A Non-Traditional Point of View

Toward the end of every November, Liz and I have a conversation that goes something like this (it's a tradition):
Tim, time to put up the Christmas lights.
I'll get to it after Thanksgiving.
But the weather is so nice right now.  Do it before it turns cold.
I'll get to it after Thanksgiving.
Everyone else is doing it now...
But I like Thanksgiving.  It's one of my favorite holidays and I hate to see it replaced by Christmas.
Arrgh... you can be such a Scrooge.

But I'm not.  Really -- I like Christmas (a lot) -- but I like Thanksgiving more. 

 
 

I feel like Thanksgiving gets rushed out the door like relatives who have stayed too long (and no, I'm not talking about you), and before you know it -- Christmas is everywhere.  Rotary Lights are hung in Riverside Park early November, downtown La Crosse has its holiday "open house" celebrations before the first snow flake has fallen, Christmas music is heard while shopping for Halloween candy, and Liz's Christmas Club check is in the mail before the seasonal onslaught of Lands End catalogs.

I understand why.  Christmas means spending money on gifts and every year merchants try to get an early start.   It is the time of year when a business can make it or go under.  They call it Black Friday for a reason, and it's not because it puts so many people in a foul mood.

This fall, we have "adopted" a Chinese student from UW-L who is planning a trip to Minneapolis on the day after Thanksgiving to take advantage of Black Friday deals in the Mall of America.  Being a young man in America for the first time -- unfazed by the multitude of rude and pushy shoppers -- his brain synapses are firing on all cylinders.  Unleashed from the chains of communism, he can't wait to take part in this tradition of unfettered capitalism gone amuck.

However, our tradition of waiting to shop until you drop, was dropped instead.

This year marked the first time many stores opened their doors before midnight.    Not a good idea if you ask me.  Not only does it take away from time spent with family, turkey and football, but it also means someone in the family has to leave early to be at the store to work.  More shoppers mean more workers, even if it means everyone is miserable.

Maybe Liz is right.  Maybe I am a Scrooge.  Maybe my views on "tradition" is unconventional.  So it's just another way of saying I don't like change, God knows I struggle with that every year.  Maybe it's just my way of fighting the inevitable slide toward Gomorrah.

Ok, so you think I'm over-reacting.  Some would say I need to look at things the other way around.  Do we really need traditions anymore?  Have they outlasted their usefulness?  Some believe many traditions are based on outdated stereotypes that are insensitive, offensive and discriminatory.  Traditional marriage, traditional Christmas celebrations, and traditional man/woman roles are all things of the past.

Or are they?

Traditions are important to our culture.  They define who we are and what we hold valuable:  our country is held together by the same things that hold our families together.  Without traditions we become homogeneous, common and rudderless.   Our country is a melting pot (or salad bowl if you're talking to my son) awash with different cultures -- each with their own stories and beliefs.  That's something that needs to preserved, not lost.

One of the major criticism coming from conservatives today goes like this:  that's not what our founding fathers intended.  I realize that times change, and know we're not living in a bubble where things don't change for 200 years.  But traditions are more than enjoying the lights at Christmas, or having turkey and pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving.  They give weight to our way of living.  It's how we teach our children things from our past, with the hopes that they apply them to our future.  As traditions change, so does our understanding of our place in society.

This is important in my household -- because I am always picking up water softener salt, killing spiders, collecting the basement garbage or cleaning out rain gutters.  Most people wouldn't think of those as being traditional roles, but my wife feels like it's my job to make sure those things get done.  If it involves something smelly, squishy or dangerous she wants nothing to do with it.  Now, before you label me "sexist," let me make it clear that I don't mind doing those things.  Liz has her own list of important things that she does that I don't do.  Our "traditional" roles, so to speak.  Not long after we became man and wife, we became muck and flour.  Stink and sweetness.  Grunt and nurture.

Some traditions are easier to leave behind than others.  Casual dress at work is definitely better than a suit and tie.  Black and white are much better at basketball than shirts and skins (you don't ever want to stick your face against someone sweaty and hairy).  On a serious note, slavery never was a good idea.  As were voting restrictions on women and minorities.

But some traditions won't go away without a fight.

Some, like religion and patriotism, have to be systematically reduced by the left before they can be removed.  A union between a man and woman is seen unfair to gay people.  The gap between rich and poor has to be reduced.  Asking "what you can do for your country" has been replaced by "what your country can do for you."  Singing religious songs at a holiday concert needs to be balanced by secular songs celebrating Frosty the Snowman.

 

I don't understand the politically correct desire to take Christ out of the holiday.  It's not like it's Friday the 13th versus It's A Wonderful Life.  As my left-leaning friends are always reminding me:  be a little more tolerant.  Well, the last time I checked, I'm not the one trying to remove a traditional celebration from our schools, workplace, movies, television and music.

Do they expect us to limit our appreciation for Jesus' birth to a candle-lit service on one night in December (yes)?  Is there another religious holiday so relentlessly attacked here or anywhere else (no)?

The Christmas holiday is still on December 25 -- the day Christians have chosen to celebrate Christ's birth.  So why replace it with something so bland as holiday shopping and Santa?   Are you really that offended by someone wishing you a "Merry Christmas?"  Some are.  Children in school decorate holiday trees, not Christmas trees.  Before any of that, we used to refer to Christmas as "Xmas."

Based on some of the videos going around the web showing in-store fighting, theft of money from Salvation Army kettles, and driver rage in mall parking lots, I'd say we'd be better off remembering Christ is the reason for the season.  Maybe that's the reason people search for understanding and forgiveness -- at least once a year -- by going to church on Christmas Eve.

Another tradition under liberal attack is patriotism.  A month doesn't pass when Washington politicians don't condemn the American way as being bad.  President Obama continues to blame the United States for world poverty, global warming and Islamist uprisings.  Tea Party candidates are blamed for racism, mass shootings, homophobia and fiscal gridlock.  Whose side does Washington defend when it comes to illegal immigrants and enforcing our borders?  The patriots enforcing our immigration laws, or immigrants that slip across the Mexican border in the middle of the night?

There are times when I feel like no one in Washington is obeying the law.  Our constitution is being ignored when Congress allows the president to delay parts of Obama Care or send the IRS to question conservative groups applying for non-profit status.  Our right to bear arms is under attack, as are efforts to ensure fair elections and limit voter fraud through voter ID.

But enough about Washington and atheists.  They would attack the dead if they could (come to think of it they do).  For the rest of us, holiday traditions are a way to enjoy --

     . Eating cream-filled Krumkake and powdered rosettes during the holidays

     . Walking through Riverside Park to enjoy the two million lights brightening a dark and frigid
       December night

     . Watching "A Charlie Brown Christmas" to remember the meaning of Christmas

When I was a child, my father would always put us kids in the Rambler before heading to church on Christmas Eve.  Mom, of course, would still be in the house putting on make-up and combing her hair. Dad would grumble, "What's taking her so long?  We're going to be late for church."  As proof, I remember driving up and down the driveway for ten minutes waiting for her to join us in the car.

It wasn't until years later -- when I found out that Santa didn't exist -- that it was a tradition in Grandpa's family to take the kids somewhere while Grandma pulled out the Christmas presents and placed them under the tree.  It was a tradition he gladly carried on with his family (by putting us in the car), and one all of us share in some form or other during Christmas and Easter.

Traditions don't have to be big in scope or meaningful to have an impact.  Perhaps it's reading a book, watching a movie or calling a dear friend.

To this day, memories of waiting in that cold car come flooding back on Christmas Eve as I sit quietly in our Toyota, warming it up for Liz, Sean and Matt.  As I turn to look in the back seat, ghostly images of my sisters, brother and I wrestling in anticipation of unwrapping Christmas presents, are still with me.  As is the sweet scent of Dad's Aqua Velvet aftershave coming from the driver's seat.  How something so mundane can still be with me after more than 40 years is a testament to the power of traditions, and why they remain so important in my life.

Thanks for the memories, Mom and Dad.

The Year Was 1958

"Thanks to modern medical advances such as antibiotics, nasal spray and Diet Coke, it has become routine for people in the civilized world to pass the age of 40, sometimes more than once."
-- Dave Barry

As I turn the corner on my fifth decade, I find myself looking for humor as a way to deal with the pain I feel every day I get out of bed.  Physical pain from my plantar fasciitis, and the psychological pain from Washington politicians coming from the radio.

If given a choice I'd take physical pain every day.  There's medication to help with that, of course.  But after 55 years, I'm still looking for some type of pain relief from politicians.

At this point, I'd rather have a colonoscopy than listen to President Obama.  At least during the colonoscopy I'm mostly unconscious...

Today, my sister sent a birthday card.  That's something that hasn't happened in I don't know how many years (Tina, do you know something that I don't?).  Typically, I'm not big on birthday cards -- I don't need birthday greetings from people I hardly know, just mom, family and a few friends.  I really don't know why businesses send birthday cards.  My previous broker dealer still sends me a card even though I left them 8 years ago.  Somehow, I'm still in their computer system and I will be for as long as I stay with my current employer.  Isn't technology great?

Today, I guess Facebook and other social media outlets have a firm grip on birthday celebrations.  Every other week I get a notice from Facebook that reminds me to send a birthday greeting.  Type "Happy birthday, Brian!"  Hit the enter key.  Join a dozen other electronic greetings guaranteed to make his day.  Technology has a way of either keeping you young, or reminding you just how old you really are.

All I know is that birthdays tend to remind you of how much things change.

I have to remind my youngest son that I come from an era when neighbors would talk to each other over their backyard fence and use the (only) phone in the house with other neighbors who shared the party line.  Watching movies on television was an occasion -- I can remember mom making me take my Saturday night bath before I could watch Robinson Crusoe on Mars.  And CBS was the place to be on Thursday and Friday night to watch a two-part showing of The Guns of Navarone starring Gregory Peck and David Niven.  Today, you can download RC on Mars from MovieBerry.com for free and watch The Guns of Navarone three times in two weeks on TBS.

Too much of a good thing just becomes ... normal.



"A friend never defends a husband who gets his wife an electric skillet for her birthday."
-- Erma Bombeck

It's funny how I've been receiving birthday presents for all these years and yet most of them I can't remember.  Sure, there's been shirts, pants and ties that have come and gone.  But that's about it.

I seem to have an easier time remembering presents I bought for someone else than my own gifts. Fear must be a more formidable emotion than anticipation, because I can still remember the reaction I got from Liz when I bought her a set of pots and pans for her birthday.  Something about the angry shape of her eyes and the flare of her nostrils told me my well-intentioned gift wasn't going to be thought of the same way.  I'm just glad I didn't decide to buy that set of cutlery I was eying.

I do remember getting a GI Joe action astronaut with space capsule for my birthday when I was in seventh grade.  I don't know what was so cool about it, but I enjoyed it enough that I took it to school for show and tell.  Apparently I wasn't the only one who thought it was cool -- when I went to pick it up at the end of the school day, I discovered someone had stolen it.  I never did find out what happened to it, but today when I look on Amazon I can find one that sells for $299.  I hope whoever took it from me kept it in good shape.



 

Another birthday gift that I remember was a Batman coloring book.  Back in my day, Batman wasn't the dramatic Black Knight movie star that he is today.  The television series (which ran from 1966-1968) was a campy series featuring Adam West and Burt Ward as Batman and Robin.  As a young boy, however, I loved it.  So much so in fact that my friends and I used to play in the front yard, imitating the "CRASH!" "POW!" and "BAM!" that was always a part of the show's inevitable showdown between Batman and the Penguin, Riddler or Joker.


I had a thing for Cat Woman and Batgirl who -- thanks to their costume designers -- always drew more attention to their tight fitting catsuits and high heels than their combat readiness.  But then again, the show was designed for young boys like me who had more curiosity in girls than common sense.

I wonder if Crayola still makes crayon boxes with the built-in sharpener?  Oh, for the good old days when my biggest concern was coloring inside the lines.



"Wherever the past has gone, the best is always yet to come."
--Mark Twain

My sister sent me a book that lists some of the events that took place during the year I was born, which is always fun to look through.  Some of them you can't believe actually occurred during your lifetime -- they seem better suited for a history book than for something I lived through.

For example, cost of living:  back in 1958, a new house cost $11,975; a new car topped out at $2,155; tuition at Harvard University was $1,000 per year; gasoline cost 24 cents a gallon, and you could mail a letter with the help of a 4 cent stamp.

In world news:  the President of the United States was Dwight Eisenhower (Vice President was Richard Nixon); TIME magazine "Man of the Year" was Charles De Gaulle (French president); James Dean, who became a cultural icon in "Rebel Without A Cause," died at the age of 24; NASA was founded as the National Aeronautics and Space Administration of the U.S.; Lego toy bricks were introduced to children; and the aluminum can was first used as a food container.

In movies:  Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo; Vincent Minnelli's Gigi; Richard Brook's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof; and Orson Well's Touch of Evil.  And, of course, my favorite -- Terence Brooks' Horror of Dracula (should have won the Academy award for best movie).

In the end, no matter how many birthdays come and go, the real test of how old you are is this:  are you able to still do the things you want?  And enjoying them? 

Three activities give me hope.

I still playing basketball -- running the court's 94 feet takes a little longer, but I'm still getting 15,000 steps in 3 times a week.  My 3 point shot still goes in.  In fact it may be better today than years ago (and no, Tom, I didn't travel on that one).  I can honestly say that without that hour of basketball, my workdays would be a lot longer, so how can I complain about that?  As we always say at the end of a bad day of hoops, "there's always next time."  See?  Sometimes forgetting things isn't all that bad.

Liz and I have been dancing for the last ten years -- the complexities of the fox trot, tango, swing and samba have faded as we continue to take lessons from the Moonlight Dance Studio.  If someone had told me I'd be dancing -- and enjoying -- the same dances my parents did years ago, I'd have called him a liar.  I'm not sure what got Liz and I started (maybe it was one of those birthday presents I can't remember), but we were dancing the light fantastic long before TV's "Dancing With The Stars" became popular.  And as long as the ankles and my arches hold up, you'll find us dancing at La rosse's Concordia Ballroom and dance clubs in Winona, Fountain City, Rochester and Baraboo.

Two of my best friends and I get together every year to celebrate each others birthdays.  It's usually over lunch and not very expensive.  The same group decided to get together at the Recovery Room bar to celebrate our fiftieth birthday.  Between work, friends and family we had a pretty good turnout.  My feelings about both are its great as long as all three of us are living.  We've been through so much that I feel closer to them than my brother or sisters.  School, roommates, weddings and our children's graduations are imprinted into my mind --  and every year we keep adding more and more memories.  It will not be the same when one of us is gone...

So (for my 55th birthday) while the world is changing around me, the people I know are changing as well (there's a perverse sense of satisfaction in knowing that).  In my general circle of friends I'm one of the oldest.  So in some ways, I'm pioneering the way.

We all struggle with smaller electronics, but appreciate what they bring to the table.  We all wake up with aches and pains in the morning, but still remember how we got them.  And I bet we all recognize the people in the mirror, even if they have a little more gray in their hair. 

Here's to 1958 -- and every year since.

Fire Of The Dragon

A collective sigh of disappointment came from the people around me.

My fingers and wrist were shaking as the sweat and river water dripped from my hand and fell to the bottom of the boat.  Heat rose from my upper body, though my neck to the top of my head.  My life preserver felt constricting, preventing the deep breath my body needed to feel better.  

As I lifted my head and looked to my right, the red-scaled dragon boat sliced to the right and headed back up the river, its crew confident in another victory.

Heat number two was minutes away, and I needed to gather my strength for the last race of the day.

                       

Liz and I were in Dubuque, Iowa to race in the 26th Annual Dubuque Dragon Boat Race.  We were part of La Crosse Dragon Fire

 

, a ragtag team of hard working paddlers who wanted to win against some of Iowa's best dragon boaters.

Dubuque, on the shores of the Mississippi River, has been putting on dragon boat races since 1988, three years after this unique boat racing began spreading throughout the Midwest.  Since its inception, competitors from the U.S., Germany, Italy, New Zealand, Taiwan and Canada have competed for medals in novice, intermediate and elite divisions.  Recently, junior and breast cancer survivor teams have been added.

Our team chose wisely by putting us in the novice division, pitting us against teams from Dubuque and Chatham-Kent (Canada).

Our 18 paddlers (6 men and 12 women)  came from a variety of professions -- none of them professional racing.  We were doctors, nurses and technicians from Mayo Clinic in La Crosse.  We had a yoga instructor (which came in handy for warm ups). Clock and insurance salesmen, and even someone old enough to be retired.  One thing held us together:  pride.  We may not have been experienced dragon boat participants, but we were a determined bunch.

With our padded cycling pants, rowing gloves and water shoes, we had arrived to show the state of Iowa how much La Crosse loved the river.


                                                                                                              

As we paddled upstream to start the second heat, our sweep (at the back of the boat) told us to use a method he called 10-10-2.  Ten long strokes from a dead start, ten quicker strokes once we got going, and then a one-two punch through the middle one-hundred fifty meters.  Then let all hell break loose and go for broke on the final fifty meters.

"But coordinated," Mark said to my left.  "We have to remember that none of that will help if our strokes aren't coordinated."

"We need a good start," said Carolyn, the woman in front of me.  "If we can stay with them at the start, we will take them at the end."

I would be happy if I could get my hand to stop shaking.  It was so tired, that I could barely grasp the paddle.  My thoughts wandered back to our instructor in Winona who told us that if your hand, forearm or biceps was tired, you weren't paddling correctly.  Use the strength in your shoulder to pull through, he said, and your top hand to push down.  You should reach with your paddle, rotate your torso to the middle of the boat and locate your top hand over your lower elbow.  For optimum efficiency, the blade of the paddle needed to be perpendicular to the surface as you pushed through the water.  

"It should feel like you're pulling through cement," he had said.  "Pull and push.  Pull and push."  

I wondered what our drummer and flag puller (sitting quietly in the front of the boat) were thinking as they studied this collection of aging, sweating faces.  They would play a critical part in our finish, and we needed them to have confidence in our ability to paddle our boat smoothly and quickly to the end of the race.  As members of our team, they watched patiently for most of the 300 meter course.  Our sweep needed to position our boat through the currents toward the finish, and our puller needed to lean over the edge of the boat and grasp a flag before the other boat grasped theirs. 

Sounded simple until you stepped into the boat.

                   

 

Dragonboats are the basis of the team paddling sport of dragon boat racing -- an amateur water sport which has its roots in an ancient folk ritual of contending villagers held over the past 2000 years throughout southern China.

While competition has taken place annually for more than 20 centuries, dragon boat racing in the United States is a relatively new sport.

Most dragon boat races consist of a 300 meter course in a 40 foot fiberglass boat, weighing close to 1200 pounds.

In ancient Chinese times, it was believed sacrifices through drowning may have been involved in the earliest boat racing rituals.  During these races, violent clashes between the crew members of the competing boats involved throwing stones and striking each other with bamboo sticks.  Originally, paddlers or even an entire team falling into the water could receive no assistance from the onlookers as their misfortune was considered to be the will of the Dragon Deity which could not be interfered with.  Fortunately, our boats, with a crew of 21, were better sports (with no rocks to throw).

Dragon boats can vary in size, varying from our 40 foot span to ones that hold upwards of 50 or even 80 paddlers, plus a drummer and sweep.

There are also much longer races than the one we were participating in.  Our three hundred meter sprint was nothing compared to others.  The Three Gorges Dam Rally along the Yangtze River near Yichang, Hubei province, China covers up to 100 kilometers (62 miles) and the Ord River marathon in Australia covers over 50 kilometers.  The record holder is a relay event, on the Missouri River with a distance of 340 miles in a mere 38 hours and 5 minutes.


                                                         

As we positioned the boats for our 300 meters, I thought back to how we had gotten here.

In the morning's first two heats, we had gone up against a team called the Mississippi Tailbiters for a chance at a gold, silver or bronze medal.  Our combined time was 176.51, which was four seconds better than Saturday's best time.  But still not good enough to beat the Tailbiters from Dubuque.  So the good news was that we were stronger and faster than before.  The bad news was that we were heading into the consolation race later that afternoon.

At two o'clock, we were lined up against Lot One, a team of novice paddlers of similar age.  I think both teams were disappointed to be where they were, so every effort was being made to finish with a win.

Despite our best efforts (and after the first heat) we found ourselves less than a second behind heading into the second and final heat.  We had struggled with our start time, as half the boat paddled faster than the other.  With poor coordination, the boat struggled to hit its cruising speed, costing us valuable time.  Making matters worse, one of our rear paddlers broke his paddle during the start, reducing the push we desperately needed out of the gate.  Despite the poor start, we fought back.  By the time we reached the end we had made up most of our lost time.

 !

The dragon boat rocked slightly as I heard one of our team members say that our second heat times had been better than our remaining competitor's time.  But as the morning's race had shown, when pushed to compete, time trials were not a good indicator of how the race would go.

It was here and now, I thought -- as we switched lanes and positioned ourselves for the start of the final heat -- that we would find a way to beat this team. 

It was time to have fun.  
Time to hold our heads up and smile.  
Time to win.

                                                            

Our weekend consisted of two time trials on Saturday and then two competitive races on Sunday.  Our first two time trials were against a group of 11th graders (E.D 11th) and a team called Solid Steel.  We did well against the boat of eleventh graders, but reality set in as we faced off against the Dubuque Midtown Marina favorites, Solid Steel Dragon Boat Club.    

Solid Steel has seven boats that compete around the world -- most recently in the 2013 World Dragon Boat Championships in Hungary, where they won two golds, seven silver and 13 bronze medals helping Team USA to a third place finish.

Needless to say, we were intimidated, even though our sweep told us to ignore them.

Time trials involved teams from all three divisions, so we were not actually competing against them.  Easier said than done, as I found myself repeatedly watching their deep, strong strokes.  Their coordination was machine like, complete with a video camera attached to their drummer.  Our quess was that they used the video to train and monitor paddlers who were out of sync.  It was the only race where we were swamped by the wake created by the other dragon boat.  

But we were able to see how much hard work and coordination would be necessary to beat the teams that were in our division.  Sunday's race would tell us if we were good enough to medal, or bad enough to go home early.

                                                     

I tried not to look at the paddlers of Lot One, but the temptation was too great --  I wanted to know if they looked tired, triumphant or worried.  I quickly realized our competition looked just like us.  Some faces were drawn and tired.  Others were determined and eager for another chance.  A few were trying to encourage others by telling them to "give it their all" and "fight through the pain."  But as both boats settled into their race positions -- paddles forward -- a quiet settled over the dock area.  Everyone knew what they needed to do.  It was going to come down to who did it better.

The powerful, dual tone air horn blasted through the humid air.  I sunk my paddle to the hilt, pulled through the water and lifted.  Grunts and shouts of  ONE!  TWO!  THREE!  FOUR!  FIVE!  SIX!  SEVEN!  EIGHT!  NINE!  TEN! escaped each paddler.  My eyes were focused on Susan, our pace setter in the front of the boat, and I tried to follow her lead with every reach, rise, and push of the paddle.  

Another ten shouts and our boat hit its cruising speed.   Paddling became easier and the pace of our strokes increased.  The boat to our right appeared to be slightly ahead, despite a better start from our team.  A float passed by marking the first 100 meters, then a second as we continued to push.  The boats were side by side as a cry rose out from our boat to PUSH, PUSH, PUSH!  From the back of the boat someone was yelling PULL, PULL, PULL!  

It was the final fifty meters when our boat took its first lead of the race -- albeit a small one.  

 

Giving it my all, I continued to dig my paddle into the river, pulling water and paddle out only to drop it quickly into the water again and again.  It seemed to me that all sound had gone out of the world -- I could see lips moving, arms rising and paddles diving into the water, but I couldn't hear anything.  So focused on what I was doing, I shut out all sounds except my breathing and my heart as it pounded in my chest.
Suddenly a cheer from shore broke through the silence as our boats flashed past the finish line and our flag puller grabbed our flag.  By the smallest of margins, it appeared to me that we had taken the flag first.  But who knew...  The winning decision was still minutes away as the announcer waited for the final electronic results.

Heads sagged and bodies leaned forward as our boat coasted through a gentle turn.  We held our breathe in anticipation of the results.

Minutes later, the announcer spoke again.  "With a second heat of 87.03 seconds, the La Crosse Fire Dragons have a combined time of 174.73 seconds.  Lot One has a final time of 87.79 seconds and a combined total of 174.76 seconds."

At first my mind was too tired to understand what that meant.  Seconds later, our team let our a roar as we realized we had won by a total of .03 seconds.  The amount of time it takes for me to blink my eye was all that separated our win from a loss.

We had come to Dubuque looking for fun.  In the end, all of us left looking for win number two.

And Then There Were Three

This month marks the one-year anniversary of the death of Alice Ogden, who passed on August 18, 2012 after a six month battle with esophageal cancer.  As a mother, mother-in-law and grandmother, she fulfilled many roles.  Some she did well, others not so much.

 

For my wife, Alice's passing created a void that had been filled by her mother for more than fifty years.  Now Liz was facing life without either parent, and it was time to stand on her own.  To make decisions without the wisdom and guidance she got from her parents.  To handle family matters on her own.

As the only girl -- now a woman, with two brothers -- it was time to move on.

Losing a parent is difficult.  Liz lost her dad from a stroke when she was thirty.  I lost my dad at a much later age, although I feel I lost him to illness much earlier.  In both cases, our mothers carried on, maintaining a sense of family, with brothers and sisters returning home to celebrate holidays and birthdays.  Our mothers made a point to be there for special events like graduations, band concerts and baseball games.

What happens to the meaning of family when the second parent dies?  Does it vanish, like fog on a cool summer morning?  Do the remaining siblings become something else that has no glue holding everyone together?  How do you plan for the holidays, and where do you go when "my" family is replaced by "our" family?

My wife's family was living in Monroe, Wisconsin when I met her.  Don and Alice Ogden lived in a big house (at least by my humble standards) with high ceilings, pocket doors, an elaborate staircase banister , and a corner fireplace.  We used to have picnics in the back yard, make our own ice cream and go into New Glarus, WI to eat wienerschnitzel, roesti and cheese fondue.

As an outsider, I viewed Liz's family much like I did my own.  The stories I heard around the dinner table or on long vacations spent in the same car, provided the nucleus of your typical American family.  Fights between brothers were broken up by dad.  Mom was there to bake birthday cakes and to help sew Halloween costumes.

I began to feel like family when Liz and I moved to Grand Rapids, Michigan and received her parents into our new home.  At times, Liz and I commented on how it seemed like we were following in their footsteps since they had lived in Benton Harbor, Michigan when Liz was just a baby.  Their visits to our Michigan home were never long, but eventful, almost like they needed to squeeze every minute out of the trip.  When Liz went into labor with our first child, a call went out to Alice, who hurried to Grand Rapids to spend time with her new grandson.

On a few occasions, we crossed Lake Michigan on the SS Badger to meet Liz's parents in Kewaunee, Wisconsin to hand off our son, Matt, while we spent the week (or weekend) in Door County.  I think the exchange was as good for them as it was for us.  A photo of Don's face, watching Matt standing in a makeshift swimming pool with his diaper sagging to his knees, remains one of my favorites.  Our expanding family soon became the Ogden family, as Alice would call Matt "one of her boys."  I suspect she did until the day she died.

When we moved back to Wisconsin, Alice would visit and help with the kitchen remodel or give her opinion on the finished basement.  She even helped me build a wood fence that took all summer to complete.  Family picnics that were commonplace in Monroe, magically moved to La Crosse and Pettibone Park on the banks of the Mississippi River.

Family time bound us together and to Alice's credit, she made sure everyone got together as often as possible.  But much like the thread used to sew those early Halloween costumes, it began unraveling with the passing of Liz's dad and the eventual sale of their credit bureau business.

Years later, following a minor stroke of her own, Alice moved to La Crosse to be closer to Liz and our family.  Their relationship, strained at times, had many ups and downs before Alice felt the need to return home -- one final time -- to spend her remaining years with her brothers and friends in Iowa.

Liz spent a lot of time with her mother after the discovery of cancer.  She was there for its diagnosis, treatment and finally, its victory.  She would travel over to Ankeny, Iowa to visit and put things in order.  One of the cool things she did was research her parent's past through ancestry.com where she created a family tree and browsed through genealogy records including census, SSDI and military records.  She also spent time having conversations with Alice's remaining brothers and sister and would get them to write to her by mail.   Liz would scour through hundreds of old photographs, letters written by her grandfather, and listen to her mom talk about her long journey through life.

When the pain became unbearable for Alice, she was moved to a hospice house, where she spent the final few weeks of her life.  It was in that quiet room, with a window overlooking a potted geranium, that Liz, Eric and Kevin -- family once again -- watched their mother slide slowly from their lives.

 

We all have stereotypical images of our parents.  As children, they are loving, wise and comforting.  As teenagers, they become more authoritative, setting rules about staying out late, dating and doing our homework.  As adults, they finally become more human -- if that's the word -- with their flaws, concerns and struggles with failing health.

As the first anniversary of her death approaches, I wonder what Liz is thinking.  Do the pictures ease the pain, smooth out the rough edges, and re-sketch forgotten parts of her life that are so quickly forgotten?  Do the letters written by Alice's brothers and sister help refill the void?

One thing I do know is that time stops for no one.  We are born into this world, and somewhere it is written in God's book when we will leave.

She was born  on November 7, 1936, in New Providence, Iowa during the Great Depression. She had two sisters, Elizabeth and Bobbie, and two brothers, Carl and Joe.  She remained a true Iowan even when she married Don and moved to Michigan, Indiana, Wisconsin and eventually back to Iowa.  Her parents shared the same characteristics and traits that made Alice the person I knew.  Proud of her immigrant heritage, educated, hard working, politically active and frugal with her money.

An early journey to rural Sigourney, Iowa (where Don is buried) gave me an understanding of what growing up in Iowa must have been like for Alice.  Flat, hot and surrounded by remnants of better times, Sigourney paints a picture of the Great Depression in our modern world today.

But, as the letters from her brothers and sister stated, they didn't seem to mind.  Instead they made a better life for themselves, went to war, (or worked in support of the war) and moved up the social and economic ladder as opportunities presented themselves.  While, Alice and her siblings never left the Midwest for long, they were rich in knowledge of exotic places far away through books they read, movies they watched and letters they received from friends.

Alice gave meaning to the phrase "Iowa proud" and reminded me of it when Liz and I told her about a play we saw at the La Crosse Community Theater called "Leaving Iowa."  It was a national award winning comedy about a family who took their annual vacations in Iowa.  Liz and I found it hilarious, but Alice didn't seem to find it nearly as funny as we did.

The passing of a parent, and eventually both parents, completes a cycle of birth, growth and death that has been going on for generations.  It's a passage that brings joy, pride and sorrow if you are lucky enough to have your parent(s) live long enough.  I know some people that still have both parents living, others who lost their dad as teenagers and some who never met their mother or father.

Alice always used to say that she never thought she'd live long enough to see her grandsons graduate high school.  Later that changed to college, which for one of our sons came true.  Despite her prediction of an early demise, she was able to enjoy five weddings, nine grandchildren, and travel throughout the world with her family.

It is a reality that all of us must make, as we face the world without our parents.  A reality that makes us move on, become adults and lead our own families to greater and better things.

Rest in peace, Alice.  Your family is doing just fine.

Paddle This Old River Blue

The sunlight reflects off the water, showcasing a shimmering streak of diamonds that sparkle their way toward the city of La Crosse.  Above us, the sky is a robin's egg blue, with only a few, puffy white clouds disturbing its perfect consistency.

 

Liz and I are idling down the Mississippi River in our 20-foot Bennington pontoon boat, drinking our favorite adult beverage and listening to the inspired songs of Santana.  To our side the Minnesota bluffs gently rise above the small towns of La Crescent, Dresbach and Dakota.  Occasional outcroppings of limestone and rock break up their dense green covering.  

These bluffs have been watching over this twisting river for centuries -- long before Martin Luther would post his ninety-five propositions to the Catholic Church in 1517, and later as Michelangelo's paint was drying on the Last Judgement in the Sistine Chapel.

The Mississippi River is well worth traversing.  When floating on its muddy surface, it doesn't seem to be anything but ordinary.  But it is not -- quite the contrary.

Using the Missouri River as part of its main branch, it is one of the longest rivers in the world -- four thousand three hundred miles.  It discharges three times as much water as the St Lawrence, twenty-five times as much as the Rhine, and three hundred and thirty-eight times as much water as the Thames.  No other river has so vast a drainage-basin.  It draws its water supply from thirty-one states and territories -- from Delaware on the Atlantic seaboard, and from all the country between that and Idaho in the west.

The Mississippi receives and carries to the Gulf of Mexico water from fifty-four subordinate rivers that are navigable by boat, and from some hundreds that are navigable by canoes and kayaks.  The area of its drainage-basin (1,837,000 square miles) is as great as the combined areas of England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, France, Spain, Portugal, Germany, Austria, Italy and Turkey.

This summer is a rebirth for me.  It has brought back a flood of memories of my earlier times on the river.  As a shadow, cast by the canopy above our heads, shifts to the front of the boat, I realize it has been more than 30 years since I last captained a boat on these ageless waters.  

Time, like the waters beneath our twin pontoons, continues unabated by location, education and family.  



As a child, my father would take my brother, sisters and I fishing for crappies, northern pike and sunfish on the Mississippi.  Much of the fishing was off the main channel, back into the marshy sloughs and tributaries that were populated by tall river grass, duckweed and waterlilies.  Sometimes, we would challenge my dad's boating expertise by maneuvering over wing dams -- rocking back and forth as the waters churned about us -- while fishing for the elusive rock bass.

I remember getting up early one morning to trap turtles, standing on the seat of our aluminum fishing boat, holding a barbed spear -- readying my throw.  The food we used to trap turtles was carp, which were rolling and splashing all around me.  It was easy picking and exciting to launch the spear, watching it fly through the early morning mist to its destination.  With a pull on the rope still in the boat, I would drag back the carp, then throw it into the bottom of the boat, where it would kick and twist until it died. I would stand there (breathing in the smell of water, fish and algae) and raise my eyes to the horizon.  From my vantage point in the boat, I could see the ever-present bluffs -- sometimes green, sometimes orange and yellow -- surrounding the Mississippi River and the Coulee region.

By the time I was a teenager, my fishing tackle was replaced with a cooler full of beer and pop.  My fishing gear was now a pair of swimming trunks, and the gentle "put-put" of my father's fishing boat was replaced by the roar of a much larger ski boat and its 260 HP Mercruiser.  A soggy mid-morning meal of braunschweiger sandwiches was now a decidedly unhealthy bag of chips and dip.  Many an afternoon was spent floating in the backwaters of the Mississippi, dreaming of cute girls in bikinis and listening to the youthful sounds of Bruce Springsteen, Chicago and Rush.

 

In the years since, I went away to college, married a wonderful woman, moved to Michigan to start a family and returned home to find a place I never thought I'd enjoy again.  After almost 30 years, I find myself floating on the mighty river that is as much a part of the city of La Crosse as its streets, bluffs and people.

When Liz and I were looking at buying a boat this spring, we decided on a pontoon boat.  Our youngest son Sean would probably disagree -- since he likes speed and a steady stream of spray cascading over the bow of the boat -- but the slow ride of a pontoon makes it perfect for entertaining, tubing and idling up and down the river.

We have had our friends on the river numerous times, sometimes to travel into the backwaters or sometimes to travel up the river to the Dresbach locks and dam.  We've discovered new locations to eat along the sides of the river, behind its bends and turns and off the heavily travelled main branch.

A trip south to Genoa can take an hour (or less if you open the throttle), and along the way you will see bald eagles soaring overhead or perched on a dead tree limb waiting for its meal.  Along the shallow shores you can find blue herons, stoically standing watch as our boat floats by.  The river serves as a major migratory route for water fowl and waterbirds.  In the fall, Tundra swans descend on the backwaters near Stoddard, WI and its neighboring Goose Island habitat.

We are fortunate to live at the junction of three rivers, with the Black and La Crosse rivers running into the Mississippi.  While the lazy La Crosse River provides a wonderful backdrop through the marshy lands near the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse, anything larger than a kayak or small canoe will have trouble getting far.  The Black River, on the other hand, is prime property for condos and water houses, which dot the shores with their faded yellows, blues and reds.  On a typical afternoon you will find people lounging in their chairs (or even recliners) watching boats travel up and down the passage that connects the upper Black River to the Mississippi channel.

On this particular day, Liz and I are returning from the upper reaches of the Black River, idling through a no wake zone.  As we approach a railroad bridge used by the Canadian Pacific Railway to cross the Black and Mississippi rivers, we are given a brief reprieve from the summer's humidity and heat.  At times, we are able to watch as a train rumbles overhead, heading to Minnesota, the Dakotas and finally to the western United States.  If I breathe deep enough, I can smell tar, steamy and sticky, that has long ago bubbled up on the bridge's beams, heated by a relentless summer sun.

It's amazing the number of times you can make the same trip on the Mississippi, yet see something different every time.

Mark Twain, that great connoisseur of life on the Mississippi River, talked about the face of the water representing a wonderful book.  A book that contains a dead language to the uneducated passenger, but when told by those who travel its length, a book of secrets delivering its most cherished secrets as clearly as if it uttered them with a voice.  And it's a book, that if opened every day, should not be thrown aside, for it tells a different story every time.  As proof, on some days we will find a hidden bend that appears magically, opening into a secluded tributary that leaves one feeling like they're miles away from home.

Today's river traffic consists of pontoon boats like ours, fishing boats, powerful speed boats and cruisers that I think are better suited for oceans or seas.  Barges -- hauling coal, corn and oats -- are commonplace as the price of fuel continues to climb.

 

I wonder what Mark Twain would say about the river today.  His musings about mighty steamboats surging up the Mississippi, of a golden era with lavish parties, expensive gowns, top hats and traveling musicians on board, paint an exciting picture that seems impossible to believe.  Did Louis Armstrong ("Stardust") and Bix Beiderbecke ("Singing The Blues") really play to audiences on Mississippi River paddle wheelers?

In a nod to the nostalgia of these old steamers, La Crosse provides docking to the Julia Bel Swain and occasionally the American Queen and Delta Queen.  The size and elegance of these boats draw passengers from throughout the world as they paddle their way from New Orleans, Louisville and Ohio.

Today, life on the Mississippi River has become much more commonplace, accessible to rich and poor. Where plantations and many of the country's early millionaires once lived, there are now casinos and small towns abandoned by an era that has moved on without them.

Perhaps that is one of the biggest reasons I have returned to the river -- it harkens back to a simpler time.  Before cell phones and computers ruled our lives, there was a way to escape the ties to humanity and its interminable pressure.  The gentle sway of waves, or the sudden swell from the wake of a barge take your mind off the client or patient who demands the impossible.  Its graceful curves, with reflected images of sunsets, woody heights and soft distances dissolve the worries of the day and give promise to a new day.

Life on the Mississippi is good.  Always has been and always will be.

"I'm growing tired of the big city lights
Tired of the glamour and tired of the sights
In all my dreams I am roaming once more
Back to my home on the old river shore
I am sad and weary, far away from home
Miss the Mississippi and you."

- Emmylou Harris

Losing The Blush

blush
v.  blushed, blush-ing, blush-es
      .to become red in the face, especially from modesty, embarrassment, or shame; flush.
     . to become red or rosy.
     . to feel embarrassed or ashamed:  blushed at his own audacity.


Dennis Miller, on his radio show, uses the phrase "losing our blush" for our reaction to bad behavior.

I think most of society would still like to pass under the radar when they screw up, but it does make you wonder about some of the scandals going on in Washington, or the implausible excuses given by our elected officials when they are caught doing stupid things.

 

Can there be anything more stupid than tweeting a picture of your "junk" to young women?  The level of arrogance and shamelessness must be off the charts for someone to think that kind of behavior is ok.

Of course I'm talking about Anthony Weiner, who resigned from the U.S. House of Representatives after mistakenly tweeting a photo of his penis to Twitter followers (it was intended as a private gift to just one young woman -- and it wasn't his wife).  A few months after resigning, he was back at it again, allegedly sending photos to as many as 10 other women.

The people of New York City pride themselves on being the ultimate "melting pot," culturally sophisticated and on society's cutting edge.  That must apply to very few of its nearly 9 million citizens, because there is no way Weiner should still be in the running to replace Mayor Bloomberg.

So have the people of New York City lost their ability to recognize bad behavior or what?

Have we become so desensitized to this kind of behavior that it just doesn't matter any more?  Have we reached the point where we have genetically removed the blush gene?  If so, it might explain why we don't hold politicians, athletes and movie stars to higher standards, and why the people violating our sense of right and wrong never back down.

They mutter a half-hearted apology and hope we don't catch them at it again.

Earlier this month, the baseball world was rocked with the suspension of Ryan Braun.  As a member of the 2011 Milwaukee Brewers, Braun was an All Star, won the National League MVP and the Silver Slugger award.  During that time, he came under scrutiny for a disputed testosterone test that he failed, and then was linked in 2012 to the Biogenesis of America Clinic that allegedly provided performance-enhancing drugs to professional baseball players.

After denying repeatedly that he had done anything wrong, Braun was defended by other sports figures, his teammates and fans of the Milwaukee Brewers.  In July, the hammer came down -- Braun was suspended without pay for the remainder of the 2013 season.  His response?   "I realize now that I have made some mistakes.  I am willing to accept the consequences of those actions."  (Doesn't even sound like an apology does it?)

How is it possible Braun had fooled so many, including those who knew him best?  How could he look into the camera and lie so convincingly about his involvement in PEDs?  Where was the shame?  And why were we so willing to believe his lies?

Sometimes the shame comes from the perpetrator taking a position that harms other people.  Anthony Weiner is certainly doing no favors to his wife, Huma Abedin, who must endure her own embarrassment by being linked to a creep who should be thrown in jail, not just out of public office.

For some, the salve used for those hurt by such lewd behavior is applied by the media.  Take Hillary Clinton who has suffered repeatedly at the hands of former President Bill Clinton.  The biased media portrayed Hillary as someone who stuck by her man despite affairs with Monica Lewinskly, Jennifer Flowers and Elizabeth Ward Gracen.  We all know she was in it for the political power associated with Bill Clinton, but because she was a Democrat (and married to the President of the United States), she was given a pass -- no, even better, she was lifted up as someone who overlooked her husband's lewd behavior, and was better for it.  She became a role model for future political wives, and as a result, society lost a little bit more of their ability to blush at such embarrassing behavior.

Sometimes it's hard for people to know that their behavior is embarrassing.  Take hip-hop mogul Russell Simmons who continues to defend the black community despite evidence to the contrary.  Simmons was quick to criticize the Zimmerman verdict, claiming that it was further proof of white racism.  In response, people like Bill O'Riley pointed to the abhorrent statistics of crime, family structure and unemployment that are destroying black families.  When CNN's Don Lemon, comedian Bill Cosby and columnist Thomas Sowell (all black) sited similar statistics, Russell called them "uncle Toms," "slaves," "dangerous talking heads," and a "disservice to the black community."

How embarrassing it must be to a black mother, father or child -- faced with the realities of the black community -- to hear someone like Russell criticize others for telling the truth.  Shame on Russell for perpetrating such lies and shame on others who work the racial injustice system for power and money.

But then again, do you think Sharpton, Jackson and Russell feel shame with their expensive clothes, numerous houses and back room meetings with national labor unions?

I doubt it, and another blush gets wiped away.

Attacks to the Constitution by members of Congress continue unabated -- and without consequences.  Earlier this year, the IRS, Benghazi and wiretapping scandals threatened to bring down President Obama (not really, but that's what certain emails -- asking for my donations -- keep telling me).

It is truly astounding how our constitutional rights are being violated by these people and they show no shame or remorse.  I've written before about these scandals, and unfortunately, months later we are no closer to finding out who's responsible.  Bureaucrats in Washington are content to blame this bad behavior on minor players and promise to "get to the bottom of things."  Really?  This September marks a year since the Benghazi attacks -- and the killers are still walking the streets of Libya.  But that's ok, because the people responsible are sorry.

The fact that the IRS is deciding presidential elections is denied, then forgotten.  Despite the left's ardent attempts to convince voters that the IRS delayed applications by both conservative and liberal groups, the facts say otherwise.  Does the media care?  Of course not.  Instead we devote hours of prime time television  to Prince Harry and Princess Kate giving birth to a newborn son who is third in line to the Royal Crown.  No one is really interested in a little bad behavior...

Thanks to the Democrat Party, political correctness and our cultural "elite," criticizing bad behavior is off limits.  Discussions, whether online, on television or radio are becoming expressions of hate speech.   "Abnormal," "immoral," and "sin" have become words that need to be banned and exterminated from our cultural discussions, as teachers, politicians and the media tell us to be more understanding.

Unless you're a Christian who believes in the Bible.  Then you need to change with the times...

"Progress" is the new word for shame today.  When we see abnormal behavior, we need to view it as an expression of something to be understood.  We are told -- as children in school, and now as adults at home -- to grow in our understanding of what causes their behavior and see things from their perspective.

Lying, adultery and illegal drugs?  They are things of the past.  Just like our ability to blush at those committing them.

Stirring the Racial Pot

I just finished reading a book by Michael Connolly called the Black Box, which was loaned to me by my son.  In the novel, detective Harry Bosch investigates a case that goes back 20 years involving a young female photojournalist who is killed during the Los Angeles riots of 1992.  Like all of Connolly's books, it was a good read, and one that has me thinking about the state of race relations in America.

In case you forgot, the L.A. riots occurred after a verdict was read in the Rodney King case, acquitting the four officers who were caught on tape beating him.  Outrage and protest turned to violence, as rioters in south-central Los Angeles blocked traffic, burned businesses and dragged motorists out of their vehicles and killed them.

 

All because the cops -- acquitted of beating a black man -- were white.  In some people's opinion, justice was not served

I've never understood how burning buildings or overturning vehicles is justified, whether celebrating an NBA championship or protesting the results of a trial.  Destroying something because your city won a championship (which you had nothing to do with) boggles the mind; destroying something because you feel miserable or treated "unfairly" is just stupid.

This past 4th of July holiday, my wife and I were in Kalamazoo, Michigan visiting our "adopted" South Korean student who is going to summer school at Western Michigan University.  During lunch she mentioned that one of her classes, English As Second Language, was discussing race in America.  It was interesting to listen to her talk about what she called the "sensitivities" of race, specifically civil rights and the treatment of minorities over the decades.  As a foreign student I'm sure she has a much different view of our racial issues, but one thing remained the same: she needed to be careful what she said and how she said it.

With the election of Barrack Obama as our first black president, many in the mass media predicted improved relations between whites and blacks.  Whites even voted for Obama, so that was viewed as a positive.  But that looks pretty ridiculous now considering the blatant attempts made by this administration (President Obama:  "If I had a son, he would look like Trayvon"), the liberal media and black leaders to keep tensions high.

And now, we have the Trayvon Martin murder trial.  With the George Zimmerman verdict expected this week or next,  many are worried that there could be a repeat of the Los Angeles riots due to the racial emphasis placed on the trial.  I guess we're about to find out just how far we've come in 20 years.  I'm not optimistic, as I think the riots could easily spread out from Florida into other hot spots around the United States.

All with the blessings of those who stir the racial pot for political and social gain.

If you don't think that possible, think again.

It was just revealed by The Daily Caller that a division of the U.S. Department of Justice (DOJ) was deployed to Sanford, Florida to provide assistance for anti-Zimmerman protests, including a rally headlined by Al Sharpton.  The Community Relations Service, of the DOJ, helped manage protests in March and April of 2012, when they organized marches and demonstrations relating to "the shooting and death of a young African American teenager by a community watch captain."

Proof that the Obama Administration is actively flaming the racial fires, regardless of guilt or innocence. What does it say when our own government is involved in dividing this country based on race?

It's been 20 years since the Rodney King trial, 50 years since the Civil Rights Act of 1964 ended all state and local laws prohibiting racial segregation, 66 years since Jackie Robinson's Major League Baseball debut in 1947, and 143 years since the ratification of the 15th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution provided the right to vote in 1870.

That sounds like progress doesn't it?  No question every one of those milestones was needed to treat people of all color, equally and with fairness.  So why do I feel like things are only getting worse?

Maybe because they are.

I mentioned the George Zimmerman trial in Sanford, Florida.  You need NO OTHER evidence to realize how important the issue of race is to Democrats.  This trial wasn't even about race.  But the left is making sure that everyone knows that the young teenager lying dead was black.  Not Asian, not native American, not Hispanic.  But black.

Stirring the race pot has been a huge advantage for them through the years (not to mention the latest presidential election when 92% of blacks voted for Obama).

This week the Broward County Sheriff's office released a video asking the public not to riot in the wake of the George Zimmerman verdict.  The Sheriff's office released a statement explaining that it was "working closely with the Sanford Police Department and other law enforcement agencies" to coordinate "a response plan in anticipation of the verdict."

The video, titled Raise Your Voice, Not Your Hands, focuses on attempting to channel aggressive reaction into a non-violent response.  It depicts two youngsters, one black and one Hispanic.  "We need to stand together as one, no cuffs, no guns," says the Hispanic girl.  "Let's give violence a rest, because we can easily end up arrested," says the black boy.  "I know your patience will be tested, but law enforcement has your back," they conclude.

Can't you just feel the fear law enforcement and businesses have as this trial winds down?  It's safe to say the police are stocking up on body armor and rubber bullets.  And business owners are taking additional security precautions.

Again, I can only ask, how is this possible?  Haven't we learned anything from the L.A. riots?  I won't claim to know the verdict in the Zimmerman trial, but I do know this:

1.  The Democratic Party requires racial tensions to push their agenda for welfare and other social programs that are funded by big government.  If blacks ever escaped "the ghetto," who would liberals use as proof that we must do more to help the poor and discriminated?  I suppose Hispanics would do just fine, as the Democrats already own 75% of their vote.

Either way, liberals represent deep pockets to poor blacks and minorities who need assistance.   Every election cycle, Democrats are quick to offer social programs -- education grants , affirmative action and health programs -- that keep them on the dole, and on the Democratic side of the voting ballot.

The sad truth is that many of the liberal social policies instituted as part of President Lyndon Johnson's "Great Society" actually hurt black families.  These programs have done more to damage traditional sources of help (like the family) and prevented financial independence for many blacks.

2.  The liberal media not only support, but encourage racial division.  It's terrible to say, but the media wields dangerous words to divide this nation.  Whether asking questions designed to trip up naive politicians or celebrity chefs like Paula Deen -- if it involves race, the media will jump all over you.  And if you don't give them a racially divisive comment, they will fabricate one.

Here's proof:  NBC News has fabricated stories and altered words to make it look like George Zimmerman said something bad.  NBC selectively edited the original Zimmerman 911 call to make him sound racist.

Here's how NBC News spliced the tape to sound like Zimmerman, without prodding, gave Martin's race:  "This guy looks like he's up to no good, he looks black."

In reality, Zimmerman said, "This guy looks like he's up to no good, or he's on drugs or something and he's just walking around, looking about."  The 911 operator then asked Zimmerman for Martin's race. "He looks black," was his response.  Big difference, don't you think?

3.  Race baiters like Jessie Jackson, Al Sharpton, Harry Belafonte, and congressmen John Conyers and Charles Rangel will never stop pushing the divide between blacks and whites.  There is too much money and political power to be had.  These so-called black leaders are quick to promote perceived injustices like the Tawana Brawley rape hoax, or lead protests against white business owners (Harlem, N.Y.) that have ended in deadly shooting rampages.  Instead of questioning the Obama administration about increased black on black violence, higher black unemployment, and fatherless families, race baiters stand before a microphone and blame poverty and the white establishment for their troubles.  I watch in stunned disbelief as followers fall at their feet like they're heavenly sent.

 

If anyone took the time to really challenge these blowhards, they would be trampled underfoot because the media has their back.  As a matter of fact, they must have a direct phone line -- a media bat phone -- because I see Jesse and Al on television all the time.  The news media is just waiting to use their inflammatory words to stir the hearts and minds of young, black teenagers, all under the banner of racial injustice.

Making it worse, no one is willing to challenge them because our society has become so sensitive to attacks on race.  Attack the Rev Jesse Jackson and you could have the Black Panthers knocking on your door.

Any guess what they are saying about George Zimmerman?

There is no doubt which side they are on, as is evident by these words from hip hop pioneer, Russell Simmons:  "Whether George Zimmerman is found innocent or guilty by the jury, I am a firm believer that all of us live by karmic law, and he will ultimately be punished for the death of Trayvon, no matter what."

So much for being innocent until proven guilty!

Think of the good these "black leaders" could have if they spent more time in churches and schools mentoring young blacks, rather than appearing before a television audience whining about racial injustice.

It has been more than 21 years since The Cosby Show changed the fortunes of NBC and made television sitcom history.  Too bad the family life portrayed in that show, which showed a strong, family unit with a mother and father, was ridiculed for not being realistic.  The Cosby show had all the ingredients of a successful family.  Cosby was a doctor, his wife was a lawyer, and their children went to college.  At the same time, they embraced their black culture, their religion, their heritage and their music.  Characters on the show dressed appropriately, spoke respectfully, and listened to their elders.

So why isn't that the racial model we pursue in America?  Why is Trayvon Martin the poster-child of the left, and not Bill Cosby?  The answer is why race continues to separate this country, and why it's not getting any better.

The New Morality

In the Declarations of Independence, the Founding Fathers declared that our nation was founded on principals that said our individual rights came from God and that our decisions needed to obey his natural law.  This is another way of saying our country was founded as a Christian nation, with Christian morals.

Need proof?  Ben Franklin, at the Constitutional Convention, said "...God governs the affairs of men.  And if a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without his notice, is it probable that a nation can rise without his aid?"  George Washington, who obviously knew the intent of the Constitution and Bill of Rights, said, "Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports.  In vain would a man claim the tribute of patriotism, who should labor to subvert these great pillars."

Morality or Law?

Today's ruling by the Supreme Court (United States v. Windsor) -- in which the federal Defense of Marriage Act was declared unconstitutional -- is just the latest violation of that natural law.

This isn't the first time our country's morals have been challenged and defeated by liberal thinking.  In the 1970's the Supreme Court actively violated this founding principal by declaring it a "right" to kill an unborn child.  Today's defeat of DOMA by liberals delivers another blow to our nation by changing the definition of "marriage" and "spouse" -- a definition that has been used since the beginning of time.

Our nation's shifting morality - the differentiation of intentions, decisions and actions between those that are good (right) and bad (wrong) -- has been going on for all of my life.  In my opinion, public morality, as reflected in our regulation of dress, sex, drugs, alcohol, speech and health issues, has changed for the worse.  This shift is being aided by our children being indoctrinated by liberal thinking in education, by  federal and state judicial systems controlled by liberals who want to change our laws, and by the collapse of traditional religion in today's society.

Typical of today's youth, my children would say that this kind of thinking is old fashioned (just my way of living in the past).  Sean would say, "Dad, the older you get the more resistant to change you become."  Not necessarily true, but when you change the definition of something that has not changed in thousands of years, where do you draw the line?

To me, and those who share my view, the line is drawn by our Constitution and Bill of Rights.  Too bad so many judges, including the highest court in our land, don't agree.  We have moved from a country governed by law, to one governed by amoral beliefs (special interests and corrupt politicians don't help either).

I say amoral because too many people are unaware, or indifferent toward any set of moral standards or principles.  This is possible because our schools are more concerned with political correctness and self esteem than instructing our children on the founding of our country.  It's what some people refer to as value-free education. Schools have chosen to leave the job of teaching morals to the student's parents and churches. I see this every day in their insistence that prayer and anything religious (Christmas) be removed from its once-hallowed halls.

In an attempt to balance this moral evisceration, schools are pushing service learning or community service as a way to build character and virtue.  Volunteering is a great way to help others, but not when the message being taught is that government is the answer to poverty or that we are destroying the earth through global warming.  Understanding others has some value, but not when it promotes gay marriage and/or illegal immigration.

If schools put half as much effort into punishing those who break rules, show disrespect and skip homework as they do with eliminating "bullying," our children wouldn't be ranked 14th out of 34 countries for reading skills, 17th for science and a below-average 25th for mathematics.

While the left has failed to teach our children reading, science or math, they have excelled at teaching them to support their liberal causes.  A study in USA Today shows that 70% of Millennials (ages 18-32) support gay marriage.  That's a 19% increase from 2003.  By contrast, only 38% of Baby Boomers (ages 49-67) support gay marriage.  Millennials' acceptance of a gay lifestyle is at 74%, while only 22% disapprove.  That is a difference of 8% since 2003.  Baby boomers have actually seen a shift backwards, with 46% accepting / 47% disapproving.  It was 48% for /45% against in 2003.

It's easy to see why gay marriage passed today (which has been idolized by our youth and supported by the mainstream media) by a 5-4 vote.

Another sign that this country has lost its moral foundation is the steady decline of religion in people's lives.  Church has always been a tough sell to young adults.  In the past (yes, I'm still living in the past) young couples would eventually come back to the church when they got married and started a family.

But not today.  One-fifth of Americans are religiously unaffiliated -- higher than at any time in recent U.S. history -- and those younger than 30 especially seem to be drifting from organized religion.  A third of young Americans say they don't belong to any religion.  One reason is the social indoctrination by the left that refuses to believe in a moralistic right and wrong.

Take one participant from a roundtable about religion recently sponsored by NPR.  This young woman, age 30, was raised Catholic but does not call herself one today because she cannot embrace the church's core beliefs on social issues.

"To me," she says,  "a church that would be welcoming would be one where there wasn't a male-only hierarchy that made all the rules, and there weren't these rules about who's excluded and who's included and what behavior is acceptable and what's not acceptable."

Harvard professor Robert Putnam, who writes about religion, recently told NPR that this young generation is not only more religiously unaffiliated than their parents; they are also more religiously unaffiliated than previous generations of young people.

According to Putnam, this young generation has been distancing itself from community institutions and from institutions in general.  "They're the same people not joining the Eks Club or Rotary Club.  This is born out of a rebellion of sorts."  Putnam continues, "These were the kids who were coming of age in the America of the culture wars, in the America in which religion publicly became associated with a particular brand of politics, and so I think the single most important reason for the rise of (people without religion) is that combination of the younger people moving to the left on social issues and the most visible religious leaders moving to the right on that same issue."

Jonathan Haidt and Jesse Graham of the New York University Stern School of Business have studied the differences between liberals and conservatives as it relates to morality and politics.  In a report called "Moral Foundations Theory," they found that Americans who identified themselves as liberal tended to value care and fairness higher than loyalty, respect and purity.  Self-identified conservative Americans valued care and fairness less and loyalty, respect and purity more.

So given the declining importance of morals in America today, is it really a surprise that the Supreme Court declared DOMA unconstitutional?  We are surrounded by a society in decline, as evidenced by a culture that can't make rules or exclude bad behavior.  In fact, cultural icons like Madonna, Lindsay Lohan and Lady Gaga are embraced and rewarded.

Today, a large percentage of America thinks we passed a law that will afford gay men and lesbians the same federal protections as any other.  Instead of being the gay marriage movement's "Cinderella" moment, this is nothing more than another blow to America's founding fathers.