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    To our family's wealth and blessings we have added Nolan, born December 19, and Connor, born December 26.

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The Clinton's Ninth Circle of Hell

Out liberaled. Out charmed. Out smarmed. Out voted. Out financed.

The young, the hip, the feminists, the greenies, the glitterati, all abandoning them.

And the infiltrator, the rudely squatting gatecrasher, is a partly black man of at least historical religious diversity and apparently unimpeachable marital smoothness.  Someone above reproach, someone too gosh darn politically correct to knife in public.

For Bill Clinton, Groper-in-Chief Emeritus and his wife Hillary, the former Heir Apparent and rapidly emerging Angry White Bitch of the Year, this turn of events is a horror unimaginable.  Nowhere in their mental matrix of secular humanism, patronage, intimidation, bribery, ersatz noblesse oblige and long term triangulation were there any warnings about this. 

Nowhere a clue about how to cope.

If ever there was a wake-up call to aging liberal boomers, this is it.  While they are busy taking crib notes out of Wine Spectator and secretly videotaping the grandchild's third world nanny for later private enjoyment, control of the world-as-seen-by-the-New-York-Times is slipping away from them.

The big winners, of course, are sensible people everywhere.  To see the iconic couple of the insane 90's brought low is sweet poetic justice.  It just couldn't happen to two more deserving people, and thanks to the new media, we all have ringside seats.

The (Fading) Flower Power Establishment

Hillary Clinton's White House trajectory is off expectations. Off expectations for Bill and Hill and their true believers, anyway.  This has got to be a ferocious shock to them, and they are reacting as they always react when things don't go their way: find an associate to throw to the dogs, blame the press, blame the vast right-wing conspiracy, blame their supporters for being insufficiently devout. 

Throw a mountain of other people's money at the problem and turn the spinning wheel to yet another angle. 

No news here, although right now Patti Solis Doyle may be a bit surprised at the grim realities involved in taking one for the Clintons.

Columnists and bloggers seem puzzled by the Clinton's inability to learn from past mistakes in the political realm.  And if we assume that the Clintons are basically well-intentioned and hard-headed political realists, it's indeed hard to imagine how they can "keep doing what they're doing when they keep getting what they're getting."

But the Clintons are not political realists, at the very depths. No, at heart what they believe themselves to be is ANOINTED - members of a very small and incredibly elite group who, by virtue of being who they were and are, where they were and are, by virtue of their unprecedented depths of caring and moral superiority, are destined to rule.

For the good of us all, of course.  For the children.

Gerard Van der Leun took an insiders look at the drug-fueled beginnings of liberal boomer humanist moralism - aka hippie bullshit - with a hefty dose of Bill 'n' Hill history included here.  It's as close as we are ever likely to get to an explanation of why these genius-level morons operate the way they do.

It also places the Clintons exactly where they belong; in the galactic center of the spoiled, nanny-state yuppie busybody generation.  Ready, willing, and quite sure they are entitled to lead us all to world peace,  socialized medicine and a good cigar. 

Well, maybe not the cigar.

I understand the angst and terror that must be circulating in Clinton veins right now.  Bill's adding up how many more hot twenty-somethings he could have and still would be able to shag, if not for the quest to be First Gentleman.

For Hillary the same calculus must be even more bitter - Bill's antics for decades and in the end she may have to settle for blackmailing her way into a VP slot.

Harsh.

For the rest of us, though, what a treat.  Up against a racially mixed opponent who won't go back to the plantation allegedly inhabited exclusively by Republican Blacks, the Clintons' bigotry gets lots of air.  Little Chelsea, grown to a particularly scary kind of Stepford Trophy Child, beams mutely from inside a fortune in designer duds. 

The scandalously foul-mouthed Howard Dean is calling for verbal restraint and Clinton former hostages - oops, donors - are deserting ship and throwing money at Obama so fast I worry that he will be suffocated in cash.

Add to this Democratic Party Convention problems and you have happy prospects.  Not only are the delegates from Florida and Michigan being excluded due to their states primaries being too early, but 20% of the total delegates are "superdelegates", uncommitted and likely to be the trump card if the primaries don't give us a clear winner.  The mudfest is almost certain to continue until November, with Hillary surly and sniping if Obama is the candidate and Obama's JFK-style devotees creating havoc in local races if Hillary is nominated.

At which time hopefully the voting public will turn off the Clinton/Obama/Dean sideshow and vote for my favorite candidate:

"Whoever is NOT the Democrat."  Because the Summer of Love may be over, but the Jihad is with us still.

Code Pink Vs. The U.S. Marine Corps

First it was phone-in-the-tears mom, AKA Cindy Sheehan, taking on the Secret Service and local law enforcement authorities of Crawford, Texas.  Amazing though it was to leftists, reason and order prevailed and the President was not forced shamefaced from his legal residence.

Ultimately, he didn't even have to kiss Cindy's ring.  This insult remains in the minds of the elite, even as the protagonist has evaporated from their exalted and endless matrix of concern and caring.

Now the City of Berkeley is seeking revenge, attempting to win one back for the griper by driving the Marines from among their enlightened and superior midst.  Noble as this action "on behalf of our children" may be, I fear it is no less doomed than Cindy's crusade.  The votes of city councils do not in any way supersede the Constitution of the United States of America, even when the actions of those councils give frissons of ecstasy to their cannabis-addled constituents.

Berkeley can guarantee Code Pink a perpetual parking space in front of the Marine recruiting station and give the Pinkies all the protest permits they want, but my money is still on the Marines.  They have better uniforms, bigger guns, and they actually stand for something.

The Pinkies are only against things - BushCheneyHitler, children being deprived of their right to have two mommies with no daddies allowed, price increases at the all-you-can-eat buffet.  They're sampled the smorgasbord of nanny state idiocies and found none of them worth focusing on, and all of them worth their vague whining support; at least as long as the press is snapping pictures and the Taco Bell next door is open.

Berkeley has once again forced its way to the head of the parade of foolishness that passes for civic activity on the west coast.  Of course we expect no less from them.  Good going, guys.

Meanwhile, if there are any clear headed people with video cameras in Berkeley, could you please film the planned "eviction" of the Marines?  Pinks will throw milkshake cartons and threaten to uncover their sagging chests, local courts will bluster and local police will wisely keep their heads down.  Now that would be an indie film truly worth watching.

Semper Fidelis.

The Super, Sad, Strange Year

This year I gained treasures and lost them.  I've a new grandchild with another one scheduled into this world the day after Christmas.  And those little holiday bundles are the overwhelmingly good, and only eternally important, news.

The strangeness is that a car belonging to my daughter and I has been stolen twice; once we got it back, stripped and dirty, but still, THERE.  This time, who knows?  It will be a challenge to fully appreciate Christmas Eve tonight after seeing my wheels AWOL at 4 AM, and since the car was basic transport and not insured against theft, if it's not recovered I'll be without a way to get to work.  I can afford the impound and towing fees, if I'm lucky enough to recover it, but not another car. 

Vexing. 

The sad was the loss of a friend I truly thought I would have forever.  To me, it seemed a wonderful thing; great conversation, easy companionship, and good fun.  The kind of friendship that, in one form or another, deserved to last.

My friend saw it differently and ended it abruptly.  There was an explanation which made perfect sense, and no sense at all.  There was no chance to say goodbye; that certainly hurt.  The only cushion to the blow was that I was terminated via email; lucky, that was, since to be blown out of someone's life by text message or sloughed off in total silence seems to be the norm in these socially callous times . 

It could be argued on that basis that my friend was unusually kind to me.  Still, I wish I could halve my current troubles by speaking them to that understanding ear.  Not to be privy to the observations of that fascinating mind is an ache that won't go away soon.

I miss you, my once-a-friend.

To the cads who stole a grandmother's car while she tended her sick family, and all perpetrators of injustice and pain, I can only pray that you will not receive as you are meting out.  There is plenty of suffering in this world already without the Children of God creating more for each other. Justice, however, I do want for you.

And to the rest of you, for the blessed majority of decent, caring people: may the peace and love of our miraculous Savior be on you in this season of His Birth.

   

Guys, Stay Out Of This Line(r)

According to Yahoo's front page, some androgynous but putatively male synthebrity is making eyeliner a must for men.

When pigs fly.  Or, to paraphrase another master of manipulating appearances:  It depends on what your definition of "men" is.

Appealing as Yahoo's unformed and pouty creature may be to pedophiles and poorly-parented 13 year old girls, I just don't see the red-blooded men of fly-over country flocking to the Clinique counters anytime soon.  Johnny Depp wannabees at Yahoo can call it "Guyliner" until the last Pirates of the Caribbean Sequel, but anyone who knows his way around a socket set will see it for the hogwash it is.

So here's a few blue collar truths for all you cosmetically enhanced nancy-boys:  real women won't share their mascara with anyone who doesn't wear a bra.  Having a brother who is higher maintenance than she is won't bring a girl happiness.  Smart women want a man, not a gender-neutral makeup consultant, to help them raise their children. 

When the firefighters who congregate at our local coffeeshop show up wearing eyeshadow and blusher color-coordinated to their Nomex bunker gear, I'll believe it's a real trend.  Until then, I recommend that men put down the eyeliner, step away from the lipstick, and remember that Yahoo isn't talking to you. 

They're trying to titillate your baby sister, that's all.

Trailer Trash And Treasures

Unless you have a copy of James Lileks' Interior Desecrations on your coffee table, you cannot achieve a higher saturation of interior tastelessness than taking a trip to the recreational vehicle lot.   And there, brave and helpful friend that I am, I went.

My friend's uncle, through the vicious doings of time and circumstance, needed to be relocated in a modestly sized and potentially movable unit on the family acres.  An RV seemed a good solution; or, as we accepted after exhausting other possibilities, an unavoidable deal with the devil.

It remained only to find, if we could, something tolerable for a man who, though now aging and a little crotchety, was once a paragon of stylish dress, decor and deportment.

My day at the RV lots left me with some hard questions, for which there seem to be no answers fit to print where children and the morally susceptible might read them.  If you have any information, please email it at once to the manufacturers of RVs.  The survival of our species may depend upon it.

1.  If the plastic interior of a bargain priced RV can be made in 17,539 different tones, shades, textures, patterns, weaves, designs and hues, why can't it be made in one simple, pleasing, airy, light, and cheerful one?

2.  If the kitchen is made to fit a midget, why does the RV come with promotional materials for Sam's Club, where even the cans of cheese whiz are sized to feed entire football teams and the basic shrink-wrapped  unit of paper towels would entirely fill the "master" bed?

3.   Last but most important, when the "captain's" chairs (for the driver and front passenger) take note of America's fondness for pork rinds, and will fit the most ample couch potato behind, then why is the toilet scaled for the average eight year old?   Indeed in many of these rigs the person who came remotely close to filling the drivers seat would not be able to pass through the door to the bathroom, much less actually stand in the shower and be able to bend an elbow to wield a washcloth.

I'm just asking.  And my friend bought a vintage airstream for his uncle, which being engineered for the smaller Americans of 50 years ago is bigger, better and brighter than anything he could have bought new for ten times the money.

Lileks,  beam us to the trailer park.

Just As I Almost Wasn't

This morning is calm and lovely in Seattle.  My grandchildren are healthy; each day another pleasure of the Pacific Northwest summer unfolds.

And I am oh, so thankful to be alive.

A week or so ago I was on a plane.  It was a full flight, and we were an hour into the long westward arc that would bring me home.   I had happily established that my seatmate was a military man and that there were many other seriously fit and determined looking men on board who could probably deal with any terrorist threat that might materialize. 

I was at peace with the world and enjoying the sight of America sliding silently beneath me.  Then some food stuck in my throat.  It's amazing how quickly your mind and body try all the possibilities and how panicked you become when you cannot breathe; or speak; or think of anything else to do that might save you.

I was fuzzing out mentally from lack of oxygen and the man next to me had just realized I was in serious trouble when in desperation I got a good grip on the sides of the seatback in front of me and jerked myself into the tray table.  The results were not amusing or esthetically pleasing, except of course for the bottom line, which was that I was still alive.

G-d bless all the wonderful human beings around me who cleaned up without complaint and expressed only relief and happiness that I was okay.  I'm forever in debt to the fabulous man next to me, who made the whole plane relax and laugh with his observation that he'd seen worse food fights at the mess hall in Iraq.

It's wonderful to be alive.  I've told my friends and family how very, very much they mean to me.  That when I started to see death as a real possibility, the only thing that hurt was that I'd be away from them.   That all I want, now more than ever, is to breathe the free air of America, be of service to those around me, live an ordinary life gratefully and gracefully.

Here online I'd like to thank my role models in the sensible women's blogging community:  Michelle Malkin, the Anchoress, Advice Goddess, Pamela @ Atlas Shrugs, Neo, Tammy Bruce, and so many others.   Thanks to my best friend and honorary sister, who for her own protection can remain nameless.  For the magnificent friend who inspires, teaches, and treasures me,  there are no adequate words and nothing I can offer that he hasn't already earned a dozen times over.   I don't know what the future holds for us, but his was the voice in my head telling me not to stop fighting, not now, not ever. 

Two things: right now is always the best time to love your life; everything and everyone in it.  And the toughest thing of all for me and plenty of others:  foolish pride and a desire to avoid even the appearance of trouble can cost us more than we ever imagine.  I wanted so much not to make a mess and have people think I was weak and vulnerable that I was almost dead before I gave that up. 

Life is messy and doing what we need to do can make others mad at us.  But G-d will help us clean up.  G-d lets us start over every day.  That's the real gift of life.  All the glories and foolishness of man comes down to just you and me, just today, just where we are, with just what we already have. 

Grab on to it and live it good.

      

   

The Laundry Detergent Skirmish

There's a huge disconnect between appearance and reality in laundry detergents.  This is no accident.  If you read the consumer testing reports, or do some experiments yourself, you know that the $4.99 generic stuff from Big-Box Store is likely to clean as well as anything else. 

But of course people have different needs and desires and outright fantasies involving laundry detergent.  Clean is just the start of it, and not the most important part for lots of people.  Forest-fresh scent?  Bright blue color?  Dreamy, romantic package graphics?  Help the environment and save the planet?  Right there on the shelves at your local market.

But for us, with our bonus-size family and propensity to amuse ourselves in the company of dirt, oil,  sawdust, agricultural chemicals, greasy engine parts, large animals and noxious formerly-edible substances, buckets full of detergent are practical. And there's the problem.

Where in the name of Heaven do you put that bucket?  There's never a place on the floor that someone won't trip over.  And the baby will open the lid, you know they will, even if YOU can't, and eat the stuff.  Or their ever-helpful seven year old sister will leave the lid open after she performs a virtuous service and puts all your wool sweaters in the washer.  With hot water.  Any detergent the baby doesn't eat, she'll leave in a pile by the bucket so your fifteen year old nephew will kick it under the machines while he's under the influence of his i-Pod. 

Unless the cats get to it first and track it onto the plush dark-red sectional in the tv room.

There's not enough space on the folding table.  And if there were, the spilled detergent would get on the clean clothes.  The bucket is too big for the cupboard.  Even if it would fit, you couldn't reach up and over the top of the rim to get the scoop full of powder.   And the bucket might fit under the sink if only all those silly PIPES weren't there.  Women all know that men design houses, that's for sure.  Pipes have no business under sinks, where we want to HIDE things, for goodness sake.

It's always a puzzle and rarely is there a good answer.  Laundry detergent makers can, and do, charge a lot more for a package that's convenient.   Currently the favored model holds liquid detergent and sits on the shelf above the washer.  Like a good soldier it is ready for action.  Turn a cute little spigot and the stuff runs into the machine.    You don't even have to pick up the container.  So simple.

But we have no shelf over the machine and no space to install one.

Then there's the little bottles that can rest on top of the washer. Expensive.  And you either run out every day and a half, or need to buy a dozen at a time and store them ..... store them ..... out in the woodshed, I suppose.  Nice try.

Quite a while back a manufacturer made laundry detergent in big pellets.  Bliss.  My grandmother had them in a mesh bag on a nail in the wall.  Of course they didn't dissolve properly in anything but hot water.  Perhaps we could use new technologies and bring this product back, able to dissolve in cold water.  Most of us could find a piece of wall big enough for a nail and a mesh bag.

If someone can solve this problem, the American laundry-doing public will make them rich.  And famous.  The typical dwelling today has a grand total of seven cubic feet of storage space and none of it in the laundry.  And we keep getting clothes dirty and trying to clean them, to the chagrin of the environmentalists and nudists.

We'd probably want this genius, this angel, this deus ex machina of the Maytag, to run for President. 

I'd vote for them.

Thank you Mr. Carnegie.

Seattle and King County, Washington, have wonderful public library systems.  Like most public library systems in the state, they're connected to other public libraries and to the bountiful stacks at the state universities.  (The only drawback is that they do suffer from politically correct management policies.  I ignore those when I can and protest them when I must.)

My capricious mind tends to wander off into odd corners and won't come out until I've overloaded it with obscure details.  Not a problem for our librarians.  All I have to do is ask and a week later books show up like magic.  And like many public library systems in the United States, ours is a direct descendant of Andrew Carnegie's gracious philanthropy.  To him I owe my salvation from a common - and serious - malady.

People tend to read things they know they'll like, or that reinforce existing beliefs.  You can dig yourself deep into a rut this way.  Long ago, a college professor inspired me to maintain what she called the "first three books" rule.  It's a simple game.  Often enough to challenge yourself, you walk into the library, stand in front of the nonfiction new books, close your eyes and touch the shelves. 

No cheating, you can't stand in front of your favorite section, the one where you know you'll find books of interest to you.  Now open your eyes, check out and READ the three books nearest your hand.

Maybe you'll end up finding out more than you really need to know about the economics of wheat production in the nineteenth century.  Or you're a dedicated hater of couch potatoes and big-money sports, and you have to plow through an autobiography of some overpaid, self-inflated jock.  You could be a Christian with no intellectual curiosity about other religions, and find yourself holding a 782 page history of Buddhist influences in Europe. 

Tough.  Life is full of injustices.  And the biggest fight is always the struggle to manage our own minds.  Keep your brain agile and resilient when the going is easy, or when hard times come you'll be trying to flex out of your mental chains as well as fighting the external enemies. 

If you read really slowly or have a very pressured life, cut back the number of books, but don't let yourself off the hook entirely.   Often I've hated the books I've had to read, but at least I've gained some facts to support my dislikes.  Just as often I find myself back in the library asking for more books on previously ignored subjects. 

So I'd like to thank the librarians who facilitate my endless transfer requests.  My mother who made reading a priority through some very hard times.  And Mr. Carnegie, whose libraries have helped me push the edges of my mind; providing quantities of books I could never have afforded to buy.

Another tip, if you have children.  My mother had an old-fashioned lockable lawyers bookcase, and in it she put every book she secretly wanted me and my brothers to read.  She talked loudly and often about how those books were off limits, too expensive and too adult for our childish minds.  Often at night one of us would sneak out of bed on a cookie hunt, to see Mom drinking hot cocoa and cooing over one of those forbidden books.

Then she manufactured a situation where my tattle-tale brother saw where she was hiding the key.  Bingo!  We were so proud of ourselves, sneaking those books off to treehouses, hiding them in the warm corner next to the furnace in the basement. It wasn't until high school honors English that I realized I'd been played for a sucker by my own sweet mom.  The very first day of class, the teacher handed out a list of 300 classic, must-read books ........

By time I had children of my own, I'd forgiven my mom.  I stole her trick and perpetrated it on my own children; literate, book-loving adults now in a generation of poorly informed video game addicts.  Feel free to abuse your own children in this way.  They'll love you for it when they're 30. 

My Shameful Addictions

Three years ago, I had to admit I had a problem with power washers.

To me it had seemed so harmless.   I promised my children I'd limit myself to weekend cleaning of walkways and decks and house foundations.  I was practically mainlining ibuprofen for the ache in my forearms.  I felt lightheaded from the vibrations, but kept finding more moss and old paint to blast.

Finally I had to go cold turkey.  The next summer I spent mostly in New York City where recreational power washing is just not on.   The next summer my sons sent the power washer to a friend's house in Montana and somehow forgot to bring it home until fall.

The portable gas cans were full, and stayed that way for months.  We all relaxed. 

Then this winter, windstorms brought down thousands of trees. Free firewood aplenty to cut, split and stack.

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Here you see the newest embodiment of my Furies,  the log splitter.  My sons rented one and towed it to one of their houses, and spent a peaceful few hours splitting and stacking wood there.   Then they towed it to the house where I was innocently making oatmeal cookies, performing arranged marriages on various reluctant socks, and listening to the blues. 

We worked until dark.   I did stop once to go inside for a sandwich and coffee.  (My daughter-in-law said if I didn't eat she'd consider me too weak to hold the baby safely for at least a day.  Blackmail.)   I also went inside once for at least 90 seconds to use the bathroom. 

I did not check my email.  I did not read the news at PajamasMedia.  I did not return calls.  I did not bite my daughter-in-law's father when he tried to take my place at the switch of the log splitter; I didn't even snarl at him very loudly.

We've cut and split and stacked every tree that was down in our neighborhood.  The boys took the splitter back to the rental place.  They say they gave my name and description to the manager and told him not to rent me any big power tools.

They reminded me that this is a small town, and people do talk.   They told me if I make trouble I'll lose my motorcycle privileges, and that my tractor-driving license for next summer at the family apple orchards is on the line. 

Sometimes I hate my own children.

Happy New Year

To all my readers, friends and family a happy new year. 

I quit making resolutions a long time ago.  But as life speeds by me:

Every day I am grateful for all I have.  Born an American,  accountable only to myself, my God and a representative government which I helped to elect.  My beautiful family, including a new grandson and granddaughter this year.  My magnificent friends, who are not only interesting and charming and sweet tempered, but also insane enough to tolerate me.  My health and my good mind.  The city and surrounds of Seattle, which have helped make me the person I am.

Also every day I try to give a little thought to the big and small things that could challenge me and those I love.   Do I trust the power to stay on in the windstorm or should I get out the candles and headlamps now, while I can still see to organize things easily?  Is there gas in the cars, cash in everyone's pocket, are all the cell phones and emergency radios charged up?   Is there enough food and water to last if we get cut off from the world for a week?    Is the laundry, the financial paperwork, the cleaning caught up enough so that a family or business crisis won't mean a fiscal or housework mess too?

Most important, every day I check in with God to see how I'm doing.  If there's something I don't think he wants to hear about,  I make sure that's the first thing I get off my chest.  After I confess to myself and the One who knows it already anyway, it seems a lot easier to move along; to make the apologies and mend the hurts and change my ways so it won't happen again.

AskMom, and the real person behind her, is so very far from perfect.   But therein is the true beauty and the timeless necessity of our faith.   Human failings are large indeed.  The forgiveness and salvation offered us are bigger still.   Inside the heart of a humble carpenter of Galilee is a universe of hope and love. 

Take his hand, and be resolute.  Come what may this new year, we know there will be work to do, challenges to meet, people who need our help and love.   And if the worst should come, remember the words of C.S. Lewis, speaking through the King of Narnia in his book The Last Battle:

All worlds draw to an end, and a noble death is a treasure no one is too poor to buy.

May the Lord bless us all, in this world and in his. 
 

What Child Is This?

In a perfect storm of a Christmas story, a grandmother places her one month old grandson in a plastic bin and shoves him into an x-ray security screening device at LAX.  The child was not noticed until he had been in the tunnel for several seconds and a screener saw, presumably, the shape of a tiny human skeleton.  (This story can be read in the LA Times.)

To completely dissect this one would take more strength than I have after making gingerbread boys this morning.   And it's just too depressing for extended consideration.   A few highlights:

  • Airport security is a time wasting,  embarrassing, trash-talking joke.  More than three ounces of liquids and you're made to feel like a criminal, but whole babies gliding into the machines, sure, no problem.
  • LAX is arguably the most pathetic airport in the country.  How appropriate that baby-nuking premiered here!  All the touchy-feelie murals and politically correct cultural debris sludged around the premises cannot save it from the underlying stupidity, incompetence, graft, carelessness and hysteria.
  • What about "my brother's keeper"?   What in the name of heaven could the surrounding passengers have been thinking as they watched the baby go into the bin and into the x-ray? 
  • Since no amount of languages could possibly reach every traveler in today's mobile world, WHY don't we have international style block graphics showing the warnings on these machines?

Well.  The baby is okay, the grandmother hopefully will forgive herself, the passengers who looked on and did nothing may reconsider their passive, heedless ways of being around others.   And perhaps this shock will help us institute an Israel-style airport security system.  Certainly our current system is a travesty, annoying almost everyone to the point of homicide while failing to detect dangerous goods and people. 

Two thousand years ago a newborn baby slept in a barn, his parents driven there by the outrages of a greedy, detached ruler and the careless establishment that profited from his policies.  How little has changed:  Today a stranger among us unwittingly sends a tiny baby into dangers created by the proud and foolish, while the not-very-wise look on in slack-jawed  apathy.  If there had been a death, better if it had been someone high in the inept management of the Transportation Security Administration.

God forgive us.  God forgive us, every one.   

Trees and Storms and The Christmas Child

We've had two babies born into our family in the last two months.  It's not hard for us to imagine the fear and wonder felt by Mary and Joseph on that day two thousand years ago.  What a splendid Christmas this is!

Worldly riches have mostly passed us by, but in the Lord's books we are wealthy beyond measure.   So even though other parts of my life have been a challenge, I've been dancing my way through the days and singing "All I want for Christmas Is You."   

Baby Girl, Baby Boy, you bless us with yourselves.  And you remind us of that one perfect Baby who opened the doors of salvation and renewal to every person who ever was, or ever will be.

Last week a huge storm blew through here.  You probably saw the pictures.   I have lived most of my life around Seattle, and I have never before seen so much damage, so many thousands of trees down.  Power was out for the majority of us.  Roads were under water or closed off by fallen trees and downed power lines, schools closed, entire towns dark.  Cable tv and internet was disrupted, grocery stores and gas stations sold out.

Just a mess.  And so frustrating, so close to Christmas.  Then the modern equivalent of the Three Wise Men showed up.  Not on camels with spices and gold, but in power company trucks with splicing gear and spools of cable.  From all the nearby states they came, and they've been working around the clock ever since. 

Neighborhood angels shone.   Men with pickup trucks and chainsaws converted road hazards to firewood right away.  Kids took the branches to make holiday decorations.  People who had power, or with wood stoves, took in the elderly and the sick and the families with little ones to keep warm.  Milk, bread, soup, candles and diapers were shared out.  People fed pets and did laundry for each other.  Carpools and daycare were arranged overnight.

It's great to know we can get hit so hard and bounce back so quickly.  Reassuring that people were responsible and cooperative.  Some consolation to know that the beautiful lost trees are being recycled as fuel, wreaths, compost.  And mostly it's good to be reminded, in the middle of the high tech, high clutter, high maintenance lifestyle that threatens to consume us, that everything that truly matters can be seen in the face of a newborn baby. 

This is the miracle of Christ, born 2,006 years ago and still the greatest news ever.  That each of us, every day, can be that newborn baby; with a brand new life and all the world before us.  Buffeted by storms and soiled by our sins, then made clean and whole again.   Frail and fallible we may be, but also perfect in the moments that we repent and try again.  Again.  And again.   

Made by God, loved unconditionally and forever.

Merry Christmas. 

 

 

    

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Woman Plans, God Laughs

I was just about ready to blog again.  The weather, however, was uncooperative.  Record winds blew all night.  And in Seattle a million of us woke to a world without power.  Without internet connections.  Without traffic lights, so getting through a simple 6 mile stretch of all-American road takes hours, not minutes. 

So I waited in line at one of the few public libraries that has power, and I logged in to read my email,  say hello to you, and get the crucial news off PajamasMedia.

And now an anxious student with a paper due at midnight must take priority.   As soon as we return to the powered world,  there's a column waiting.

For the record, in my 50+ years of life, I have never seen so many trees down in Seattle.  It is sad, and awe inspiring. 

The Lord will have his way with us.  Best to accept it gracefully and run laughing into the wind.

Playgroup

My oldest daughter and her children belong to a play group, which seems to be the modern equivalent of having lots of children or living in a neighborhood with lots of kids near the same age.  Her group is diverse, in the real sense that several religions and at least two widely differing political views are held, although everyone is the same politically incorrect skin color.  One of the moms was born in and remains a citizen of another country.  One is an accountant, one an engineer, one a teacher.  In true sisterhood they care for each other and all the children.

There's no diversity of intelligence.  These girls are all smart, and well informed, and well educated.   And they are all making serious sacrifices to stay home and rear their children themselves.  Now before I get hit with a hailstorm of comments, let me say that I do realize that some mothers truly are financially obligated to work.  Some would go nuts if they didn't work.  And some are the only support of a family.  I was a single mom, and this post is not a depreciation of the incredible work done by single parents.  I only wish somehow we as a society could give you the choice to stay home, where so many of you would like to be.

But with all that said, there can't be any question that children who have decent parents do the very best when those parents rear them personally.  Even the most vocal supporters of day care aren't saying it's better; the most they can claim is that it's maybe, kinda, almost just as good as family care.

Looking at the lack of positive benefits and the undoubted risks of institutionalized care, parents might do well to reconsider the financial angles.  If your kids don't eat when you don't work, that's a little different from them having to do without kindergym or  having to share a bedroom with their siblings.  Ask a child if he'd rather have gourmet food and daycare or if he'd prefer mac and cheese with Mom or Dad.   

The real problem with letting a nanny or a daycare rear your children for you is that you don't realize how subtly and deeply it changes your child, and you, until it's over.  Right now America has an oversupply of 20 and 30 somethings whose waking hours were spent with a rotating roster of $8.00 an hour helpers.  They look at your lapels and say it was cool, that Mom had to work.  They're fine, thanks for asking.

Then they reconnect themselves to their best friend, the ipod, and amble off to - well - "whatever."  They don't feel connected to the places where they live, they don't volunteer or go to church, they can't seem to work out a stable love life, they don't stay attached to their siblings, who were in different "age groups" at the day care. 

Meanwhile their parents, the boomers, we're at the mall or the copy machine or the spa griping to each other about how the kids never call.  And when they do call, we have nothing to say to each other.  And when we do say anything, it's a fight about grandchildren or lack of them, and about both generations overuse of drugs, food; unhealthy relationships and career obsessions.  Parents wonder when they are going to see the returns, in the coin of respect and contentment, for the 150K they spent on their hollow-eyed darlings.  Young adults feel pressured and abandoned at the same time.

Significantly, in many families today the young adults feel most connected to their grandparents.  You know, those men and women of the greatest generation, who just like the kids were shuffled off by the boomers to live in institutions.

Back at my daughter's playgroup, tips are being traded about efficient use of limited house space and nourishing food that kids will actually eat.  A group Ebay enterprise has been set up and generates a substantial amount of cash without anyone having to be away from their family.  Plus it's fun for the moms.  One mom is studying for an advanced degree, an inch at a time it's true, but she won't need it for four more years when her youngest goes to school so the timing is perfect.

Do these young moms wish they could go to London instead of Portland, Oregon for vacations?  They sure do.  Are they longing for party dresses and new jewelry?  Yep.  Does it sting to see the bigger houses and newer cars they won't own till the kids are much older?  Of course it does.  But these material things are the jelly, not the meat and potatoes, of their lives.  And they know it even while they gripe about it.

My daughter looks at the women her age who work, usually so they can afford a car and suits and take-out  that they wouldn't need if they didn't work.  She sees them missing their babies ten hours a day to make payments on a bigger house they don't have any time to enjoy.  She hears the stories of milestones reached with the only witness being the daycare worker, who really didn't seem too impressed.  She sees the stress on marriages where no one is available weekdays to fix a good dinner or let in the repair man or shop for birthday presents.   

She watches people rushing around on weekends like meth addicts, catching up the errands and laundry so they can rush around all week catching up at their jobs.  She wonders when any of them are going to put themselves and their families first, if they ever put their feet up, breathe deeply and experience the simple contentment of just being alive.

She's happy with her too-small house, her unstylish practical clothes, her shabby furniture.  Because she's the one who knows her children best, and her marriage is well-tended and strong.  It's quite likely that when her kids grow up, instead of finding her incomprehensible and tedious, they will seek out her company.  They'll probably remain close and supportive of her and each other.  The other moms at the playgroup can say the same happy things about their lives.      

They may not drive big shiny desks, but they're powerful, influential women, and plenty smart.

Halloween

For a whole swirling fallen leaf pile-up of excellent reasons, I love Halloween.  So does my grandson, as you can see by the fun he had checking out pumpkins.  And to properly celebrate this harvest holiday, here's the perfect charity.  Soldier's Angels is raising money to provide voice-activated hardware/software to injured servicemen who can no longer use regular computers. 

There's a good natured contest among the Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines, and of course their supporters too, to see who can raise the most.  Tough to choose only one.  My Dad was in the Army, my son served in the Navy, and one brother was in the Air Force while another was a Coastie for life.  No way could I insult any of them........so........

I've signed up with the Marines to honor one of my heroes, Asa Baber.  Ace served with honor, and then took on the insanities of the feminists and the follies of political correctness in his "Men" column in Playboy Magazine.  Ace died in 2003 of Lou Gehrig's Disease.   

He taught me so many fun and fabulous lessons, and he believed in me when I moved to the big league of lobbying.  He was sure I could make a difference in D.C. and he never missed an opportunity to cheer me on.  And he always knew the best little ethnic restaurants in Chicago. 

Ace believed that beauty and brains go together in women.  He taught me not to underestimate beautiful women nor to sell short my own appearance. Years later, as I look at the blossoming ranks of gorgeous, intelligent, kick-butt conservative, neo-conservative, libertarian and freeranger women bloggers, it's obvious that Ace knew what he was talking about.

I miss you, Ace.  Thank you for everything you did for all us uppity women, and for the brave men who love us! 

Cover Your Load

Washington has "cover your load' laws that require loose objects on vehicles to be covered or tied down.  And people continue to ignore the law, putting the rest of us at risk.  Most states have these laws and for very good reasons; gruesome and completely avoidable accidents push legislatures to put legal teeth into the kind of common-sense precautions you'd think would be automatic.

Swerving around the pile of dryer hose and PVC pipe that today's scofflaw let fly onto Highway Two, I found myself contemplating other actions that irritate, inconvenience and endanger.  Actions taken from ignorance, carelessness and sometimes reckless disregard for the comfort and safety of others.  Is it just me or is the world becoming ruder, physically more challenging? 

My oldest daughter has become a sniper in the war against pushy and borderline dangerous behavior.  To hear her husband tell it, it happened quite suddenly at Costco.  After threading around dozens of carts left blocking aisles and intersections, patiently waiting while chatting idlers barricaded the milk display, and politely telling the nth stranger please not to touch her pregnant tummy, she snapped. 

Now she bashes gaily into carts left in the right-of-way , pushing them to the side where they should have been left in the first place.  She hollers out her demands that people get their items quickly and get out of the way of the next shopper.  If it's embarrassing, she figures that will help people focus on changing their behavior. 

She growls like a rabid dog at anyone getting too close to her children.  And she emerges from the weekly shopping happier and with time to spare.

Once again I find a hero in one of my own children.  Let her be your hero too.  I called in the license plate and vehicle description of the idiot who committed a public assault with deadly plumbing.  I did it for Leah.  And for all the other package laden innocents who just want to walk through a public door without some brash teen or businessman in a cell-phone fog pushing them out of the way, then letting the door slam in their faces.

This country does not belong to the outright criminals, the thugs and terrorists; we all know that.  But neither did our forefathers sacrifice and die for the rude, the selfish, the immature and the greedy.  The United States of America does not belong to the manipulators, the abusers of the privilege of citizenship, the lazily ignorant and careless.   It belongs to us, the great unsung mass of decent, hardworking, considerate people.  Cover your loads, or we will rise up and cover them for you.

God's Account Books

Estimated cost in 2006 dollars of rearing six children to productive, happy maturity:  $750,000.

Estimated percentage of my adult waking hours spent nurturing loved ones:  75.

Number of family members killed or seriously injured on freedom's battlefields:  7.

Saved by grace under peaceful skies, grandchild on lap, sunset glowing pink and silver over mountains, bay, and hometown:  Charges waived.

Just One Question

Claudia Rosett over at PajamasMedia relays a great question from Senator Tom Coburn: Since United Nations uberguru Kofi Anan has been blathering about ethics and requiring his senior staff to file personal financial disclosures, where the heck is Kofi's?

Claudia, you're my inspiration for the day.  Now we can all fruitlessly count the days until Kofi's disclosure surfaces; probably right about the time we see Bill Clinton fess up about how many women he's - um - "mentored" - would be my guess.

So, gentle readers, what is your one question for that beloved politician, idolized media personality or sage star of the large and/or small screen?

Remembering and Doing on the 11th

TURN ON YOUR TV, ordered the nearly hysterical friend on the phone. 

I started to remind her that gratuitous TV watching was against my principles, but she cut that off with a harsh obscenity, the first I'd ever heard from her.  I don't know how long the phones will work, she said, turn on the TV and I will try to stay in contact by instant message.  Alarmed, I asked what channel, what program, what is happening?  And she began to cry as she told me "any channel, every channel, for God's sake, for once in your life, just turn on the TV and you will see."

Now I was scared.  Really scared.  Every TV channel showing the same thing?  All the phones out in the City?  My steel magnolia friend, a seasoned urban warrior, a highly accomplished woman in a tough man's profession, afraid, confused and CRYING?

Of course we all remember where we were on 9-11-2001.  I was high up in a new condo in Chicago.  Often I went to New York City to work in a building at Penn Plaza, and to stay at a place just west of the Theater District.  I loved the City and always will. I might have been there that day.

I might have been on one of those planes, too.  Routinely I visited my daughter in Maine, then flew from Boston to LA, where I did political consulting.  Or home to Seattle for a brief comforting dose of family, rain and fresh dungeness crab.  A modern Johnny Appleseed, always moving, on a crusade to make the world a better place.

But listening to dead air where my friend's voice had been, watching the sun reflect off Lake Michigan and onto my computer screen, waiting for the TV to warm up and focus on the world, I already knew things had changed.  The only question was how.

I woke my family in Seattle.  6 AM there, and they weren't gracious about my calls, but I was as abrupt with them as my friend had been with me.  Just turn on the TV, I said, and if the phones go out, check online.  For God's sake stay home, fill every container you have with water, get out the candles and the medical kits, promise me you all will stay safe at home.  And I said the same thing every American was saying: 

"I love you.  No matter what happens, just remember that I love you."

Chaos on the TV and contacts online.  Already the phones were out everywhere in the City. I morphed IMs to calls for people I'd never met; New Yorkers were desperate to let families know they were okay. I made calls to Denver and Phoenix and Atlanta, calls to both Portlands and San Diego and Newport Beach and both Kansas Cities.   Calls to strangers on behalf of other strangers, such an American thing.

Then an incoming call.  Another friend, one of those people you meet in DC, the kind that know things but never say how they know.  He was brusque and requested one word answers:  Didn't I live within a few blocks of the Hancock Tower?  Wasn't it one of the tallest buildings in the country?  Never mind, all cities are bad right now, could I pack up my dog and my laptop and some clothes and head out of Chicago, within, say, ten minutes?   Or five?

There were commercial airliners still unaccounted for, he explained.  The Air Force was scrambling every plane to get control of the skies.  I was to stay alert and quiet, pay attention to my dog's instincts,  keep my cell phone on and fully charged.  I promised to drive out into the wilds of Wisconsin, NOW, and not go home till he said so.  His last words to me: Take your gun.

Now I was terrified.

The first tower had come down while I was relaying messages.  While I stuffed critical items into my backpack and snapped the leash on the dog, the second tower sank roaring and foaming down to the earth.  Staring in disbelief, thinking of the thousands of Americans who had just literally been ground to dust, I swore never to forget.  And more, to DO what needed doing against these monsters.

Righteous anger, tears and resolve are the proper responses to the genocide now being waged against us.  Do what you can, where you are, with what you have.  And if that seems inadequate, then learn better skills, get yourself to a better place, and trade the meaningless tokens of leisure for the equipment of survival, health and defense. 

Remember the people who died simply for being Americans.  If we forget, there will be endlessly more.  Because our enemies value our deaths more than their own lives.  Because we cannot bargain with, or appease, or buy off, or hide from those who seek our destruction first, last and always.

Remember that to truly love each other, we must be alive, and free. Remember, and do.

Mixed Marriage

A passing question from a friend caused me to re-read The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan.  It's easy to recommend this book; whether you like history, botany, psychology, or mysteries, you are likely to find something fascinating about it.  The first time around I was struck by the potential and scope of selective breeding and genetic engineering.  Pollan's main thesis, in fact, is that people and plants have evolved together in a long dance; led perhaps more by the plants than by us.  But this reading it was the biochemical aspects of sex and marriage that grabbed my attention. 

Since marriage is getting a bad rap everywhere, I welcome any excuse to make a case for it.  And to do that I'm going to put it in bed with two unlikely partners: Taoist philosophy, and marijuana as it is understood by Pollan.

In most western societies, men make light of marriage and commitment, calling wives "the old ball and chain" and commiserating with any man headed for the altar.  Yet statistics show that marriage is a better deal, actually a MUCH better deal, for men than for women.  Financially, socially, sexually, men benefit from marriage.  Married men are healthier and have better, more satisfying careers.  Most convincingly, married men live far longer than not-married men.

Women usually don't have to be sold on the idea of marriage.  Genetically we are programmed to find a man, follow him around like a puppy, then volunteer with cheerful innocence to be nursemaids and slaves for the children that result.  Strange, because for women, marriage is statistically a bad career move and a consumer of personal "happiness".   Married women are less healthy than single women and live no longer. Yet women seek marriage, congratulate their friends for it and idealize it in many ways.

Let's look at the negatives of marriage for each gender.  For men, the biggest cost by far is the loss or perceived loss of sexual variety.  For women, the loss is one of general daily and long-term freedom and flexibility.  Marriage usually means children, children are almost always cared for by women, and child-rearing is a tedious, full time job that goes on for many years.  Also, pregnancy and nursing are physically draining and leave permanent scars.

The wonder is that people ever get married at all, that having done so they stay married and actually enjoy it, and that at the end of a long life, married people as a group will have done noticeably better in almost every way than not-married people.  How does this happen; how, over the eons, have we made it work?

In The Botany of Desire Pollan outlines the history of humanity's use of hallucinogens and outlines recent dramatic improvements in marijuana culture. He looks briefly at the possible benefits of being high.  Along with medical uses (pain relief, enhancing appetite, promoting sleep) he lists many creative geniuses whose work was accomplished, at least in part, with the help of various hallucinogens including THC, the active "ingredient" in marijuana. 

But never does he consider the help that THC may have been across the millenia, as men and women attempted to bridge the gender gap, live and work together, and ensure their survival and that of their children.  To me this is the most interesting of all uses!

The best and worst effect of THC on people is the short term memory impairment.  It's good because it allows the intense sensations that come from being undistracted; from one-pointedness, to use the Taoist term.  It's bad, too, because we can't operate for long in this altered state.  For most healthy people, the amount of input we allow and process minute to minute is already finely tuned to maximize our functioning in life.  Suppressing the short term memory, filtering out most of the "background noise" of sights, smells, sounds, touches, has to be an infrequent thing or the overall efficiency and quality of life is degraded.

Anyone who's ever smoked a joint can remember being enthralled with the sparkle and clarity and crispness of a window, or blown away listening over and over to one melody line in a song, or mesmerized by the form, line and grace of a teapot or polished boot or painting.  This same effect can be reached using only the mind's own chemicals, by meditating, fasting, or from extended exercise. 

The mechanism is suppression of serotonin, by the THC in marijuana or from endorphins created in the brain itself.

THC or endorphins can also be used to remedy almost all the effects of pregnancy; reducing nausea, relaxing muscles and relieving pain, even the pain of childbirth.  This same chemical brain boost, however caused, has also been used with some success in therapy. It allows people to better concentrate on each other, to get deeper into each other's realities.

Now we can start to see how marriage comes into this.  For men struggling to translate religious or philosophical or practical monogamy into practice, there is easier concentration on and greater appreciation of the wife.  The variety or serial monogamy dreamed about by most men can be more easily submerged into the demands and rewards of a lifetime mate when her sexual details are intensified and expanded inside the man's mind.

Additionally, there is little doubt that used reasonably, drugs or exercise or meditation expand men's creative abilities, which then are an alternative form of gratification.  This distracts a man from his drive for sexual variety and takes pressure off the marriage and the wife.

For women there are more numerous benefits.  Any biochemical process that allows a woman to more fully focus on her child's simple but crucial doings will improve both their lives.  Relieving the relentless symptoms of pregnancy, childbirth and nursing does nothing but good.  One-pointedness is critical to cooking and the tending of the sick.  Short term memory impairment is a virtual guarantee of a better sex life for a woman, and thus for her husband.  And sexually contented husbands are more likely to be happily involved with household chores and child care. 

These things all add up to an easier, more contented, more satisfying marriage for both partners.  Indeed, in more primitive times or conditions, they can make the difference not only between staying together or not, but surviving or not.  So, you ask, is Mom advocating for repeal of the drug laws and widespread marital reefer-sharing?  No, not really, and certainly not in the short run.  Over time, perhaps; we certainly should consider reclassifying TOBACCO as a harmful drug. Then we could let the helpful and non-carcinogenic marijuana take a place on the store shelves.

But in the short term, there is much we can do.  Exercise, meditation and thoughtful, focused living are affordable and legal everywhere.  Best of all, you can start tomorrow and benefit by tomorrow night.  Take a walk to a bookstore.  Buy a copy of the Tao.  Walk home and read a page to your spouse.  There aren't a lot of improvements so simple, so profound, and so quick to make.

Men can accept that marriage is not a plot against their best interests; that their sex drive is better focused into a family than thrashing them into every kind of trouble the heart and hands can find.  And women can accept that they were made to spend their young adulthood nurturing, before they take their wisdom out to the world. 

Anyone can see that women, married or not, don't do much crime.  However, for men, the difference is graphic; almost all male criminals are unmarried and virtually EVERY violent criminal is an unmarried man.  Contrary to superficial impressions, women more easily than men can find lasting satisfaction and contentment outside the family.  Marriage may be desired by women, they don't need it.  But if men are to live their best lives, women must marry them and bear their children.  Our society isn't suffering because not enough women are married; it IS suffering because  not enough men are married!

We have our lives all turned around sometimes, buying more bread than we need and then claiming there is no money left for flowers;  disconnecting from our families then looking to strangers real or electronic to fill the gaps in our souls.  Using sex for itself instead of letting it make our place in a family.

Let my friend's reminder to me be a blessing to you, too. Go get The Botany of Desire.  You will find something in it to inspire you. 

Skirts for Men. The End is Indeed Near.

Over at Ace's they're been trading puns and insults about a serious threat to western civilization:  skirts for men.  And to my everlasting shame, I notice that the phone number given on the website selling these abominations has a Seattle area code.

Assuming this must be a hoax, I closed all the incriminating windows, shook my head many times, poured a tall cold one and tried to move on to something less distressing; news about random killings of children or a recall of Hershey's chocolate, something bearable. 

Then I remembered that my insane oldest son, the one who is actually PAID to be a firefighter and thus must have at least a rudimentary, fleeting relationship with the real world,  had appeared for Thanksgiving in a "utility kilt" with velcro pockets and a hammer loop.

Oh. My. God. 

So. I must apologize for the company, located in Seattle, that's selling these dreadful items. Indeed I must totally abase and humble myself on behalf of the city of my birth.

But let's get clear on one thing. No matter what heinous and unprovoked slander they may be posting over at Ace's comment section, the effete snobs at Microsoft do NOT wear man-skirts. No. It had to be the wussies at Starbucks, the ones who no doubt started us all down the road to an emasculated world by offering DECAFFEINATED COFFEE, who enabled this outrage.

And about the skirt named Tenino - It's pronounced Teh - nine - oh -  It is my happy duty to inform you that Tenino is a tough and gritty little place up in the hills where people make a living hauling timber, hammering stuff to other stuff and winning arguments with beef. Any guy who showed up in Tenino wearing the eponymous skirt would soon be missing any male equipment to dangle under it.

Just remember, it was Starbucks. Or maybe Nordstrom, doing a little stealth market research. Anybody who says it was the Microsofters is probably working as a disinformation agent for Apple.  Here in Seattle we can take our medicine, but we won't take the fall for those Nancy Boys in the green aprons when they go right over the edge and start wearing skirts under them. 

I'm just sayin.

Katie Couric, Betrayer of Women?

Over at Pajamas Media they're got a few nice links to a controversy about Katie Couric and some apparent photoshopping that makes her look skinnier:

http://pajamasmedia.com/2006/08/katies_extreme_makeover.php

There’s something not yet discussed but important, in addition to this further evidence of MSM trickery and deceit packaged up as marketing.  Katie and her handlers are always talking a good fight on the issue of self-esteem, trying to get women to be authentic and resist the male-dominated culture which allegedly judges women only by their looks.  And yet, here we have Katie (or someone working for CBS) polishing up her image to conform to the expectations of the slavemasters.  Shocked, I am, just shocked at this!

Taking Candy From Babies

Yesterday was the last ordinary Sunday of the summer, and we spent it the way it should be spent - pottering around doing routine chores, games and laughter in the evening.  Cleaning out my son's swimming pool gave me a much-appreciated excuse to get several hours of undiluted sun.  And some healthy, if less appreciated, exercise. Dogs  nearly expired of happiness tussling with each other and getting hosed off in the afternoon heat. 

At the family dinner it became apparent that my grandson Sam has developed the understanding and the will to manipulate the rest of us.  It's charming to see his delight in the possibilities, and sad to know that the simple, innocent part of his life is beginning to shade away.  Because we love him, we'll have to outsmart his attempts to game us. We'll have to look at the cute staged actions and harden our hearts.  His tears will flow, but no concessions will follow the opportunistic emotions. 

We can't let him become a user, violating the trust of others for his own selfish purposes.  Sadly, not everyone over the age of 8 months has learned this lesson.

There has been much internet interchange recently about such a case.  A photographer, Jill Greenberg, took photographs of two and three year old children crying; the pictures are supposed to express their unhappiness with George Bush.  In reality, of course, the children don't care about politics.  They were made to cry by giving them lollipops and then taking them away. The pictures were grouped together as an exhibit, and have since appeared several other places.

Defenders are pointing to the fact that the parents knew ahead of time what would happen.  They were right there with the children, who got the lollipops back to keep after the pictures were taken.  They claim no lasting harm was done.  They are sure that the artistic merits far outweigh the pains caused.  They note that children are often the subjects of media attention and that manipulating their actions and emotions is common. They explain that the parents were told what the political content of the final exhibit would be.

Worth noting is that some people who disagree with using children in this way have taken their protests too far.  Accusations that the photographer seriously intended to harm and abuse the children, and threats against her, are just wrong.  We're having a good argument about the limits of artistic use of children; let's not ruin it with ad hominem attacks and wild rhetoric.

Perspective is also important.  A few children, with presumably loving parents there guarding them, were made to cry very briefly and then comforted and consoled.  This is not child pornography or torture and starvation of the little innocents.  It is, however, a good springboard for some necessary discussions.

To me the most obvious question, with an equally obvious answer: If a conservatively-minded photographer had made this exhibit, and claimed that it showed how sad it was that Joe Lieberman was betrayed by the Democrats, would the left be incensed that children had to cry just to make a political statement?  Would the left maintain that the strength of the parent's and artist's beliefs justified the harm, slight though it was, to the children?

In comparing this to our practical handling of Sam's novice attempts at blackmail, I think we find an answer lots of us can agree with.  We would make Sam cry, hard and long, if doing so was part of a process teaching him that other people are not to be used and manipulated.  We would not make him cry for a second for political art.

And here, the parents in their anti-Bush zealotry, erred and sinned in a small way against their children.  The photographer, who used her own child as one of the subjects, erred also.  This exhibit could have been made, at greater cost and taking much more time, but without any contrived anguish being inflicted on children.  A few days staking out playgrounds with a long distance lens, and you'd have lots of pictures of crying, fear and anger caused naturally.

Some of these parents someday may look back and regret that they traded their baby's tears, brief though they were, for the coin of the realm.  The children themselves may grow to be adults with different political understandings, and resent in a small way the uses their parents put them to.

And none of these parents can ever again, with a clean heart, warn their child not to use emotions deceptively to manipulate other people.  George Bush has probably never taken a lollipop from a child expressly to make him cry.  When George Bush uses babies for political purposes, he limits the damage to a brief, perhaps unwelcome, kiss.  But Jill Greenberg and the other parents cannot say the same. 

In the end, Greenberg's exhibit makes the opposite point from what she intended.  George Bush may or may not be deliberately harming children for political purposes; there is no doubt that Greenberg et al are willing to do so.  We have their own pictures to prove it.

It's just not American to take candy from babies.

Sunset, Sunrise

The bloom is fading every so slightly on the edge of Seattle's summer, but there's still a marine sparkle in the afternoon air.  Yesterday put up a glorious fight against last night, throwing up a lavender, pink and silver defense that lasted almost half an hour.  I called family members and my loved one, ordering them all out of their houses to pay homage to the spectacle. 

I hope they'll forgive my bossy enthusiasm.

Eventually the night won over the day, and I took the dogs back inside to consider the grim portents online.  Soon sweeping around us like fall leaves will be the grudge match between Israel and Hezbollah, creeping troubles with our economy, and the sludge and slime of another election season. 

It wasn't a cozy night and it wasn't helped by a minor but convoluted family issue requiring several calls, check-back calls, restatements of misinterpreted facts and maternal soothing of ruffled psyches.

Sartre's No Exit, played to the tune of Dungeness Crab and Pyramid Hefewizen.  Dreary tribute to the Greek Philosophers, who knew that man's energy ebbs near nothing at 3 AM.

Then morning, playing a blue and gold offense, took over the game.  Unaccountably there were enough tomatoes ripened overnight for everyone to have tomato and leftover salmon sandwiches for lunch.  One of the dogs found a favorite polar fleece slipper, thought to have gone AWOL from the clothesline but now returned to duty on the chilly country floors. 

Life goes on, sufficient in itself.   

The Insane Influence of The Land

This week I'm out of state at a church camp with one of my daughters and my baby grandson Sam. Rachel is a youth pastor and is here to support her early teenaged charges.  I'm here to help with Sam, and to do what I can for the campers.  Mostly that has meant dishes, incessant reminders about sunscreen and drinking enough water, amateur craft hours and emotional first-aid to the homesick.  Constantly listening for that panicked cry and thrashing from the lake.  Parents, you know the drill. 

Before we set out from home, I had an interesting chat with a friend.  Turns out he dislikes this state as much as I do, and for the same inadequate pathetic reason.  In the past we were both badly hurt by someone we loved, and the perpetrators were standing here when they did it.

So irrational is the human mind.

It's really a beautiful state, scenic and wild and restful.  It's a boring state, too, with not even enough culture to come to the bottom of the low tide mark in Seattle.  Just another state, really, taking the good and the bad together.  But human beings are hard-wired to associate places with events, and all our college educations and business experience and self-empowerment seminars can't take that away from us.

So it goes in the Mideast, too, a region where for thousands of years people have stood on the same ground and hurt each other.  It seems they can no more give it up than I can forgive this state for being where a boy came to college and blew off his high school sweetheart three decades ago. 

There are cases to be made for ownership of almost every inch of the Mideast by almost every group that has ever passed through there, and that includes the majority of cultures on this planet.  The one argument I haven't heard but seems most compelling to me: Judaism was first by far among currently practiced religions in the area.  So if we go by the "who was here first" argument, the Jews own it all.  Christians and Muslims came later to the party.  The Eastern religions have never made credible attempts to possess these incendiary bits of land.

More evidence that the Buddhists and Daoists and Zen Masters were wise and far-seeing;  but that doesn't help us in the current nightmare.

So there's just no acceptable historical way to divvy up that land, that's the  bottom line.  The land that has become a 24/7 textbook of our lower nature, our basest instincts, our ability to lie, scheme, manipulate and brutalize our fellow humans.  A land where people use the Giver of All Life as their excuse to take life from others.

A land where children die for nothing and their butchers are praised as martyrs.

I don't know how to fix things in the Mideast.  All I can do is what I can do.  I'm going to be here for 4 more days, and by time I leave I'm going to forgive this state.  Because like all grudges, this one hurts mostly me.  The only increase of peace will be in my heart, but any honorable peace is worth working for.   

And once you've relaxed in the pine-fresh air, swum in the sparkling lake and listened to the contrived childish whining about the "no electronic devices" policy, you're still here immersed in a culture about as deep as a solo espresso.  I need peace of heart and mind to buoy me up.   

That and the fact that I've discovered a kindred soul here, a fellow conservative with a target pistol.  And in the din of kids pounding away at their leather work, no one hears us unload a few rounds at the outline of a terrorist.  This state may be boring, but it's still the U.S.A. and my grandson is here.  I pity the families caught anywhere in the crossfires of war, but my pity doesn't save lives; it doesn't insure freedom.  After the pity must come justice, and vigilance, and duty. 

Excuse me now.  I think I heard something funny down at the lake. 

 

Unrepentant Genetic Outlaws

Our alleged elites seem on an endless quest to wrest the definition of morality away from those of us foolish enough to have listened to our parents, pastors or priests.  Away from those of us who are unwilling to play God.  But if you are smart enough to avoid the mainstream media, you may have missed this very latest folly. 

It involves, as is so commonplace today, the abuse of children.  The abuse of childhood.  The abuse, really, of the entire concept of humanity. And if you are a pregnant woman, or know one, or even pass by one on the street, you too can play this smug, sanctimonious, self-congratulatory game!

Yes, the latest to be scorned and hectored are those parents who, upon receiving a negative pre-natal screening report, refuse to abort the baby.

Genetic Outlaws. Chromosomal Renegades.  Evolutionary Saboteurs.

Why the next thing you know, Hillary might have to stock her Villages with imperfect, flawed, normal children.  The kind that have to be reared individually, one-to-one, by actual normal adults instead of fed through the pre-programmed overscheduling liberoid superkid generator.

This will never do.  Immense social pressure must be brought to bear against those who dare to assume that God knows what He is doing when He creates a person.  We have the technology to allow only the photo-op cream of the crop to be born, and by Janet Reno we'd better get with the program. Otherwise the MTV video mills and the glossy tabloids and the child pornographers might run out of pretty smiling faces and perfect young bodies.

Worse yet, a sensitive, caring, tolerant, diversity minded Democratic Voter might actually have to interface with a less than perfect child.  They know their Constitutional rights and they're not going to put up with that.

If you were rational, you'd have to wonder that the genetic police and abortion fanatics can't find better targets for their meddlesome lectures.  Islamic radicals deliberately create swarms of brainwashed child bombers and endless infant bodies for staged attacks and U.N. observer charades.  At home, unmarried, unemployed losers are not only allowed but encouraged to breed.  So why must the G.P. harass the employed, law-abiding, married parents whose only crime is to think that a person with Downs syndrome or Autism is still a person? 

True, I believe in the obligation to consider the genetic realities before conception.  People with serious inherited problems may well choose never to become pregnant.  That's quite different from the apparently healthy people who discover during pregnancy that perfection is a little further away than they might have planned, and look to abortion as the solution.

After all, once we start the engine of test-result abortion, where will it run?  If it's "moral" to abort a baby with Downs, is it "moral" to abort one with an IQ ten percent under normal?  And if this practice becomes so common that most lower IQ babies are aborted and the average IQ goes up, will babies previously considered normal become the new abortion targets?  If gross deformities get you aborted today, in twenty years will potentially average looking people get the scraper?

It's easy to champion abortion as a solution to human frailty after you yourself are guaranteed life, liberty and the right to pursue crackpot liberal ideas.  It's admittedly not so easy to devote your life to the care of a challenging, imperfect person, even when that's yourself.  But faith of all kinds and the long run of history hold that the flawed among us are often the most vital, crucial and productive. Not to mention the most inspirational.  Any civilized person out there want to argue that life would be just as good without Beethoven's Ninth Symphony?

Genetic police of all degrees need to be careful what they ask for.  As we learn more about the care and feeding of the human soul, we may also learn to fix whatever defect drives people to become liberoids, busy-body sanctity inspectors, genetic police and other blights upon the body politic.  A little elective or involuntary tinkering with their brains, and we will have them right back to the way God intended them to be.

Because when you cherish the deeply defective, you cherish yourself.  The one and only perfect man already walked this earth, then left the rest of us to share the burdens of being imperfect.  There is no other meaning to life and no excuse for those who fail at this elemental task.

The truly wise would never be so presumptuous as to second-guess the Creator of All Life.  But if you believe you have the right to abort imperfection, then please get to it.  Just remember to set the example and abort yourself first.

Had Prince, Want Frog Back

When I saw that bumper sticker, I wanted to honk and wave until the woman driving pulled over so I could hug her, ask her where she got it, ask her to run for president.  It so perfectly captures the reality that began to dawn on American women after 9-11, when firefighters and cops and military guys suddenly were chic and back in demand.  A reality that is solidifying now, as the biological clocks are ticking for more and more of our sisters. Reinforced as and more and more men are being seduced by the metrosexual dark side, selling their souls to the next promotion, throwing their lives and money away at girls young enough to be their daughters.

Or granddaughters.

Count your blessings if you don't know this story, ladies.  But I'm betting too many of you do.  The empty glory of the perfect yuppie life bought at the cost of being married to a MAN.  The boredom of having to pretend that your guy, try as he might, will ever even remotely approach the intuitive tenderness that any random woman on the street could give to listening.  The bogus heart-to-heart with a man you wish would just give up the pretense, stop trying to hide his interest in your chest and go back to the game so you can clean closets and paint your nails in peace.

The great house and the comfortable stock portfolio, and not a damned soul who cares to get home on time to hang around that kitchen and flirt with you while you cook.  Oh, he cares, sure.  He'll be home, later, and bring takeout, he has all the local places on speed dial.  He'll pick up the dry cleaning when it's his turn, if he remembers.  But he's too tired and too politically correct to wrestle you, giggling, into submission.  Too "evolved" to order a woman into a sexy little nurse costume.  Until he finds a neighbor or a business colleague or a manicurist who "understands" him, of course.

Then his honesty, his conviction that above all you want him to be happy, will compel him to share all the intimate details of his new lustier love.  If you've got a tough, Daily Kos case on your hands, he may also try to illuminate your children's lives with all the sensitive, authentic details. So they can "learn about life."

God help you.

No, your liberated modern kinda-man hasn't figured out that fidelity isn't optional and marriages mean more than just getting a tax break.  He believes men and women are the same except for the plumbing, so he'll never really understand you, and he'll never respect and admire you for your differences, either.  He'll never say he hates your new dress, but he'll cheat on you and believe it's actually kind of a tribute to his caring that he doesn't "inconvenience" you with demands for sex.  After all, that's the way uber-Prince Bill Clinton does it.

Yep. Had that well-paid, sensitive new age guy.  The one who subtly discouraged you from having that second or third baby since he didn't want to do more child care, never bothering to consider that YOU wanted a chance, this time, to stay home and be a real mom.  The man who dressed in organic earth tones but hadn't a clue how to stop the faucet leak, or fix the washer when it quit at 6PM Sunday with the kids school uniforms still in a smelly pile.

Been there, done that.  He seemed like perfect husband material when he gave you those footrubs after your long day chasing the corporate ring.  Too bad when your son wanted to go camping and learn to play football, Mr. Touchy-Feely was off learning massage and feng shui.  Surely you're not going to blame him that his single mother never taught him "all that guy stuff"? 

But you know what?  Out there for the taking are lots of improperly discarded frogs and lovably ugly toads.  Real women know that sweat from 8 hours of manual labor showers off just as completely as sweat from a $2,000 treadmill, and that loyalty and contentment aren't part of the executive package any more than they're precluded by steel lunchboxes and Red Wing workboots.

They know that a loyal, cheerful, home-loving guy looks handsomer every year and a whining cheater couldn't be pretty enough to cover his pathetic excuse for a personality.  Smart women will trade height for morals any day; and they know that book intelligence is only one kind of smart, and not the most important kind by far.  Smart women have smart kids whose dad sticks around.  Smart women would rather be loved than be right.  They let their man do that.

If you're a smart woman and want to get and then keep a good man, think carefully about what's important and what's not.  Plenty of princes are working undercover in plain clothes, and if you're a princess under your not-quite-Beyonce' exterior, that electrical engineer or auto parts store manager may be just the ticket for you.  There's as much happiness per capita in the trailer parks as there is in the co-ops overlooking Central Park.

Maybe more.

And it's sustainable happiness.  Simple, contented, not-crazy, let's take the polliwogs for a swim happiness.  Macaroni - cheese and plastic countertop happiness.  Real happiness for us unpretentious, get-it-done people.  Real lasting love between masculine, hardworking men and flirty, steel magnolia women.

Stalwart Frogs and Recovering Prince Addicts, when they're making bumper stickers about your lives, you know your time has come.

The Apparent Versus the Real

And the Urgent Versus the Important.

Yesterday we had a birthday party for my youngest daughter.  She's expecting a baby, so is my middle son's wife; also present were three small cousins.  Pregnancy lore, trading embarrassing baby stories and coordinated control of the existing children consumed most of our time, and a splendid good time it was, too. 

After an illustrated discussion of belly bands, button extenders and the strange behavior of belly buttons while pregnant, a friend asked if he would have to be killed now that he has obtained the secrets of the sisterhood.  He got a good laugh, but upon consideration the implications are far from amusing.  There's something sad and wrong in a society where it's assumed that men don't know or want to know, can't even be allowed to know, the intricacies of pregnancy. After all, there's hardly a man alive who isn't keenly and constantly aware of the process that sometimes results in pregnancy.

This disconnect is worrisome and typifies the schizoid approach to values and choices all too frequently seen in America.

In families like mine, exposure to the reality of how pregnancy really works over the long run has helped keep our young men from becoming fathers before the right times.  Daily contact with sisters, aunties, good friends struggling with morning sickness, exhaustion, wardrobe challenges and various aches and pains, helps men find some bit of balance to their endless tides of desire.

The tiring and relentless demands of caring for babies and small children also are not news to men in good families.  They know if they question the effort and value of someone caring for a home and family, they may soon find themselves without either.  Men reared in this kind of environment understand and remember that without the dedication of someone else, they never would have survived to become adults.  They are grateful, and they know that sex, while magnificent and absorbing, is also only one part of life, love and living well.

But in far too much of America today, a young man is unlikely to have any contact with pregnancy or child care until he is handed the court orders for a paternity test.  His appreciation and respect for his mother are blunted or negated by the disrespect or avoidance of her by his absent father, by his sex-driven and materialistic friends, by the loud, glossy mass market entertainment that fills his mind and drives out the subtle beauties. 

Short of the rare, unrealistic and impossibly glamorized pictures and articles featuring Hollywood elites gravid yet still hardworking, sexy and alluring, young men can concentrate on the conquest and comparison of women as playmates with no thought to the biological Russian roulette of recreational sex.  In this pretend world of glamor, abortion and irresponsibility, children are invisibly cared for unless there's a choreographed photo op. 

Marriage, fidelity, long term planning and the satisfactions of a traditional home are proven components of health, wealth, happiness and a stable society. They are also alien to our celebrities and so rare as to be invisible in the popular media.  This unreality is poisonously dangerous for young people whose uncontrolled sexuality, ill-considered pregnancies and selfish, inept excuses for parenting are the shame of us all.

Two false choices are increasingly present in America and pertain to this problem. In a media driven and appearance-obsessed society, we can so easily value what is apparent over what is real.  And we reflexively choose the urgent over the important in the scramble to manage our poorly focused lives.

The disconnect between sexual behavior and reproduction is but one of many ways in which America faces these dichotomies and chooses wrong.

We all have experienced cases where the good enough foreclosed the best.  Trivial errands and short-term pleasures are costing us our chance at real accomplishments and lifelong satisfactions.  The cable bill may be urgent, but reading the great novels is important.  A phone call to catch up with an old, good friend builds on previous happiness, but an hour at the gym will give us sexy abs.  The plain looking guy with a stable boring job and a habit of church attendance might be a better dad someday, but our friends will hoot if we turn down a hot concert wee