There are a few things missing to make Christmas official for me besides the tree, lights and presents. Some of them go way back, some are recent. But they all have to be there or somehow it just isn't right.
For those of us a certain age there are the necessary movies to be seen.
*Any time after Thanksgiving, but best on the Friday after, is Miracle on 34th Street. None but the original black-and-white will do. Only John Payne, Maureen O'Hara, Edmund Gwynn and Natalie Wood can set the holiday mood for the ensuing five weeks.
*The modern classic, Christmas Vacation, is essential as well. Chevy Chase is a bit of a horse's ass but I have to admit he was good as the hapless Clark, trying to deliver the perfect family Christmas to his clan. I don't know, somehow I can identify with him -- and his failures, mostly. That could easily have been me sorting through hundreds of bulbs, searching in vain for the one that killed the whole show. There are hundreds of quotable lines from that movie.
*White Christmas. When I was a kid, the Wichita TV stations we received inexplicably ran this on New Year's Eve. It didn't make any difference. White Christmas kind of rounded out the holiday experience but it unfortunately always reminded me, on New Year's Eve, that school was about to resume.
*Go ahead and laugh. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer still has a place in the holiday schedule. If you feel you are too old and dignified to watch this, kids around or not, you are cold-hearted, without spirit and probably smell of Ben-Gay and Mentholatum.
*A few others--Going My Way, A Christmas Story and A Christmas Carol. If you can say it was truly a great holiday season without at least one of these you probably gave out gift cards as presents. My Christmas Carol, by the way, is the one with George C. Scott. He was another horse's ass in person, but he evermore made me believe he was Scrooge.
It isn't just movies. You have to get the L.L. Bean catalog to look through, and imagine getting and wearing all their great winter clothes for the next three months until Spring breaks. Like that would ever happen. Then there are the classic Hickory Farms and Harry and David food catalogs, loaded with ridiculously expensive gift boxes of sausage, pears and jellies. It is all good but Harry and David are sure proud of their products. People love to get them though. I recall my dad received a couple of these jewels every year the last week before Christmas. I don't know who sent them; I just remember I was happy they did.
A couple of other things: you have to go to a party and you have to go look at the lights on the Plaza. A party doesn't hold as much as it used to. Often as not, we'll get a work-related invitation and don't know anyone else there, or it is so out of our league {read: classy) that we are the brown shoes to the social tuxedo. Or both, with us completely unsure why we were invited to begin with. The parties were more fun when they were people we knew, but the people that know us won't invite us to their parties any more so we just operate on the outer edge of any kind of society.
Who cannot be moved by the sight of the Country Club Plaza set aglow by miles of colored lights? If you don't have to work there it's a true holiday icon. With all the shop windows to explore and the bustle of people everywhere, an evening there during the season reminds me that some things never change. All of the sights and aromas of holiday shopping are part of the complete experience. Of course, the Plaza has a lot of high-end stores which have nothing I could afford to buy, let alone give as a present. It is just fun to cruise through and watch the high rollers spend their money.
You don't have to have the glowing tree and a lot of expensive presents (athough there is a lot to be said for them) or rich friends and a crowded social calendar. Sometimes it's just staying up and watching an old movie late at night that truly makes it Christmas. And going back to work the next day to remind you that Scrooge is out there too.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Merry Christmas 2009
Here is our annual Christmas letter, just slightly early this year. I have noticed over the last few years that the number of family Christmas letters we receive has fallen off a little, and I really don't know why? Of course, I'm surprised when we get cards or letters from anyone at all.
Hello Friends,
With another year having evaded us we know you are all anxious to hear what direction our lives have taken, which frankly—if true—does not speak very highly of any of you. So put down your US magazines because we bring Christmas Greetings from the swamp of banality here in America’s heartlands.
While many of you may be misled by the opulence of our daily lives we actually have very simple existence. Mary Ann still trudges in to St. Pius to lead the Advancement Team which in turn struggles to lead the Board, Principal and interested Alums into the 21st Century, often with mixed results. In the last year, fund raising has lagged in priority as Mary Ann has become increasingly responsible for cleaning toilets and setting up folding tables. She does a wonderful job, attacking each fecal-encrusted American-Standard with the same credo that took her to these heights: “Any job worth doing is worth doing right!” Pity the poor fat-ass who fouls the faculty toilet if she ever finds out who it is.
As the business has sufficiently deteriorated, LSG felt comfortable leaving Bob in charge of the shop and promoted their manager out of Kansas City. Awash in a sea of dark-ages European accounting and ever-deepening governmental regulations he once again suffers with accountability. Not unlike the President, he spends money he doesn’t have doing things the owners really don’t want done. But unlike the President, he knows that Lufthansa may eventually come to their senses and demand their keys be returned. Other than listening to everyone’s problems and working weekends, the steady stream of government inspectors and arrogant customers have created an ideal work environment. Part of life is a daily mantra just to be thankful to be working, but hardly anyone believes this who has been in any part of the airline industry.
Katie has fared somewhat better. No, she still baby sits both in a physician’s office and at the local Methodist church, but she is alive. In January, only months after having found a car with which she was truly in love, she was forced off a freeway onto the icy shoulder. Losing control on the ice she careened back across all three lanes of I-635 facing back the wrong way as she came to rest on the center barrier with her beloved chariot in ruins. “It gave its life for me,” she intoned. She acquired another car, lost fifteen pounds, joined a gym and continues to not cook, feeding mostly on crap from fast-food emporiums.
Liz and family have enjoyed the usual trappings of youth: childhood sicknesses, squabbles, injuries, etc., but the real highlight of their year came in October when Brett’s company suddenly terminated his job. Having been recruited to this company by a fellow member of the parish less than a year prior, Brett was repaid by having his insurance immediately cut off. Once the shock subsided he secured work as a limo driver. As usual, and true to life, he says lawyers are the worst tippers. Their kids are fine: Robbie is all about sports; Annie is all about being a Princess; Stevie is all about having a driveway on which to pee.
In spite of protests from the Governor and tourism office, we all went back to Colorado for our week in the mountains. It was a great week, but this year we were visited by bears raiding nearby trash containers at night. Mary Ann thought it great fun to have them around, and one even strolled past her in downtown Estes Park. Bob thought it more prudent to not stand on the deck at night, take their pictures and otherwise attract the bears’ attention as they have a limited sense of humor. We did not have the food of kings in our cabin, but bears are happy to eat crap too. Steve gleefully acquired and used a Whoopee cushion which finally split open from fatigue. He tearfully told everyone he would never, ever have another one.
Just this once, we approached the lives of real people when Mary Ann was notified she had been nominated for – and won – a civic award in the memory of Anne Robb Townsend, an honor to which she replied a gracious “Yeah, OK” to Guy Townsend when he called. With something akin to Cousin Eddie visiting the Griswold home, the whole family was invited to the River Club for the presentation ceremony wherein we were treated to drink from clean glasses and sit on unstained furniture. The River Club, we noticed, had an armed guard at the door ostensibly employed to deny entrance to people like us.
Apparently Mary Ann’s dedication, stamina and help from heavy-hitting seniors iced her win. We’d like to say the award changed her life, and it did in that her peers perceived her somehow able to clean more toilets than ever before. Mary Ann’s photo will be in At Home in the Northland, but few we know will see it as this magazine is distributed only to elegant households earning $200,000 annually and up. Of course that means we won’t see it either.
With Brett still out of work, uncertainty in the airline business, and the unbroken line of foul toilets into the horizon it has been a challenging year. We are too young to retire, too useless to find other work and pretty much unmotivated as well. So it’s good to get our letter out first this year before we receive the news from all those untouched by the stench of life that we know so well--and to which we always feel obligated to mockingly reply. With people all around us turning 60--and up—now we have to worry about ear hair and varicose veins. It isn’t looking good for us right now, but hell, it never looked good anyway, so Merry Christmas. Now let’s go take our country back!
Hello Friends,
With another year having evaded us we know you are all anxious to hear what direction our lives have taken, which frankly—if true—does not speak very highly of any of you. So put down your US magazines because we bring Christmas Greetings from the swamp of banality here in America’s heartlands.
While many of you may be misled by the opulence of our daily lives we actually have very simple existence. Mary Ann still trudges in to St. Pius to lead the Advancement Team which in turn struggles to lead the Board, Principal and interested Alums into the 21st Century, often with mixed results. In the last year, fund raising has lagged in priority as Mary Ann has become increasingly responsible for cleaning toilets and setting up folding tables. She does a wonderful job, attacking each fecal-encrusted American-Standard with the same credo that took her to these heights: “Any job worth doing is worth doing right!” Pity the poor fat-ass who fouls the faculty toilet if she ever finds out who it is.
As the business has sufficiently deteriorated, LSG felt comfortable leaving Bob in charge of the shop and promoted their manager out of Kansas City. Awash in a sea of dark-ages European accounting and ever-deepening governmental regulations he once again suffers with accountability. Not unlike the President, he spends money he doesn’t have doing things the owners really don’t want done. But unlike the President, he knows that Lufthansa may eventually come to their senses and demand their keys be returned. Other than listening to everyone’s problems and working weekends, the steady stream of government inspectors and arrogant customers have created an ideal work environment. Part of life is a daily mantra just to be thankful to be working, but hardly anyone believes this who has been in any part of the airline industry.
Katie has fared somewhat better. No, she still baby sits both in a physician’s office and at the local Methodist church, but she is alive. In January, only months after having found a car with which she was truly in love, she was forced off a freeway onto the icy shoulder. Losing control on the ice she careened back across all three lanes of I-635 facing back the wrong way as she came to rest on the center barrier with her beloved chariot in ruins. “It gave its life for me,” she intoned. She acquired another car, lost fifteen pounds, joined a gym and continues to not cook, feeding mostly on crap from fast-food emporiums.
Liz and family have enjoyed the usual trappings of youth: childhood sicknesses, squabbles, injuries, etc., but the real highlight of their year came in October when Brett’s company suddenly terminated his job. Having been recruited to this company by a fellow member of the parish less than a year prior, Brett was repaid by having his insurance immediately cut off. Once the shock subsided he secured work as a limo driver. As usual, and true to life, he says lawyers are the worst tippers. Their kids are fine: Robbie is all about sports; Annie is all about being a Princess; Stevie is all about having a driveway on which to pee.
In spite of protests from the Governor and tourism office, we all went back to Colorado for our week in the mountains. It was a great week, but this year we were visited by bears raiding nearby trash containers at night. Mary Ann thought it great fun to have them around, and one even strolled past her in downtown Estes Park. Bob thought it more prudent to not stand on the deck at night, take their pictures and otherwise attract the bears’ attention as they have a limited sense of humor. We did not have the food of kings in our cabin, but bears are happy to eat crap too. Steve gleefully acquired and used a Whoopee cushion which finally split open from fatigue. He tearfully told everyone he would never, ever have another one.
Just this once, we approached the lives of real people when Mary Ann was notified she had been nominated for – and won – a civic award in the memory of Anne Robb Townsend, an honor to which she replied a gracious “Yeah, OK” to Guy Townsend when he called. With something akin to Cousin Eddie visiting the Griswold home, the whole family was invited to the River Club for the presentation ceremony wherein we were treated to drink from clean glasses and sit on unstained furniture. The River Club, we noticed, had an armed guard at the door ostensibly employed to deny entrance to people like us.
Apparently Mary Ann’s dedication, stamina and help from heavy-hitting seniors iced her win. We’d like to say the award changed her life, and it did in that her peers perceived her somehow able to clean more toilets than ever before. Mary Ann’s photo will be in At Home in the Northland, but few we know will see it as this magazine is distributed only to elegant households earning $200,000 annually and up. Of course that means we won’t see it either.
With Brett still out of work, uncertainty in the airline business, and the unbroken line of foul toilets into the horizon it has been a challenging year. We are too young to retire, too useless to find other work and pretty much unmotivated as well. So it’s good to get our letter out first this year before we receive the news from all those untouched by the stench of life that we know so well--and to which we always feel obligated to mockingly reply. With people all around us turning 60--and up—now we have to worry about ear hair and varicose veins. It isn’t looking good for us right now, but hell, it never looked good anyway, so Merry Christmas. Now let’s go take our country back!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Random thoughts.
Once in a while, the well fills up with crap from the barnyard and I have to clean it all out to make room for the water. That was a metaphor; for those literalists among you I simply have to rid myself of the pile of random thoughts that accumulate in my head in order for me to think.
For instance: A government panel just announced that most women should delay mammograms until age 50 or later, in complete and utter opposition to modern medical practice. Countless women have intercepted breast cancers at all ages due to early detection. It appears this is the first step to government rationed care: saying really stupid things and saying it often enough at high levels so everyone will think it's true. So where is the outrage from the National Organization of Women?
Is there a mathematical correlation between facial hair, beer-drinking and camouflage-wearing?
Peyton Manning is better in commercials than professional actors. He is actually funny.
Sarah Palin comes off as a bright, strong and energetic person, well-versed in issues of the day. Understandably her opponents and the mainstream press (one and the same) have tried to make her into a shallow Barbie-doll, moved up onto the national stage only to cash in on her good looks. Tina Fey heartily enjoyed perpetuating this concept with her SNL impersonations. If the National Organization of Women purports to be a voice on behalf of women, where is their outrage at Palin's dissing?
Why is the 'delete' key so close to the 'end' key and the arrow keys? Put it up on the top row where it won't be erroneously hit. By me.
Why do airlines have dining service departments with up to fifty employees? They don't board food on any but the longest flights, mostly those going overseas. Does anyone wonder why they don't make money operating like this?
Who was the first person to realize that a rattlesnake was poisonous?
The people running our government(s) remind me--as I have said before--of the fat kid guarding the pie. Like Ronald Reagan said, don't believe anyone who says "Hi, I'm from the government and I'm here to help."
The forecasters always give rain probability in percentages; shouldn't it always be 50%? Either it will rain or it won't.
When the coalition forces drove the Taliban out of Afghanistan in the months after 9-11, the Islamic government which had oppressed its own women for years was replaced by one that brought women into the present. Women could hold jobs, be seen in public, wear clothes of their choosing and attend school. The Taliban didn't even permit women to go to freakin' school, people. Again, where was the outrage from the National Organization of Women? They are too shy and retiring to comment on the abysmal treatment of their sisters in that Seventh-century land? Amazingly NOW could not bring themselves to cheer the betterment of Afghan women as a byproduct of dislocation of terrorists. I guess the Afghan women weren't clamoring for abortions?
I do not understand why I have 500 CD's and only four cases for them. Where do they go?
Ron White is a funny, funny man, but he's 50+ years old so it's time to give up pot, Ron. Stick to the scotch--it's legal and will mess you up just as bad. Of course, I'm sure you know that by now.
99% of lawyers give the other 1% a bad name. It pains me to say that because my daddy was a lawyer. I am certain however that he would be as appalled as I at the state of legal affairs in this country. Lawyers advertising like payday loan companies, lawyers proudly--with straight faces--speaking in defense of criminals who have done unspeakable things, lawyers overtly waiting for
nothing more than their opportunity to run for public office. I really wish state bar associations would police lawyers. Physicians do it.
My wife has taken to putting wallet size pictures of me under the kitchen sink. No roaches, no mice; hell, nothing can live under there now.
Cell phones are getting to be a problem on the road. The state should force women to get an endorsement for their driver licenses allowing them to talk and drive. Women, I say, beause men don't use cells on the roll so much. Women turn the key and fire up the Sanyo. Then they cruise around the parking lot at all of 2 miles per hour.
I don't know, I could be wrong, but he National Organization of Women may not actually be all that interested in the welfare of women. They selectively choose women to support: never conservatives, never women who benefit from the victories of the United States Army operating under a Republican president, never women who speak out against liberal politicians. Should they not change the name of the club to National Organization of Liberal Women? Call a spade a spade.
Everyone knows who Columbus was, but no one knows the names of the folks on the dock who were laughing at him.
Liberals are an odd bunch. They don't like to produce anything (well, poetry or water colors, maybe) but they like to run things. They don't care much to be in manufacturing, service, military or financial industries being suited only for lawyering and government work. They love to tell the rest of us how we should be. Anyone who tells them how they should be is denounced and in some countries, awarded the Order of Heavy Industry and sent to Siberia. Believe me, if it ever happens, the Black Helicopters will come from the Left.
Dave Barry says, correctly, that folks who always want to tell you about their religion almost never want you to tell them about yours.
This is a great country. Either the hand of God or an accident of birth put us all here but how lucky we are. We can bitch about the government and not fear for our freedom. We have flush toilets and air conditioning. If you want to quit your job and move to New Mexico and sit cross-legged in the sun on the desert, you can do it and no one can stop you. You do not fear anything as long as you obey most of the laws and stay out of the bad parts of town and mind your own business. Much of the world can't even comprehend any of this. We take a lot of it for granted and shouldn't because it would go away if not for some gusty folks in the armed services. So thanks, God. It's nice to be able to clean out the well.
Happy Thanksgiving.
For instance: A government panel just announced that most women should delay mammograms until age 50 or later, in complete and utter opposition to modern medical practice. Countless women have intercepted breast cancers at all ages due to early detection. It appears this is the first step to government rationed care: saying really stupid things and saying it often enough at high levels so everyone will think it's true. So where is the outrage from the National Organization of Women?
Is there a mathematical correlation between facial hair, beer-drinking and camouflage-wearing?
Peyton Manning is better in commercials than professional actors. He is actually funny.
Sarah Palin comes off as a bright, strong and energetic person, well-versed in issues of the day. Understandably her opponents and the mainstream press (one and the same) have tried to make her into a shallow Barbie-doll, moved up onto the national stage only to cash in on her good looks. Tina Fey heartily enjoyed perpetuating this concept with her SNL impersonations. If the National Organization of Women purports to be a voice on behalf of women, where is their outrage at Palin's dissing?
Why is the 'delete' key so close to the 'end' key and the arrow keys? Put it up on the top row where it won't be erroneously hit. By me.
Why do airlines have dining service departments with up to fifty employees? They don't board food on any but the longest flights, mostly those going overseas. Does anyone wonder why they don't make money operating like this?
Who was the first person to realize that a rattlesnake was poisonous?
The people running our government(s) remind me--as I have said before--of the fat kid guarding the pie. Like Ronald Reagan said, don't believe anyone who says "Hi, I'm from the government and I'm here to help."
The forecasters always give rain probability in percentages; shouldn't it always be 50%? Either it will rain or it won't.
When the coalition forces drove the Taliban out of Afghanistan in the months after 9-11, the Islamic government which had oppressed its own women for years was replaced by one that brought women into the present. Women could hold jobs, be seen in public, wear clothes of their choosing and attend school. The Taliban didn't even permit women to go to freakin' school, people. Again, where was the outrage from the National Organization of Women? They are too shy and retiring to comment on the abysmal treatment of their sisters in that Seventh-century land? Amazingly NOW could not bring themselves to cheer the betterment of Afghan women as a byproduct of dislocation of terrorists. I guess the Afghan women weren't clamoring for abortions?
I do not understand why I have 500 CD's and only four cases for them. Where do they go?
Ron White is a funny, funny man, but he's 50+ years old so it's time to give up pot, Ron. Stick to the scotch--it's legal and will mess you up just as bad. Of course, I'm sure you know that by now.
99% of lawyers give the other 1% a bad name. It pains me to say that because my daddy was a lawyer. I am certain however that he would be as appalled as I at the state of legal affairs in this country. Lawyers advertising like payday loan companies, lawyers proudly--with straight faces--speaking in defense of criminals who have done unspeakable things, lawyers overtly waiting for
nothing more than their opportunity to run for public office. I really wish state bar associations would police lawyers. Physicians do it.
My wife has taken to putting wallet size pictures of me under the kitchen sink. No roaches, no mice; hell, nothing can live under there now.
Cell phones are getting to be a problem on the road. The state should force women to get an endorsement for their driver licenses allowing them to talk and drive. Women, I say, beause men don't use cells on the roll so much. Women turn the key and fire up the Sanyo. Then they cruise around the parking lot at all of 2 miles per hour.
I don't know, I could be wrong, but he National Organization of Women may not actually be all that interested in the welfare of women. They selectively choose women to support: never conservatives, never women who benefit from the victories of the United States Army operating under a Republican president, never women who speak out against liberal politicians. Should they not change the name of the club to National Organization of Liberal Women? Call a spade a spade.
Everyone knows who Columbus was, but no one knows the names of the folks on the dock who were laughing at him.
Liberals are an odd bunch. They don't like to produce anything (well, poetry or water colors, maybe) but they like to run things. They don't care much to be in manufacturing, service, military or financial industries being suited only for lawyering and government work. They love to tell the rest of us how we should be. Anyone who tells them how they should be is denounced and in some countries, awarded the Order of Heavy Industry and sent to Siberia. Believe me, if it ever happens, the Black Helicopters will come from the Left.
Dave Barry says, correctly, that folks who always want to tell you about their religion almost never want you to tell them about yours.
This is a great country. Either the hand of God or an accident of birth put us all here but how lucky we are. We can bitch about the government and not fear for our freedom. We have flush toilets and air conditioning. If you want to quit your job and move to New Mexico and sit cross-legged in the sun on the desert, you can do it and no one can stop you. You do not fear anything as long as you obey most of the laws and stay out of the bad parts of town and mind your own business. Much of the world can't even comprehend any of this. We take a lot of it for granted and shouldn't because it would go away if not for some gusty folks in the armed services. So thanks, God. It's nice to be able to clean out the well.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Fading memory
Two days ago, November 15, marked fifty years had elapsed since the shotgun murders of the Herbert Clutter family in Holcomb, Kansas. Four gentle, decent people were killed by intruders who mistakenly believed a large amount of cash was held in a safe in their ranch home. The killings shocked all of us in Kansas from border to border and beyond, all the way to New York where they caught the attention of Truman Capote. Capote rushed to Kansas and immersed himself in the subsequent investigation later turning it and the trial into a 'nonfiction novel,' a new literary genre, hugely successful as both a book and motion picture.
I remarked on this passing of a half-century to several people and was met mostly with blank stares. Many had not heard of the murders, book or movie. Others were aware, at least in name, but had not a hint of the significance which they held, at least for me.
Even had these deaths not been immortalized in print and on film, they are still remembered in Kansas for their sheer brutality. Four people, very much without enemies and known for their kindness were killed at home by strangers for no apparent reason. Crimes like this didn't happen in Kansas, or in the United States for that matter. It forced us all into a new era, less pastoral, less friendly and less sure.
Almost everyone in the state knew someone who knew the victims; our minister was acquainted with them. Elementary school kids like me and my peers talked nervously about the news on the following Monday and even discussed it in class. Teachers and students alike all seemed to need to talk through it, as though in therapy. In El Dorado, 250 miles east of Holcomb, the local paper opined the treacherousness of the crime and interviewed citizens who had a connection to the fallen, or who just had an opinion. Doors that had gone unlocked were secured, and porch lights burned. In some ways, it happened to us, too. Kansas was a small enough place to be a village; a brotherhood. When the perpetrators were identified, everyone, everywhere purported to have seen them pass through that day. News reported the progress of the investigation daily, whipping the already frightened public into near-hysteria.
After six frantic weeks the intruders were apprehended, tried and imprisoned. Not until I was in high school, more than five years hence, were they hanged for their crime. That was in 1965; a year later Capote's In Cold Blood --after a preview in the New Yorker --became an instant best-seller. The Clutter name was known far and wide as a result. The movie followed shortly after.
A following developed as it does occasionally for notorious crimes with even greater intensity due not only to the viciousness of the acts but because they were subjects of a movie. It was filmed on site in Holcomb and Garden City, and here in Kansas City as well, where the murderers planned and embarked on the fated journey to western Kansas. If the book left a few people in the dark about what happened, the movie turned on lights for them. Both took the whole country by storm, and parts of the world too.
As anniversaries of the crime passed, the principals of the investigation were sought for interviews and the physical evidence-the spent shells, rope, crime scene photos, etc.-were in demand. The last person to see the family alive, Bob Rupp, was stoic, refusing to discuss his memories for the morbidly interested, and the surviving two older sisters of the fallen family were equally silent.
Curiosity became a sore point in Finney County as the entire community resented the exploitation of the deaths of four of their own. Many resented the portrayal of the killers in In Cold Blood as victims of life's lottery and the lack of depth given the vanquished family. When it has been noted in the press, the details of the crime and investigation are often in error and go unchallenged.
Time goes on and even fifty years distant, enthusiasts still pull up to the driveway of the old Clutter home. The current owner estimated they come twenty time a month or more. But in recent years the community seems to have come to grips with its notoriety. The two Clutter sisters have granted interviews. Bob Rupp has openly begun to talk about his painful memories on learning his then-girlfriend Nancy Clutter was shot to death in her own bed. And Holcomb itself has erected a memorial to the family, not because they died, but because they lived and in their own personal success provided much to the town, county and state.
Had Capote never written his book, had the movie not been filmed--fewer would know of the senseless brutality that occurred in 1959. But it wouldn't have made it less vicious or depraved. Those of us who remember the crime for itself and not for what Capote made it, won't forget the loss of innocence it marked. Many who knew personally knew the family are now gone. When my generation is gone and who will remember the shock and grief and fear which gripped an entire state?
There have been brutal, horrific crimes since, but America is desensitized--perhaps in part because of what occurred in Holcomb. I guess that is what discourages me when I think that few apparently know what happened that night. Under today's laws I wonder if the killers would have been caught; if caught I wonder if they would have been convicted; if convicted I wonder if they would have been hanged. Let's hope, even if the name 'Clutter' is forgotten, that we have learned something. I think it's a name people should know.
I remarked on this passing of a half-century to several people and was met mostly with blank stares. Many had not heard of the murders, book or movie. Others were aware, at least in name, but had not a hint of the significance which they held, at least for me.
Even had these deaths not been immortalized in print and on film, they are still remembered in Kansas for their sheer brutality. Four people, very much without enemies and known for their kindness were killed at home by strangers for no apparent reason. Crimes like this didn't happen in Kansas, or in the United States for that matter. It forced us all into a new era, less pastoral, less friendly and less sure.
Almost everyone in the state knew someone who knew the victims; our minister was acquainted with them. Elementary school kids like me and my peers talked nervously about the news on the following Monday and even discussed it in class. Teachers and students alike all seemed to need to talk through it, as though in therapy. In El Dorado, 250 miles east of Holcomb, the local paper opined the treacherousness of the crime and interviewed citizens who had a connection to the fallen, or who just had an opinion. Doors that had gone unlocked were secured, and porch lights burned. In some ways, it happened to us, too. Kansas was a small enough place to be a village; a brotherhood. When the perpetrators were identified, everyone, everywhere purported to have seen them pass through that day. News reported the progress of the investigation daily, whipping the already frightened public into near-hysteria.
After six frantic weeks the intruders were apprehended, tried and imprisoned. Not until I was in high school, more than five years hence, were they hanged for their crime. That was in 1965; a year later Capote's In Cold Blood --after a preview in the New Yorker --became an instant best-seller. The Clutter name was known far and wide as a result. The movie followed shortly after.
A following developed as it does occasionally for notorious crimes with even greater intensity due not only to the viciousness of the acts but because they were subjects of a movie. It was filmed on site in Holcomb and Garden City, and here in Kansas City as well, where the murderers planned and embarked on the fated journey to western Kansas. If the book left a few people in the dark about what happened, the movie turned on lights for them. Both took the whole country by storm, and parts of the world too.
As anniversaries of the crime passed, the principals of the investigation were sought for interviews and the physical evidence-the spent shells, rope, crime scene photos, etc.-were in demand. The last person to see the family alive, Bob Rupp, was stoic, refusing to discuss his memories for the morbidly interested, and the surviving two older sisters of the fallen family were equally silent.
Curiosity became a sore point in Finney County as the entire community resented the exploitation of the deaths of four of their own. Many resented the portrayal of the killers in In Cold Blood as victims of life's lottery and the lack of depth given the vanquished family. When it has been noted in the press, the details of the crime and investigation are often in error and go unchallenged.
Time goes on and even fifty years distant, enthusiasts still pull up to the driveway of the old Clutter home. The current owner estimated they come twenty time a month or more. But in recent years the community seems to have come to grips with its notoriety. The two Clutter sisters have granted interviews. Bob Rupp has openly begun to talk about his painful memories on learning his then-girlfriend Nancy Clutter was shot to death in her own bed. And Holcomb itself has erected a memorial to the family, not because they died, but because they lived and in their own personal success provided much to the town, county and state.
Had Capote never written his book, had the movie not been filmed--fewer would know of the senseless brutality that occurred in 1959. But it wouldn't have made it less vicious or depraved. Those of us who remember the crime for itself and not for what Capote made it, won't forget the loss of innocence it marked. Many who knew personally knew the family are now gone. When my generation is gone and who will remember the shock and grief and fear which gripped an entire state?
There have been brutal, horrific crimes since, but America is desensitized--perhaps in part because of what occurred in Holcomb. I guess that is what discourages me when I think that few apparently know what happened that night. Under today's laws I wonder if the killers would have been caught; if caught I wonder if they would have been convicted; if convicted I wonder if they would have been hanged. Let's hope, even if the name 'Clutter' is forgotten, that we have learned something. I think it's a name people should know.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Show Me
Piedmont DepotOnce a year I go out into the hinterland and search for railway stations which have been preserved, however temporarily. Some are sadly in disrepair and others are used by their companies as storage or workshops. A few are preserved by proud communities for a variety of purposes. This year's excursion was entirely within the boundaries of Missouri, my home state since 1974.
Touring the Show-Me state this year was a tour of discovery. Not so much because of the depots I found to be in--or sometimes not in--existence, but because of the things I observed while cruising the back roads. For instance:
1. The roads in this state are either very good (M13, US 60, US 67) or very inadequate (pretty much the rest of them.) The further north you go in Missouri, the better the roads. Where I was, down south, they are up-and-down, winding and curving affairs with no shoulders and steep dropoffs. You are always at the mercy of the slowest driver 
who is easily identifiable, leading a string of cars at 35 m.p.h. endlessly through the forests. Some of these roads are fairly smooth. Some cry for help. None will attract tourists.
who is easily identifiable, leading a string of cars at 35 m.p.h. endlessly through the forests. Some of these roads are fairly smooth. Some cry for help. None will attract tourists.US 67 NW of Poplar Bluff
2. There is an obsession here with deer. Many in the Midwest are deer hunters; some like to think they are deer hunters -- then there are the yahoos who just like to shoot things and call it hunting. Out in the sticks it is approaching unhealthy. Convenience stores are named "Deerschnaks" or "The Buck Stops Here". There are tree stands everywhere. Every store sells something related to deer: salt licks, camo suits, guns (gun shops are everywhere), hunting licenses, trucks and trailers. Cafes advertise deer dinners. Banners proclaim churches selling box lunches for hunters who intend to disappear into the woods for a long time. Down in Texas County, Butler County, Ripley County--it's all about deer.
3. Parts of rural Missouri are pretty but the residents don't seem to know that and regard the Ozarks as their personal trash barrel. I have never seen so much litter--not in Kansas or Oklahoma, not north of I-70, not in Platte County--but it's all over in Show-Me south. This is a shame; it really detracts from the rustic, unspoiled appearance of these areas.
4. There is a fortune in beer cans in that litter. No matter the price of aluminum. It's a fortune.
5. Missourians seem to hit a lot of animals with their cars down there. An unprecedented number of possum, deer, raccoons, birds and a few unidentifiable remains--hundreds and hundreds of pounds of them--graced the roads. The one animal that seems to have learned to coexist with cars is the squirrel. I saw no squashed squirrels.
6. The best of the roads are limited to 65 m.p.h. for some reason. Decent, four-lane divided highways cry out for 70 but don't get it. It's like the state officials know they are going to under-maintain the roads; this way they don't have to go out and change the signs when the crumbling begins.
7. In Poplar Bluff, you must drive a pickup truck. It's The Law. You have two choices: gas-fired with dual tires in back, or diesel, about five feet off the ground. The truck should always have a thick coat of road dust, mud and dead bugs. No one had new cars. I don't even remember seeing a dealer.
8. Out in the country it is common to see a new, or newer, home with a nicely manicured lawn across the road from a cluster of decaying mobile homes in various states of disrepair. These trailers always have orbiting satellites of old cars, inoperable washing machines, more big dirty pickup trucks, and collapsing corrugated tin sheds. There are occasionally decent looking mobile homes with wooden steps, but it appears most are barely habitable. There is always a nice RV nearby; maybe that is where the people actually dwell.
There are some great towns and places in southeast Missouri. Piedmont is a pleasant, picturesque place on the banks of a clear Ozark creek. Ironton is another, and Mountain Grove is a clean, prosperous town. Most towns don't fare as well as these have. The streets are in poor repair, homes are unkempt and there look to be few sources of employment.
Most of the depots I sought were in decent condition; a few were gone or
couldn't be located. But I will never forget trying to find them on the back roads of
Missouri at much less than the posted speed limit of 55 m.p.h.
Along M-49 near Mill Spring
Monday, October 12, 2009
Dynamite!
I can no longer be silent. Just as with the Academy Awards, Grammys, Emmys, and the endless other once-honorable distinctions that teem around us, I see the Nobel Awards have become phony and political beyond question.
Last year, with the presentation of the Nobel Peace Prize to Al Gore, they stood on shaky ground. He did little-to-nothing toward world peace. He did produce a film of questionable credentials which advanced an unproven premise that humans are completely responsible for all bad things in nature. Global warming, ozone depletion, destructive hurricanes, rising sea levels--Al says they are all our fault. It's us driving our cars, breathing, and the cattle we eventually eat are farting out in the Texas pastures. (Never mind that the earth has been warming a long time. The glaciers are gone, right? And the most prevalent greenhouse gas is neither carbon dioxide nor California smog--it's simple water vapor.) Al, with the straightest of faces, bent over and accepted his laurel last year, having spewed misinformation everywhere and misled perhaps millions of gullible individuals.
And it had nothing to do with world peace. It just barely had anything to do with truth.
So now the Nobel committee has given the same Peace Prize to President Obama this year, a move so preposterous that even the mainstream media outlets are taken aback.
"What's he done in nine months?" they ask.
Actually, nothing. He hasn't done a thing. That's probably good because his goals are just all real bad for America. Think of something the government has done well; so well that you want them to do more for you. Like manage your health care, manage the money we are taxed, secure our borders, protect our way of life. The President wants government to regulate our banks and industry but he can't seem to realize he is selling us out. His own administration is spending far more than it takes in, growing our debt so fast and deep that our grandchildren will be paying it off too. And not a single problem has been solved, or even ameliorated. Some are worse.
So they give him the Peace Prize? For what? To whom has he brought peace? America? Hell no. He has ignored the Afghan war since he was elected. He has met with his general only three times in nine months. He can't seem to decide if he should commit more troops--which the Army has requested--to make some progress in the war, or throw in the towel.
So somehow the Nobel people have made this award. The nominations had to be in last year, before he was actually elected. (How did that work? Whoever wrote his nomination was certain that he would be Nobel-worthy before he actually lifted a pen to sign something?) He was nominated without yet having bowed before a Saudi prince or insulted policemen everywhere.
Everyone has said they want peace. All past presidents for eons back have said they want peace. Obama says he wants peace but he gets the Nobel prize for it. With last year's award to Gore and this one to the President does anyone besides me think the Nobel prize has become a political apple?
Like the Oscars, the Nobels no longer represent a recognition of the best in a field. They are phony politically-correct shows of guilt carried by tired old liberals who have worked their way into every freaking part of mainstream life. And with liberals its all about intent, not results. When the libs took over public education, if kids tried to do well, but failed anyway, then the libs felt they should be treated just the same--better maybe-- than students who really did do well. So that is what the Nobels are--prizes for good intent. We all want peace. Shouldn't we all get a Nobel prize?
Last year, with the presentation of the Nobel Peace Prize to Al Gore, they stood on shaky ground. He did little-to-nothing toward world peace. He did produce a film of questionable credentials which advanced an unproven premise that humans are completely responsible for all bad things in nature. Global warming, ozone depletion, destructive hurricanes, rising sea levels--Al says they are all our fault. It's us driving our cars, breathing, and the cattle we eventually eat are farting out in the Texas pastures. (Never mind that the earth has been warming a long time. The glaciers are gone, right? And the most prevalent greenhouse gas is neither carbon dioxide nor California smog--it's simple water vapor.) Al, with the straightest of faces, bent over and accepted his laurel last year, having spewed misinformation everywhere and misled perhaps millions of gullible individuals.
And it had nothing to do with world peace. It just barely had anything to do with truth.
So now the Nobel committee has given the same Peace Prize to President Obama this year, a move so preposterous that even the mainstream media outlets are taken aback.
"What's he done in nine months?" they ask.
Actually, nothing. He hasn't done a thing. That's probably good because his goals are just all real bad for America. Think of something the government has done well; so well that you want them to do more for you. Like manage your health care, manage the money we are taxed, secure our borders, protect our way of life. The President wants government to regulate our banks and industry but he can't seem to realize he is selling us out. His own administration is spending far more than it takes in, growing our debt so fast and deep that our grandchildren will be paying it off too. And not a single problem has been solved, or even ameliorated. Some are worse.
So they give him the Peace Prize? For what? To whom has he brought peace? America? Hell no. He has ignored the Afghan war since he was elected. He has met with his general only three times in nine months. He can't seem to decide if he should commit more troops--which the Army has requested--to make some progress in the war, or throw in the towel.
So somehow the Nobel people have made this award. The nominations had to be in last year, before he was actually elected. (How did that work? Whoever wrote his nomination was certain that he would be Nobel-worthy before he actually lifted a pen to sign something?) He was nominated without yet having bowed before a Saudi prince or insulted policemen everywhere.
Everyone has said they want peace. All past presidents for eons back have said they want peace. Obama says he wants peace but he gets the Nobel prize for it. With last year's award to Gore and this one to the President does anyone besides me think the Nobel prize has become a political apple?
Like the Oscars, the Nobels no longer represent a recognition of the best in a field. They are phony politically-correct shows of guilt carried by tired old liberals who have worked their way into every freaking part of mainstream life. And with liberals its all about intent, not results. When the libs took over public education, if kids tried to do well, but failed anyway, then the libs felt they should be treated just the same--better maybe-- than students who really did do well. So that is what the Nobels are--prizes for good intent. We all want peace. Shouldn't we all get a Nobel prize?
Monday, September 21, 2009
Transition
With the resumption of school nearly a month behind us and the advent of Autumn at hand, let us pause briefly as we often do to reflect on the summer from which we are transitioning. Kids trudging back to class is always a milestone in the year, a time to look for changes in the routine.
It's too bad that we couldn't see it coming in order to anticipate it. This was a great summer. Rarely too hot. Rarely tropically humid. Almost always a light breeze and just enough rain to keep the lawn green all summer. [Usually by mid-July the grass has surrendered to an unrelenting sun and turned a straw-broom color.] In Kansas City they say we never broke 100, but I think we did briefly on my thermometer back in June during a short heat wave. Still there was much deck time during pleasant evenings.
But it hasn't all been about the weather. The economy is slowly, steadily recovering from Barney Frank's recession. The stock market's creaky climb is not the sole evidence. Look around--there are more people in restaurants, stores and car lots. Not where it needs to be yet, but better.
Perhaps the most positive thing has been the spirit and indignance shown by Americans this summer. All throught August, in 'town hall' meetings all over the country, constituents have stood up to their government. Defiant at the prospect of having politicians in charge of their health care decisions, Americans turned out in droves to say 'NO' loud and long to the Senators and Congressmen who cared to hold forums. It wasn't just a few here and there across the country and they weren't paid or organized to appear -- unlike proponents of socialized health care who called in markers from friends at liberal labor groups and community 'activist' enterprises, bussing in as many as possible to make the forums friendly to Democrat politicians; sometimes under the unspoken threat of violence. Few were intimidated and spoke their minds, most at a loss to think of anything the government has done so well that it should assume administration of their health care.
Those legislators who hosted events--if they were really listening and not just providing eye candy for TV news--should have got the message that socialized medicine is not a done deal for many of us, particularly with provisions funding abortions on demand, denial of care based on longevity and illegal alien coverage. Are they just crazy in Washington? And through all of this they tell us , "Don't be concerned, it won't raise taxes." Oh, come on! Not even Democrats will believe that.
God Bless those who attended the meetings and forced the truth.
Another great thing about the summer is that all of this health care discussion caused a large drop in the President's approval ratings. No other President has plummeted this low this early in a first term since they started watching. Indeed, folks are beginning to see the real Obama and what his 'hope and change' for America are. They, like me, don't care for it at all.
Of course as the summer wore on there were noted deaths: Michael Jackson, Walter Cronkite, Farrah Fawcett, and Ed McMahon. Those under forty are challenged to remember much about Walter Cronkite but because he was an area native and attended the University of Missouri for a while it drew even more play here. Cronkite, for those my age, was something of a trusted father figure but in his waning years as a news broadcaster he undeniably developed a clear left wing view which he had difficulty in concealing. Still he was the last of the old guard in TV news before the pretty boys all took over. He had actually grown up in the business and helped shape it, moving from print to radio and then TV as it grew.
At our house we had the much-anticipated Colorado vacation, always in at least a little doubt until right up to the last minute before we leave. Many times in the past, things happened at work to foul our departure but it was pretty smooth this year. Mary Ann's birthday / birthday week / birthday month went well. Annie and her brothers continue to grow. We had the trees trimmed and it made a world of difference around the house. One of Mary Ann's friends opened a restaurant nearby and it seems to be doing well.
Now the equinox is passing and we are headed into Autumn, a little reflective on the greatness of what has been. But let's anticipate the promise of fall weather, always the gem of the midwest seasons. And football! If only the Chiefs would cooperate. But at least the Jayhawks seem to be headed for good things this fall. Rock Chalk!
It's too bad that we couldn't see it coming in order to anticipate it. This was a great summer. Rarely too hot. Rarely tropically humid. Almost always a light breeze and just enough rain to keep the lawn green all summer. [Usually by mid-July the grass has surrendered to an unrelenting sun and turned a straw-broom color.] In Kansas City they say we never broke 100, but I think we did briefly on my thermometer back in June during a short heat wave. Still there was much deck time during pleasant evenings.
But it hasn't all been about the weather. The economy is slowly, steadily recovering from Barney Frank's recession. The stock market's creaky climb is not the sole evidence. Look around--there are more people in restaurants, stores and car lots. Not where it needs to be yet, but better.
Perhaps the most positive thing has been the spirit and indignance shown by Americans this summer. All throught August, in 'town hall' meetings all over the country, constituents have stood up to their government. Defiant at the prospect of having politicians in charge of their health care decisions, Americans turned out in droves to say 'NO' loud and long to the Senators and Congressmen who cared to hold forums. It wasn't just a few here and there across the country and they weren't paid or organized to appear -- unlike proponents of socialized health care who called in markers from friends at liberal labor groups and community 'activist' enterprises, bussing in as many as possible to make the forums friendly to Democrat politicians; sometimes under the unspoken threat of violence. Few were intimidated and spoke their minds, most at a loss to think of anything the government has done so well that it should assume administration of their health care.
Those legislators who hosted events--if they were really listening and not just providing eye candy for TV news--should have got the message that socialized medicine is not a done deal for many of us, particularly with provisions funding abortions on demand, denial of care based on longevity and illegal alien coverage. Are they just crazy in Washington? And through all of this they tell us , "Don't be concerned, it won't raise taxes." Oh, come on! Not even Democrats will believe that.
God Bless those who attended the meetings and forced the truth.
Another great thing about the summer is that all of this health care discussion caused a large drop in the President's approval ratings. No other President has plummeted this low this early in a first term since they started watching. Indeed, folks are beginning to see the real Obama and what his 'hope and change' for America are. They, like me, don't care for it at all.
Of course as the summer wore on there were noted deaths: Michael Jackson, Walter Cronkite, Farrah Fawcett, and Ed McMahon. Those under forty are challenged to remember much about Walter Cronkite but because he was an area native and attended the University of Missouri for a while it drew even more play here. Cronkite, for those my age, was something of a trusted father figure but in his waning years as a news broadcaster he undeniably developed a clear left wing view which he had difficulty in concealing. Still he was the last of the old guard in TV news before the pretty boys all took over. He had actually grown up in the business and helped shape it, moving from print to radio and then TV as it grew.
At our house we had the much-anticipated Colorado vacation, always in at least a little doubt until right up to the last minute before we leave. Many times in the past, things happened at work to foul our departure but it was pretty smooth this year. Mary Ann's birthday / birthday week / birthday month went well. Annie and her brothers continue to grow. We had the trees trimmed and it made a world of difference around the house. One of Mary Ann's friends opened a restaurant nearby and it seems to be doing well.
Now the equinox is passing and we are headed into Autumn, a little reflective on the greatness of what has been. But let's anticipate the promise of fall weather, always the gem of the midwest seasons. And football! If only the Chiefs would cooperate. But at least the Jayhawks seem to be headed for good things this fall. Rock Chalk!
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Writing us off
Cash for clunkers?
Sounds perfectly reasonable; stimulus money put to work to benefit the ailing auto industry; to benefit the environment through the retirement of older gas-guzzling cars; and to help people afford a new car. What could be a better use of our money?
Hmmm. It's hard to argue with the benefit to the automakers and dealers. Ford, GM and Chrysler have all begun to scramble to keep up with orders for qualifying cars. And if you got $4500 Obamadollars to put toward the purchase of a new ride you are a happier camper than many of the rest of us.
But as with all things the government does, it might pay to ask a few questions:
What happens to the car (read: clunker) you trade in? The short answer is that it goes to the scrapyard. If you are turning in a rusty 1976 Olds 98 there is little to say. But if you are trading a perfectly serviceable 10-year-old GMC pickup or Chevy Suburban, especially one with lower miles, they are sending a good used car to the crusher. It is, as they say, the law.
"Big deal," you say. "Get them off the road. They burn too much gas."
True enough, but what does that do to, say, the used car market? Decent cars that might have been available to people with reduced purchasing power might soon be hard to find. That forces these people to keep their older-yet land barges on the road, smoking up the interstate with a thick cloud of heavy blue oil-rich exhaust. Cars they might have been able to afford and use for years to come are soon to be four-by-four iron cubes. Used cars for all of us, with the market being artificially tampered, will become a little more scarce and expensive to those who least can afford it.
Really? They crush these cars? Yup. they do, no matter how drivable they are. Had you asked where they go that might be an even better question, because before they are crushed, an inspector of the United States of America is obliged to check the "VIN" numbers of the clunkers, and compare them to the lists of numbers of trade-in's. The purpose of this is to prevent the gas-guzzling clunkers from finding their ways back onto American highways at great cost to our economy.
With the hiring of hundreds of inspectors to keep up with the piles of accumulating clunkers, no one has mentioned that cost to the economy. Or the cost of crushing and storing these vehicles until they can go to the steel company. It is rumored that one scrapper has several hundred acres of cars in a suburban Kansas City area county waiting for US Government clearance to be crushed. Now there is a cost to him which he will have to pass on to the rest of us, not to mention the cost of old leaky vehicles sitting on pastureland, just inviting an EPA impact statement to be completed.
What happens to the crushed cars? That's another nail in the coffin. An influx of scrap iron all over the country will drive prices down. With an economy already ailing this sector will ail even more than it was.
So we have a government program giving away money that was borrowed from the Chinese, to people who buy new cars if they are willing to trade for a higher-mileage model. It corrupts the used car market, denying poor people an opportunity to get a better car; wastes more Chinese loan money to hire so=called inspectors to verify that these trade-ins are scrapped; pollutes the countryside, and depresses the steel industry.
Any other questions? What's that? What's the matter with cars selling well, you say? Nothing I suppose.
Except half of them are Japanese. Ford, GM and Chrysler are just under fifty percent of the new car sales in the clunker program. The rest are from overseas. Even if manufactured here, the money goes back to Japan, Korea or Germany. The most optimistic among us will cheer at the fuel that will be saved with the old clunkers off the road.
But a few of us don't know why the Chinese keep loaning us money.
Like Kramer once said to Jerry, "...but they know. And they're the ones writing it off!"
Sounds perfectly reasonable; stimulus money put to work to benefit the ailing auto industry; to benefit the environment through the retirement of older gas-guzzling cars; and to help people afford a new car. What could be a better use of our money?
Hmmm. It's hard to argue with the benefit to the automakers and dealers. Ford, GM and Chrysler have all begun to scramble to keep up with orders for qualifying cars. And if you got $4500 Obamadollars to put toward the purchase of a new ride you are a happier camper than many of the rest of us.
But as with all things the government does, it might pay to ask a few questions:
What happens to the car (read: clunker) you trade in? The short answer is that it goes to the scrapyard. If you are turning in a rusty 1976 Olds 98 there is little to say. But if you are trading a perfectly serviceable 10-year-old GMC pickup or Chevy Suburban, especially one with lower miles, they are sending a good used car to the crusher. It is, as they say, the law.
"Big deal," you say. "Get them off the road. They burn too much gas."
True enough, but what does that do to, say, the used car market? Decent cars that might have been available to people with reduced purchasing power might soon be hard to find. That forces these people to keep their older-yet land barges on the road, smoking up the interstate with a thick cloud of heavy blue oil-rich exhaust. Cars they might have been able to afford and use for years to come are soon to be four-by-four iron cubes. Used cars for all of us, with the market being artificially tampered, will become a little more scarce and expensive to those who least can afford it.
Really? They crush these cars? Yup. they do, no matter how drivable they are. Had you asked where they go that might be an even better question, because before they are crushed, an inspector of the United States of America is obliged to check the "VIN" numbers of the clunkers, and compare them to the lists of numbers of trade-in's. The purpose of this is to prevent the gas-guzzling clunkers from finding their ways back onto American highways at great cost to our economy.
With the hiring of hundreds of inspectors to keep up with the piles of accumulating clunkers, no one has mentioned that cost to the economy. Or the cost of crushing and storing these vehicles until they can go to the steel company. It is rumored that one scrapper has several hundred acres of cars in a suburban Kansas City area county waiting for US Government clearance to be crushed. Now there is a cost to him which he will have to pass on to the rest of us, not to mention the cost of old leaky vehicles sitting on pastureland, just inviting an EPA impact statement to be completed.
What happens to the crushed cars? That's another nail in the coffin. An influx of scrap iron all over the country will drive prices down. With an economy already ailing this sector will ail even more than it was.
So we have a government program giving away money that was borrowed from the Chinese, to people who buy new cars if they are willing to trade for a higher-mileage model. It corrupts the used car market, denying poor people an opportunity to get a better car; wastes more Chinese loan money to hire so=called inspectors to verify that these trade-ins are scrapped; pollutes the countryside, and depresses the steel industry.
Any other questions? What's that? What's the matter with cars selling well, you say? Nothing I suppose.
Except half of them are Japanese. Ford, GM and Chrysler are just under fifty percent of the new car sales in the clunker program. The rest are from overseas. Even if manufactured here, the money goes back to Japan, Korea or Germany. The most optimistic among us will cheer at the fuel that will be saved with the old clunkers off the road.
But a few of us don't know why the Chinese keep loaning us money.
Like Kramer once said to Jerry, "...but they know. And they're the ones writing it off!"
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
C O L O R A D O !
Hello again. Back, like a bad penny. I took a vacation from everything--work, responsibility, and even the blog. Time off does that to you. But oh, what a good time we had. And ultimately it is good to get back.
Hallet Peak's reflection in Bear Lake
Since that last post on July 3, we made our annual journey to Colorado. Mary Ann and I left on the 9th, after much fretting over who will do what for Grandma, and at what time and how effectively. There was the usual family angst from hurt feelings and things said in haste, but all finally rested gently. Disruption in the life of a frail senior person is nothing with which to be trifled, I relearned.
We left easily, in mid-morning, choosing not to escape the city into the setting sun or in the early hours of darkness as has been our custom. It was just the two of us, to start with at least, so we chose the path of least resistance and drove to Hays, enjoying some gourmet turkey sandwiches for lunch as we drove. At Hays, it was hot but dry and the sky was nearly cloudless. We checked into the Fairfield Inn there, a superior example of a modern hostelry. We enjoyed the pool and the quiet, being hours ahead of the rest of our kind. It was nice to sit alternately in the sun and cool off in the pool, wondering what the poor people were doing.
Kirches rolled in as we left the pool, and the Sharps were not far behind. The nine of us went to Gella's Diner and Mini-Brewery for dinner in downtown Hays and had a great time. Even the little kids were pretty good. The food was great; the beer they make is some of the best you will have, and my endorsement doesn't come lightly. I don't drink beer often, or much alcohol at all, but I must say it was well done.
Back at the Fairfield, we turned down the air so low that the camera fogged up outside the next morning. Our six A. M. walk was thwarted by a thunderstorm's passing so we walked on the treadmills in the health / exercise room adjacent to the pool. They have a nice and very adequate little breakfast bar with waffles, oatmeal and juice which served me nicely.Loading the car, as seen with a foggy lens.
We were on the road at 0930 and paused for fuel and rest at the big truck stop at Colby. There you can select from two or three food franchises and a Starbuck's Coffee counter, of all things. Liz fed the kids some lunch and let them play at the playground there.
We dawdled too long as we wanted to stop at the City Park in Flagler, Colorado, and had to pick Katie up at the Denver airport later in the day.
We dawdled too long as we wanted to stop at the City Park in Flagler, Colorado, and had to pick Katie up at the Denver airport later in the day. Steve learning the ways of a truck stop
We pressed on to the west, with the stop in Flagler and a confusing pick-up at DIA. It took three trips through the arrivals area to recover Katie, but she finally found us. With her safely in the car we traveled the last hour up through the foot hills at the edge of the Front Range, and into Estes Park.
The nine of us were joined by Greg and Michele Plumb for our traditional pizza dinner on the first night in Colorado. The Plumbs were on their way back east, so it felt good to know we had the week out in front of us.
Annie, learning to manipulate Mommy.
For the next few days we doted on Annie, Steve and Rob; ate in our favorite places; hiked at Bear Lake; and spent a lot of time at the pool or walking through town. Kirches and Sharps left Thursday, leaving Mary Ann, Katie and I to wander aimless.
On our last night there, walking through town, is when Mary Ann met the bear.
Basically, she came out of a store to wait at the curb for Katie and I to come for her with the car. As she waited, a bear ran toward her from across the street. This does not happen to her very much.
The bear walked right by, within her reach, and headed for a nearby restaurant with outdoor dining. The bear found an entrance and went in, but was thwarted by an inner glass door. I continue to wonder what some of the more alert of the diners might have thought, seeing a shaggy looking bear watching them eat with only a thin piece of window glass separating them.
Bear was not given to breaking glass and came out to the street again, and loped up an alley. Mary Ann watched stunned as several people charged up the alley in hot pursuit. When we recovered her, she wanted to go look for the bear. It sounded like an interesting activity, so we did. And sure enough we found him wandering through some back yards. With people alarmingly close to him flashing their Kodaks and Nikons in his annoyed-looking bear eyes, he sauntered up close to the back of our car, crossed the street and waddled his fat bear butt up over a retaining wall and headed for the timber.
Later that night, our last in the cabin for this year, another bear made a terrible racket trying to break in to the dumpster across our road. The lodge owners have been chaining them shut at night to keep the bears out, so this bear--a different one from his restaurateur cousin, we assume--simply pulled the whole thing over on its front out of frustration. He then bent open a heavy sheet-steel lid on one side and sorted through some of the trash at his leisure.
Even at that hour, close to two A. M., other lodgers were out flashing pictures in the pitch dark. The bear was gone, probably on to the next group of cabins to sample their trash.
So we got up and left, a day behind Kirches and Sharps. We headed back down to the flatlands in the dim morning light, secure in our knowledge that we had seen the bear and they had not.
It has barely been a month since we left. I am ready to go again.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Often they come in threes.
OK, I admit it. I have blown it. I haven't been able to drag my tired self around to get a post together since June 21st. That is pretty bad. In my own defense they are working me way too hard at the shop these days. My wife has me on a starvation diet and walking twice a day. Relatives have been in and out of town, and we are preparing for a trip. The news has been strange lately, requiring much discussion with coworkers and family.
That is all about to change.
Vacation is coming.
I can't post anything while I am off in the Rockies, but at least I can break the streak of work, work, and more work, maybe getting out of constant panic mode.
I have missed timely posting of thoughts on the passings of Ed McMahaon, Farrah, and Michael.
Of the three, Farrah seems to me the most tragic. She wasn't the youngest or most-loved. She was far from the most talented, as Michael was obviously one of the five or ten top performers in our time. But Farrah was unfortunate to have experienced great fame and adoration early on in life, based on her looks, only to see it slip through her fingers. Finally, later in life, she was taken seriously as an actress, just once for her role in "The Burning Bed." It wasn't a classic by any means but gave her some gravitas in the business.
Farrah seemed to lose her way in life. A few years ago she appeared on a late-night talk show, virtually lacking any control of herself. She spoke English words but made no sense whatsoever. Her syntax and reasoning were soaked in what appeared to be a drug-induced mud bath. The host was obviously perplexed but carried on as best he could. I think it was Letterman, and he strangely held himself back. Perhaps that was an indication of what her life was, I don't know, but not long after came the news of her impending battle with cancer. Of course it eventually, painfully consumed her.
Michael was a tortured man, spending his adult years and fortune desperately trying to reclaim the childhood his father denied him. He, too, was tragic but also just odd to me. It is a frightening insight into what too much money can motivate people to do: his physicians, the women who bore his children, parents of children whom he is reputed to have molested. And yet he will be remembered with entertainment giants such as Caruso, Cohan, Sinatra, Presley, Paverotti, and the Beatles. His career did not span the years which it should have, yet he is known the world over.
Then there was Ed. I will miss him the most. The consummate straight-man, the foil, the voice everyone waited to hear belt out "Hiiiiyoooooooooo" just as Johnny broke throught the curtains. Ed is a lesson in why men should marry only the woman they truly love and leave the bimbos alone. He had several wives who cleaned him out financially, forcing him to do almost anything he could to generate a paycheck in his later years. He shilled DVD's of the old Carson-era "Tonight Show" and went on the road with a 'memories' show which was panned around the country. Only a year or so ago, he was nearly put out of his home until Donald Trump bought the house back for him and saved additional humiliation. Not a fitting end for a proud US Marine and the cheerful man we all knew.
Yes indeed, I will have to stay on top of the blog. There is just too much going on, and I haven't even started in on Obama yet. But first, ROAD TRIP!!
That is all about to change.
Vacation is coming.
I can't post anything while I am off in the Rockies, but at least I can break the streak of work, work, and more work, maybe getting out of constant panic mode.
I have missed timely posting of thoughts on the passings of Ed McMahaon, Farrah, and Michael.
Of the three, Farrah seems to me the most tragic. She wasn't the youngest or most-loved. She was far from the most talented, as Michael was obviously one of the five or ten top performers in our time. But Farrah was unfortunate to have experienced great fame and adoration early on in life, based on her looks, only to see it slip through her fingers. Finally, later in life, she was taken seriously as an actress, just once for her role in "The Burning Bed." It wasn't a classic by any means but gave her some gravitas in the business.
Farrah seemed to lose her way in life. A few years ago she appeared on a late-night talk show, virtually lacking any control of herself. She spoke English words but made no sense whatsoever. Her syntax and reasoning were soaked in what appeared to be a drug-induced mud bath. The host was obviously perplexed but carried on as best he could. I think it was Letterman, and he strangely held himself back. Perhaps that was an indication of what her life was, I don't know, but not long after came the news of her impending battle with cancer. Of course it eventually, painfully consumed her.
Michael was a tortured man, spending his adult years and fortune desperately trying to reclaim the childhood his father denied him. He, too, was tragic but also just odd to me. It is a frightening insight into what too much money can motivate people to do: his physicians, the women who bore his children, parents of children whom he is reputed to have molested. And yet he will be remembered with entertainment giants such as Caruso, Cohan, Sinatra, Presley, Paverotti, and the Beatles. His career did not span the years which it should have, yet he is known the world over.
Then there was Ed. I will miss him the most. The consummate straight-man, the foil, the voice everyone waited to hear belt out "Hiiiiyoooooooooo" just as Johnny broke throught the curtains. Ed is a lesson in why men should marry only the woman they truly love and leave the bimbos alone. He had several wives who cleaned him out financially, forcing him to do almost anything he could to generate a paycheck in his later years. He shilled DVD's of the old Carson-era "Tonight Show" and went on the road with a 'memories' show which was panned around the country. Only a year or so ago, he was nearly put out of his home until Donald Trump bought the house back for him and saved additional humiliation. Not a fitting end for a proud US Marine and the cheerful man we all knew.
Yes indeed, I will have to stay on top of the blog. There is just too much going on, and I haven't even started in on Obama yet. But first, ROAD TRIP!!
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Snow's almost all melted now
Eight days have passed since my last post. We have been really busy getting ready for and taking a little 3-day vacation. It required a lot of up-front planning at work for the troops to get along without me. To be sure, I am expendable, but they are used to me doing all the "sweeping" out in front of their industrial curling stone.
On the evening of that last post it was a wonderful specimen of Spring in the Midwest--the metaphorical Jennifer Aniston of weather. Well you can kiss that all goodbye. In this past week Jennifer moved out and the metaphorical Rosie O'Donnell moved in. Tonight it was a balmy 90 degrees, with the humidity hovering around a similar number. There was no breeze to cool the brow or give battle to the various insects that attempted to call me home. Today is the first day of summer; the solstice, the longest day of the year. Ahead of us lie three months of the heat we longed for all winter. It's here, fans.
Really, we all love summer. On all but the hottest, most humid days outdoor activity beckons. The fortunate ones among us can take a week or two and visit another part of the country or the world. We can charcoal a steak, a slab of ribs or a salmon fillet without concern for the cold. You can throw on shorts and a T-shirt and go anywhere except church or your arraignment. Baseball is king, but the NFL opens for business at the end of July giving hope of crisp fall days ahead.
Starting tomorrow the days will grow shorter. Imperceptibly at first but by August the change will be noted. By the middle of September it will be striking. And watch out--September will be closing on us very shortly causing us to wonder where the summer went.
On the evening of that last post it was a wonderful specimen of Spring in the Midwest--the metaphorical Jennifer Aniston of weather. Well you can kiss that all goodbye. In this past week Jennifer moved out and the metaphorical Rosie O'Donnell moved in. Tonight it was a balmy 90 degrees, with the humidity hovering around a similar number. There was no breeze to cool the brow or give battle to the various insects that attempted to call me home. Today is the first day of summer; the solstice, the longest day of the year. Ahead of us lie three months of the heat we longed for all winter. It's here, fans.
Really, we all love summer. On all but the hottest, most humid days outdoor activity beckons. The fortunate ones among us can take a week or two and visit another part of the country or the world. We can charcoal a steak, a slab of ribs or a salmon fillet without concern for the cold. You can throw on shorts and a T-shirt and go anywhere except church or your arraignment. Baseball is king, but the NFL opens for business at the end of July giving hope of crisp fall days ahead.
Starting tomorrow the days will grow shorter. Imperceptibly at first but by August the change will be noted. By the middle of September it will be striking. And watch out--September will be closing on us very shortly causing us to wonder where the summer went.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Good Evening
Amazingly at 9:30 this evening we have the windows open, the attic fan rumbling softly in the hallway and are totally comfortable.
It is a pleasant sixty-six degrees out, partly cloudy and if weather like this endured here throughout the entire summer, Kansas City would be as overcrowded and angst-ridden as Orlando or San Francisco. The humidity is seventy-three per cent which is high for normal comfort but at this temperature it makes a soft late-Spring evening. But the weather won't stay like this for the coming season. Soon it will be a hot, sticky mess. The sky will be colorless, the inhabitants irritable and the nights a festival of greenbugs swarming around the street lights.
Normally June in this outpost on the prairie has worn on far enough that heat has begun to peak in the 90's and humidity builds about that high. About every third or fourth day the atmosphere can tolerate itself no longer and a cold front pushes through creating a thunderstorm which clears the air for a day. Then the cycle starts all over again but the cold fronts grow weaker as the summer takes over, and they grow further apart. Soon there are none, only the heat.
But tonight we will sleep well in the strange coolness. It is an April evening in the middle of June. The heat is forecasted to return but for one night it has to wait and the attic fan runs. I hope that is OK with Al Gore.
It is a pleasant sixty-six degrees out, partly cloudy and if weather like this endured here throughout the entire summer, Kansas City would be as overcrowded and angst-ridden as Orlando or San Francisco. The humidity is seventy-three per cent which is high for normal comfort but at this temperature it makes a soft late-Spring evening. But the weather won't stay like this for the coming season. Soon it will be a hot, sticky mess. The sky will be colorless, the inhabitants irritable and the nights a festival of greenbugs swarming around the street lights.
Normally June in this outpost on the prairie has worn on far enough that heat has begun to peak in the 90's and humidity builds about that high. About every third or fourth day the atmosphere can tolerate itself no longer and a cold front pushes through creating a thunderstorm which clears the air for a day. Then the cycle starts all over again but the cold fronts grow weaker as the summer takes over, and they grow further apart. Soon there are none, only the heat.
But tonight we will sleep well in the strange coolness. It is an April evening in the middle of June. The heat is forecasted to return but for one night it has to wait and the attic fan runs. I hope that is OK with Al Gore.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Westbound and down
Hallet's Peak and Flattop Mountain, as seen from Estes Park.
It's getting close.
In just a month or so we will pack up the car, and head west. Just for a week, mind you, but this vacation is a sacred ritual on a par with Christmas Eve Midnight Mass at the Vatican, or the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. It is eight days reserved for all of our family traditions and quirks to manifest themselves, to rule and then quickly drop out of sight for another year.
The destination is, of course, is Colorado. Estes Park. A cool, pleasant little tourist town nestled in the lush mountain valley first settled by Joel Estes in 1859. The summer weather is clear and warm during the day, usually tempered by a cooling afternoon thundershower. Evenings are often chilly enough for a sweatshirt or jacket. And overnight it gets just plain cold. The cold greets you in the mornings, finally losing its grip to the nine o'clock sun. That's what we go for: the cooler, dryer mountain air. It's like the whole town is air-conditioned in the middle of summer, a break from the hot, humid flatlands here in western Missouri.
In just a month or so we will pack up the car, and head west. Just for a week, mind you, but this vacation is a sacred ritual on a par with Christmas Eve Midnight Mass at the Vatican, or the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. It is eight days reserved for all of our family traditions and quirks to manifest themselves, to rule and then quickly drop out of sight for another year.
The destination is, of course, is Colorado. Estes Park. A cool, pleasant little tourist town nestled in the lush mountain valley first settled by Joel Estes in 1859. The summer weather is clear and warm during the day, usually tempered by a cooling afternoon thundershower. Evenings are often chilly enough for a sweatshirt or jacket. And overnight it gets just plain cold. The cold greets you in the mornings, finally losing its grip to the nine o'clock sun. That's what we go for: the cooler, dryer mountain air. It's like the whole town is air-conditioned in the middle of summer, a break from the hot, humid flatlands here in western Missouri.
We are like football coaches with their pregame rituals. There are simply things we must do. We stop at the same motel in Hays on the first day out. We go to the Wal-Mart next to it to buy the items we inevitably forget. We go even if we remembered everything, just because. Ask a coach.
The first night in Estes Park is always pizza night. It goes back 30 years to our first voyages to Woodland Park. Always arriving tired after a 55-mph journey from Kansas City we would order a pizza instead of cooking our own food. President Reagan got the speed restriction repealed out from under the big-government crowd which shortened the trip, but the pizza tradition stuck.
Everyone likes a trip to Bear Lake
Once there we have some non-negotiable things that are on the books each year: Saturday afternoon mass at the beautiful stone and timber church; a trip to Bear Lake, of which faithful readers already know; breakfast out at the 'Egg and I' restaurant (and maybe another at the Big Horn, at the other end of town; the girls' shopping trip to Longmont, Loveland or anywhere a Ross Family Store has rooted; mini-golf at Tiny Town; a root beer float with real ice cream at the A & W; and lunch on the last day at Penelope's, the best burgers in Larimer County.
Another end-of-the-trip routine is the annual Tiny Town Invitational, a family mini-golf contest with a traveling trophy. Last year, I beat out Brett and Katie by one stroke with an all-time personal best of 38. The trophy, a child's pennant emblazoned with "Estes Park" sits proudly on my desk, waiting to be handed off to the next winner in July.
The torch is passed at the '08 TTI.
Also on the last day or two there is shopping to be done. A few presents to tote home to friends; fudge, T-shirts, ear-rings, jelly, the usual suspects. Katie always needs a T-shirt, sweatshirt and a polo to get her through the next few months.
In between arriving and leaving there is much swimming, sunning, walking by the Big Thompson River, and enjoying the magnificent scenery. Every morning is a flawless gem. The afternoons are pleasantly warm, but the breeze whispers through the tall pine trees suggesting a gathering storm. It's possible to enjoy some quiet time reading or napping. And you have to practice for the TTI.
All too soon it's over. We have to pack up the car, get up before sunrise and head east. Back down into the heat, and featureless flatlands. Back to the daily grind of work, and waiting for the weekend. But for a few days it is great to escape the unforgiving prairie summer and enjoy being together in a friendly setting. There is still one more tradition to go--lunch on the way home at the truck stop in Colby. I know, lunch at a truck stop doesn't hold much for most people, but these are the vacations of the insignificant.
Monday, June 1, 2009
The Little Ranger
Santa Fe M-119A few months ago I posted a picture of an old Santa Fe doodlebug on display in the Travel Town museum in Los Angeles. It was a long shot, not very clear and it was copyrighted -- Ahhh! -- so once I realized that it had to come off. Unfortunately de-posting the photo also de-posted the post itself. Still, I wanted to leave a post that had the sense of what 'Little Ranger' was.
So here is a better snapshot of a Santa Fe motorcar, which as you can see, also has a 'trailer' car attached behind it for added capacity. Doodlebugs were usually one-car affairs with a cab for the engineer, fireman and brakemen; a compartment for baggage and light freight; and the rear half of the conveyance was a passenger compartment. A Doodlebug could pull a trailer for seating additional passengers when needed, and two or three freight cars for mixed-train work mostly on the branch lines.
This was the train that called at my hometown of El Dorado, Kansas; the postwar 'Little Ranger,' trains 25 and 26, which linked Eldorado (that's the railroad spelling with no space and lower case 'd') and Augusta with the Emporia and Winfield terminals where the real Ranger--Santa Fe's mainline train between Chicago and Houston--made daily stops.
The Little Ranger rolled in the daylight, both north- and southbound, meandering from Emporia to Ellinor, Bazaar, Matfield Green, Chelsea, Eldorado, Vanora, Augusta, Douglass, Rock, and finally Winfield where folks could catch the southbound Ranger. Through this pastoral Flint Hills countryside she carried the mail, milk, Railway Express, newspapers, and the citizens of Chase and Butler counties off to Chicago and the East, or maybe Texas or California. Back then, trips like that were big events in the lives of ordinary people. Very few could afford air travel and it was much less prolific. In a place like El Dorado the arrival or departure of the Little Ranger often was an occasion for someone. The depot, a 1903 brick county-seat-plan similar to Iola's or the one still standing in Garden City, was a little beehive of activity for a few moments until the train scooted on down the track which lay square in the middle of Gordy Street.
Santa Fe M-177The Missouri Pacific also operated a passenger train from Wichita, through El Dorado, Eureka, Yates Center, Osawatomie and into Kansas City. The Sunflower, as it was known, didn't hold the quite as fast in my heart as the Little Ranger. Santa Fe's trains were really the best in America, capturing both eye and imagination. The classic steam power they used was just ending and the beautiful red, yellow and silver passenger locomotives were famous everywhere, as were the names Chief, Super Chief and Grand Canyon Limited. Little Ranger didn't connect with them but they all rolled under the same upper-quadrant semaphore signals up on the main line. It was a pedigree thing.
Both trains lasted until 1959. After that boarding trains was done in Newton or Wichita. Santa Fe razed the old depot in 1961. The private car tracks behind it were pulled up and it was paved over for parking. The MoPac depot survives today, magnificently restored and used as a community building of some sort. MoPac, like Santa Fe, Burlington and Union Pacific, took great pride in their station buildings which were the faces of those companies to the burghers.
With two refineries, an asphalt plant and the agriculture trade, Santa Fe and MoPac carried on at El Dorado with freight commerce. Alas, today the U.P. runs only one or two short trains a week on the old MoPac line between Wichita and El Dorado. East of there, the tracks have been gone for years. The old Santa Fe track on Gordy Street, the original 1872 branch from the main line at Florence, has been paved over. Santa Fe operates its busy transcontinental freight line around the east side of the city which joins the old line to Winfield just south of town.
Life goes on. But just for those of us from 'Eldorado' and Kansas who lived by train whistles, and waited at crossings as the trains that settled and built this part of the country rolled by, I pray the Little Ranger and her kind not be forgotten.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Justice, California-style
I shouldn't be taking the time to do this, but I can't stop myself.
Oh NO! According to MSN.com, Kim Kardashian, TV personality and magazine bimbo, is outraged. Her life has been thrown into a black hole because the California Supreme Court upheld Proposition 8, the recent referendum on gay marriage--with which the people of California said "NO" to gay marriage. "This really makes me sad..." she is quoted, also saying "Shame on you California! We must all continue to fight the h8!" (sic)
She is just so, so wrong on so many levels.
1. Why, why, why is this hate? Apparently resistance to any off-the-wall concept du jour is hateful. Conversely, if one publicly despises time-honored values which have borne us a civilized society and great freedom, that is considered a free and open exchange of ideas by my friends on the left.
2. California is a big state. A lot of people [I have no idea how many] had to have voted against the legalization of a gay marriage there. That being said, this is apparently the will of the people even if only one vote had made the difference at the time they voted on Prop 8.
3. The California Supreme Court is thought to be one of the two most liberal in the nation [equalled only perhaps by Massachusetts] by legal scholars who think about things like that. This decision was 8-1. Not even close, in a state literally percolating with lefties. This really has to frost the libs, who regard court systems everywhere as their home-owned government grocery store.
4. In three thousand years of human history where are references to a union between two [or what the hell, maybe more] people of the same sex? This is a fairly recent concept, a dandelion sitting atop the Mount Rushmore of time. And just about as significant. Gay people are free to live with each other, to do as they please [try that in the ultra-liberal socialist paradise over in North Korea] and are unable only to present themselves as man and, uh, man. Or as woman and woman. They will lack some legal benefits and protections open only to a traditional union, and they may each require their own health insurance. Why is there an assumption that every aspect of society must remake itself to be acceptable to whatever the alternative lifestyles are demanding at the moment?
5. Justice Kardashian is joined in her articulate dissent by such deep-thinking heavy hitters as Elton John, Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears, Heidi Montag [whoever she is] and, of course, that paragon of teenage philosophy, Miley Cyrus. They're probably supported by most of the pop-culture Hollywood icons that can be swept up on Rodeo Drive buying $700 jeans, loitering there hoping the Us photographer will see them out spending someone's money.
6. And lastly, as a matter of curiosity, why would any responsible news outlet pick up on anything Kim Kardashian has to say? Share with me her credentials to publicly critique the actions of the Supreme Court, or perhaps even traffic court. Her TV show makes one yearn for the pithier wit of the late Anna Nicole Smith. What has Kim modestly done, other than to serve as a benchmark for making Paris Hilton look intelligent? Has she guarded the Republic, fed the hungry, praised the Lord, brought in a payroll? Historically her largest concern--at least in my memory--was the size of her ass. Seems appropriate to me.
We hold nothing against gay people who go about their lives like everyone else, just trying to get by, and everything against those who want to remake this nation in their own narrow image. Until that happens, I am satisfied for Kim to be sad, and ashamed of the Golden State.
Oh NO! According to MSN.com, Kim Kardashian, TV personality and magazine bimbo, is outraged. Her life has been thrown into a black hole because the California Supreme Court upheld Proposition 8, the recent referendum on gay marriage--with which the people of California said "NO" to gay marriage. "This really makes me sad..." she is quoted, also saying "Shame on you California! We must all continue to fight the h8!" (sic)
She is just so, so wrong on so many levels.
1. Why, why, why is this hate? Apparently resistance to any off-the-wall concept du jour is hateful. Conversely, if one publicly despises time-honored values which have borne us a civilized society and great freedom, that is considered a free and open exchange of ideas by my friends on the left.
2. California is a big state. A lot of people [I have no idea how many] had to have voted against the legalization of a gay marriage there. That being said, this is apparently the will of the people even if only one vote had made the difference at the time they voted on Prop 8.
3. The California Supreme Court is thought to be one of the two most liberal in the nation [equalled only perhaps by Massachusetts] by legal scholars who think about things like that. This decision was 8-1. Not even close, in a state literally percolating with lefties. This really has to frost the libs, who regard court systems everywhere as their home-owned government grocery store.
4. In three thousand years of human history where are references to a union between two [or what the hell, maybe more] people of the same sex? This is a fairly recent concept, a dandelion sitting atop the Mount Rushmore of time. And just about as significant. Gay people are free to live with each other, to do as they please [try that in the ultra-liberal socialist paradise over in North Korea] and are unable only to present themselves as man and, uh, man. Or as woman and woman. They will lack some legal benefits and protections open only to a traditional union, and they may each require their own health insurance. Why is there an assumption that every aspect of society must remake itself to be acceptable to whatever the alternative lifestyles are demanding at the moment?
5. Justice Kardashian is joined in her articulate dissent by such deep-thinking heavy hitters as Elton John, Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears, Heidi Montag [whoever she is] and, of course, that paragon of teenage philosophy, Miley Cyrus. They're probably supported by most of the pop-culture Hollywood icons that can be swept up on Rodeo Drive buying $700 jeans, loitering there hoping the Us photographer will see them out spending someone's money.
6. And lastly, as a matter of curiosity, why would any responsible news outlet pick up on anything Kim Kardashian has to say? Share with me her credentials to publicly critique the actions of the Supreme Court, or perhaps even traffic court. Her TV show makes one yearn for the pithier wit of the late Anna Nicole Smith. What has Kim modestly done, other than to serve as a benchmark for making Paris Hilton look intelligent? Has she guarded the Republic, fed the hungry, praised the Lord, brought in a payroll? Historically her largest concern--at least in my memory--was the size of her ass. Seems appropriate to me.
We hold nothing against gay people who go about their lives like everyone else, just trying to get by, and everything against those who want to remake this nation in their own narrow image. Until that happens, I am satisfied for Kim to be sad, and ashamed of the Golden State.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Road Trip, Part II.
A lot of the interesting things on the Turnpike happened on the "Hoot Owl" [the night shift] but there was one day shift that stands out in my feeble memory. The names have been changed to protect the, uh, perpetrators which I understand are still living.
Only on a few occasions did my 19-year-old self enjoy a solid week of 8-to-4, working days like a real person and able to visit evenings with friends. And remember this was a summer job, not a career, so I treasured these day shifts. One beautiful summer morning I reported to the gate at El Dorado to relieve the "Hoot Owl" man. It was the morning after a storm had powered through, clearing the skies, lowering the humidity and refreshing all with a cool breeze. Truly a magnificent specimen of a day. Into this idyllic setting drove one Fred Grimes, Kansas State Representative for Butler County, Democrat, and lawyer from nearby Augusta.
I had heard of Grimes and seen his pictures around for years. He represented the whole county and had served for some years. Dad knew him slightly through the county Bar Association but we'd never met in person and I'd never given it a thought at all. Until that beautiful morning.
He drove in to my gate to exit from the Turnpike, and handed me his ticket. [The way it worked was you entered the Turnpike at a toll booth, and the attendant would hand you a stiff card with your vehicle class, the name of the point of entry, the time and date, and a chart with the tolls to all the other exits from that one. You would surrender it at the point of exit so the collector would know where you came from and thus how much to charge--it still works like that to this day.] As I recall, he paid the toll from Topeka where he had entered, and then said, "Can I ask you something?" [These conversations are as accurate as I can recall, having occurred almost forty years ago.]
"Sure, what can I help you with?" I replied.
"Can I keep that ticket?"
No one had ever asked me that before. I thought he would be seeking directions to something. I shook my head. "I have to turn it in. It's part of the accounting. It has to stay here so I'll balance with the bank." I wasn't kidding. The auditors checked every collector each day for cash errors and those tickets were part of the audit. I studied his young/old face. "Why do you want it?"
At this point the honorable legislator squirmed uncomfortably behind the wheel. He paused, and I could see he was choosing his words carefully. "It's for my wife."
That really confused me. But he continued, "I'm Fred Grimes. I'm the state representative for this district." He stuck his hand out the window of his car. I gave it a shake. The warm morning sun was in his face and he was squinting to get a good look at me and measure me up. "I worked late last night at the Capitol and started out for home, but I was just too tired to drive all the way back home so I stopped and slept a few hours at the rest area by Emporia. I've been gone all night and should have been home hours ago. My wife is never going to believe me, that I was sleeping in the car."
Aha! Suddenly he looked familiar. Indeed he needed a shave and to run a comb through his hair, and his shirt was rumpled, so his predicament seemed genuine. "But why do you want this?" I asked, waving the treasured ticket. I also wanted to ask him what he had done previously to earn the wife's suspicion, but for once I kept my big mouth shut.
"That has the time printed on it when I entered the turnpike, doesn't it? Look on there, you can see when I went through the gate last night." And sure enough, atop the little card in familiar blue ink, his entry had been preserved for all eternity by Topeka's entry machine at 12:30 AM. "That will prove to her that I was on my way home on the highway, and that I wasn't still in Topeka."
This was my first encounter with an adult who would openly discuss marital problems with me, and it was really more than I wanted to know. And, my training reminded me that the ticket had to be turned in. It was the state's ticket, not mine to give away.
"Oh, I see," was about all I could think to say. I really didn't care to see his marriage suffer, but then automation took over. "I'd like to help but they are clear that I have to turn this in. I don't have the option to let it go."
I glanced behind him, and around to the entry lane behind me. Fortunately no other cars were waiting during this prolonged encounter. He said, "Well how about this: when do you go off duty?"
"At four." Here we go, I thought. He's estimated my character; now he's making a deal.
"If you let me take the card home with me I will bring it back to you before you leave this afternoon." I must have grimaced, because he went on: "Look, I am an elected official and you can trust me to do that. I give you my word you'll have it back before you go home." He was nodding as he spoke, and had the slightest touch of urgency in his voice.
Mr. Grimes had found a chink in my armor. He knew I wanted to help. And I was a little concerned about not helping since he was a state official and I worked for a semi-governmental entity. If I didn't go along with this character could he cause a problem for someone at the Turnpike Authority? His marriage obviously had trust issues; how angry would he be if they were complicated by some college kid following bureaucratic rules? Who did he know at the Turnpike Authority?
So I said, "OK, if you promise to get this back to me before I close out to go home I guess I can trust you." Then I thought to add, "But if I don't get it back I will have a variance and be in all kinds of trouble--so help me out." I reluctantly handed him the card, hoping he would understand that if he crossed me lots of people would hear about this little encounter.
He took the card and asked my name. When I told him he perked up a little because he was acquainted with Dad, and he asked about the family. He once again presented his hand, saying, "Thank you, thank you very much. I will have this back to you before four, I promise." We shook hands again and Fred Grimes, Kansas State Representative for Butler County, Democrat, and lawyer from nearby Augusta, drove out of my life.
By lunchtime the sun had thoroughly warmed everything and the freshness of the early hour was gone. And I had seen nothing of the Representative or his turnpike ticket. "You dummy," I admonished myself. He isn't going to make a 20-mile round trip to give that stupid card back and now you are going to have a variance." I am sure my pulse was up all day in anticipation of my cash drawer not balancing. What bothered me the most was that up until that day I had very few cash variances. That three-dollar toll would stand out like a red-headed stepchild. Talk about trust--I wondered if my employers would trust me after that. Three bucks was a lot to be out of balance back then, and the turnpike people were strict.
One o'clock, two o'clock, two-thirty all dragged by and no one showed. I had resigned myself to having been duped by a minor politician. Finally, at three, an old pickup truck drove up and an even older man, lean and wiry, got out. He wore a western shirt and blue jeans. I can still see him in the mind's eye, walking up toward me, leaning slightly forward as he walked. He had a weathered, deeply lined face. In his hand was the card. The pressure that had built all day vanished. I stepped out of my booth to meet him.
"You the one lookin' for this?" he asked, jabbing the card out at me. I had no idea who he was but at that point I really didn't care. I was just glad that Rep. Grimes had kept his word. And he had.
I took it. "Yes, thank you very much. I'm sure glad to see this."
"Fred said you wanted it." Apparently satisfied his duty was done he began to turn away.
Then curiosity got the better of me. "Hey!" I yelled. "Did it do him any good?"
The old fellow turned all the way around and faced me with his eyebrows raised in shock, apparently surprised that I knew the real reason for the transaction. Then his face melted into a shrewd, wily grin. He shook his head slightly saying, "I don't think so, the poor sonuvabitch!"
He walked away cackling with an emphysematic laugh. I slipped the rumpled toll ticket back into the card bin where it belonged and watched him drive away wondering what kind of day old Fred must have had.
Only on a few occasions did my 19-year-old self enjoy a solid week of 8-to-4, working days like a real person and able to visit evenings with friends. And remember this was a summer job, not a career, so I treasured these day shifts. One beautiful summer morning I reported to the gate at El Dorado to relieve the "Hoot Owl" man. It was the morning after a storm had powered through, clearing the skies, lowering the humidity and refreshing all with a cool breeze. Truly a magnificent specimen of a day. Into this idyllic setting drove one Fred Grimes, Kansas State Representative for Butler County, Democrat, and lawyer from nearby Augusta.
I had heard of Grimes and seen his pictures around for years. He represented the whole county and had served for some years. Dad knew him slightly through the county Bar Association but we'd never met in person and I'd never given it a thought at all. Until that beautiful morning.
He drove in to my gate to exit from the Turnpike, and handed me his ticket. [The way it worked was you entered the Turnpike at a toll booth, and the attendant would hand you a stiff card with your vehicle class, the name of the point of entry, the time and date, and a chart with the tolls to all the other exits from that one. You would surrender it at the point of exit so the collector would know where you came from and thus how much to charge--it still works like that to this day.] As I recall, he paid the toll from Topeka where he had entered, and then said, "Can I ask you something?" [These conversations are as accurate as I can recall, having occurred almost forty years ago.]
"Sure, what can I help you with?" I replied.
"Can I keep that ticket?"
No one had ever asked me that before. I thought he would be seeking directions to something. I shook my head. "I have to turn it in. It's part of the accounting. It has to stay here so I'll balance with the bank." I wasn't kidding. The auditors checked every collector each day for cash errors and those tickets were part of the audit. I studied his young/old face. "Why do you want it?"
At this point the honorable legislator squirmed uncomfortably behind the wheel. He paused, and I could see he was choosing his words carefully. "It's for my wife."
That really confused me. But he continued, "I'm Fred Grimes. I'm the state representative for this district." He stuck his hand out the window of his car. I gave it a shake. The warm morning sun was in his face and he was squinting to get a good look at me and measure me up. "I worked late last night at the Capitol and started out for home, but I was just too tired to drive all the way back home so I stopped and slept a few hours at the rest area by Emporia. I've been gone all night and should have been home hours ago. My wife is never going to believe me, that I was sleeping in the car."
Aha! Suddenly he looked familiar. Indeed he needed a shave and to run a comb through his hair, and his shirt was rumpled, so his predicament seemed genuine. "But why do you want this?" I asked, waving the treasured ticket. I also wanted to ask him what he had done previously to earn the wife's suspicion, but for once I kept my big mouth shut.
"That has the time printed on it when I entered the turnpike, doesn't it? Look on there, you can see when I went through the gate last night." And sure enough, atop the little card in familiar blue ink, his entry had been preserved for all eternity by Topeka's entry machine at 12:30 AM. "That will prove to her that I was on my way home on the highway, and that I wasn't still in Topeka."
This was my first encounter with an adult who would openly discuss marital problems with me, and it was really more than I wanted to know. And, my training reminded me that the ticket had to be turned in. It was the state's ticket, not mine to give away.
"Oh, I see," was about all I could think to say. I really didn't care to see his marriage suffer, but then automation took over. "I'd like to help but they are clear that I have to turn this in. I don't have the option to let it go."
I glanced behind him, and around to the entry lane behind me. Fortunately no other cars were waiting during this prolonged encounter. He said, "Well how about this: when do you go off duty?"
"At four." Here we go, I thought. He's estimated my character; now he's making a deal.
"If you let me take the card home with me I will bring it back to you before you leave this afternoon." I must have grimaced, because he went on: "Look, I am an elected official and you can trust me to do that. I give you my word you'll have it back before you go home." He was nodding as he spoke, and had the slightest touch of urgency in his voice.
Mr. Grimes had found a chink in my armor. He knew I wanted to help. And I was a little concerned about not helping since he was a state official and I worked for a semi-governmental entity. If I didn't go along with this character could he cause a problem for someone at the Turnpike Authority? His marriage obviously had trust issues; how angry would he be if they were complicated by some college kid following bureaucratic rules? Who did he know at the Turnpike Authority?
So I said, "OK, if you promise to get this back to me before I close out to go home I guess I can trust you." Then I thought to add, "But if I don't get it back I will have a variance and be in all kinds of trouble--so help me out." I reluctantly handed him the card, hoping he would understand that if he crossed me lots of people would hear about this little encounter.
He took the card and asked my name. When I told him he perked up a little because he was acquainted with Dad, and he asked about the family. He once again presented his hand, saying, "Thank you, thank you very much. I will have this back to you before four, I promise." We shook hands again and Fred Grimes, Kansas State Representative for Butler County, Democrat, and lawyer from nearby Augusta, drove out of my life.
By lunchtime the sun had thoroughly warmed everything and the freshness of the early hour was gone. And I had seen nothing of the Representative or his turnpike ticket. "You dummy," I admonished myself. He isn't going to make a 20-mile round trip to give that stupid card back and now you are going to have a variance." I am sure my pulse was up all day in anticipation of my cash drawer not balancing. What bothered me the most was that up until that day I had very few cash variances. That three-dollar toll would stand out like a red-headed stepchild. Talk about trust--I wondered if my employers would trust me after that. Three bucks was a lot to be out of balance back then, and the turnpike people were strict.
One o'clock, two o'clock, two-thirty all dragged by and no one showed. I had resigned myself to having been duped by a minor politician. Finally, at three, an old pickup truck drove up and an even older man, lean and wiry, got out. He wore a western shirt and blue jeans. I can still see him in the mind's eye, walking up toward me, leaning slightly forward as he walked. He had a weathered, deeply lined face. In his hand was the card. The pressure that had built all day vanished. I stepped out of my booth to meet him.
"You the one lookin' for this?" he asked, jabbing the card out at me. I had no idea who he was but at that point I really didn't care. I was just glad that Rep. Grimes had kept his word. And he had.
I took it. "Yes, thank you very much. I'm sure glad to see this."
"Fred said you wanted it." Apparently satisfied his duty was done he began to turn away.
Then curiosity got the better of me. "Hey!" I yelled. "Did it do him any good?"
The old fellow turned all the way around and faced me with his eyebrows raised in shock, apparently surprised that I knew the real reason for the transaction. Then his face melted into a shrewd, wily grin. He shook his head slightly saying, "I don't think so, the poor sonuvabitch!"
He walked away cackling with an emphysematic laugh. I slipped the rumpled toll ticket back into the card bin where it belonged and watched him drive away wondering what kind of day old Fred must have had.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Road trip.
For five summers after I graduated from high school I worked for the Kansas Turnpike Authority as a relief toll collector. Mostly the job was to fill in for the veteran collectors who were on vacation, and also to provide additional help for the summer traffic increase. I worked four different stations, three in Wichita and one in El Dorado. It was interesting work, sometimes. Dealings with the public are always that way. The summer before I graduated I also worked for the KTA, but that time as a guard-rail painter. That was a whole lot less interesting but it was nice to be outside. At least I got a nice tan out of it. But in the toll booth it was a bit more demanding. You had to know the tolls, of course. And you had to know how to 'class' vehicles as they approached, always by axle count which was checked by a treadle in the lane next to the booth where the car or truck passed. Also you had to be good at handling cash, and a lot of it. Not huge amounts of money--although some days the take was pretty good--but always a weighty volume of coins and one-dollar bills. I spent many afternoons and evenings rolling quarters to send to the bank. And then, you had to be conversant in directions, mileages to everywhere and where to get a good meal.
There were lots of characters out there, besides just the travelling public. The very head of the KTA, the Chief Engineer-Manager, was a tall, grey-haired, distinguished-looking man by the name of L. W. Newcomer, a man with political connections, savvy, and a fierce loyalty to his alma mater, Kansas State University. It was no accident that many of my fellow guard-rail painters were high school kids who had athletic ability and had expressed an interest in K-State. Bill Fitzgerald and I were the lone KU enrollees. I guess L. W.'s savvy was so tuned that he would not discriminate, even against Jayhawks.
Mr. Newcomer often told this story which happened late one hot, still summer night. Much of it unfolded on the highway patrol radios which were also used to communicate to each toll booth. I was not on duty that night but I really wished I had been there to hear it unroll: In the wee hours, a middle-aged couple drove south from Kansas City toward the Oklahoma border. It was learned later that the wife was napping in the back seat. Needing to refuel, they stopped at the Belle Plaine service area a short distance south of Wichita. When the gentleman went into the service station office to pay for the gas, his wife apparently woke up, crawled out of the car and went in a different entrance to the service station to find the ladies' room.
So, yeah, the fellow paid his bill, went back out to his car and drove away. Shortly after the lady comes back out to find her husband and car both gone. She panics a little, and the attendants reassure her that they can call the highway patrol dispatcher and he can radio ahead to the South Haven toll gate to watch for her car. South Haven is the southern terminal and all traffic stops there to pay tolls before heading on into Oklahoma. They tell her the men at the toll gate will advise the husband that she is not sleeping in the back seat and to return to pick her up.
And as good as their word, armed with her description of the car the toll collector at South Haven spots the car in short order. "Hey," he tells the driver, "you left your wife back at the rest area when you got gas."
The man looked up and leveled his eyes at the collector. He said, "Hell, don't you think I know that?" and drove off into the night.
No, we never found out what happened after that, but it was old L. W.'s favorite story. I have no reason to doubt it actually happened because some people do very strange things. This certainly qualifies, and we will revisit the good old KTA another time as we are always looking for something strange to communicate!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
