Of Tiger, Lava and Ed

While I enjoyed a masalada from Punalu‘u’s Bake Shop (“southernmost Bakery in the US’) Jeff, my lava tour guide, was t-boned in a Hilo intersection 50 miles away.  These two events effected the weekend.  Instead of stuffing my face with a creamy vanilla treat I could have checked my email and learned that my lava tour – a two to three hour one way trek to see molten lava spill forth into the ocean – had been cancelled for the night. Instead, I jumped back on the road destined for Volcano Village where I’d check into a cabin before heading south pass Pahoa to reconnoiter a boat launch a Hale Isaac Beach.   Finding the launch in broad daylight would save me precious sleep time on early Sunday morning. At least this was the plan. I found the 4 am meeting site for the boat tour at the end of a twisted narrow single lane road. Next, I hurried off to the End of the Road about 16 miles away.  Here the eruptions from Kilauea long ago consumed attempts to circumnavigate the island with pavement.  If I had known Jeff ended up in the hospital I would have detoured to Green Beach for a hike and some body surfing, my plans for Saturday.  

Instead, Friday’s events changed my weekend plans. Not the masalada, but his accident.  I expected to hike Friday evening to where the lava flowed into the ocean. On Saturday I planned to go to Green Beach and on Sunday morning a boat trip to sea lava.  Now Green Beach was out and the hike and boat trip were crammed together Saturday night and Sunday morning. I wasn't angry or frustrated.  I had tried for years to see lava and tigers.  Both have been elusive. Maybe it wasn't in my karma. What would one more day mean?  

It rained most of the Friday night.  The 4000 foot elevation cools Volcano Village nights and Mauna Loa keeps it wet.  In the tiny cabin I had rented I buried myself under two thick wool blankets, the weight pinning me to the bed where an electric pad took the damp coolness out of the sheets. Darkness crept quietly out the fern forest beyond the cabin’s lanai.  Crickets and other insects hummed in the depths of night.  By morning the birds’ symphony replaced the insects’. The light drumming rain did not stop. It didn’t matter to me. The day had to be easy and relaxed.  No super hikes to converse my energy for the night followed by a very early boat tour.  

 

I wandered up Mauna Loa Road a narrow ribbon that climbs the flank of the largest mass of mountain in the world. Mauna Kea is the tallest, but Mauna Loa is the largest. The ascent takes you through kiawe and lowland shrubs, up through forests of Ohia lehua, over barren rubble of lava flows through lust green woods and stark grey standing dead timbers.  The diverse climates compacted within such a short space.   The 15 miles road stops well short of the summit.  In a stunted forest at 6668 the hiking trail gently leads to the summit. It's a good two day hike.  But I was just to dream of the summit and take in the panoramic vistas below. Except for one lone car parked here, but I saw no evidence of others. Alone to enjoy the solitude.

As I rounded the corner of a tiny picnic shelter I came face to face with a tiger.  Knowing my poor luck in seeing lava and tigers a friend wished me luck in finding both on my birthday.  The striped cat made me laugh as if someone played a joke on me.  On a rock wall perched a stuffed toy tiger. Its beady eyes and silly grin stared at me in seemingly equal surprise.  I have wanted to see tiger in the wild.  I never expected to find one in Hawaii. I brought the little guy home with me to play with my bunny rabbits. 

By 4 that afternoon, I returned to the End of the Road. Ed, the local resident of whatever the village on the lava is called, sat on the trunk of his beater car. He slipped on a pair of socks preparing for our trek. Yes, it was now going to happen. After all these years. After all the tries. I was finally going to see lava flowing, and on my birthday!

When anyone wants to see lava from the county side (verses the National Park side) they have to cross private land before reaching beach access which is open to anyone. The private land entry is guarded by a security force hired by the county of Hawaii.  They  prevents the random tourist from walking through the property where the most crazy people buy and build structures completely off the grid – no utilities what so ever. Most of these structures are mere house shells, simple frames and skins that resemble Tennessee zoning codes - none.  When you can wake up any morning to find lava flowing down your driveway you don’t invest too much in the building structure.  The houses are of every shape, size and color.  They sit on treeless, green-less black lava flows, under a beating sun and in a wind that rarely stops to take a breath. Solar panels roost on roof tops and wind mills blades scream constantly in the wind.  The road that cuts a large U through the scattered houses is a crushed red cinder. Its dust settled on the inside and outside of my car almost immediately.  Ed's piece of paradise among the fifty-odd other residents goes for $300 a month.  

I asked if I could use the bathroom before we left.  He turned the water on so I could flush. I couldn’t close the bathroom door completely because from the corner of the door hung a closet’s worth of clothes. I took a quick look around. Open studs on the outside wall.  Electrical wiring snaked through the joists to the rocker panel light switch.  There was a shower area behind a curtain. A post card from Maui posed five girls with their tight round butts facing the camera. Ed was an ass man.  Before leaving the house I glanced at the carefully potted marijuana plants that lined the livingroom beneath his large picture window. 

Ed wore the exact same tie-dyed shirt he had on the previous day.  My sister called to wish me Happy Birthday as we headed down the cinder road. The wind made hearing my sister difficult. I was surprised we even had a connection. To reduce some of the noise, Ed switched to the up-wind side. I assumed Ed had worn the shirt more than just yesterday.  Made a mental note to stay up wind.

While picking our way through the “yards” of the community I saw the white billows rising from the coast. Our destination. I estimated it to be about three miles as the crow flies.  Longer on foot.  To be honest, I had little expectations of seeing any lava. Great hope, but little expectations.  Even as we headed toward the steam clouds I knew several things could prevent me from seeing the lava.  Its location could be hidden behind cliffs. The wind could trap the steam cloud over the lava. I could fall and break my neck before arriving – or after wards too.  Ed could be the total hippie flake I expected him to be and never get me there.  He already had my $100.

It takes a different kind of person to live out here. These are private loners who have gotten away from something, someone or some place.  While they share a community, they don’t readily share with the outside.  Nevertheless like all humans there is a need to socialize.  It was tough cracking Ed’s veneer.  When I asked him where he was from he responded, “my mother.” I laughed and said, “Oh a wise guy, huh?”  I let the ocean roar fill the voids of silence and the wind carry thoughts away. He finally said California.  Pieces of his life slowly filled gaps between carefully placed footsteps and pauses to absorb vistas.  It was brain cancer that sent him off to live where and how he lives. Later when the doctors couldn’t find any trace of it they asked what he had done. He said, “Got off your drugs and went sailing.”  Oh Boy. A sailor. He even used the word trippie and I suppressed my flashbacks.

Ed showed me where old lava covered new. The 1960 flows, The 80’s. Last year’s. Where old cinder cones eroded to their basalt core. Where lava shelves and domes collapsed.  We hugged the coast line, not the place where the guided tours trekked. The hike was longer, but he claimed smoother.  In places we walked on green sand. Then we paused in the shade of a huge cliff to wait. He wanted to be sure other guides were out here. If reports were that it was not safe due to new breakouts the tours wouldn’t run. He didn’t want to discover that accidentally. While we waited the man who would not take me on the lava after a beer broke out his bowl and marijuana. As he lit up his weed he commented, “Yeah I stopped doing drugs of any kind years ago.”  He did not offer me any.  I assumed it was medicinal.  But from that point I really paid attention to everything. And he became more talkative. He talked about the woman that the fishermen found a couple weeks ago. I had read about the body found floating in the water. 

 

The first time I saw red lava, I got the camera out and as I took the shot, a breakout on the upper cliff occurred. I was so excited as the flow drooled down the cliff to the sea. I apologized for acting like a little kid. “Hey, it’s your birthday.”  He seemed pleased that I got such a thrill out of the sight.

We arrived at an upper breakout. I was overwhelmed by the senses. Excited but cautious.  I watched a boy poke at the lava that had skimmed over and turned silvery gray.  He twisted the stick to reveal the thick glow of red that ignited his stick.  Heat filled the air in a way I had never experienced. To the eye the source was not apparent for it was from black lava on which we were standing.  I wasn’t just feeling heat. I was in the heat. On the heat.  The heavy air smelled of burning rock, not so much sulfur although that was part of it too. And the fresh lava crackled as it cooled.  We moved off the hot spot toward the cliff above the ocean entry. Immediately it felt as if I stepped off something that was alive.

We waited for the sun to fall behind Kilauea to reveal the spooky awesomeness in the battle between the sea and the lava.  Although after millions of years five huge mountains have risen from the depths of the ocean floor to form the Big Island of Hawaii, they are destine to sink back into the ocean from which they came. The sea wins every time.

I had packed trail mix to snack on. My guide had the munchies. He consumed it like a tiger on raw meat. I suppressed my laughter.  I had been so absorbed in watching the lava that when I turned around to retrieve my bottle of water, I was completely surprised by the number of people behind me. Ed and I sat at the ledge but away from the upper break out. Everyone else sat the next outcropping behind us. When one young man ventured ahead of us and even closer to the cliff a guide came over to retrieve him.

I wanted to begin the hike back when there was still a bit of daylight. My eyes and feet coordination would adjust easier.  From my caving experiences I knew the first few minutes inside a cave is a little disorienting when darkness shuts down senses. I always feel clumsy looking for the ground.  When you walk you rarely pay attention to foot placement.  Now every step mattered.  Headlights on the new lava sparkled. What didn’t sparkle were holes and cracks.  I never fell, but stumbled a few times catching myself with my hiking poles. A few times I accidentally stuck a pole tip into an empty space.

I became disoriented. The ocean was on the left, not the right side.  Ed was back-tracking. Going out the destination had been the red glow and billowing clouds. Returning, there was nothing to sight on but darkness. The upper ridge of Kilauea disappeared. The ocean disappeared. The lava beyond my head lamp disappeared. Only the stars, the wind and the ocean's roar remained in this world. We approached the jungle – the remnants that have been able to avoid eruptions. I made out  faint silhouettes of coconut trees. The distant whispers of insects and coqui, the tiny invasive frog with an ear-piercing chip, could be heard.  The closer we came the louder the sounds, but still I could see no lights expect the flashlights of other people returning from the lava flow.  

About 9 pm we crossed the cinder road and emerged in the village. Ed invited me in to use the bathroom and have a drink of water. He drew a map for me to get out of the community. I couldn’t believe how freaking dark it was. I was concerned that I wasn’t going to be able to find my way out. Before I left he sang Happy Birthday in a decent cocktail lounge voice and gave me a big hug.

Patience

I first came to this place eight years ago. He wanted to show me the island at least, that is what he said. In hindsight he wanted to seek out old runs, dives and friends to share a joint or two and talk story all while I was devoured by mosquitoes.  I wanted to hike, to stomp across the lava fields, to walk through barren calderas and get lost in the forest of man-size ferns and to explore the dark insides of a lava tube. But most of all, to see lava oozing from mysterious origins deep below the earth.  He didn’t bring anything but a pair of flip flops having little intensions to spend any time here. He’s interests were in kicking up twenty years of old dirt with the drop-out, hippie freaks and otherwise social errant outcasts of the 70’s.  His good old days.

The second time I came it was my birthday, just a couple months after the first visit.  Alone and on a mission: to see earth born on the same day that I was born.  In those days it was a three miles hike across the lava beds inside the Hawaii Volcano National Park.  I hiked during the day across what was an endless black sea following carrions assembled of the same black rock. The ground baked in the tropical sun. In a land of no features that provide a scale for size or distance the hike was a bleak trudge, but I finally came upon a hot stop where lava was a grayish charred red beneath a black glassy cape. It looked no much different from a dying charcoal briquette in a barbeque grill. Disappointing.  On the hike back I rendered first aid to a young woman who had fallen  and had a knee that looked like it had been in a meat grinder. 

After moving to Hawaii and buying my condo I took seven Brazilian kids to volcano. I warned them not to expect to see shooting lava fountains or enormous lakes of red.  That stuff was for tourist brochures.   Sure enough we saw no flowing lava, but we had a great time exploring the lava at the end of the Chain of Craters Road, the Holei sea arch, and Thurston Lava Tube. We stopped toured around Crater Rim Drive and stopped to look into Halema’um’a getting a snoot full of sulfur and other hazardous volcanic fumes.  One of the best trips I have ever had to Volcano despite not seeing the flow.  A week later Halema’um’a exploded in the middle of the night. The road is now closed and the Big Island air quality has been the worst ever.

I can’t count the number of times I have been here, alone or with friends, cousins, my dad and sister. The story is always the same. No 2000 degree molten lava here. I have made special trips to see it after hearing of new breakouts that have torched houses and buried roads. But the story is always the same. “Should have been here yesterday. Came right over the road.” Or, “This stuff you are standing on is from last week.”  I have called myself the anti-Pele. Pele being the goddess of the Volcano.  

This year the flow is once again reaching the sea at locations both inside and outside the park. The best and most exciting way to see the lava is by boat.  (That’s the best way if you don’t get sea sick, like me.)  I decided to invest in a weekend, my birthday weekend to see earth born. Rent a car, get a couple nights in a cabin in Volcano Village. Paul Revere I’d cover land and sea.  I hired a guide, and then signed up for a boat ride. All with the same company.   

The best viewing is at night. This means making a difficult trek on uneven black terrain that is not well marked. To do alone is crazy, but you also cross private land. Solo treks are something I’ll leave for the invincible twenty-somethings.  I arranged to meet my guide at 4 pm.  

I arrived early, use the port-a-potties and talk with the security guard who confirmed where I was waiting was the spot.  I waited. I called to be sure I was in the right stop.  The road to Kalapana is the longest dead end road in the world. It just disappears beneath a lava flow.  Makes it kind of hard not to be in the right stop. I waited some more. I waited long enough to start directing people down the road beyond the restricted area (I know this because I have been there before.).  I call the company three times. Fortunately I got the same reservationist, who felt for me, but she couldn’t get a hold of the manager to find out what happened to the guide.

Meanwhile, I watch another company shuttle people in.  After a full hour I drove back to the security staff. “Remember me?”

“Yeah. He didn’t show?”

“Nope. Anyway I can hike in alone.” I knew I couldn’t.

She empathized with my plight and introduced me to Shawn, an agent for another tour company. Unfortunately all the tours had already gone out.  But he didn’t quit there.

Most people who have seen me in the last two weeks know I need a haircut. In the humidity of Hawaii, my hair comes alive, frizzing and curling everywhere. Add the wind and the end of a 180 mile car ride after a three mile walk to get it and yeah I was looking a little tussled.  But my hair had nothing on the Ed’s fro that shaded his tie-dye t-shirt.  

Ed has a place in Kalapana a village of structures built on recent lava flows.  He was hanging with the boys who work the random tourist who wants to wander out to see the lava.  Shawn asked Ed, “you want to make a quick 100? Take this lady out to see the lava.”

“I would man, but I already had a beer. No can do.”  I am doing my best to asset the situation and Ed.  I can’t see Ed’s eyes hidden behind his Cool Rays.  He’s a lean dude, the kind I always associate with hard druggies, 70 dropouts and homeless.  I don’t smell anything. He speaks clearly. The security guard had not made any effort to shoo Ed away or discourage this free enterprise transaction.  In conversation I learn he’s  been on island for four years so he is not one of the friends mentioned in the first paragraph.  I appreciated that Ed acknowledge his current physical state.  He agreed that if I could be there at 4pm tomorrow he would gladly to take me out.  I agree.

The Shawn hugged me and then Ed did the same saying “Now I can get a new phone. My other one somehow got fried in the investigation.”

I asked if Obama had listened in on his conversation.

“No we had a murder out here last week and the government fried my phone.”

Hum, there ought to be some interesting conversations tomorrow.

Dwellable: An App for Dwelling

Reviews are generally not found here. However, there are exceptions for everything.

It just so happens that my birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks. And for the bazillionth  time I’m headed to Hawaii Volcanoes National Park because I have yet to see the lava flow.  Every time I make the 90 mile trip from Kona  I seen nada. Zip. Okay, creepy red glow from Halema'uma'u crater is exciting, but it is not flow, the slow oozing cascade that drops slow-mo into the Pacific where it explodes, sizzles and kicks up a toxic cloud that wraps back to Kona in the form of vog.   Don’t get me wrong I've done the hikes but I hear the same thing, “You should have been here yesterday. It was flowing right over the road where you're now standing.”  Volcanoes are unpredictable forces of nature, that don’t conveniently erupt like Yellow Stone’s Old Faithful – same time, same spot. Kilauea, located on the southern flank of the Big Island of Hawaii, has continuously erupted since 1983. One could reasonably assume to see some oozing lava creeping across the acres and acres of black lava fields. This is not always the case as the flows constantly change and can require miles of hiking over sharp, sun toasted lava beds. Or blindly walking on black in pitch black.

My birthday quest this year is to see earth born from the volcano on the very same day I was born. To do so, I am investing a weekend to traverse barren grounds under a tropical sun.  And I'll spend the night to see the red snake slitter into the sea.  Since the drive from Kona to Volcano takes several hours and the most dramatic viewing of lava is at night I was looking for a place to stay in Volcano Village.  Enter the app called Dwellable, vacation rentals and reviews with photos, maps and more. They ask, "Where do you want to go?"

Easy to download the app opens with an intoxicating scene of a gentle wave washing over a sandy beach. The only thing missing is a soft gentle sound of water lapping ashore. (Did I hear a seagull?)  There is a menu of hot vacation spots across the country from Cape Cod to Virginia Beach. Okay, that is an alphabetical listing that seems east coast oriented but honestly the west coast is more heavily covered.   

I entered my destination:  Volcano Village and was surprised to find fifteen rentals.  As a test I typed in my hometown, a summer time hot spot in upstate New York: Saratoga Springs. One hit. So the concept is building its base.

The listings are presented without the clutter found on your typical internet search travel sites. Even the Dwellable website site is clean, the way you expect your room: no clutter, simple and effective with a nice view. That is, the pictures are quality. Using the app to explore lodging availability is a click away.  More photos pop up, feature descriptions and contact. Some listings include a convenient calendar. Since we are not dealing with major hotels, but privately owned lodgings each owner may have a preferred way of contact…email, website, phone etc. 

Why would I use this app?  Because I just arrived unplanned and unscheduled in a city. Maybe a spontaneous excursion or when  the airlines dumped me due to weather.  I pretended this happened in Minneapolis.   I discovered seven places in the city, and using the map I find one located near the airport. A charming 2 condo bedroom for $150.  I had to scroll into the text to find a phone number, but the email was front and center.  I would want the phone number first. 

I couldn’t think of any reason not to use this. And I couldn’t think of any reason why someone with lodging  – say in Saratoga – wouldn’t want to be on Dwellable.I don't know the business model - how they make money. There are no stupid ads trolling this app. 

I found lodging limited in some place. It was weird to find accommodations in Scio, Ohio but none in Cleveland. If Dwellable continues to serve up a clean and easy to use display I am sure this will grow.  If you’re headed to Lake Tahoe you can filter through the 1723 rental options – selecting price, beds and options like pet friendly, swimming pools. And then use the map to be exactly where you want to settle in.. north end or south of Lake Tahoe.  My beef with some apps is some are difficult to quit, exit, stop. Not so with Dwellable.   

A couple little hiccups: “Sadly we don’t have the exact calendars for these rentals” popped up frequently when trying to zero in on a availability date.  And if you have gone deep into a search and would now like to try a new location, only a repeated use of the back button will take you home.  But save a favorite and it will always be there. Kind of like having the porch light on.

Armed with the knowledge that there are fifteen Dwellable lodging sites in Volcano I’m off to find the lava that flows from Kilauea.  Now there should be an app for that.  

See No Evil

Of course we have Boston on our minds and hearts, and some of us in our prayers.  On Twitter, right after the bombing in the Boston Marathon, I saw this conversation.

@TheTweetofGod: Mean people suck

@southboundcat: Mean people? Cut us some slack, God. Boston massacre was not done by mean people. EVIL people.

@JessicaLeBaron: It was done by people. You and I are people. Evil is a myth like god. It's a perspective. Just a thought.

Well Jess, here are my thoughts. It was done by two evil punks, certainly nobody like me.

To acknowledge that evil doesn’t exist is to disdain all that is good.  If there is no evil, there can not be good.  And without good or bad, right or wrong, all issues that pertain to morals becomes mute.  One would have to question why do people do good things? To save the life of a drowning stranger is totally unreasonable. To lay one’s life down for a friend is stupid. What firemen and police officers do daily is not rational. Yet, what they do is good.  And when the world found itself in the throes of slavery and Nazism there were people who risked their own liberty and lives to save others caught the wake of …well, evil.  Can you truly say their unselfish actions were not good and that slavery and Nazism were not evil?

In nature if one animal kills another, it does so for food or preservation whether that is to protect its own life or for a continuation of a gene-pool and thus survival.  Motives in nature can be very familiar human emotions - hunger, fear, etc… - but actions are not driven by any sense of right and wrong.  In nature there is no moral standard. There is no good or evil. The law of nature is be strong or die.  However, this is not the case for people.  

Moral standards preserve society for better or for worse particularly when the standard is not objectively based.  Wisdom is recognizing the source of what is right and wrong.  Don’t confuse morality with what you like or don’t like.  I hate frozen peas. It is not a virtuous issue.

Let’s say that I like to torture cats. Without evil, and therefore good, this can’t be a moral issue. However, I think we know there just isn’t something that sits right with torturing little furry animals.  But the fact that I like to torture cats does not make it right and certainly does not offer any defense for the behavior.  I could reason that I am smarter than the average cat and more evolved than most cats (I know this is so human-centric of me) so I have every right deem that cat torture is okay.  

I can go on to claim that it is in my nature, it is the very essence of what makes me human to torture cats. But this still falls short of a making cat torture acceptable. If ten or ten thousand people agreed with me to accept cat torture, this still does not make cat torture an acceptable practice. It does however illustrate the danger of determining what is right or wrong based on the behaviors of a few or the behavior of the powerful, or the edicts and whims of the mighty. Even if I could convince 99% of the people that cat torture promoted the greater cause of humanity, cat torture would still be wrong.  Why?

If evil does not exist then cat torture is neither wrong nor right. And if evil doesn’t exist you can’t judge me for performing cat torture, even on your cat.  Because to judge is to cast some form of opinion or evaluation. You could only say you like or not like cat torture. If something bothers you about cat torture you can’t say it is wrong.  You can’t declare it as unacceptable.  Cat torture therefore would be as innocuous as a preference for fresh or frozen peas.

One who doesn’t believe in evil might argue that no one has the right to judge. That seems logical because to judge when you have no right to judge would be bad. And if something is bad, that would lead one to think there is a “right”.  But of course, that establishes the existence of evil. How can that be?

Honestly I think those who argue that evil doesn’t exist are making a desperate argument that there is no God. 

The standard nonsense argument goes:  If there is evil, there must not be a God, for why would God let evil prevail?  Isn’t he all powerful?  Either God is not all powerful or God must not exist.  Of course, we can now get into long winded debates about free will and stuff, but I ask four questions?

1. If a cat kills a cat is that evil?
2. If I kill a cat is that evil?
3. If a cat kills a person is that evil?
4. If a person kills a person is that evil?

The honest answers find us pondering morality.  When man is involved the issues arise.  If nature is the perpetrator the actions are not evil. Since God is neither nature or man, God is not the perpetrator of evil.  I say man is the one who perpetuates evil.  This does not logically lead to the conclusion that God doesn’t exist, but begs the question why when man is involved do questions of morality arise?

The next reason to deny evil to deny God has to do with what is acceptable and accepted behavior. Without good and evil there is no difference between the two concepts. Between 1501 and 1865 American slave trade was accepted. That did not make it acceptable. It was never acceptable, nevertheless it was accepted practiced.

Is it obvious that the practice was accepted, but not acceptable? Is it just as obvious that to kill a woman because she brings shame to her Muslim father and brothers is accepted but hardly acceptable?  Why the difference?  If you acknowledge the difference you must acknowledge an absolute truth, an objective morality.   That makes things right and wrong, good and evil.  And if objective morality exists then there must be a source.

That source is God.

Mean boys did not bomb the victims in Boston and terrorize the rest of us.  They are evil. What was done was evil.  Unexplainable evil.  If you can’t comprehend the existence of evil and God, beware.  Mean boys might try eat your cat for dinner tonight and good people will not come to its rescue.

Well, that is my perceptive. Just a thought that could not be wrapped up in 140 Twitter characters.  And if you are some bloody atheist I have not said you can’t be moral. I know many theists who are immoral.

Evolution

Compassion trumps moral standards any day of the week.  When moral values go head-to-head with compassion most people don’t have the moral courage or the fortitude to stand on higher ground. That's why values and truth lose in the battle with feelings. Being right doesn’t matter when you feel good.  

Unfortunately, few understand that doing what feels good is not the same as doing the right thing.  In a secular-left world values are based on little more than what feels good. There is a huge difference between what feels good and what is good. The confusion arises because feelings come from the heart and so logically they must be good. Right? Is there where I quote Scripture about the heart? Nah.

But the guy next door is convinced that your life has no more meaning or value than his dog’s.  In the secular world you can’t honestly say that your life is more valuable than the neighbor’s dog. There is nothing to base this on expect what your heart is feeling.  But what is in one man’s heart may not be in another's.

In the Judeo-Christian world Christians and Jews know that man was made in God’s image. This makes a man’s life holy. Therefore, his life is valued above all other creatures, such as the neighbor’s dog.  The source for this value and other such values is external to man. They are not heart-based. They are God-based.  Accepting this is difficult to the secular-left because people aren’t willing to concede control of their lives to something external. (You’re-not-the-boss-of-me attitude.)  Even Christians struggle with this and we see few have the courage to stand firm in what God has instructed.  The Bible becomes a smorgasbord from which to pick and chose.

When two people are in love and desire to proclaim their love they get married. Everyone wishes them marital bliss. To be married is to take part in an important institutional union that has served society throughout time and among all civilizations.  However, some people can tell a story of a friend, a friend of friend, or a family member who has fallen in love with a member of the same sex who desires to demonstrate that that lifetime commitment.  They want to marry and want that marriage to be recognized in the same manner as the union between a male and female couple.  When they can’t there is a sense of injustice, unfairness and inequality.

One should stand the moral ground on the marco-level and have compassion on the mirco-level.  Despite the definition of marriage – a union between a man and a woman – the liberal left sets out to ravage the institution that has promoted the stability and the survival of societies. They require all others to crap on the institution for the sake of the same sex couple’s happiness. The reason is simply because the left is enlightened in all matters of feelings. 

We have evolved not to think any more, but to feel.  This requires no moral courage. 

The Story of Luke

The following is an unpaid semi-commercial advertisement.

I am inviting you to see the movie called The Story of Luke, a comedy about a young man with autism who is on a quest for a job and a girlfriend.  This movie will be showing around the country in theaters on April 4 and 5.And on iTunes in your home!

For several months the movie has been shown at film festivals nationally as well as internationally. It has won numerous best film and audience choice awards. I’ve seen the trailer, but not the movie. I warn you if you see the trailer you will want to see the movie. Here is a little I-knew-you-when background story. 

Alonso Mayo, the writer and director of the Story of Luke is a friend of mine. I met Alonso when we were participating on a month long Outward Bound Trek in Chile in 1999-2000. At the time it was the most physically and mentally demanding experience in which I ever participated. The days were long. The treks grueling. We carried 60 pound packs.  At the end of a day we would drag ourselves in to camp exhausted, hungry, wet and cold.  Sometimes I needed a hug and Alonso could be counted on for a comforting hug. During one multi-cultural event I remember thinking, “Here I am at the turn of the millennium. An American woman dancing to Mapuche music with  Alonso, a young man from Peru, somewhere in the middle of Chile.”  Yeah, that was an once-in-a-lifetime event.

During the course he received a notice that his mother because of her work with special needs children was being honored by the Queen of Spain. After much deliberation on whether to leave the course and go to Spain he decided to stay.  Like the thirteen of us on course, he wanted to summit Osorno, a beautiful glacier covered mountain in southern Chile.  I felt he should have seen his mother get the award, but that wasn’t my choice. I supported his.

Sometimes climbing mountains is like the things we do in life - we don't succeed. Our first attempt at the mountain was not successful. All I could think of was how this kid (Yes, he was.) would miss out on meeting the queen and failing to summit. On our second attempt we prevailed. He was ecstatic.  Hell, I was too.

Since then this talented young man has gotten married, became the father of two beautiful children and attended The American Film Institute. His thesis film, Wednesday Afternoon was the Winner of 2008 Student Academy Award.  Look closely at the credits and you will find my name, the proudest moment in my short-lived film industry career.

When I visited Peru I spent the night with his mother and grandfather. He asked me what I wanted to do in Lima. I only had one day there so I left it up to him as to what would be the best cultural experience. He said it would be crowded so instructed me to carry no wallet, no money or jewelry.  That was disconcerting. I would be ID-less in a foreign country in a city of millions. Alonso took me to the procession where Catholics amassed in the narrow streets of Lima to see and pray to the Black Jesus statue as it passed through the streets. Women wept and some crawled on their hands and knees behind the statue.  The crowd was so dense, I could have lifted my feet off the ground and  would have been swept away in the moving tide. 

The last time I saw Alonso, I was headed back to Micronesia and the Peace Corps. I stopped in Los Angeles. He felt it was a critical time in his life. He had to get a film made.

Well he has.  So I invite you to see it.  Here’s the info links for the movie and for my friend, Alonso Mayo. If you live in one of the cities listed on the website, by all means treat yourself to this movie.If you can't make it several cable and iTunes are also showing it.

Enjoy!

Upcoming Screenings  

Official Story of Luke Facebook Page

Official Alonso Mayo Website

My Aunt Eileen

What is the first memory of my Aunt Eileen? I don’t recall a particular incident or introduction. She married my Uncle Ralph when I was in grammar school.  I admit I was a bit jealous when I met her. After all, he called me, and still does, his favorite niece, but then I have heard him say that to my sisters.  Eileen too doted on us just like my father’s brother.

Both sets of grandparents lived in New Jersey so the family made the four hour drive to Sussex County for holidays and summer vacations. The Christmas Ralph and Eileen were married they gave my sister, Robin, and me a globe. The translucent fixture had an electric light in the middle of it. On that globe I found places like Fanning and Christmas Island in the Pacific Ocean. The amount of blue on the earth astonished me. Once late at night  I picked up an am radio station out of Quito.  I found Quito in Ecuador. And when I needed to know the capital of Idaho for a contest found in a bubble gum wrapper I used that globe. I just knew I was going to win.  Don’t remember what.

After my aunt and uncle were married they moved into the same house where Uncle Ralph and my father grew up. And while the globe was a great gift more importantly I learned Aunt Eileen gave a far greater gift to my grandparents by lovingly caring for my grandfather who ailed of Parkinson disease. She readily and willingly gave of herself. I never forgot her being there. For being a part of the family.

Yes, the family. I guess those are the first memories of Eileen. She entered the family a stranger, someone my uncle loved, and became my aunt. This was a relational transformation I had yet to experience. I was skeptical about how these things worked. Up until that point in my life everyone else who was a part of my family had already been a part of the family. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. Grandparents.  They were either in place or born into it. Eileen was the first person I knew who came from outside the family to become part of the family. Because she married my uncle she was my aunt. Because she loved us like my uncle, she became my aunt.

My last memory was unfortunately this past July. I stopped in to see her when I returned to New York from Tennessee.  Uncle Ralph was at work so I spent an hour or so at her bedside. I chatted about the summer heat, my chainsaw exploits and other small talk, but eventually I talked about God and faith. This is not something I am really comfortable with, but I knew Aunt Eileen occasionally had someone from the church visit to share the word of God. Since Aunt Eileen’s eyesight had long surrendered to diabetes she couldn’t read her Bible.

I have no idea how I started this conversation, but before I knew it I had her Bible out and I was looking up verses and reading them. She thought a particular verse about judging others was in Psalms and she asked me to look it up.  Not being one who can keep the Books of the Bible in order I thought I would never find the verse she wanted.  I used my smart phone and the website Blue Letter Bible to locate “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” Matthew 7:1. 

I wish I could recall why she wanted me to look that verse up. Was it her favorite? I don’t know. I shared with her mine. It’s from Isaiah 30:21 “And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, "This is the way, walk in it," when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left.”  Eileen, bedridden for too many years, nevertheless walked in The Way.

The Grounding of America

Last night I had an encounter with a seventeen year old girl. The incident should have been innocuous, but it epitomized the social-cultural demise of our society which in its stealth robs us of the freedoms the Founding Father secured.  As a pool monitor I enforce a laundry list of pool rules which protects the condo association, the property of the community, and the health and welfare of the residents who use the pools.  These are all the rules needed to defend against a law suits and to maintain the peace of the condo community. You can’t yell Marco Rubio – I mean Polo – and you can’t consume alcohol in the pool area.  Rule 6 states that children 14 years and younger must be supervised by an adult. An adult is any person who is 18 or older.  When two preteens showed up with a teen of questionable age, I approached the two younger kids (a tactical move  because they are less inclined to lie) who told me that their sister was seventeen.  I explained the rules.  The seventeen year old then explained to me that there never had been a problem and in the past they were allowed to stayed. Her protest went nowhere but to meet a firm resistance on my part.  Not retreating, she wanted to know what would happen if they refused to go? Oh boy.  The young boy told his sister not to make a scene. I suppose she envisioned a physical take down. I explained they could have all pool privileges revoked.  And by the way they didn’t  have their pool pass with them. Sigh, another pool rule violation.

This is Part 1.

All decisions have consequences. To live by this praxis is to die by it. While seemly wise, when applied alone is a formula for short comings.  More and more I hear it pertaining to the re-election of Obama, as we have seen recent increases in our taxes and restrictions on gun ownership. But it is living by this principle that can, in part, explain why the Republicans lost the election because the consequence of consequences can be so elusive, particularly when grounded in no value system.

It seems perfectly reasonable to use the consequences of a decision as a means of making a decision. Life tosses a multitude of decisions at us.  And in an increasing secular world we need some means for making a decision.  We ask: What’s the worst thing that can happen?  Who is it going to hurt anyways?  What am I  going to miss out on?  

Some of these consequences are small and others quite large. Some decisions bear short-term consequences. Others long.  It’s not going to kill me to eat desert. I hate this job but it pays pretty well. She might not be pretty, but I heard she is easy.  He’ll never know I posted that lie on Facebook.  It’s just an abortion. If I kill twenty six people at Sandy Hook Elementary will people pay attention to me now?

Let’s go back to the pool situation. Faced with a decision, the seventeen year old wanted to know what would be the consequences of her decision.  It was all about what impact the decision had on her.

Are consequences the only thing we should base our decisions on?

At seventeen I would have never lipped back at an adult. Frankly, I would have been embarrassed to break a rule. Why?  Because in the home, community, church and school where I grew up there was an important value instilled upon me and my siblings.  Granted I can not swear I have always lived up to that value, but it was about doing the right thing.  Decisions were about what was morally right and wrong. And your obligation was to do what was right. It wasn’t about what felt right, or how it made you feel or even what you personally wanted to do.  To ascertain what will be the result of a decision wasn’t the thing to consider. It was secondary to making a decision that first had a morally right outcome.  Sometimes the outcome sucked, but it built a foundation for self-control, minimized impulsiveness and reduced selfish behavior. You learned life wasn't all about you and ultimately that made you a more responsible citizen.

Today, we flippantly ask, “What’s the worst thing that could happen” instead of behave in a manner that is morally correct. It is wrong to break rules and it is wrong to disrespect adult authority.  In the end the seventeen year old decided that losing her pool privileges for a month was reason enough to take her little ass home with her brother and sister in tow.  It had nothing to do with her obligation to follow rules for the good of her community, the condo association or the safety of her siblings.

Back to our nation:  we decided that the consequences of an ever expanding federal government that 1. limits our freedoms and 2. will economically implode under the weight of its entitlement programs are of little matter. Instead, the citizenry greedily ignored what was morally right because of the enticements of entitlement programs.  The failure to make a decision based on what was morally right for the country was over-shadowed by the failure to know and understand the consequences of that decision.  Or maybe even more importantly to give a rats ass about the consequences. 

Why is that?

Part II. – I know the suspense is killing you.

Target in Summary

Way back in September I saw an ad for seasonal help at the Target Distribution Center located 4 miles away from Dad’s house. I had planned to be a driver helper at UPS again but the pay at the distribution center was almost $5.00 more an hour, with good reason.  Not that the driver helper job is easy.

I had already been turned down by Target in Hawaii. The small detail of being in town only five months doesn’t go over well with employers. The fact that I’ll work hard and show up is basically insignificant. I know two people who applied to the same store after me and worked there less than six weeks. The reason for quitting: too hard.

I was offered the packer job on the spot, conditional to the standard drug test. This one turned out to be my third of the year and still clean as a whistle. What a life I lead!

Initially, the job was to start Oct 8^th, but it was later pushed out to the 22^nd.  I counted the weekends I was scheduled. Three day work weeks, Saturday through Monday, 12 hours each day. A total of 27 days to Christmas. It didn’t seem too bad.  But when the short winter sun disappeared on a Friday afternoon and didn’t reappear until Tuesday morning that stretch became a mental change as well as a physical one. For me it was rough spending 12 hours in a confined work space in an unheated one million square foot warehouse rarely speaking to anyone and listening to conveyors run all day.  If there was no activity in any area of the warehouse the lights shut off and that gloom shadowed over the packer area isolating me deeper within my work space where I was surrounded by cardboard.

The packer job is simple. Hundreds of boxes of all shapes, sizes, and weights and containing various amounts of products (from beer making kits to vanilla extract) are delivered to the module where the packer works. The stuff comes from China, Lebanon, Pakistan, India, Indonesia and other countries where manufacturing is cheap and people want to kill us.  

 Behind the scenes someone in logistics has summarized the demands of the stores in the distribution center’s service area and someone else has slapped a label on the box with a bar code that tells the packer which store get what and how many. It's the packer’s job to scan that label, take the stuff out of the manufacture’s shipping container, then… shove it, place it, toss it, cram it, fold it but get it into another box that will go to the store along with hundreds of other boxes. Basically a packer is taking product out of one box and placing it in any combination of 36 to 42 other boxes.  This is done as quickly and as accurately as humanly possible. In some modules it can be done over 4000 times a day. I never dared figure out how that works out on a per minute rate.  Only once did I hit my daily target. Depressing. Add to that the responsibility to build and tape boxes, throw away shipper boxes and drag everything down the conveyors.  Sometimes it seems like I could not even take a drink of water or stop to use chap stick.  

Usually packers work in teams of two.  It is a logistic relationship.  When a product comes down the line it may not go to any stores on the other side of the conveyors.  If that is the case the packer places that product in the middle of the two conveyors for the other packer. Sometimes it adds up especially if the other packer is fast.  My competitive nature made it hard to let the other person get the best of me by stock piling material in the middle. Plus that just made the workspace seem more confined when that wall of cardboard went up between us. It should not have mattered because rarely did I have time to chat.

For my age I am in fairly good shape. But age makes joints stiff and painful. After grabbing, pulling, flipping, turning, tossing, etc… items of various weight and size all day long my fingers and wrist were killing me. There were times when I thought I would not even make it to the first break let alone the full day. The soreness disappeared when fatigue and repetitive drudgery turned to numbness.  I’d come home and soak my hands in cold water - an ice down like the major league pitchers do.  Expect the next day I had to pitch again.

The physical demand was bad enough but I managed to catch two colds, back to back. Not since Peace Corps has that happened. And I periodically delivered packages for UPS. The week before Christmas I worked Tuesday through Friday delivering packages for eight or more hours a day. Drained of energy I’d go to bed at 8pm to rise at 4:15am, hours well before the chickens were up. I had enough rest, but my fingers and wrists never stopped hurting. At Thanksgiving my sister told me I now have fat muscular fingers. Ah, the joy of that news!

There were days when I had to dig deep to stay on the job. I prayed to God for His strength. The events of life passed. In October there was Hurricane Sandy. I told God I had no complaints.  I was thankful for the roof over my head.  In November for some stupid reason the country re-elected Obama.  Again, I told God I had nothing to complain about. I wasn’t making $400,000 so what did I care even if my country was falling apart? In December came the tragedy of New Town. I thanked God I knew no sudden heart wrenching loss. But when what I thought would be my last day (and I had mentally checked out on December 31) turned out not to be, I almost told God I had a complaint.  I asked for the strength to go back one more weekend.  Then I went down to Wal-Mart and bought another nine slices of roast beef for my lunch sandwiches.

At first break on Saturday I asked my group leader when the last day would be she said, “Soon. Really, really soon.” That afternoon she made the rounds and told the seasonal workers the season was done.

Thank God, I made it.

Wendy Guckamus

It was a long time ago. Long enough to erode the delicate details that make memories etch themselves in small places of the heart. Dimmed by all those other things that clutter my brain. And yet, there's a feeling I can’t forget. Of a friend.

The time was back in the days of Junior High and High School, a time of social awkwardness that is born of adolescence. There is a desire to be like everyone else and the reality that you are not. Anything different made you weird and developing friends even harder.  I was the kid from Dorothy Nolan. One of five or six girls in my elementary class who were tossed in with kids who had gone to larger in town schools - Caroline and Division Street elementary schools. The town kids knew half the mixed population of the new seventh grade class at the Lake Avenue school. These kids had neighbors down the street. I had friends across the field or up the hill.

To develop new friends, I got involved playing volleyball and other after school activities, but living out in the country made it tough. We had one car and my mother did not drive. So when the bus rolled down Lake Avenue if I wasn’t on it walking home was a realistic alternative. It was a six miles slog which gave me plenty of time to develop reasons why I missed the bus. Trust me, there were no acceptable excuses for such irresponsibility.  Hanging with friends didn't cut it.

On the days I played volleyball I took the activity bus home, a late running bus that traveled the rural roads scattering kids like wind scatters leave. I was always one of the last kids dropped off.  The activity bus didn’t come close to the house.  I had to walk up the hill from either Danda’s store or Winslow’s bar. The roads, less traveled in those days, were black ribbons that ran through even darker woods. In Upstate New York it is dark before 5 pm on winter nights.

But a few friendship blossomed.  Oddly, I can’t remember how or when I met Wendy Guckamus.  I think she was a friend of another friend. We became friends. There aren’t a lot of details that I remember. I just remember the friendship.  We went to football and basketball games together. Standing in the bleachers she’d grab my arm and pound on it with excitement when our Blue Streaks made a great play. I would beg her not to hit me but she couldn’t help it.

On one of the few sleepovers my Mom stepped forward to gracefully introduce her to deodorant. Yeah, we were budding teens.

We progressed through High School but we drifted apart. Why? I don’t have any clear answers for that either.  I guess things just happen in High School.  And once I graduated I joined the Army and left home.

Over the years every once in a while I would drive past the street where she lived and think of her. Whatever happened to Wendy?  Her address was as strange as her name. Its number included  ½.

Today, I made a UPS  delivery in an office. A signature was required.  After viewing the scribble on the signature pad I asked the young lady what her last name was. “Guckamus,” she replied.

“You’re kidding? As like in Wendy Guckamus?”

She smiled. “Yes. She was my aunt.”

I didn’t catch the past tense. I was excited  to find a Guckamus standing in front of me. Of course, I was in a typical UPS hurry.  “Tell her you met Valerie Perez. Wendy was my best friend in High School.”

The young girl looked alarmed. “She passed away about three and a half years ago. She had been ill for a long time.” I watched her drop her guard as I offered my apologizes and condolences. I even said I had been thinking about her just last week. The UPS route went down her street and past her house. She offered the explanation. “She had breast cancer.”

“I’m so sorry.”

BFF, Wendy Guckamus.

Perfection

My mother was a good cook. I don’t use the word excellent because good better describes her cooking. Good implies solidness, a steady state of reliability that brought comfort to the table as much as nutritional substance combined with deliciousness. And she did it on a budget for a family of seven. I am just a cook.

I thought about my Mom this morning as I made turkey soup. My sister hates it. That is why every Thanksgiving I get to drag the turkey carcass home from Worcester. Because I had to work these past three days I didn’t have time to make it. So the boiled bones sat in the garage in same large pot my mother use to use. The joy of living in the North Country is turning the great outdoors into a semi-convenient refrigerator. Or freezer.

When Mom made soup she would bring the pot in from the garage and chunk off the semi-solid turkey fat that formed on the surface. Then regardless of the temperature of the stock she would begin to fish the bones out of the pot and remove the remaining meat. Sometimes the stock was nearly frozen. The job was bone chillin' and finger numbin'. But every piece of whatever that wasn’t a bone got removed and placed back into the pot. That is why my sister hates the soup. My mother, a product of the Great Depression, wasted not a scrap of the turkey.

There are some things that should not be found in soup. Grizzly opaque cartilage is one thing along with other stuff that doesn’t chew like meat. It doesn’t work well on the palate. I personally don’t care for weird feelings in my mouth. It is why I despise nuts in chocolate pudding. Still there is no reason not to enjoy the taste of home made turkey soup.

I am a Boomer, spoiled rotten of my own higher education and presumptions of easy living made possible by my parents' sacrifices. Making food should not be painful or full of toil. Yet I know all good soup doesn’t flow from a can of Campbell’s  After the fat has been skimmed off, I don’t go fishing for bones in a pot of liquid that would frost bite fingers. I put it back on the stove to warm. Why Mom didn't do this is beyond my speculation. 

I pick through the bones to remove identifiable meat tossing aside those things that are suspect - slimy, really dark brown, flimsy, gelatinous. My mother would be appalled at my wastefulness, but I must confess that when I eat my soup I’m not wary about tactile textures on my tongue. Maybe Mom’s soup was better, but I never wonder what I just swallowed when I eat mine. Did I mention that you ate whatever was on your plate or in your bowl… no questions, ifs, ands or buts?

Two things go with turkey soup. Snow storms and hard poppy seed Kaiser rolls with melted butter. Deep snow with tall drifts and real butter, not that Twinkie-style oleo.  There is comfort in watching the steam rise from both broth and roll when the snow is piling up in the driveway. So on this chilly night for dinner it is turkey soup and Kaiser rolls. No, it is not snowing.  Everything doesn't have to be perfect. 

Shopping

The last time I shot a weapon I was in the Army. Don’t misunderstand. Back in the day women didn’t qualify. I never got any training from Uncle Sam.  A couple of soldiers –  they worked in a photo lab with me -  Terry and Will, took me out to a place along the highway south of Anchorage, Alaska.   There the road slithers between the Chugach Mountain Range and The Cook Inlet and shares the narrow piece of land with a set of railroad tracks. Everyone went there to shoot because you could fire any weapon and if you didn’t hit the beer can the bullets went careening off into the inlet. If you got lucky you could shoot a whale.

This was the era when the world met Dirty Harry. On this particular day we experimented with a monster 357. I say experiment because I really don’t think Terry and Will knew much more than I did. I managed to pull the trigger once during the mayhem of attacking beer cans. When I heard a pinging zip fly over my head I quickly realized that rocks and stray bullets don’t mix very well.

Fast forward a gazillion years.  I ventured into a gun shop for the first time in my life. It was about as intimidating as my ventures into pawn shops. No, I have never hocked anything, but repressed my inhibitions to dive into the fascinating troves of turquoise jewelry, 8 tracks and other obsolete electronics hulled in from the reservations surrounding Gallup, New Mexico.Ah, my vacations.

I entered Zack’s Sports in Round Lake behind a young man with a rifle slung over his shoulder. The parking lot was full of pickups.  Inside, the cave-like shop was packed with guns and people. That is men who were buying, selling, repairing and talking guns, ammo and knives.  I slipped in, shoved my hands into my pockets and began cruising along the walls where rifles and shot guns hung like trophies.

Finally, the man behind the counter of hand guns asked how he could help me.

I pulled out my shopping list. “It was suggested that I take a look at a Walther PK380 and a Sig P239.” I thought I sounded rather intelligent. Less desperate than, "I want to buy a gun." to which the only response can be, "for what?"  None of your business.

"We don’t have any of those right now. I might have one in the back to show you." He disappeared. Was this the time he zoomed the security camera in on me? Checked my mug against the FBI’s Most Wanted.  How do you buy a gun in New York? I stood before a twenty foot long glass case with double shelves of hand guns. Pistolas. Weapons. Firearms. Guns.  I tried not to look guilty, stupid, or nervous. Did I have the same detached look I had earlier when I stood before the deli case in Price Chopper to buy roast beef?  

I grew up in a house without guns. Somehow a small 22 rifle without a firing pin came into the house from her father to my oldest brother.  That seemed appropriate enough, but too much for my mother who strongly believed giving guns to children at Christmas was a major offense against the Baby Jesus. Second Amendment rights never concerned my mother.

Now I ventured into waters I never imagined I would. The idea of shooting a gun has no appeal to me. In the fall, I hate hearing gun shots in the woods around the house.  There's even a shooting range near my father’s church. It’s plain weird to hear an array of fire when walking into service on Sunday.

But things have changed.

He returned to let me know he didn’t have either gun I wanted to see.  I asked to see a shot gun. Remington 870.

“Twelve or twenty?”

Ha, I can pass this test.  “Twenty.” Didn’t I read something about the bigger the gun the smaller the kick? Or was I confusing that with The bigger the Government, the smaller the citizen?  

“Is this for home defense or hunting?”

“I would like it to be versatile. Both.” You know when the time comes and we are living off the land. Killing zombies and such.

So I got an explanation for barrel lengths and a quick demo of switching out the barrel. Yes, this totally amazed me.

Now was the time for true confession.  “I haven’t fired one of these before. Do you guys give lessons?

They didn’t but I got the name of two guys who do. Neither one is named Terry or Will.

Onward

My father fought in WWII,  was wounded twice and later was captured and spent the last months of the war in a POW camp. I refuse to believe that his sacrifice was made so that 70 years later I would roll over and quit because America re-elected an idiot, dolt, and commie who buffaloed 50% of the nation into thinking he is going to transform this country into Heaven on Earth. There are 50% of us left who believe otherwise and I will not concede this nation just as my father did not. Yes, there is a time to cry. There is a time to be angry. But never is there a time to despair.

To despair is to sin. God gave us a gift, as a nation and as individuals. As long as I am able and I have the talent God gave me, I will fight for what he gave me...my liberty, my freedom and my happiness.

Join me.