The Future Is Now

TWENTY YEARS IN THE FUTURE.

 "I had a dream," I say to the lump of blankets lying next to me in bed.   In the early morning darkness, I could discern a leg sticking out, searching for a resting place that was less cramped and not so hot.  "A dream where people were free to express their views, regardless of who they were or what they were saying.  It was so strange."

"Strange like that movie we watched last night?"  My wife's muffled voice was coming from deep down in the blankets, indicating she wasn't yet ready to face the new day. 

"No, not strange like that -- that was a weird movie by the way-- it was more like de ja vu or remembering some long-forgotten episode from my childhood.  It felt like I had been there before.  You know what I mean?"

"Uh.hum..."  She turned, pulling the blankets with her.

I tossed the remaining covers and crawled out of bed.  I slipped on some jeans and a warm shirt and headed for the kitchen.  The overhead LED lights clicked on as I crossed the kitchen threshold, its floor instantly warm to the touch of my bare feet.  Through the window I could see the silhouette of the wind farm against a beautiful display of pinks and blues, their large turbine blades motionless in the early morning sky.

Much like the fading colors outside, last night's dream was breaking up into less vivid fragments of people, words and meaning.  They were starting to lose their connectivity -- faces where less distinct and definitions were being rounded into generic, meaningless words.  But these sketchy memories were still with me, like an old 33 vinyl record, whose groves keep getting deeper with each repeated play. 

Lately, my implants were not functioning as they were supposed to be working, resulting in these unusual dreams that would occasionally fill my nights. Initially, I thought I should contact FAUCI (the Federal Authority Uniform Clinical Institute), but something about these clarion visions felt right.  At times they left me feeling exhilarated; if I felt this good, why should I stop them?

Fortunately, I could write down my thoughts on a pad of paper I kept near the bed.  I needed to act quickly -- if I waited until morning or lunch, the dreams would be lost among the controlled monotony of another day.

But what strange thoughts they were!  My pad of paper was filled with words like freedom, constitutional and individual rights.  I would sketch images of stars and stripes, and worse of all, was the appearance of a big, bad orange man people called Trump.  I would search DATAVERSITY  (created five years after the COVID Pandemic) for references to the man, but there was nothing to be found.

"Good morning, Tim," greeted SIRI from the screen mounted above the kitchen sink.  "Would you like to know the temperature outside?" Its perfect English was slightly accented with an Irish brogue.

"Sure, it looks cold today,"

"Current temperature is 37 degrees Fahrenheit, with a high of 62 degrees Fahrenheit by 4 pm.  Fifteen-day forecast -- based on weather conditions expected in your area, Watson predicts the following health indexes:  Allergy 8, Asthma 2 and COVID 7.  Please take your XYZAC and wear a mask when with other people."

"Thank you," I respond, more than a little annoyed by the high COVID count.  "Can you give me my el-ID balance, as of this morning? I'm going to need $400 added to my account.  Liz and I are going grocery shopping later today."

"Your password please?"

"Bears Still Suck."

"Thank you.  Money has been released."

Released?  That was new, since when do I need someone's approval to access my own money?  I should have paid more attention to the email telling us about changes to our digital IDcard.  I vaguely remember something about the modifications made to our FAST Platform with Coulee Bank.

"Siri, pull up the emails from last month, find any from HSFC Bank and scroll down to "Changes to Your FAST Account."

Musical chimes sounded while SIRI search her database.  "I found it -- would you like me to read it?"  

"Yes."

"Effective "Monday, July 1, the American Government has announced the launch of a pilot project, the Central Bank Digital Currency, (CBDC) for nine member banks of HSFC Bank, including branches in Wisconsin, Iowa, Minnesota and Iowa.  Its use is expected to make the inter-bank market more efficient and safer.

"Going forward, other wholesale transactions and cross-border payments will be the focus of future pilots, based on the learnings from this pilot, the Central Bank has said.  

"Across the globe, more than 60 central banks have expressed interest in CBDCs with a few implementations already under way across both retail and wholesale categories, and many others are researching, testing and or launching their own CBDC framework.

"The Central Bank said it is designed to complement, rather than replace..."

I'd heard enough.  "Stop."  My voice was thick with frustration.

So, we'd finally joined the rest of the world by going digital with the dollar.  I'd had mixed feelings about it since Canada went online and bureaucrats used it to curtail the accounts of citizens who had protested against Trudeau's eighth term as Prime Minister.  

My memory may be hampered by these implants, but something didn't feel right. The downside of ceding control of my money was borderline dystopian.  I sarcastically thought, what could happen?

Well, not only would it allow the government to track my every purchase, but it could also allow them to restrict my purchases.  I'd heard whispers at work that the UK used it to control the purchase of gasoline.  If you didn't have one electric vehicle in your household, they'd restricted the amount available each week.  It resulted in stranded vehicles and the rationing of fuel needed to heat their homes.

Suddenly, I had lost my appetite for breakfast.  Was that coming to America?  Digital progress like a common currency and new green technology was supposed to help, but was it?

Why was I feeling like the more material progress we make, the further we are from where I wanted to be?  The pandemic of 2020 had opened a literal Pandor's Box on the world and its people. If I didn't know better -- and I'm careful to whom I mention these thoughts -- I'd say it was intentional and designed to change how we lived, who we talked to and even how it happened.  I'm very thankful for the way WHO responded to the crisis, but there are a lot of black holes in my memory, holes that can't be easily explained.   I don't know, but it seems like I'm missing some information that could answer my questions.

But where do I look?  Television?  The Internet?  Can I trust the information I am given?  My implants assure me that I can --- I've never been misled before, I think, but the lingering remnants of my dream last night leads me to question what really happened.  A dull ache starts at my neck and works its way up the back of my skull.  Lately, these headaches have been getting worse, which is concerning to Liz.  She wants me to call my doctor and get in for an examination.  I'm not sure.  I don't want them to mess with my implants.

Thinking of our mass media reminds me of a song I used to listen to when I was a teenager.  I tap the side of my forehead twice and say, "Siri, play Frank Zappa, "I'm the Slime." " From somewhere in my head, the following words are sung:

"I am gross and perverted. 
I'm obsessed 'n deranged
I have existed for years
But very little had changed.

I am the tool of the government

And industry too

For I am destined to rule

And regulate you

I am the best you can get

Have you guessed me yet?

I am the slime ozz'in out

From your TV set..."

I'm sorry for the dystopian look at our future.  But in a week, we will be voting for the future of our country.  Every election lately feels like it's the most important election of my life. 

I hope we have learned our lesson after the disaster that was 2020.  In retaliation for Trump's presidency, the left has accelerated efforts to make America a socialist utopia, completed with the help of many institutions I once held dear.  Education, government agencies, our courts, today's culture, including movies, songs and sports, healthcare, big tech and our military have all gone to the dark side.

As bad as it looks, I remain an optimist. (Liz is rolling her eyes as she reads this.)  Like Dan Bongino says, I'm long on America.  The founders of this country gave us tools that make us unique, beginning with the Constitution.  Unlike Canada, the UK, Germany or especially China, we still have elections that provide us an opportunity to change course.  America may be a ship that is in heavy seas, but we can still turn it around and head for shore.

You ask -- why do I feel that way, when our media, schools and courts are currently steering us toward disaster?  

I'm optimistic because we have Trump, Ron Desantis, Joni Ernst, Elise Stefanik, Glenn Youngkin, Kari Lake and Tudor Dixon on our side.  These GOP candidates are a different breed than the usual stink we send to Washington.  They are outsiders, from all walks of life.  For the first time in a long time, people seem willing to try something else.  They've seen what happens when they play it safe.  Defeat at the polls or defeat once the candidate gets to Washington.  Either way, it's a loss.  As some RINOs found out earlier this year, mess with Trump and your political career could be in jeopardy.  Right Liz Cheney?  Others decided to not even run for re-election.

As painful as the last few years have been, and it's been bad, Trump and the pandemic really opened the eyes of many Americans, and most don't like it.   Experts were exposed as partisan hacks.  They failed us when we needed them the most and demonized us for doubting their "science."  Not again.  Hold them accountable and send a message so future experts take notice.

I'm also encouraged by the subtle signs of people -- even white suburban liberal women who voted for Dementia Joe-- who aren't happy with the direction our country is headed.  We have a lot of work to do, and a long road back.  It won't happen overnight.  

We have to start with our schools, where our children are being indoctrinated with anti-American ideas.  We know Republican and Democrat parents value their children over the abusive teacher's union. The surveillance state and thought police are very dangerous, but with better representation everywhere, I believe we can step back from the brink.  Elon Musk's takeover of Twitter provides hope in a time of content moderation, better known as censorship.  I agree with many who are calling for removal of government officials who have ignored the Constitution.  Rush used to say it was only a piece of paper -- as good as the people in power.  For centuries, the Constitution held, but not today with the current administration.  I believe with proper law enforcement we can get it back.

So, let's vote like our future depends on it.   American democracy-- not the Washington swamp version --  depends on it.

Will our future look like 2022, or more like Orwell's 1984?  The choice is ours.

Grumpy Old Man

IT WAS A TYPICAL WEEKEND ADVENTURE for Liz and I.  A drive down the Great River Road, watching barges push loads of grain downriver, finding a hole in the wall for a bite to eat and maybe stopping at a river overlook or visitor center.

Today we were in the historic river town of Mc Gregor, Iowa after lunch at Back Water Bar and Grill in Prairie du Chien.  We were in an old -- they prefer the term "antiquarian" -- bookstore located on Main Street looking for a gift for Liz's brother, Eric, who is a fan of history books.  The bookstore is not another Barnes & Noble, far from it.  It specialized in scarce, rare and collectible books, of which its inventory contained more than 40,000 titles.

Interested in original editions of  Anne of Green Gables or Bobbsie Twins?  There's a good chance you might find one.  Rare editions of the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew were behind glass, if you wanted to relive that particular childhood experience.  Looking for a hard-to-find book on Abraham Lincoln's life or General Patton's view of the war?  This is your place.   I'm not a fan of either of those, although I would be interested in finding some old Doc Savage books, not the ones I read as a teenager, but the original pulp fiction issues, published between 1930 -1940.

Unfortunately, I didn't find anything, but I did come across a relatively new book on someone I hadn't thought about, much less read about in over twenty years -- Andy Rooney.  The book was called Years of Minutes and it featured all of his television broadcasts in print.

For most of you reading this blog, you know who I'm talking about.  College kids  still in love with Barrack Obama may not know the name.  Between 1978 to 2011, he was best known for his "A Few Minutes with Andy Rooney," a part of the CBS News program 60 Minutes.  He was a writer even before the age of television as a correspondent for The Stars and Stripes during World War II and he would work for CBS for more than 60 years.

Like other iconic media personalities who have passed away -- Rush Limbaugh, Paul Harvey and Larry King -- Andy Rooney was one of a kind.  He became a celebrity not just for what he said, but for how and where he said it.

Vintage Rooney -- his rants and grumblings about the clutter in our everyday lives, or his skewering the pomposity of politicians, or telling the truth about fad diets and dumb sports --  was a funny relief from the heavy news of the day.  Nobody took themselves more seriously than 60 Minutes.  So how he ended up on their news program is a mystery to most, but if you consider his past history as a war time correspondent and television writer, it wasn't much of a leap from writing about the news to talking about it on television.

As I read through Years of Minutes, I'm reminded of how so many of the things we see in the news today, were also in the news during the 1970s, 80s and 90s.  It's one of the greatest arguments to be made for keeping our history alive -- both in what is taught in schools and preserving statues that have recently been banned or torn down because people don't like something about the person's past.

"Those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it."  I don't know who said that, but I like it.

Our country's history is for another blog at another time, but reading through Rooney's book reminds me that as bad is it seems today, it was just as bad thirty or fifty years ago.  But it also reminds me of how little we have learned over the last three or four decades.  Somethings are just too politically useful to be put away for good.

Here's one rant of Rooney's that proves my point:

"It seems strange at my age... I've lived more than 26,000 days ... that if I had to pick one of the saddest days for my country, I'd pick the day the jury can in with a NOT GUILTY verdict for the cops who beat Rodney King.

I assume it's be okay with you if I don't take this opportunity to show you that tape again for the 10,000th time.  You know what it looks like.

There are some things I would like to say though.  First anyone who says he or she doesn't believe there are differences in the races probably isn't telling the truth.  Do I think there are differences in the races and ethnic groups ... blacks, whites, Jews, Turks, the Irish?  You're darn right I think there are differences. Does this make me a racist?  Listen, if I'm a racist, so are 98 percent of the American people including blacks and we have to find another word to call what we are.

There has always been one thing though, that the good people of America believe in -- even the people who didn't really believe that all men are created equal.  They conceded that we should all be equal before the law.

In the 1960s when blacks were still sitting in the back of the bus, the overwhelming majority of American men and women were in favor of every anti-discrimination law that was passed by Congress.  They believed in equity before the law even if they privately felt superior to the guy over on the other side of town.

And that's the tragedy of this Rodney King case.  This one black man didn't get fair and equal treatment under our law.  It's depressing and sad for all of us.  I feel bad for the majority of black people in America -- the ones the television cameras didn't see, the ones who when the decision was announced, didn't riot.  They put their black faces in their black hands and wept."

No doubt -- a sad day in our history, and one that repeated itself with George Floyd in June of 2020, but with a different result.  Unfortunately the GUILTY verdict didn't stop the hate mongers of Black Lives Matter from fomenting their own type of hate, leading to shouts of "Defund the police!" and much of today's urban violence in places like New York, Chicago and Los Angeles.

On a much lighter note -- and one more reminiscent of Rooney's typical rants -- is this one from 1984.

"There are good shapes and bad shapes.  This old Underwood typewriter of mine has a classic shape.  I suppose it looks good because it is good.  I use this computer a lot, but its shape will never be a classic.

This original Coke bottle was one of the greatest shapes of all time... certainly a better shape than the cans the stuff comes in now.

This old Hamilton pocket watch of mine is a great shape.  A baseball cap is a good shape.  Remember how homely those old fedoras used to be?  All men wore one of them 50 years ago.

A book is a good shape.  Books fit so nicely together on a shelf.  Publishers should get together on size though.

Almost anything round is a good shape.  An orange, for instance, could hardly be improved on.  A football isn't round even though it's called a ball.  It's an ellipse.  The word "ellipse" comes from a Greek word meaning "falling short."  But you probably knew that.  A football falls short of being round.

Let's go to the blackboard for an instant.

Circles are good but one of the first things kids learn about how tough life can be is how hard it is to draw a circle freehand with your first box of crayons.

The basic difference between a square and a circle is that a circle rolls and a square does not.

Triangles are interesting but not very useful.  The most famous triangles are the pyramids, which are a dead loss except as tourist attractions.  Triangles like squares, don't roll but, unlike squares cannot be sat upon comfortably.

One of the best names of any shape is the isosceles triangle.  Unfortunately, while isosceles triangles are big in high school, they seldom come up in real life.

The word "square" of course, is also used to describe someone who doesn't get it."

Who goes on television to talk about shapes?  So many of his rants were about simple everyday things.  Somewhere in there is a life lesson.  You may not always get it, but it's in there.

Rooney's magic was his ability to make us think and laugh about something pretty mundane, while cutting through the sentimental crap and getting to the point of things.  After reading this book, I'm convinced he was more right than wrong, with his homespun philosophies shining a light on what was important and meaningful in life.  And still is.

As a writer -- and a good one at that --  Rooney's conversations were pointed, concise and revealing.   Some think his delivery and style were learned as a war correspondent during WWII when he would report on the fighting up close and personal, but sometimes from a distance -- necessary if you were to get past the terrible, evil things men sometimes do.  Life and death was a real possibility during war, concentrated and intense, and writing about it meant communicating stories that went beyond simple winning and coming home a "hero."

Did his war experiences have anything to do with his grumpiness?  Probably, but like all good Democrats, I'm sure his political views had something to do with it. Living in a city like New York City, didn't help either, where people always seem to be complaining about something.  

Regardless of where it came from, it always had him asking "Do you ever wonder why...?"  At some point in all of our lives, I'm sure we all wondered why things are the way they are.  I still do.  

It also came from his lifetime association with politics and government bureaucracy.  (If I had to make sense of the people running this country I'd be miserable too.)  Stressful situations like race relations, pollution, or any political controversy are breeding pools for frustration, fear and anxiety.    His quirky stories were the perfect regulator or valve on a pressure cooker filled with our country's real life anxieties. 

I don't watch 60 minutes anymore -- like most news today, it's much too biased to enjoy.  I don't even know what happened to Rooney's slot on the show when he retired.  Is there someone who does something similar, or has he been replaced by something completely different (Why I Hate Donald Trump)?  

I don't know, and perhaps even worse, I don't care anymore.  Which is something I always did when Rooney showed up, wearing the same old tired jacket, scowling with his bushy eyebrows and complaining about something trivial.

Great writers like Mark Twain or Ernest Hemmingway are always being quoted on Facebook or Twitter.  Rooney should be included as well.  One I found to my liking is  -- "The best classroom in the world is at the feet of an elderly person."  

For me and millions of others between 1982 and 2011 that classroom was on CBS' 60 Minutes.

Reaching For The Sky, At 20 MPH

 "SLOW DOWN!"

It was not a suggestion.  Like the way someone is trying to tell you what they want to eat, or what to wear to a party.  Which do you like better -- the blue one or the yellow one?  It wasn't a one way conversation with your spouse while streaming "Terminal List" on Amazon.  Or being asked to try something besides vanilla ice cream.

This had the authority of fire and brimstone if you failed to understand her meaning.

"Slow down, please," repeats my wife.  Fire and brimstone -- with sugar on top.

Typically, the fastest route from Asheville to Max Patch is about an hour and fifteen minutes along I-40, then NC 209.  According to the directions, this stretch of NC-209 is known as the Appalachian Medley, a winding and scenic road through the mountains of North Carolina.

A quick couple of things to note:  typically, winding and mountains.

"Typically" means during daylight hours, preferably when you can see where the "winding" road takes a sharp 180 degree turn.  Sunlight would have helped avoid a situation like one we just had where the passenger side wheels of the car brushed the shoulder of the road, kicking gravel and dirt over a steep drop down the "mountain" and certain death.

Of course, I was in complete control of the car,  having faithfully -- and without incident I might add -- guided us through Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee and finally North Carolina.  At a distance of over one thousand miles, and almost two days driving, I felt confident along the route we were on, especially since we had taken these exact same curves two hours before.  We were simply retracing our route from Max Patch to Asheville.

Only one problem.  Ok, two.  It was pitch black outside, and our GPS wasn't working any more.  So to say we were driving blind wouldn't be an exaggeration.

"Slow down!" Her voice was loud enough for campers in Tennessee to hear.  This time she was actually spitting red hot lava from her mouth.  The kind I would certainly find in hell if I were to die tonight.  So I slowed down, even though the signs on the mountain indicated a speed limit of 40 miles per hour.  Maybe some jokester switched the signs just to raise my wife's blood pressure.

To Liz's credit, she anticipated our current situation.

"Take a right turn at the stop sign," she says.  She has written every turn we took before and is reversing them on the way back down the mountain.  Smart cookie, my wife.  Getting to Max Patch was easy, but trying to find cell service up here was impossible.  So asking the phone's GPS to take us back to Ashville was giving her the slow wheel of death.  So all we had to do was turn the paper inside out, upside down and speak in reverse and we'd find ourselves back in Asheville by 10:30.

Her next set of instructions don't have the authority of the one we just took.  "Looks like another right turn on Hide-Away-Pass," she pauses.  "I think.  I don't see anything that tells us what road we are on, and nothing looks familiar."

I look through our windshield at the darkness and stars overhead, which look like buckshot fired from some magical shotgun.

"Do you remember seeing that church back there?" I ask.  I don't want to panic her, but nothing looks familiar.  "Are we lost?" I ask, trying not to sound like Burt Reynolds in the hillbilly movie "Deliverance."

Is that banjo music I hear?

As you can tell, Liz and I love our adventures.  We really do.

Liz spends hours researching our trip -- finding places to go, things to see and food to eat.  We've been to Canada, Ireland, Mexico, the Caribbean, Europe and occasionally stateside.  During the COVID scaredemic, we had a great time in Yellowstone and Grand Tetons National Parks with friends who share our love of travel and distain for being told what to do..

Our latest adventure has us driving by car to North Carolina with stops in French Lick, Indiana, in Louisville, Kentucky, in Cincinnati, Ohio and everywhere in between on our way to see the fabulous Biltmore Estate in Asheville, near the Smokey Mountains.  And to drive hazardous curves, dips and to climb to unknown destinations.

Because of the current state of travel -- delays, covid testing, etc. --  we decided to rent a car and see parts of the United States by road.  Sounded like fun, and it was.  There is something uniquely American about driving a car for thousands of miles through mostly rural, unpopulated parts of the country.  Europe has its rail system and a compactfulness that makes it easy to travel from Italy to France to Germany and others. 

In fact, it's been said that traveling across the United States feels more like visiting a collection of different countries, each with its own identity and culture.  Depending on what state you're in you could even say its own language.  

Culture and cuisine is a combination of all the nationalities that make up this great country of ours.  You can find jambalaya, beignets, crawfish boils and Po-Boy in Louisiana, or you can eat two kinds of North Carolina-style barbecue, fried chicken or fried green tomatoes in North Carolina.  Geographically, the flat, plain states vary greatly from the mountainous areas of Kentucky, Tennessee and North Carolina.  And the people from Milwaukee are vastly different than the people from Louisville.

And unlike a six hour drive from Germany to the Czech Republic, it may take eight hours just to get through the long states of Illinois or Indiana.  The vastness of this country is so overwhelming and profoundly inspiring that the possibilities of discovery seem endless -- and connecting us all is a bright invisible thread found in our unique history.  

It can be found by car, if you take the time to look around, one mile at a time.

With just the two of us and no real agenda, except to get to North Carolina, our vacation was part road trip, part nostalgia and part adventure.  

Recently, we had wanted to see the historic and "Eighth Wonder of The World," West Baden Springs Hotel near French Lick, Indiana with its 200 foot dome covering its atrium.  In 1855, French Lick was famous in the United States as a spa town and attracted celebrities like boxer Joe Louis, composer Irving Berlin and gangster Al Capone (if there was gambling, it's a good bet Capone was around).

On our way to North Carolina, we made a quick stop at Churchill Downs in Louisville, considered the holy grail for aficionados of horse racing.  It is well known for the Kentucky Derby,  mint juleps,  hot dogs, strawberries and roses.  Sitting in the auditorium watching the history of the races left me with a lump in my throat, in tears and loving horses, even though I've only ridden a horse once in my life.

Our journey through the middle of our country was uneventful for the most part, with little to concern us except the increasing price for gas.  Did you hear Taco Bell is the only place you can still get gas for $1.29?  Ha ha!   Makes me wonder what's cheaper - taking care of a horse or paying for gasoline?  Maybe the people at Churchill Downs would know.

Our stay in North Carolina was great, with Liz marking off one of her bucket list items -- the Biltmore Estate.  Elegance and grandeur doesn't begin to describe America's largest home.  The French Renaissance castle is an architectural jewel.  The home features 250 rooms, including 35 bedrooms, 43 bathrooms and 65 fireplaces.  Think of that!

In addition to the house, the 8,000 acre estate is home to forested trails and beautiful gardens, which include on the the country's most complete collection of azaleas.  Biltmore is also where we visited the nation's most-visited winery (perhaps we can share a bottle at our annual wine party this year.)

Our journey back to the Badger State began at five o'clock in the morning and found us once again traveling by headlights through unfamiliar curves and climbing to uncomfortable heights through the Cumberland Gap, one of many passes in the Appalachian Mountains, located on the border of Kentucky, Virginia and Tennessee.  The passage was originally created by herds of woodland buffalo that traveled across it drawn by the abundance of salt in the region.

As it turned out, we followed this "trail" into Kentucky where we stopped at Buffalo Trace Distillery, which was once part of the Bourbon Trail so popular with the bourbon culture today.  After filling whatever spare room we had in the car with bottles of bourbon , we continued to Cincinnati, Ohio an exciting city filled with slave history, multiple bridges, major league sports and music.  We were lucky enough to celebrate Liz's birthday with a journey-ending concert at Memorial Hall with Pink Martini, a favorite of ours from our ballroom dancing days.

In all, it was a fun and interesting journey that found us traveling over 2,400 miles in little over nine days. We discovered what makes so many people want to come to America -- its beauty, its history and the kindness of the people who call it home.

I also discovered I can still travel by car with the love of my life at almost 5,000 feet.

The following morning, Liz and I are traveling once again away from the safety of Asheville on the Blue Ridge Parkway, an All-American scenic road.  The parkway is America's longest linear park, running 459 miles through Virginia and North Carolina, linking Shenandoah National Park to the Great Smokey Mountains National Park.

We have stopped at a pull off at Craggy Gardens Visitor Center.  At 4,900 feet, we have panoramic views of the Pisgah National Forest with Mount Mitch rising above us to even higher heights.  The sign says we can see into Tennessee from the lookout, but I can't tell if its North Carolina or Tennessee I'm seeing from our viewpoint.  All I know is it's breathtaking and is popular with the Harley and BMW crowd.

We are still discussing our ride up to and down from Max Patch.

"I still say the drive from hell was worth it."  I am trying to sound positive, which is a fine trait of mine that can drive some people nuts.  "The 360 degree views of the Smokey Mountains were awesome, the sunset was great, and the guy recording his yoga inspirations was worth watching."

"I don't know if it was worth it, but I don't want to do it again," Liz is still hesitant about our heavenly heights, including our drive today which has many sharp turns and tunnels.  "It's not too bad when I can stand with feet firmly on the ground, but in a car with you driving, I swear, it's going to be the death of me."

I didn't want to agree, but her blood pressure last night must have been higher than ... Mount Mitch.  And her pale shade of puke green really didn't match her blouse.  Not that I actually saw any green puke...

"Sure.  But things got better after we stopped by that trailer home," I say.  "Pulling into its gravel driveway I thought we were going to be greeted with a 12-gauge shotgun, or worse.  You saw Deliverance, right?   I mean, who stops near a run down shack of a home in North Carolina looking for directions?  Didn't the Hatfield's and McCoy's feud get started with one of them asking for directions?"

I can't explain it -- maybe it was divine intervention -- but somehow, as we idled in that driveway trying to decide what to do next -- our GPS worked again for a few seconds, just long enough for us to pick up direction back to Asheville,  We had held our breathe waiting for our cell service to fail.  Each turn got us closer to our destination, but even though I knew we were on the right track, I really couldn't remember seeing most of what we passed.   "Lost In Space" had nothing on us -- "Danger Mr. Robinson! -- as we could have wandered around for hours and gotten no closer to home.

Liz and I are standing near the visitor center looking at one of the landmark signs.  Proud of my education and my ability to read signs, I tell her, "It says here the Blue Ridge Mountains have a bluish color when seen from a distance.  Apparently the trees put the "blue" in Blue Ridge, because something called isoprene is released into the atmosphere.  It contributes to the blue characteristic haze of the mountains.  Pretty cool, huh?"

"I never knew that," Liz says, then pauses and points to another important fact.  "How about this?  Clouds are formed above mountains when the air is forced up, where it loses heat and its ability to hold moisture, forming clouds, which is why there are more clouds in the afternoon than morning. " 

We stop on our way back to the car at a mound of Catawba rhododendrons that blanket many of these high elevation summits.  In fact, they are everywhere and much like the giant ones we've seen in Ireland, need to be cut back because they are so invasive.  But they are really beautiful this time of year.

"Look at this view," Liz continues as I take another picture.  "Have you ever felt so close to the sky?  I mean, we can't touch them, but I feel like we could just reach up and touch some of these clouds.  Being up this high is terrifying, but at the same time, its so peaceful and quiet.  It's the irony of driving through the mountains.  The heat of the city and noise of streets and people are replaced by the smell of rain and the feel of the sun on our faces."

I look at her and smile.  I know exactly what she means.  Like so much of our cross country drive, there is a sense of goodness and renewal that comes from these high elevations.  These mountains, like the drift less area back home, or much of the wonderful topography we passed to get here, have been here for millions of years and will be here long after we have gone.

I feel like we could solve the world's problems if we could just get everyone together up here.

Maybe Liz's suggestion to SLOW DOWN! isn't so bad after all.

Dealing With Loss

THE CAR PULLS OUT of the driveway and, with arms waving good byes, Sean and Mitra leave us and vanish around the corner.

Suddenly, there is a quietness that grabs my heart and leaves me feeling very lonely.  Over the weekend, Liz and I enjoyed having both boys back for Mother's Day, Mitra's birthday, Matt's birthday and just because we had a big cake to eat, Liz's birthday, even though it wouldn't arrive for another month.  The boys brought their girlfriends along and it made for a full and busy house; the sounds of laughter, the clinking of glasses and silverware in the dining room and conversations ranging from politics to movies echoes in my mind, bringing back memories of when the boys were young and being raised at home.

And just like that, it is all gone.  Like the emptiness of someone who has passed away, the silence reminds me of how much fun it was, and makes me wish we could do it all over again.  My loss -- and a consequence of raising our boys to be independent and self reliant.  Despite the silence that comes with their absence, I look forward to our next meeting and the return of a noisy kitchen and disagreements over Jordan Peterson and his "Twelve Rules For Life."

But the loss is real, and it makes me appreciate the time I have left on this earth with family and friends.  Over the years, I have experienced a feeling of loss that comes from losing parents, friends moving to a new city, lots of disappointing Packer games, and the passing of famous people  who have been instrumental in shaping my life.  Lately, cancer is threatened the life of one of our best friends who has shown more fight than anyone I know.  She is an inspiration to me for how she has handled herself and the love she shows for everyday she remains on this earth.

Dealing with loss comes in many ways.  It is sobering to think we aren't as invincible as you think, and it's a reminder to appreciate the people still in your life and live for the moment.

No loss is the same as another.

"Some lives can be summed up in a sentence or two.  Other lives are epics."  from the book Clockwork Angels.

I recently finished reading the first of three steampunk novels from Kevin Anderson and Neil Peart, called Clockwork Angels.  If those names are unfamiliar to you, it's because you aren't a fan of science fiction or you don't listen to progressive rock.  The book is a collaboration between an acclaimed novelist who has written prequels to Dune and Star Wars, and a drummer for the legendary rock band RUSH.  It is a tale of a young man living in a authoritarian world ruled by a rigid dictator (the Watchmaker) who imposes precision on every aspect of daily life -- from knowing exactly when it's going to rain, to growing a certain number of crops needed to feed the realm, to being assigned a wife or husband at the time of your birth.  It's a book based on Rush's album "Clockwork Angels" which turned out to be the bands nineteenth and final album when Neil Peart passed away a few years later from brain cancer.

I mention it because I am such a fan of Rush and Neil Peart, who certainly lived up to the quote above from Clockwork Lives, a sequel to the original book.  One can only imagine the life  of a rock star who travelled around the world, entertaining millions of people every year and selling 25 million records.  And became a popular author later in life by putting lyrics into prose found in more than 10 books.

The loss of Peart is a tough one to overcome because for much of my life the band's music has always been there.   One of my first albums was Rush's 2112, purchased at Metamorphosis Records, one of the few buildings on lower Pearl Street in the 70's that wasn't a bar.  It was an interesting place to spend time as a teenager.  In addition to music, you could find glass, water pipes, bubblers, papers, scales and other pot paraphernalia.  If you weren't high when you walked into the store, you were by the time you left.

A lot of Friday nights were spent by my friends and I listening to RUSH while playing euchre and drinking beer.  Either in a friend's basement, at his dad's cabin or on his houseboat, it was a rite of passage for us, providing the catalyst that propelled us into manhood.   The power of Neil's drumming had us putting down our cards and air drumming to one of his distinctive drum solos, fills, breaks or intros.  While some kids were worried about dating the third chair trumpet player, we were rocking to one of rock and roll's all time greats.

Their music was not for everyone, but somehow it evolved and became appreciated for not only notes on a bass, guitar or drums, but for effort, practice and study.  After more than 40 years of continuous musical evolution and change, and despite being dismissed my many arbiters of musical taste, they finally made it to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2013.

I had the good fortune to see RUSH in concert four or five times, and they never disappointed, even as I got older and my musical tastes shifted from hard rock to something closer to California rock. 

It's strange how the loss of someone I never met can leave a hole in your life, like the death of a family member or friend.  For me, it's knowing that there will never be another album of new music.  It's the end to the life-long bond I had with three nerdy musicians from Canada that energized my humdrum life with lyrics that had me dreaming of Xanadu, La Strangiato, Tom Sawyer and the Working Man.

"Begin the day with a friendly voice
A companion unobtrusive
Plays that song that's so elusive
And the magic music makes your morning mood."
-- Lyrics from the Spirit of Radio

FOR SOMEONE LIKE ME, this is a new experience.  

And "for someone like me" I mean, someone who's been able to eat pretty much anything and still maintain a resemblance of someone in good shape/health.  It seems like every decade there's another ten pounds that finds itself attached to my frame.  And then with the Wuflu, the government shut down the world and I could not play basketball for over two years.  Making it worse, I found myself sitting around more, and eating more, and doing less... 

The concept of losing weight, while not on the same level of someone dying, is nonetheless an exercise in getting by without something.  In my case, I'm struggling with breakfast.  For the past week I have been trying to support Liz and her new diet (which is pretty severe if you ask me) which will last 6 weeks, with the goal of losing 20 pounds.

As I said, I have been struggling with breakfast.  I love a good bowl of Wheaties to get me going, with maybe a couple pieces of raisin toast on the side.  With this new diet, I have been restricted to some kind of fruit and two eggs.  In an effort to get us excited, they say you can have them scrambled, sunny side up or over-easy.  I'm not getting fooled -- they're still eggs and I have never been a big fan of eggs, which is why I love French toast and pancakes.  With syrup.  And butter.  And a bowl of cereal.  With milk.  And a sprinkling of sugar.  

Doesn't someone know that breakfast is one of the most important meals of the day?

I'm missing my milk and orange juice too.  Alright, I break down and pour myself half a cup of milk.  So bite me and send me to a penalty box.

Thank goodness I can have a handful of nuts and some more fruit for lunch.  That should get me through an hour of full court basketball.  Lucky for me, I am just a block away from Mayo Health System.

I am encouraged throughout the day by the prospect of eating a BIG dinner -- chicken thighs and broccoli.   All the broccoli I can eat.  Yum!  At least it's not kale, one of the worst ideas for food I have ever tasted.  WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?  Are you sure it's not a weed?  I can barely contain myself, because Liz just mentioned we are having spaghetti squash (they make spaghetti out of squash?) for dinner on Thursday and more salad.  

I'm having dreams about all you can eat buffets.  Or are they nightmares?  I don't know which. 

It has been even harder to overcome the loss of another icon, named Rush.  Specifically Rush Hudson Limbaugh III who passed away last year from lung cancer, after more than 30 years of excellence as the voice behind the most listened-to radio show in the United States.

Rush became such a fixture in my life that I would listen to him in the office, at home and over many miles while listening to him in the car.  Weekends were his only escape -- and like my basketball addiction at Viterbo -- I couldn't wait until Mondays arrived and could hear his much needed monologues.

Rush had the uncanny ability to make complicated stories sound simple.  Not always easy when you're talking quantitative easing, greenwashing, feminazis, and the filibuster.   

I owe my interest in politics to Rush -- his radio show was funny, cutting edge and, as he used to say, prep work for the major media networks.  His show was the rebuttal to all things left.  I would think -- finally, we had a voice in the media that didn't hate us.  In fact, Rush brought "gravitas" to many conservative positions, including taxes, a strong border, pride in our county, hard work and the right to life.

Some of the best parts of his show were the parodies he put together -- "They're Coming To Take Me Away," "In A Yugo," a Ted Kennedy tribute, "A Philanderer," the Farrakhan "Candy Man" tune, Rev. Jackson's Stunning Rendition of Paul Anka's "Having My Baby," and the best, his "Gorbasm Update Theme."  Who didn't enjoy hearing "God Bless You Rush Limbaugh" after coming back from a commercial break?  I know I did.

There's not a day that goes by that I don't wonder what Rush would have to say about our current events.  I am armed with plenty of information I read and listen to on the web, like Dennis Prager, Daily Wire, Dinesh D'Souzas, Larry Elder and Dan Bongino -- but it always falls short, or flat compared to what (and how) filled his three hour radio show. 

With the censorship of social media, the lies being told about January 6th and the epic failings of Pres Biden and VP Harris, I think Rush would have soared to new heights.  Dan Bongino has taken over the three hour slot here in La Crosse, and as I travel through the state, I can pick up other conservative speakers like Buck Sexton and Clay Travis on the EIB network.  On television there's Tucker Carlson and The Five.  But I hate to say it, combined, they don't fill the hole left by Rush's passing. 

The loss of his powerful voice is one I will never get over.  To say he was one of a kind comes up short.  Speaking of short --  there is hope by watching Greg Gutfeld's late night show on FOX.  I would have loved to see Rush on his show as a guest.   

I've always said if I need to hear about bad news or face the harsh realities of the day, I want it told through humor.  Right now, that's the formula Gutfeld uses to much success.  He may never replace Rush, but there are times, I find myself wondering "What's Greg going to say about Nancy's Pelosi's  eyebrows...." 

RIP Rush!

NONE OF US is immune to loss  -- good or bad, close or distant, funny or sad.  If we're blessed, we benefited from the time we had them or it with us.  I think the important thing my mom taught me, long before she succumbed to old age, is to keep looking for people who make life better.   Whether it's family get togethers, music I love, a six week diet, or a controversial radio personality, they make me a better person.

It's one of many, but one of the most important,  things I learned from the shutdowns of the last two years.  Isolating ourselves from each other and abolishing activities that were thought too risky, damaged us in ways were are just starting to see.  I play basketball with a father of a teenage girl who is going through a really difficult time because of the isolation and masking she's endured in middle and high school.  

At a time you should be making friendships that last a life time, children were being told to be afraid of others and to stay away from classmates, grand parents and relatives.  

At a time of unprecedented fear and stress, our schools, government and health professionals told us to stay home.  

At a time when children needed them the most, the adults let them down. 

That is a loss much greater than any I have faced.  Liz and I are fortunate to have survived the last few years with jobs intact, family members who continued to welcome us into their lives and friends who happily shared our bourbon, boat and food.

My suggestion for getting over loss?  Enjoy living while you have it.

Snow Kings

 As we pull into the hotel parking lot, the falling snow thickens, adding a surreal atmosphere to our destination.  Snow turns my hair and shoulders a whiter shade of  pale, as we grab our luggage and head to the hotel lobby.  A heavenly blanket had reduced Mercedes Benz, BMW and Audi vehicles to mounds of luscious, pure snow, part soft and part frozen.  Our simple Toyota Avalon will soon join the other vehicles, indistinguishable in features, status or cost.

Glancing through the snow toward the steel framed structure with its clapboard siding and asphalt shingled roof, I imagine the Overlook Hotel from the book "The Shining," Stephen King's masterpiece later made into Stanley Kubrick movie starring Jack Nicholson and Shelly Duvall.

Instead, it's the Geneva Inn, located on the shores of Lake Geneva, its waters frozen solid by weeks of sub zero temperatures.  

We check in, then head to our room with a champagne glass in hand -- courtesy of the hotel staff -- helping us celebrate the arrival of the weekend, and more importantly, the beginning of Winterfest, Lake Geneva's annual celebration of winter.  

Liz pushes the room door open, treating us to a view reminiscent of the Inn's glorious history -- spacious, luxurious, bright yellow and comfortable, with a private balcony overlooking Lake Geneva.  I walk to the balcony doors and enjoy the panoramic view of blowing snow drifting across the lake, obscuring the large summer estates lining its eastern shores. 

Years ago, who could have imagined the tremendous development around Lake Geneva?   

From its simply beginnings when the Potawatomi Indians would dig for clams along Big Foot Lake 's muddy shores or in its sandy bottom to trade with the French; to the arrival of the railroad  which spurred rapid development around the lake (now called Lake Geneva) bringing more people to the area  (ironically, the same railroad made it possible to remove thousands of tons of Lake Geneva ice, which were shipped each year to Chicago); or years later, when wealthy businessmen would build lake homes seeking refuge from Chicago's hot summers?  

Following a similar path, the hotel we are staying in today has undergone various renditions -- the original residence, known as Gypsy Lodge became Sunnycroft, then Buttons Bay Inn before being torn down completely in the 1980's.  The Geneva Inn, as it is known today, opened in 1990 with its sweeping patio deck, an award winning restaurant, stunning atrium and a beautiful marina full of some of the best boats on the lake.

I close the balcony doors and turn to face Liz unpacking our bags.  "It's beautiful out there, " I say.  "Snowy and cold, but beautiful"

It's a dream come true for us -- simple travelers hoping to enjoy a snowy weekend in February along the shores of one of Wisconsin's great lake communities.

Yes, we are in Lake Geneva for Winterfest, and we are looking forward to the 37th annual U.S. National Snow Sculpture Championship, featuring fifteen teams from around the continental United States.  It's the only national contest of its kind.  There are state and international competitions, but only one national contest and its right here.

It's not our first time in Lake Geneva for the national championships, but I'm impressed nonetheless.  The skill set needed to carve some of these sculptures is beyond the ability to carve and shape snow.  It's been said that building a quality snow sculpture takes three days -- around the clock, 24 hours -- but the process itself starts long before with months of planning and teamwork.

In addition, before they start carving in Lake Geneva, teams must qualify for the national championship by winning or placing in their state competition the previous year.  So it's a long process and not easy to qualify.

This year's top competitors include teams from New York, North Dakota, Wisconsin. Michigan, Illinois, Florida, North Dakota, Alaska, New Hampshire, Vermont, Colorado and Iowa.  Teams consist of three  members, ages ranging from late twenties to late sixties, who have been carving sand and snow for many years, some as long as 35 years.  Backgrounds in art, engineering, architecture and carpentry are common interests that coalesce into sculpting skills during college years and later through their jobs.  Most have spent years traveling to national and world championships in  places like China, Norway, Canada and Switzerland.

A good team is one that moves beyond individual skills and develops chemistry between the team members.  The result can be a winning formula that results in a top three finish or fan favorite..  While no money is involved in winning, members will have bragging rights until the next competition.

Typically, a team will start working on a design for their snow sculpture during the summer, often by using a clay mold, where each member will put their style to it..  That is followed by months and hundreds of hours of working together on a cohesive design that satisfies everyone.

Unlike making a snowman, where you stack balls of snow on top of each other, snow sculpting is a reductive process, starting with a 8 by 9 foot cylinder of severely-packed snow that is chiseled away at it until they have the finished product.  Members will use shovels, hand saws, wooden spoons and machetes.  Many teams will bring their own home-made tools to give them the edge they need when carving.

Weather and quality of snow play a major factor in the outcomes.  Too warm or too cold make it hard to carve (too warm and things fall apart, too cold and you can't feel your hands which makes sculpting really hard) and no one wants rocks or dirt in the snow brought in to make the cylinders of snow.  One of the team members said the snow is brought in from nearby farms and fields where it lies undisturbed.

This year's weather should be perfect, with a week of sub-zero temperatures at night and teens for a daytime high.

"Too bad it's so cold this year," I say over a steaming cup of hot chocolate.  "Can you imagine spending all week outside in this weather?  I don't know how they can do it."

Liz and I are sitting in Speedo's Harborview Cafe and Bar, located across the street from the Riviera Plaza where the snow sculpting is taking place.  We had taken a quick look at five of the best sculptures, and been driven indoors by the cold wind blowing off Lake Geneva.  Despite temps in the teens, the wind was making it feel terrible.

I look at the menu on the table and see hand-made omelets, sandwiches and drinks.  I wasn't hungry since we had just eaten breakfast wraps at Great Eggs a few blocks away, but I still had enough room for a hot drink.  

I look at Liz and say, "The menu says this is the view that has captivated presidents, mobsters and families for the last 100 years."  She has removed her coat and gloves, but as usual, kept her hat firmly in place.  Her cheeks are a rosy red.  "Which ones are we?"

"Your definitely not presidential material and it's just you and me, so I guess that leaves mobsters," she says.  "I'm going to have to start calling you Tim "Baby Face" Carlson, if that's really the case.  Of course today, with masks and scarves I don't know how many people are going to see that sweet face of yours."

"You really think so Pretty Pants?  With all of this grey hair?"

Before she can reply the corner door opens and a collection of thick coats, scarves, mittens and heavy boots walk into the café.  Somewhere in the middle of all that fabric are Paul and Kelli along with Doug and Peggy, who are joining us today for Winterfest.  They have joined us from Holmen and Berlin, having spent the night in Elkhorn.  They aren't moving too quick, so it is either the long underwear or the bourbon they drank last night.

"Hey guys," I say, waving my hand.  "Over here."

It's a small restaurant, so there isn't much room to maneuver, but the mound of clothing shuffles its way over to our table.  The one wearing a bright yellow hat -- that would be Peggy -- says, "Where's Jack and Barb?"

Originally, Jack and Barb were joining us for our two day stay in Lake Geneva, but plans changed during the week leading up to the weekend.  Unfortunately, we had traveled on Friday by ourselves.

Liz, clearing space at our table, says "Guess what?  Barb tested positive for Covid on Wednesday night.  So they are at home.  Staying warm, I might add."

"Oh no!  I hope she's ok?" asks Peggy, having removed some of the layers of clothing and looking more like herself.  

She sits at the table next to Doug, while Paul and Kelli slide in next to me.  Soon there is a stack of gloves, hats, scarves and hand warmers piled on the table, leaving little room for anything else.  Paul's bright red, Wisconsin cap sits on top, like a beacon to any challenge coming from outsiders having made the trip from Chicago.

"I think she's doing good -- just the usual symptoms with Omicron, a sore throat and congestion.  But the clinic is going to make her wait 10 days before they'll let her back.  Seems like a long time to me for someone who was vaccinated."

A few minutes later, we are putting Covid behind us (like we have for the past two years) and are ordering drinks -- Bloody Mary for Doug and Peggy and coffee for Paul and Kelli.  Liz has exchanged her hot chocolate for a Nutty Irishman.  And no, that doesn't refer to me.  Come on, I'm not Irish.

Outside the café, more and more people are arriving, with children and dogs.  It's so cold even the dogs are wearing jackets.  Everyone is wandering from one carving to another, stopping to take pictures and talk to the team still working on finishing touches.  More and more mounds of clothing are entering the café to warm up and eat some breakfast.  It's not long before we are enjoying the smell of eggs, bacon and hash browns, or in some cases tomato juice and Tabasco sauce. 

"Have you seen any of the sculptures yet?" asks Liz, sipping on her hot drink.

Someone says they walked past ten or so on the way to the restaurant.  But the five best are across the street near the boathouse, and they haven't been there yet.  The journey from their car through downtown to the lake was cold enough to drive everyone inside before looking around.

I lean toward Kelli to let a waitress walk past the table, her arms loaded with breakfast food.  "There's a team from Florida who have a really interesting one.  But you ask me, Lake Geneva seems like the last place you'd expect to find a team from Florida.  You'd have to be crazy to leave 70's and 80's for this weather."

Crazy, maybe.  

But not without sculpting experience.  Two members of the Florida team explained the crossover to snow as a way to continue their love for sculpting and stay sharp during the winter months when competitions take them from Florida to Maine, Minnesota and Wisconsin.  The difference between sand and snow is really a matter of degrees, moisture and clothing --  and one the Florida team has embraced with recent success.

This year's Winterfest 2022 National Championship winner was Wisconsin team "Sculptora Borealis," who had won the top national title three of the last four years.  It's winning sculpture "Deeper Connections" featuring two heads coming together despite a media narrative pushing people apart and into disagreeing groups.\

Sounds like a lot of liberal talk to me, but then again I'm not there to be swayed by this year's politically correct theme.  I'm there for the art and amazing talent on display.  Team Wisconsin's sculpture was beautiful and worthy of its first place finish. 

Coming in second was the team from Florida --  Flozen:  Less Latitude More Attitude.  The sculpture took second place in the National Championship judging and third in the People's Choice selection.  Apparently all their experience gained on the beach building sand castles paid off with this year's big win.

Rounding out the winners in third place, was the hearty team from North Dakota, which won with their snow sculpture named "Here There Be Dragons."

This year's contest, like the others during Winterfest for the past thirty years, define what can be done if you follow your heart's passion, and have a creative degree in engineering or some type of liberal arts.  The weather -- some refer to it as the fourth teammate -- is always a challenge, but the carvers who qualify for the Lake Geneva competition know how to handle it and despite how hard it is on them, rally through nighttime low temperatures of 15 to 20 degrees below zero.   

Not everyone has the passion or skills needed to compete, but everyone coming to Lake Geneva can appreciate the dedication and artistry created during the festival.

As one builder said, "These sculptures are the best of the best, and we know better than anyone what's supposed to be done when sculpting with snow.  And the camaraderie is really great.  We'll look at the sculptures and see something that we have never been able to do, and know how impressive that is."

As someone who struggles making a snowman, I couldn't agree more.

The Fear Factor

I remember it well.  

It was a time when little children at Harry Spence Elementary went to school with thoughts of multiplication, fractions and probability.  Smiling, they passed others in the hallway, stopping to gossip about their third grade teachers and the new kid in class.

Good Shepherd Lutheran Church held services, sometimes twice a day, celebrating God's saving grace through songs and communion.  People met after the service to shake hands and eat cookies, telling each other about their sons attending college or the birth of a new baby girl.

Downtown La Crosse was buzzing with new restaurants and high rise apartments.  Workers flooded from buildings -- where they worked 5 days a week --- to meet friends for happy hour and made plans for a weekend getaway.   Organizers for Oktoberfest and Riverfest were talking to promoters and sponsors, hoping to make 2020 one to remember.

Liz and I, just back from a vacation in southern California, were looking forward to a weekend in Milwaukee to watch the Bucks and Golden State Warrior play on Saturday night.  Joining us for the weekend was Emma who was now head soccer coach for Bethany Lutheran College.

And then things changed...

Like a novel you read years before, vague memories fight their way to the surface, where they bend today's reality into something that seems alien and abnormal.  Remote learning, church without singing, empty buildings and cancelled sporting events have become the new norm, and yet I haven't forgotten how much better it was just a few years ago.

It's been almost a year and a half since my last Wu Flu update, with some positive developments and unfortunately, many negative ones.

I find it difficult to believe this country, founded on inalienable rights and individual achievement, is still afraid to call an end to the endless mandates and fear porn coming out of Washington D.C..

Their message, disguised so skillfully by Sleepy Joe, Dr. Evil Fauci and others puppets on school boards, federal agencies and hospital administrations, is one of fear and apocalyptic doom if you don't "follow the science." 

It has been a mystery to me why so many good people believe this crap.  Why do so many teachers literally throw kids they claim to love "under the bus?"  Why are doctors ignoring the Hippocratic Oath they swore to uphold?    Why do restaurants enforce mask mandates, but allow you to remove your mask as soon as you sit down?  

It's a fear of mine, that people will become so accustomed to their safety protocols, that they will think it's normal.  Especially the young, who haven't lived long enough to appreciate the way things used to be.  To prove my point, I'm reading about college students demanding virtual learning over in-person learning.  "It's too risky!" they yell in protest.  Why is everything with them a protest?  It's obvious they're not paying the $70,000 a year required to receive such personalized attention. 

My own sons seem tolerant of mandates, masks and vaccines regardless of my own objections.  There's no reasoning with them --  despite efforts I've made to send really smart articles, emails and videos counteracting the proven science (ha, ha) of these pandemic prevarications. they continue to buy into some tenebrous idea that we should be doing our part for "public health."  

I hear something like that, and I'm reminded of the "good German," a term used to describe those who claimed ignorance of the Holocaust and German war crimes.  Ignorance, whether intentional or honest is never a good excuse.

One of those really smart videos, from the Brownstone Institute, featured Thomas Harrington, who believes the ruling class has created a "fearful class" in order to control them.  Ever since 9/11 they have induced fear as a way to get us to change our behavior.  Threats from shoe bombs, planes driven into buildings, white insurgency (January 6) and Trump as Hitler have become common tools used to change the way we fly and disagree with the results of elections.  I used to laugh over school cancellations because it might get cold or forecasts call for six inches of snow.  How many times have I, as a parent, been told to protect our children from molesters, creepy boy scout leaders and nefarious ice cream vendors?  Our children have been told to not dress a certain way for Halloween, misappropriate certain cultures and fear Columbus Day, all under the guise of politically correct sensitivities.  

Even adults are subject to messages telling us to fear everyday life.  Nothing shows this better than the weather.  Moderate snow fall is referred to as a blizzard.   Polar vortexes, cyclone bombs and heat domes have become common deterrents from leaving the safety of our houses.  And don't get me started on climate change (WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!).

Is there any doubt people would be afraid of Covid?

Think of the harm we are doing to our society.  No, not we, but they.  If I had any say, I'd be going back to the way we were before March, 2020 with precautions built in for those most susceptible.  Either intentionally, (as in rewarding good behavior), or unintentionally (by thinking we are saving the day) we have damage society in irreparable ways.  Both efforts turned out to be wrong -- and as a result we've lost our rebellious nature toward risky behavior, and gladly accept anything mandated by authority figures.  Say goodbye to critical thinking needed for normal existence.

After two years of Bizzaro world, I see too many good people afraid of, obedient to and eager to enforce the dictates of Washington's elites.  We have allowed illogical fear rather than quantifiable risk analysis -- to rule our lives.

The virus has not only changed the way we behave, but also the way we talk and communicate.   For years the left has used newspeak to diminish the range of thought and action by reducing freedom of expression as it relates to political beliefs.  Affirmative action, Black Lives Matter and women's health are examples of how the left has changed the discussion of bad behavior into something that should be encouraged, even applauded.

The left has been busy as bees working on changing words -- how we communicate questions and answers -- relating to societal norms.  During 2021, we can thank Covid -- mostly -- for the following:

Infodemic

Immune response

Misinformation

Covid toes

Drive through __________ (fill in the blank)

Vaccine (new terminology actual means it doesn't provide immunity)

Color revolution

No vac joke covid  (Novak Djokovic gets banned)

Circle back

Calling someone (who is black) a white supremacist because you don't want the narrative to change

Undocumented immigrant

Equity (did you know Covid is racist?)

Supply chain

Cisgender 

Removal of certain words can be just as effective as changing the meaning of words.  It's still a way to shift one's understanding of a situation.   Not to be outdone, here are a few words that are now considered persona non grata in corporate America, Big Tech and on campuses worldwide.  Think twice about using these words in 2022:

Chloroquine, Hydroxychloroquine, and Ivermectin.  These three alternatives will get you banned quicker than Aaron Rogers can leave Green Bay after losing another playoff game.

Mankind

Master bedroom

Cake walk

Urban

Manhole

Founding Fathers

Sold down the river

Male

Female

Tranny

Actress 

Freshman  (basically anything that has the word man like anchorman, mailman, or chairman).  

It seems that leftists on campus and in corporate America are afraid of words that are not on their "approved" list.  They have seen the need to control not only our behaviors but also the way we communicate.  Who are these people deciding certain words are harmful or not in line with current newspeak?  Fearful authorities who think they are better than you and me..

If topics like the virus, race and gender are viewed as "decided by science," why are they afraid?  What do they have to hide?  

The truth?

It is essential we don't allow them to do it.  Use as many politically incorrect words as you can and watch them squirm and foam at the mouth.

We have seen that fear works both sides of a debate.  Authorities are afraid they will lose control, and citizens are afraid that authorities may be right.

Two years after the Wu Flu changed our lives, there are signs enough people have decided
to shift behavior away from fear and toward getting back to normal. 

Canadian truckers have formed a freedom protest by driving their trucks from Vancouver to Ottawa to protest Canadian government's vaccine mandates for cross border truckers.  It has been so successful that others in America are proposing our own truckers consider a freedom protest.

Contrast their behavior with compliance early in the pandemic.  Remember the ban on casual sex, forming a socially distanced queue at the airport before being sardined into a packed plane with the same people two hours later?  What about swings in local parks put into quarantined or removed, not allowing people to sit together on a park bench, or best of all, no butterfly strokes while swimming?

We've come a long way since the early days of Covid., and with 70% of people recently polled, many are ready to get on with their lives.  Fear is a useful tool for only so long.  As months, then years have gone by, people are seeing that -- with intelligent behavior -- there is nothing to fear.  Except authoritarian leaders who don't want the party to end.

The choice has always been ours to make.  You can go back to refusing to hang the wash out to dry because you're afraid the sheets might catch Covid and infect you -- or scrap the mandates and masks for human interaction the way God meant it to be.

I know which way I'm going, and it won't be because I'm afraid.