Barack Obama vs. Thomas Jefferson

This week’s newspapers are being dominated by three stories:

1.     The IRS targeting of “conservative” groups for harassment, particularly groups with the words “tea party”, “government debt”, and “constitution” in their names.

2.     The 12 separate revisions and re-writings of the infamous talking points on Benghazi.

3.     The Justice Department’s seizure of phone records of over 40 reporters from the Associated Press.

The Left in this country constantly accuses their enemies, especially we Libertarians, of political paranoia. We are told by the party of government that those who distrust the State are simply rubes and anarchists. Indeed, those who cast aspersions on State power secretly loathe the concept of self-rule, and long I suppose for the salad days of nomadic tribes scouring the fruited plain for food and shelter unhindered by taxes. The President said as much in a commencement address at Ohio State University:

     “Unfortunately, you’ve grown up hearing voices that incessantly warn of government as nothing more than some separate, sinister entity that’s at the root of all our problems. Some of these same voices also do their best to gum up the works. They’ll warn that tyranny is always lurking just around the corner. You should reject these voices. Because what they suggest is that our brave, and creative, and unique experiment in self-rule is somehow just a sham with which we can’t be trusted.”

The headlines this week seem to suggest that our “brave, creative and unique” experiment in self-rule could use a few grown-ups. To equate, as the President does, self-rule with a gargantuan, bloated beyond recognition, bureaucratic leviathan that is involved in every area of its citizen’s lives from the size of our Big-Gulps to the size of our paychecks is a rhetorical reach of epic proportion. So, if we observe a government racking up over a trillion dollars a year in debt, watch it harass unfriendly reporters, then discover that its tax collecting agency is singling out dissident groups for special harassment, we are to simply rejoice in the miracle of self-rule?

For me, suggesting the very real possibility of tyranny in our future is not a repudiation of self rule, but an acknowledgment of the record of history. The previous century was a blood-soaked nightmare brought about by governments convinced of their infallibility, and endowed with great power over their citizens. To warn of mankind’s awful tendency towards the totalitarian impulse is not to “gum up the works” as our President so eloquently described it, but rather, the faithful tradition of the wise skepticism of our Founders, one of whom, Thomas Jefferson, said this:

 “Even under the best form of government, those entrusted with power, in time, and by slow operations, perverted it into tyranny.”

With all due respect to the current occupant of the White House, human nature in 2013 is unchanged from the 1776 variety. I’ll take Jefferson’s skepticism over Obama’s Pollyannaish optimism any day of the week, especially a week like this one.

A Thank You to Frank and The Count

This morning I was in the mood for some music when I arrived at the office. No one had arrived yet, so I could play it as loud as I wanted. I have an iPod with several hundred songs on it attached to a Bose sound dock thing sitting on the top of a filing cabinet. I pressed “shuffle” and sat down to start on some paperwork.

I have a rather eclectic musical collection since there are very few styles of music that have no appeal for me. The first tune that popped up was “Can’t Buy Me Love” by the Beatles, then came a Lenny Kravitz tune, followed by a Felix Mendelssohn piece capped off by “When the House is a-Rockin’, Don’t Bother Knockin’” by Stevie Ray Vaughn.

Then a song played that stopped me in my tracks. Considering everything I’ve been through recently, the lyrics of this song seemed meant for me and me alone. Frank Sinatra teamed up with the Count Basie Orchestra in 1962 to record an album of American standards. Among them was the Johnny Burke classic, “Pennies from Heaven”. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7z6vVv9MbMg&feature=player_detailpage&list=PLB6849D6754C22732

I didn’t have to “google” the lyrics for this blog, because Frank’s diction is perfect. It’s a song about looking on the bright side of life, turning lemons into lemonade, the sort of lyric that no one writes anymore because it’s considered too corny. We would rather hear tales of woe from which the writer is a hopeless victim. Frank sings,

         “Every time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven.

           Don’t you know each cloud contains pennies from heaven?

           You’ll find your fortune falling all over the town.

           Be sure that your umbrella is upside down.

           Trade them for a package of sunshine and flowers

            If you want the things you love you’ve got to have showers.

            So, if you hear it thunder don’t run under a tree,

            There’ll be pennies from heaven for you and me.”

Then the Count’s amazing band rips through a tight riff, with Basie’s slick, understated piano keeping rhythm. This 51 year old virtuoso performance was just for me this morning. Thanks guys.

"To everything there is a season..."

The book of Ecclesiastes tells us that, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.” Then it goes on to list some examples where we find this, “A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” After the last few days, I’m ready for a little more laughing and dancing, and a lot less weeping and mourning.

Over this past weekend, losing Molly combined with Mother’s Day without my children or my mother combined to produce in me a heavy sadness, which I couldn’t shake. Then, to add insult to injury, my sainted mother-in-law was hospitalized with a serious health issue Saturday night. It was a perfect storm of melancholy.

My Mom passed away on the last day of June so this was my first Mother’s Day without her. All I could think about were the times I would go to Strange’s and buy her a Rose bush or something, then take it out to her on Saturday so I could beat my brother and sisters to the punch. Last year, she was in a great mood already, before I showed up, and was thrilled with my gift. She made a huge fuss over it and gave me one of her famous hugs. I still remember the smell of her hair. Now, every rose bush I see brings a knot to my throat, especially this past weekend.

Ever since we lost Molly on Thursday morning, my house has become a shrine to her memory. Every square inch of the place carries with it a memory. I walk in my house and immediately feel the pain of her absence. She doesn’t meet me at the door. She’s isn’t there to pester me for treats, she doesn’t need to be let out, or fed. We eat our dinner with her nowhere in sight. Every routine of my day has an enormous hole in it where Molly used to be. I wonder how long it will be before I stop feeling like crying when I enter my house.

It has only been since Molly left us that I have truly understood what my father is going through. Since Molly lived with us, her memory is everywhere, and her loss is felt most severely at home. How must my father feel when someone with whom he was inseparable for 65 is no longer there? That he bears up with such grace and dignity under so heavy a burden is beyond my understanding.

“To everything there is a season…” Like every season before it, I will need to learn to deal with this new one. For so many years, I never experienced loss of any kind. In this, I have been extraordinarily lucky. But the scales balance with time, and the older I get the more of it I will see. Death is every bit as much a part of our world as is life. I will get better at handling it with experience, I suppose, and hopefully I will learn how to be a blessing to others as a result.

Still, after the last three days, I’ve had my fill. Today begins a new week, one filled with glorious possibility. This coming weekend, I will be together with my incredible family celebrating Kaitlin’s graduation from Wake Forest University with a Master’s degree in English Literature. We will all be together with Patrick flying in, our dear friends the Stroups, Paula, Ron and Ryan, and Jon. We will enjoy great food, the beautiful campus, and even take in the Great Gatsby together. Maybe there will even be some laughing and dancing. There is a season for it after all.  

What I Learned From Molly

                                                                      
                                                                                                                 
                                                                             

In the early morning hours of Thursday, May the 9^th, we lost our sweet Golden Retriever, Molly. Three weeks ago she had been diagnosed with cancer and given two weeks to live. She lived three weeks and two days before passing away at the age of 11 years, 7 months. Her last three weeks were largely spent doing all of her favorite things. Pam created a “bucket list” and took pictures of all of her adventures. Most of the time these past weeks she has been pain free, happy, and close to her old self, but the last 24 hours were quite terrible. Even so, when the end came Pam and I were both holding her and reminding her of how much she was loved and just what an indescribable blessing she had been to our lives. When we think of her, we will forget this last day and be grateful for all the many wonderful days of joy that she brought to all of us.

Like anyone lucky enough to own a dog, I have learned many things from mine over the years. But, Molly took me to school all of her life. From Molly I learned that I should accept anyone, regardless of who they are, what they look like, or how old they are. Molly believed that everyone she ever met was a potential scratcher and that if she loved them enough and they ever got invited over to dinner, they would probably love her back by slipping her some food. From Molly I learned to take my medicine, every day, without whining. From Molly I learned that a house full of teenagers was possibly the best thing ever, and I was crazy for not having a house full every night.

 From Molly I learned to never bother my neighbors, and stay in my own yard unless invited over. From Molly I learned that I should always be extra nice to young children, even if they were annoying, and loud, and pulled on your ears, because they were just kids and didn’t mean any harm. From Molly I learned that you always feel better about yourself after a bath. From Molly I learned that if you haven’t seen someone you love for a while, you should show them how much you missed them by bringing them a gift and making a big fuss. From Molly I learned to turn the other cheek, to forgive everyone for every stupid thing they ever did, because surely they didn’t mean it. 

From Molly I learned that the only two things on the face of the earth that weren’t any good to eat were uncooked celery, and uncooked carrots, everything else was nothing short of awesome. From Molly I learned that if someone leaves you alone, if you love them enough, they will always come back. From Molly I learned that the world is chocked full of millions upon millions of potential friends, those who you know, and those you haven’t met yet. From Molly I learned the value of a good nap, and that the best way to ride in a car is with your smiling face hanging out of the window.

Someone asked me once whether or not I thought that dogs go to heaven when they die. I replied, “If not dogs…who?” If our lives are judged solely on the merits, the streets of gold will be teeming with dogs with only a few humans to clean up the mess. But just to prevent some insufferable spiritual snob out there from writing me a theological dissertation of the doctrine of salvation, let me close this tribute to Molly with the lyrics of a song my brother taught me over forty years ago when my dog, Roman, had died:

                        “When I was a lad and old Shep was a pup,

                         Over fields and meadows we’d stray.

                        Just a boy and his dog, we were both full of fun,

                       We grew up together that way.

                      I remember the time by the old swimming hole

                     When I would have drown beyond doubt.

                     But old Shep, there he was, to my rescue he came.

                    He jumped in and helped pull me out.

                   Now old Shep he has gone where the good doggies go,

                  No more with old Shep will I roam.

                 But if dogs have a heaven, then there’s one thing I know,

                 Old Shep has a beautiful home.”

                                   

                                                                                

Zero Tolerance

Suffolk, Va.

Wednesday, May 8

Associated Press:

Two 2^nd grade boys from Driver Elementary school were suspended today for making shooting noises while pointing pencils at each other. The boys, aged 7, had no previous history of violence, and both ceased the forbidden activity when asked to do so by their teacher. Suffolk Public School spokesperson, Bethane Bradshaw said that a number 2 pencil is in fact considered a weapon when it is pointed at someone in a threatening way and gun noises are made. When questioned about the incident, one of the boys said that he was pretending to be a Marine and his friend was pretending to be a bad guy.

In a related note, three other male students at Driver Elementary were given suspensions last week for various infractions of the school’s tough “zero-tolerance” behavior policy. A third grade boy was sent home for making flatulent noises with his underarm, a fourth grade boy for claiming that girls have “cooties”, and a fifth grader for excessive doodling during math class. Ms. Bradshaw offered the following explanation:

“Making fake flatulent noises is potentially hurtful and embarrassing to children who inadvertently let one slip during class. At Driver, we are an accepting community, and want all of our children to feel nurtured and valued, regardless of the level of anal control they may have. As far as the “cooties” incident is concerned, we don’t think that infectious diseases, be they real or imagined, are anything to joke about.”

Ms. Bradshaw could not be reached for comment about the doodling episode, but sources have revealed that this was not the first infraction of its type in this particular math class, that in fact something close to an epidemic of such doodling has been going on in math classes throughout the Suffolk Public School system for years. It is unknown what connection, if any, might exist between long division and doodling rates.

 

For the record, the first paragraph of this blog was taken verbatim from my morning news feed. The rest of it was taken from my exasperated imagination which has come to the conclusion that public schools in this country have LOST THEIR FREAKING MINDS.  

My Amazing Niece

                                                                               

I come home from the gym yesterday afternoon to find a large box on my front steps. The label says that it is from the Bow Wow Gift Basket Company from Indianapolis, Indiana. I bring it inside and set it on the kitchen table. Molly seems to instinctively know that it is for her. Much to her dismay, I go upstairs to change out of my sweaty clothes first. When I come downstairs 10 minutes later, she is sitting in the same place she was before, patiently waiting.

Inside, there is a treasure trove of all-natural, doggy treats with bizarre names and descriptions so succulent it made me want to eat them. There were beefy cheese dogs, barkin’ blueberry bites and itty-bitty busters, all baked fresh by the good people over at the Nutty Mutt Bakery. Molly was delighted.

I tore through the box looking for a card. Who on earth could have sent such an amazing gift to my very sick dog? Then I found the note. In truth, I wasn’t surprised at all. I know very few people who would have taken the time surfing the web to find an outfit called the Bow Wow Gift Basket Company, so she could spend probably a ridiculous amount of money brightening someone else’s day. It had to be my tender hearted niece from San Diego, Lauren. A month ago, for my birthday, she was the one who sent me a box crammed full of electronic, computerized practical jokes. Thus began a week long reign of terror at my office, courtesy of the coolest, most remarkable girl I know.

There are many people I know with soft hearts, people who are easily moved, quick to feel compassion. But there are few who so eagerly attach wings to their sentiments. Many feel compassion, few demonstrate compassion. This bias towards action is what transforms mere sentimentality into grand gesture. Lauren has that rare gift, the desire to put feet to her thoughts, and that gift made for Molly and her owners a very special day.

Thanks, sweetheart.

                                                                           
                                                                             

 

Obama Is Right!

Whenever I find myself in agreement with the Obama administration about something, I usually chalk it up to that old saying about a broken clock being right twice a day. Such is the case with this administration’s approach to the increasingly dangerous situation in Syria.

Over the weekend Israel began a series of targeted airstrikes to take out newly arrived missile shipments from Iran. Before that, last week, came word that evidence has been found of chemical attacks by the Assad regime on the Syrian people. Previously, Obama had said that the use of such weapons would be crossing a “red line” that would bring some unspecified American response. Once the evidence was found, talk of red lines ceased and diplomatic double talk and ass-covering began in earnest. Good. An un-named Obama aide was quoted in the papers over the weekend asking the rhetorical question, “So, if Assad is stupid enough to use chemical weapons on his own people, how is that an American problem?” Excellent question.

An even better question would be, “As bad as gassing your own citizens is, there are far worse atrocities happening every day in Africa, but there is no talk of “red lines” being crossed. Why not?”  Come on Dunnevant, some of you will say, the Middle East is different! Yes, it is, it’s worse. If we were to intervene in some African country where some drugged out leader is committing genocide, we might actually save some innocent people. Intervening in the Middle East gets us…what exactly? What innocent people will we be rescuing in Syria? The rebels fighting Assad are as degenerate a group of thugs as has ever walked the earth! If history has taught us anything about the Middle East it’s this; the hatred and violence is unsolvable this side of eternity. Theirs is a family feud that has been raging since Eden. The United States of America has no compelling national interest in that cesspool, and even if we did, we are broke. If there isn’t enough money to keep air traffic controllers on the job, how can we afford fighting a war in freaking Syria? Besides, from the looks of things over the weekend, the Israeli air force seems more than equal to the task.

So, bravo to the Obama Administration for a healthy dose of skepticism, and an unwillingness to be dragged in to another endless Middle Eastern quagmire.