, I attempted to tackle the subject of evil as a chapter in my book. Yeah, I go after the big stuff. This is why it is taking so long to write it. I had no intentions of writing a blog about the passage of the health care bill. I made it plain last summer and fall where I stood. You know the saying about the dead horse.

After dinner and the crossword puzzle on Sunday night, I began to jot a few random thoughts on the subject of evil. Suddenly, I began writing about health care. I wasn't going to post any of this, but a friend asked what I disliked most about health care reform. Unfortunately, my answer wasn't very succinct.

An Evil Solution
The role of government is to protect its citizens’ God given rights. For some, the concept is hardly indisputable, particularly given the fertile ground plowed for government’s expansion through the recent passage of the Health Care Bill. It saddens me that people are now beginning to wonder what health care reform will mean to them. Kind of like the horse and that proverbial barn door. I’m not a scholar nor an intellectual, but I do know when something doesn’t smell right. This may be one thing not considered: the expansion of government expands evil throughout the world.

A wise man knows evil exists. Evil is a normal part of life. Evil makes us understand the full vibrancy and richness of life. Not the crazy and insane shit, like torture and genocide, that’s not normal although certainly evil. I’m talking the whole realm of human experiences including the fact that life is not fair: you can’t have everything you want, losers don’t get trophies and women generally live longer than men. It’s no bed of roses. Yet a growing number of people feel the need to rectify injustices through government intervention, regulation and defining rights. To rid the world of injustices citizens increasingly turn to their government, unaware and uninformed of the consequences.

Some may take exception to the usage of the word evil to describe injustices. Too strong? You may also believe green is a value. Green is not a value. It's a color.

American Experiment
Our founding fathers wisely recognized the source of man’s rights. They are God-given. It was a huge deviation from the previous courses throughout history. Never before had a nation been founded on the premise that the individual was created equal by God, and the individual was responsible for his own destiny in a nation that protected his life, his liberty and his pursuit of happiness. Never before was a nation founded on the guiding principles that government was formed by the people, controlled by the people, for the purpose of assuring that his God-given rights were not diminished. Never before had a nation been established uniting the values of E Pluribus Unum, Liberty and In God We Trust. Keep government small with a clearly defined role to protect liberty, not provide equality (God already did), and the individual flourishes.

Thus was born a nation that spawned individual aspirations and dreams. To experience one's own success and failure. Yes, even failure. It was a risk, but for that risk, man was free, unburdened by the whims of a few elite who could take away anything whenever they decided.

Government's Creep
To sway its citizens and seize an opportunity the government had to paint a picture of great atrocities. Instead of recognizing the US medical care system as a leader in developing technology, and a system where it was illegal to deny medical care to its citizens, the government trotted out every hardship case they could find to demonstrate the evils of the system. The case was made that insurance companies were villains without considering the free choice people had in a market less regulated by government. People suffered economic hardship accessing medical care, but few recognized that when hit by a car, shot or fallen in a ditch medical attention is given and THEN someone asks, “how are you going to pay for this?” Premiums were too high, but who addressed doctors who in fear of malpractice suits order unnecessary, but ass-covering procedures? Profits were too high, but who acknowledged the slim profit margins that actually do exist? And horror of horror, young adults kicked off their parents’ plans. Perhaps it is time to grow up, get a job and buy their own insurance. Oh, yeah, people are dying in the street. I know this for a fact, I saw two people die in January.

While I realize that there was a need to reform the medical system, reform was promoted by the government’s twisted versions of reality in order to convince the people that health care should be a right. Or, it maybe it is the right to have health insurance. I’m not sure. You see, when the government gives the citizen a right, it isn’t as clearly defined as God-given rights. God-given rights: Five words-Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. Government-given right: 2700 pages of health care voodoo.

If health care is a right, why not food? Isn’t that important? How about housing, jobs, transportation, education (actually the government has been messing with this) and reproduction? Will we need a 5000 page bill to clarify that any consumption over 1500 calories/day will be taxed unless you can prove that your state job requires a higher intake? You know them fat people are burdening the medical system. (Oh, is that a far reaching scare tactic?)

However, expecting the government to solve social and economic shortcomings is not the problem, nor is it that once government defines citizens’ rights the government can take away those rights, at any time, for any reason. The real problem is how this erodes the character of the individual and ultimately society. The true problem is what this does to man.

Imagine No Responsibility. It's Easy If You Try.
“If anyone does not provide for his relatives, especially his immediate household, he has denied faith and is worse than an unbeliever.” Yep, right out of the Bible, 1 Timothy 5:8. With God-given rights comes God expected responsibilities. But when we deny our responsibilities, why fret about our God-given rights?

Many believe that if evil does exist its roots are in social shortcomings caused by poverty, economic disparity, lack of proper nutrition, inadequate housing, poor education and lack of health care. Since the days of President Hoover this view has been growing. If only these disparities could be eliminated by providing equal access for all. Combined this belief with a man who takes less responsibility for himself and we have the coming of a societal train wreck. Man turns to government to take care of everything. It is an arrogant, self-centered idealism, more evil than the evils it pretends to address. For man wrongfully assumes that evil can be controlled and fixed through laws, rules, and regulations.

Give a dog a stick and he will never fetch it. Man by his nature is similarly lazy. Give him something for nothing and he becomes a self-center individual waiting for the next hand out, even demanding the next hand out, while all along appreciating it less and less. If he doesn’t have to scratch for his own living, he won’t. Create a dependent relationship on his government and it is a slippery slope to his own demise and a far cry from eliminating evil.

A self-centered person doesn’t care about anyone but himself. That includes making generous donations to charitable organization, (statistics show conservatives donate a far greater percentage of their income than liberals), or enlisting in the armed services to defend the freedom in his own country or around the world. A self-centered person stays home, selfishly waiting for the next distribution. It is delusional to think otherwise.

The Consequences
In the quest to cure societal ills through government intervention two things happen. We arrogantly believe that the problem and the solution are in our control, turning away from the faith-based nation created by our founding fathers. From God, we turn to government to grant new rights and we neglect our responsibilities, not only to ourselves, but to others. At the same time, we lower the bar of excellence: excellence in the individual who will strive in a society free of government handouts; excellence in industry created by the most talented individuals who recognize opportunities, and excellence in society, for welfare states don’t fight evil, they create it (Mao, Stalin, Che, Hitler). I won’t outline the differences of socialism, communism or progressiveness, as this is not the point.

When rights are determined and defined by government, the citizen doesn’t get more rights without incurring a deep cost. The most obvious cost is the loss of liberty as an ever-increasing portion of the individual's sweat-equity goes to the state to fund the ever-increasing entitlements for others. But I’m more concerned with diminished spiritual freedom. Not the I-go-to-church kind of freedom, although historically that is lost too (China, Russia, Cuba, Germany), but the freedom to be valued in a society that recognizes this as a gift to itself. When a German solider comes home from Iraq, he is jeered. When an American solider returns home, he receives a standing ovation. Why is that? For the time being, it is because service is recognized as a contribution, freely sacrificed.

The premises on which America was built built strong character which is not inherent in a fallen man separated from God. To have an accountability to a power, higher than government, instills a purpose to serve others. It creates a needed individual. But for those who are dependent on government, they horde dearly the crumbs received from their master who must ration limited resources produced in a society built on fears. Hardly inspiring, hardly a society that will take up the causes of the oppressed, the down trodden, the tired. Yes, the bar of human excellence becomes dramatically lower.

The trade-off between God-given rights and government-granted rights is huge for all nations. For America to be a nation like all others is to lower the standard of excellence and generates citizens with little concern beyond the disparities between him and his neighbor. It will doom all nations. We just took one giant leap toward government sponsored laziness. That's evil.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Nettle Cats

I noticed the other day that I had not written a blog on Beyond the Sail since the end of February. (Diablo has written several at SouthBoundCats.) I resolved for the New Year to write three or four a week. I’m hardly upset about it. I’ve been plugging along in my book, so the keyboard efforts are alive and somewhat well. I say somewhat because I reread something I wrote in mid-Feb. What a piece of crap.

But this morning my writing routine was postponed due to an urgent mission to search and destroy the Stinging Nettle Caterpillar. As I write, I fight an urge to scratch a tormenting itch on the back of my hand.

A couple of weeks ago I discovered my ti plants and areca palms were vanishing nearly before my eyes. Some unknown pest chewed the leaves to the stems. Two years ago snails made dinner of my ti plants and last year little worms built nests from the leaves they chewed. After some research and discussion with the kids at Ace Hardware in the middle of the pesticide aisle, I significantly reduced these two invaders. It wasn’t all pesticides that helped. With the vigilance of a North Korean solider on the DMZ I patrolled the garden, examined foliage and earth for the insurgents. The organic approach was tedious, but I enjoyed pushing through the mini-jungle to find the foe. The snails were either flushed down the toilet or tossed over the fence to die in the middle of the busy road. The worm-leafhouse bugs were crushed under foot. I proved to be formidable predator, proud of my top-of-the-food-chain intellect and cunning.

When I discovered the caterpillars among the stalks of once green leaves I knew I had found a new enemy. I recalled a brochure the condo association sent out a couple of years ago on a particular caterpillar with a sting. I paid little attention to this information, for at the time, my areca were about two feet tall and my daily pest patrols yielded no caterpillars of any sort. Plus I was under the impression that these imported pests from Indonesia were on the Hilo side.

Yesterday while I reviewed the decimation and culled through the remaining foliage for the caterpillar, I accidently made contact with one of these spiny bugs. I cussed out loud in pain. With a sharp flick, the caterpillar sailed off the back of my hand. Its spiny hairs caused an intense pain, far greater than the “fiberglass-like” irritation described in the brochure I down loaded from the internet.

This morning my hand is slightly swollen, has a series of small blisters and madly itches. I called the agricultural hotline for invasive species to report the infestation. Expecting they would send out the National Guard and require an ten acre evacuation zone when they doused everything with chemical insecticide, I was disappointed when told they would make a note. A note? No wonder the coqui frog is hopping all over the island. I was told that Neem Oil might be a good non-chemical way to eliminate the caterpillar.

I bought Neem Oil from the same kids at Ace Hardware (one claiming he played with the caterpillar as a kid. My first thought was no way. But second thought he could have been a kid when this first arrived in Hawaii in 2001.) I tested the natural oil on a few captured caterpillars. They flinched. They later died.

Dressed in a sweatshirt, hood pulled over my head, a bandana over my face and gloves I entered the battle zone, spray bottle in hand. The spray smelled like dog shit. No, I don’t mean it smelled bad, I mean it smelled like dog shit. Hours after I finished the odor still drifts in the air. Just, terrific. I await the results.

Now, there is a whole other issue of the illegal plants in the back yard. That’s another blog.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

Tsunani Event

I’m exhausted. It’s tough work, this evacuation business. Doesn’t matter that nothing happened. I say nothing happened, but a lot really did. It began last week when I went to Hilo to visit the Pacific Tsunami Museum with my cousins and Dad. The tiny museum holds a great collection of tsunami information, including videos of first hand accounts of the 1960 and 1947 tsunamis that hit Hilo. Fascinating and sobering information. I emailed my sister that Hawaii was overdue for a major volcano, earthquake, hurricane, tsunami event.

The last big tsunami was back in 1960. It wiped out Hilo, forever changing the water front and town. The wave originated off the coast of Chile, after a 9.1 quake rocked the coast. Fifteen hours later, traveling at speeds of over 500 miles an hour, a 30 foot wall of water slammed into the town located on the west side of the Big Island. This wasn’t the first time. Hilo has been repeatedly hammered by tsunamis as if the bay rolls out a welcome mat for the water.

On Friday night, I was on Twitter. A little after 8:30 HST, I started seeing tweets about a huge earthquake in Chile. Immediately, I wondered if a friend of mine, Rodrigo was okay. But my stream of thoughts shifted to what I learned at the museum. If this was a 8.8 magnitude quake, we could expect a tsunami in Hawaii. I researched the quake, even getting to sites in Chile that carried early video of damage in Santiago. All in Spanish of course, I learned little, but a picture is worth a thousand words. This quake was located in a similar spot to the 1960 quake. Shit, tsunami, for sure. I collected important papers, writings, camera gear, water and a pair of socks and staged the stuff in the living.

About 11:30 I discovered a huge ant colony moving its headquarters into my bath shower. An early evacuation? I had heard the whales were disappearing ahead of the tsunami.

Following the trail I discovered the origins in my closet, in an old bathing suit. Yes, that’s where they were. Thousands of them and an equal number of eco-skeletons. I cleaned up the mess drowning them in the bathroom sink. (A sign of things to come?) Finally, I headed for bed. I slept fretfully, thinking of ants, not tsunamis.

At 5:15 I woke. I felt something different. There was more traffic than normal,less cars in the complex. Over night we went from a tsunami advisory to a warning. The expected time of arrival was 11:19 am, no change from the night before. First tsunami sirens blared at 6 am. I went to wake Dad and gave him the news. Today, we get to have a unique Hawaiian vacation experience, an evacuation.

Before leaving I cleaned the dishes and sprayed the shower down. Both acts I thought silly if indeed a wall of water crashed into my place. (My condo is the first building on the opposite side of the road from the beachfront.) If a wave didn’t come, I didn’t want to return to another ant invasion nor did I want to scrub soap scum off the shower walls.

In Florida I was prepared for hurricanes. With my camping gear I could easily live for days off the grid in the rubble of a disaster. Not so much here, where my part-time living never seemed to warrant the accumulation of survival gear. I figured an evacuation meant I had to immediately move to higher ground. No time to grab anything, just hightail it to higher ground as quickly as possible, and on foot. I never expected an official five hour warnings for impending doom.

Public officials advised to take five days worth of food and water. Get real. Do you really know what five days worth of water is? I don’t even have that many days of food at any given time in my condo. I threw together crackers, granola bars, raisins and every drop of liquid I could muster - soda, Power-ade, water. Maybe three days for both Dad and me if we weren’t too thirsty. At least in Hawaii one doesn’t have to worry about packing snow boots, parkas, mittens and other cold weather gear.

Dad and I left by 7:30 am. Early, but we were hardly the first. The upstairs neighbor sent his two teens off to higher grounds with the instructions, “Don’t come back until it is all clear.” It must have been a rare public display of affection for Dad. He yelled out, “I love you.” Both teens, a brother and sister, paused and eyed each other. The teens then jumped on their scooters and disappear into the predawn darkness. Shortly thereafter, the parents got into their car and were gone.

Once you leave the evacuation area, you’re out. Road blocks appeared at every intersection manned with police officers who casually slumped on the hoods of their cars. The atmosphere was a quiet abandonment. Everyone seemed to move in slow motion, in orderly fashion. Whether on the road or in line at the grocery store, everyone was relaxed, having no sense of urgency. Few people acknowledged that something might happen. After all, this was the Kona. What was going to happen here?

We picked up a hitch hiker along Alii. He looked like he desperately needed a ride into town. He did, to retrieve his dive gear. He was a master diver. In town, Alii was blocked so we dropped him off at the farmers market and turned up out of the evacuation zone. No going back.

I joked about going to WalMart. Its high and out of the zone. From the retaining wall there is a good view of the town and the harbor. Choice seats to view the inundation of Kona. But it is also exposed to sun and held a mob of people. Cars clogged the parking lot as shoppers came for toilet paper, bread, beer and other essentials. Instead, I drove a bit higher to an empty office parking lot. Now I could view the mobs below.

For most of the morning Dad and I sat there alone. Later a couple leaving on a 2 PM flight pulled in to wait. Then an elderly couple arrived. And finally a traveling man from Chicago who had been in Hilo that morning. These were my lifeboat occupants. The quieter, more private group, we kept to ourselves not even exchanging names. Our conversations were minimal. I had the internet feed going and provided sparse updates as the uneventful tsunami began.

Times passed slowly. The ocean calmly waited. The crowd below calmly waited. The expected time of arrival came and went. Where was it? Watching Channel 2 out of Honolulu dragged on. Because Hilo closed the airport at 6 am, no reporters from Oahu were in Hilo to carry the expected surges live on TV. However, Skypers, a video camera internet service, called the station ready to deliver blow by blow coverage of the destruction. I saw lots of fuzzy, unclear video of what appeared to be Hilo Bay and the ocean. Ah, the technology. At least I knew what was happening in Hilo. I didn’t care about what was going on with the sand bar on Waikiki.

Finally, an oceanographer said wave two just passed. What? Where? When? At that point I knew we dodged a huge bullet. No thirty foot wave. No six to eight foot wave. A sloshing of a couple feet. Whew. Then the wait for all clear. That seemed like eternity.

I had a head ache and butt ache. I was exhausted. Today, I'm still exhausted.

It was a good exercise and reminder of what is needed to be safe and survive. Fortunately, no damage occurred on any of the islands. I have a new reference. I know where to find a less crowded evacuation spot with the conveniences of electricity for charging phone and laptop, a good internet signal, running water and shade - all within the stones throw from Safeway, WalMart, Subway and Lowes.

But this event doesn’t mean the next will be the same. Time and circumstances could change everything. Nevertheless, over the course of the rest of my stay I’ll begin to assemble my survival gear. There will be a next time because yes, we are still long over due.

When we returned home that afternoon, after pulling into the parking lot Dad hi-fived me. I think that was a first.