Guilt by Association

As I have watched the political campaigning, I had almost convinced myself that it could not get any lower. I can certainly see how people in other countries, watching the our political shenanigans, could easily be led to believe that all Americans are sleaze-balls, unfit to associate with other civilized tribes. But, recent events now convince me that yes, it can get lower.

Politicians have rediscovered the concept of “guilt by association.” If you know someone who turns out to be a crook, then you too are guilty. The fact that you might not have known of his/her illegal actions, and that you thoroughly disapprove of those actions makes no difference.

The Republican Party here in North Carolina have invented a new and sinister twist to this concept. They will put this on the air in a TV ad. So far as I can understand, their (the Republicans) rather distorted logic is as follows:

Barack Obama attended a church in Chicago where the Pastor preached inflammatory sermons.

Because Obama attended that church and knew the Pastor (guilt by association) therefore he must agree with that Pastor.

Obama is a Democrat.

There are two candidates in the primary election for the office of Governor in North Carolina.

These two candidates are Democrats.

Therefore, they must also be guilty of something (guilt by association). Are they also to be accused of agreeing with that Pastor, whom they never met or never heard? Apparently so!

When I was in college, I took a course in Logic. Examples of this kind of reasoning were shown, always to great ridicule.

The Republican Party plan to start running this TV ad next week. John McCain, the presumed Republican candidate for President, has told them not to run it! The state party nabobs refuse. They say, with great pomposity, that these facts need to be before the public. BALDERDASH! What they will do is make any voter like myself say “You people are total idiots, and I wouldn’t vote for any Republican candidate in the general election, whether for the office of dog-catcher up to President.”

Like I said, the tactics can get lower, and probably will.

A polygamous ranch?

The “lamestream” media has done it again. These clowns are notorious for their misuse, misapplication and misinterpretation of the English Language. English is a noble language, rich and full, capable of expressing the most profound meanings when used properly. The national media certainly do not qualify for this.

I am sick and tired of hearing or reading about the “children removed from a polygamous ranch.” Sorry, lamestream media! There is no such thing. As usual, you are guilty of a heinous crime against the language.

A ranch might be arid; desolate; prosperous; abandoned; scenic; run-down; cattle; chicken; dude; large; small; hobby; working or even tax loop-hole, but it cannot be polygamous. There is a very simple reason for this injunction. Ranches don’t get married!

If the lamestream media had bothered to have a short consultation with Mr. Webster, they would have found the following definitions:

Polygamy – n the practice of having more than one wife or husband at the same time;

Polygamist – n one who practices polygamy;

Polygamous – adj pertaining to the practice of polygamy.

Notice that all of these definitions pertain to people, homo sapiens, not to property, acreage or even miles of sagebrush.

The national media seem to have, as a governing concept, the idea that one word, either misused or fabricated, is always better than 3 or 4 words used properly. . It often seems that this same lamestream media are paid, not by the word, but by how many words they can avoid.

They could have said “children removed from a ranch where polygamy is practiced” or “children removed from a ranch where the adults practiced polygamy” or “children removed from a ranch where the adults were polygamists.” Any of these would have been correct. But, the fabricated term “polygamous ranch” is a flagrant foul against the English Language and should be punished accordingly

I often think we need a new law. The lamestream media should be required to hire an English major, and buy a dictionary. The English major will check the dictionary, and then advise the journalists which words they can use, and which misuse of words they should forget. This would make for more serene and restful reading and listening for the rest of us who have some idea of how to use the English Language.

The American Craze for Speed

Is there a strange twist in the American psyche that requires some people to automatically go into hurry mode as soon as they get in their car? There must be such because anyone who drives will very often see this speed craze in action.

Recently I saw a good example of this. I was heading out the expressway, driving a couple of miles over the 60 MPH speed limit. I was certainly not in a hurry as I had lots of time to get to my destination. Right behind me was a lady in a big SUV. She hung right on my bumper for at least a half mile. Then as we were within 100 yards of the next off ramp, she speeded up, blasted around me, suddenly cut back in front and slowed so she could take the off ramp. “Stupid, idiot!” I thought “There is not another car behind us for several hundred yards. Since you had to slow down for the off ramp, why didn’t you just stay behind me?”

Since I was getting off the same ramp, I ended up at the stoplight right behind her. She had used extra gas, made a rather dangerous maneuver, and had gained maybe 10 feet on me, but was now zero seconds ahead of me. Didn’t seem like a smart move. But I decided I would give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she was going to the Hospital, or to a Doctor’s office, and this was an emergency. But no, she was headed for Walmart. I followed her into the parking lot, thinking that maybe she was rushing in to have a prescription filled for her sick children. Wrong again! She finished her cell phone call, and leisurely strolled into the store. She seemed to have followed some ingrained rule. She wasn’t really in a hurry, but she was in her car, therefore she had to drive fast. I was in front of her. Therefore, she had to speed up and pass me.

There must be something in the genes, the water or the climate that makes people drive stupid. I see it every day, as drivers speed down congested city streets, zip through school zones without slowing, and run red lights, just trying to save a few seconds.

I would hate to think that my life was so disorganized that arriving somewhere 20 seconds later was going to ruin my whole day.

CAPS

Caps

It seems to me that some young males in Western North Carolina now undergo a secret ‘rite of passage’ that was unknown when I was growing up. Sometime between the ages of 11-14, maybe earlier in some cases, a cap is permanently affixed to their head. This may be a baseball cap, but more often it is a ‘gimmie’ cap, one that advertises John Deere tractors or Southern States Fertilizer or perhaps their favorite NASCAR race driver.

These caps must be glued, welded, stapled, nailed or otherwise solidly attached, because they are never removed. It is now common to see caps worn in church, at funerals, or even at weddings. In one case, I attended a wedding where the groom wore a cap emblazoned with a big 3, the late Dale Earnhardt’s racing number. At the time, I thought that qualified as the ultimate in tackiness, but I have since been proven wrong.

On another occasion I took the wife to a very elegant restaurant to celebrate our wedding anniversary. It was prom night, and a couple of the local swains were treating their dates to a fancy dinner before the dance. The young ladies looked very lovely, in their formals and corsages. The young gentlemen were somewhat ill at ease, not accustomed to being dressed so fashionable. But they were doing their best to appear suave and debonair in their rented tuxedos. Unfortunately, their caps spoiled the effect. Now, any fashion expert will tell you that a top hat is the only proper head covering to be worn with evening clothes. A cap advertising fertilizer just doesn’t cut it! I had to wonder did they wear their caps while dancing?

I spent many years in the US Navy, which is a rather formal service. One of the absolute dictums of the “Senior Service” is that you uncover as soon as you come into a building. Never, never, never would a naval person sit down to a meal while wearing a hat. Aboard ship this would probably get you thrown overboard. These rules were so drilled into me that now, to see someone wearing a cap indoors is rather shocking. To see a person in a restaurant, eating a meal while wearing a cap, almost makes me ill! Yet, this is an every day sight. Have you noticed that most restaurants no longer have a coat rack near the door? In the old days, this is where you hung your coat and hat. But, since apparently caps cannot be removed, these racks are no longer needed.

Recently, I saw the ultimate in cap stupidity. While swimming at the local recreation center, I saw a young father, with his cap on, come in with his small children! Now, wearing a cap at an indoor swimming pool surely must rank among the top of the all time list of really dumb actions. I will be charitable, and give this individual the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was totally bald, and didn’t want anyone to see his lack of hair. Maybe he had some horribly disfiguring skin disease on his scalp, and was keeping it covered to shield us from seeing the ugliness. But if not, then he proves my point. Those caps are permanently fixed, and cannot be removed.

But then that’s the view of the Resident Curmudgeon.

The 2008 campaign

Again, to paraphrase Winston Churchill, "Never in the field of human endeavor has so much been said by so many about so little."
The big political news today seems to be centered on the Pastor of a church that Barrack Obama attends. It seems this particular preacher is a blithering idiot! So what! I have known many preachers that were idiots. I didn't agree with anything they said. Did that place some sort of evil stigma on me because I attended that church? That line of thinking is total BS!

I was taught that the church and its beliefs were above any individual. But, the lamestream media (and certain political people) are working hard to make us believe that because Obama attends this church, he must necessarily agree with this windbag of a preacher. Talk about a charge of "guilt by association!"

This type of left-handed attack convinces me that I will support Obama in the May NC primary, because I cannot tolerate the cheap tactics of the Clinton ticket. However, in the back of my mind, I have the fear that somehow the Clintons will steal the nomination. In that case I will vote for McCain. Anything is better than the other sleazy bunch.

But then, that's the opinion of The Resident Curmudgeon. What's yours?

Reginald the Navigator

Reginald the Navigator

Last Christmas I bought a GPS navigation system for my wife’s new car. She had wanting one of these for some time, claiming we always get lost on every trip. That could be debated. There is a difference between being lost and just taking the more scenic route.

The voice on our machine is male, so we named him Reginald. We soon found out that not only does Reginald have no sense of humor, but that we fear he will soon be a basket case due to his frustration with our inclination not to follow his directions. Do you suppose electronic devices can suffer a stroke?

Our first encounter with his frustration came on a trip from our home in Waynesville, in the mountains of North Carolina, to Chapel Hill. I had left Reginald on his default settings, so he assumed we should always take the Interstate Highways. Little could he know that in the past 22 years, we have made this same trip approximately 50 times. We know every thing there is to know about I-40 between here and Chapel Hill. To be very frank, we are just bored to death with this stretch of highway, and get off from it at every opportunity.

On this day, Reginald did just fine at first. As I backed out from the garage, I keyed in the addresses for my daughter in Chapel Hill. Reginald did great. He directed me through several twists and turns until he got me on I-40 at Exit 27. For the next hour or so, he was quiet as we buzzed east on I-40. At Statesville, some 130 miles into the trip, I ruined his day. By that time I was already bored with I-40, and decided to take the lesser byway. I exited and got on US 70, which took us through a part of Statesville I had not seen. Reginald almost went berserk! At every intersection he insisted I turn left, to return to his beloved I-40. I defiantly refused, determined to make my own path. From Statesville east, US 70 is parallel to I-40. At every opportunity, Reginald directed me to turn left and enter I-40. And at each command, I refused, as it was my intention to drive US 70 to Mocksville. There we stopped for lunch, hoping that poor Reginald could take this opportunity to rest and settle his nerves. Such was not to be the case.

As we continued on US 64, he was quiet. But, east of Lexington, he awoke with a vengeance! As we neared I-85 coming up from Charlotte, he insisted we get on it, with the idea of going 20 some miles out of our way to rejoin I-40 in Greensboro. I definitely refused again. A few miles further, we met another road going north, and again he insisted we take it. I was adamant! No deviations. On the west side of Asheboro, he had his last chance. US 220, going due north towards Greensboro, could take us back to I-40. I was steadfast. No unnecessary detours. I wonder if such devices really have a personality. I was sure I detected a note of total frustration and hysteria as he directed me to take the last possible way to return to I-40. I was afraid he was going to suffer a stroke.

Reginald was quiet as we traversed through Ramsuer, Siler City and east towards Pittsboro. But, as we approached Pittsboro, he woke up. Being the good fellow that he is, he found my current location (by some form of black magic) and was now resigned to take me to my destination, even if it was not the routing he preferred. He correctly directed me to exit onto US 15-501 north. Apparently he had given up on his plan to return me to I-40, and was now reconciled to the fact that I was not going to follow his earnest directions. As we approached Chapel Hill, he directed me through several turns, and took me to my daughter’s driveway. Stout fellow, even if we did not agree on the route!

The following day Reginald really proved his capabilities. I had a doctor’s appointment on the north side of Durham, in an area where I had never been. I had no idea how to find the office. I downloaded maps from Map Quest, but I know from experience that these are not always accurate. However, I decided that with the maps, and the help from Reginald, I could probably find the place. I did leave a little early just in case I had problems. As I pulled out of my daughter’s driveway, I keyed in the address for the Doctor. Reginald performed superbly! He directed me through several turns and some on and off ramps. When he announced, rather pompously, I thought, “You have arrived at your destination,” I was at the entrance to the parking lot.

How far have we come? Fifteen years ago, GPS were just coming on the market. Go back another thirty years, when I was riding a Navy destroyer, we sweated over star sights and loran for navigation. Now, anyone can have their own private navigator in a small electronic box that will fit in a shirt pocket. Will wonders never cease?

Super Tuesday

Super Tuesday

It’s Super Tuesday all through the land

National media says that it will be grand.

Just follow their lead

they’ll tell us how to think

As they make their sage predictions

with a subtle nod and wink.

Talking heads, empty thoughts, just puppets on a string

Prognosticating, prophesying, on each and every thing.

They tell us what is going to be

and how the vote will go.

Unless, of course, the polls are wrong

and then they just don’t know.

Hours and hours every day they ramble, rant and rave

They tell us what we’re supposed to do, and how we should behave.

Follow our lead, here’s how to act

no worry, bother or fuss.

But if the vote should go astray

you surely can’t blame us.

We read the polls, we poked and pried, we questioned everyone

We even have opinions from the chauffeur’s younger son.

His daddy drives the candidate

to every campaign stop.

He surely has some real hot news

that no one else can top.

Where is the scoop, the nugget, the juicy little bit

Something that our network has, but no one else has hit?

It may be true, it could be false

we can’t take time to test.

We’ll just put it on the air

and hope it’s for the best.

If we should be mistaken, in a statement strong

We’ll just ignore the error, for we cannot be wrong.

Pretend we did not say to you

which candidate will win.

Our experts have informed us

that 4 plus 5 is ten.

Should candidate X say black is white, and candidate Y says no

We’ll love that little argument, for we can make it grow.

We’ll twist their words, and mispronounce

whatever they might say.

To keep our job requires we have

new stories every day.

Although we may not always, be exactly true

We are National Media, no one would dare to sue.

So all day long we’ll tell you,

almost man to man

The things you have already heard,

and will shortly hear again..

Wouldn’t it be a strange little quirk

If these reporters really had to work?

If they dug a ditch, built a house

saw how real workers fare.

It would do a lot for Global Warming

by eliminating much hot air.

The Roger Clemmons Hearing

I wasted several hours today listening to all this blather. What a circus this was! Supposedly this was a "fact-finding" hearing. HAH! It was soon apparent that the members of the committee already had their minds made up, and it soon became a witch hunt. One sad aspect of all this is that many of the members are lawyers. Yet, the way they acted would never be tolerated in any courtroom.

The first question one must ask is this: What the hell is Congress doing involved in this? This is not a question of national interest.
This is baseball, for God's sake! Congress, get back to work and do something useful.

The most sickening thing occurred at the end of the hearing. Most on the members rushed out to the hall so they could be interviewed by the lamestream media. And there we heard: "The people on the Republican (Democratic) side asked all the wrong question." What the hell does partisan politics have to do with a fact-finding hearing?

I am more and more convinced that most members of our congress should be dismissed and told to go find a job. They all seem to be interested only in furthering their own interests, or their parties position. The facts, the truth, the good of the country just does not enter into their thinking.

This is all indicative of the absurb position of the reactionary (read Talk Show wing) of the Republican Party. These idiots are threatening to vote for a "liberal" Democrat because the apparent Republican candidate has dared to work with the Democrats to get useful bills passed.

Maybe we really need a quiet revolution.

Dumb national media

I don't know which group is the dumbest, or the most irritating: political or sport analysts? They are both heartily despised by any half-intelligent human being.

This past week, we have had an oversupply of both. Not only do we have the primaries, but we also have the super bowl. We have had 24/7 of talk, talk, talk on both subjects. Can you think of anything on either subject that hasn't been said many, many times.

Both breeds are alike. They are all looking for a nugget, something, anything that no one else has. It makes no difference if the so-called news item is factual, truthful or even possible. The reporters jump on it like a starving wolf on a bone. If their earth-shaking discovery proves to be wrong, as is too often the case, do they apologize? Not on your life! They just go looking for something else.

It's very obvious that both breeds are "scoop" driven. Get it before anyone else has it! In the old days, a scoop might be something to generate an entra edition of a paper, generating lots of sales. That is no longer important, but the the reporters cannot ignore their genealogy. They have to get something unique first.

Even better than a scoop is a controversy. It is often sickening to watch how reporters try mightily to generate a controversy. They are like starving dogs, hanging on to every word, licking their chops, hoping for a misplaced word, a facial expression, a sneeze at the wrong time-anything they can use to generate the illusion of a controversy. Why? Because it makes their job easier. They can get several stories from a simple misunderstanding.

After watching these examples of how reporters/analysts twist words and actions around to suit their needs, it is easy to recommend they should be strung up by their thumbs, on the town square, at high noon.

And they wonder why no one pays attention to them.

Clean, cheap electricity--the myth

A dialogue between The Resident Curmudgeon, hereafter called TRC, who looks at everything with a suspicious eye, and doesn't believe anything the so-called experts tell him, and a neo-conservationist, hereafter called a neo-con, who believes in the tooth fairy.

TRC: A power company wants to build a new coal-fired power plant in NC. It will be state-of-the-art, with emissions much lower than existing plants. When built, the company will close 4 older, much dirtier plants. On the surface, seems like a good proposal.

Neo-con: NO, NO, NO! We can't have any more coal-fired plants. They all poison the atmosphere, and lead to global warming.

TRC: You want unlimited, cheap power. How do you propose to provide this?

Neo-con: It must be clean, green and non-contributory to global warming.

TRC: OK. How about windmills? They are certainly clean and green, but they have some unwelcome characteristics. Have you ever been to Spain, Portugal, or maybe Wyoming or California? There are large windmills lined up across every ridgeline where there is a prevailing wind.

Neo-con: NO. We can't have windmills on our ridgelines. They spoil the view, and they are a danger to migratory birds.

TRC: I don't know about spoiling the view. Just how eager are you for cheap, green electricity? If you have ever seen these, you will know that they turn so slow that any migratory bird that can't fly through the blades deserves to get killed. But, there is another problem. Sometimes the wind doesn't blow. Then, you must have back-up power. What will this be? If it is a coal-fired plant, that creates another problem. A coal-fired plant is designed to run most efficently at about 90% power. That is when it is the cleanest, with the least amount of emissions. But, while serving as back-up, a coal-fired plant is at idle. That is the most dirty condition it can be. It's a question of design. A plant cannot be designed to run at optimum in both conditions.

Neo-con: NO, NO, NO! we don't want any more coal-fired plants.

TRC: Well, how about a nuclear plant as back-up?

Neo-con: NO, NO, NO!! We will not allow any more nuclear plants either as primary or as back-up power. They are dangerous!

TRC: Well, maybe we should consider hyrdoelectirc plants. Of course, that will require that we dam up a few rivers, but it will generate clean power.

Neo-con: NO, NO, NO! We can't dam up any rivers. That will endanger several kinds of freshwater mussels, and interfere with the mating habits of carp and crawdads, besides taking thousands of acres of farmland out of production.

TRC: You have strong objections to any solution I have proposed. Maybe, the anser is to issue a small generator to every household, and let them produce however much power they need?

Neo-con: NO, NO, NO! Those would burn gasoline or diesel fuel, emit very noxious fumes and particulate matter, and create too much noise.

TRC: Well, I have one final solution to propose. Maybe we should move all our generating plants to southern Mexico. There, they could produce very cheap power. They have lots of cheap labor to shovel coal, thus eliminating the requirement for expensive conveyor systems. If the plants were far enough south, then the smoke, dust and carbon would not drift up into Texas, New Mexico or Arizona. Unfortunately, the laws of physics prohibit the efficent transmission of electricity from southern Mexico to New York. One solution might be to move everyone to Texas. Then the rest of the US could become a vast, wilderness preserve. However, if you have ever been there, then you might appreciate why people from New York might not enjoy living in west Texas.

Neo-con: Anything is better than global warming.

Britney Spears

I'm tired on reading stories every day about the latest stupid acts of this zonked-up bimbo. Who really gives a damn? Apparently, only reporters and photographers. These people should get a life. There is a lot of news around the world. Why are these lame-stream media flacks wasting ink and space on the latest antics of this stoned, drunk publicity hound. She seems to think the rules just don't apply to her. We have news for you, honey. When they throw your ass in jail, maybe you will wake up and figure this out.

Today's article breathlessly reports that she "was taken to a hospital in an ambulance that was chased by a crowd of reporters." That crowd of reporters should have been compelled to do something useful. Maybe they all should be issued garbage bags and directed to clean up the freeway.

And the national media wonders why nobody pays attention to them now.

Iowa Caucus

To paraphrase Winston Churchill: Never in the field of human endeavor has so much been said by so many about so little.

If we consider the number of newspaper, magazine or other written media people in Iowa, and if each one posts just 1,000 words a day, we have the equivalent of War and Peace written every day.

IF we consider the number of radio, TV etc. reporters, each reporting at least 15 minutes a day, we find a new explanation for global warming--that's a lot of hot air being generated.

Just think: we have almost a full year of this yammering to look forward to. Oh joy!

December 24, 2020 Part #2

“We’ve got a bad problem. The left-handed thing-a-bob that controls the outer gizmo on five has totally failed. First time I have ever seen one go completely like that. Usually they will partially operate, at least enough to…”

“OK, OK! What do you have to do to fix it, and how long will it take? When can I get going? I’ve got thousands of presents to deliver before morning.”

“Oh, it must be replaced. Unfortunately we don’t have a left-handed one in stock here in the storeroom. We have three right-handed ones, but they will not fit.”

“So where is a spare?” yelled Santa, becoming very red in the face. Mrs. Claus reached over and touched his arm as a warning to calm down.

For ten long seconds Santa stood absolutely still, gritting his teeth, as he struggled to control his frustration. Finally he continued in a soft, quiet voice. “How long will it take to get a spare whatever you call it and install it so I can go do my job?”

“That’s the problem. The computer says the nearest one is in the warehouse in Florida. I’ve contacted the duty storekeeper there, and she’ll have one on the midnight transpolar rocket express. That’ll put it here shortly after one-thirty, and we’ll have it installed, tested and ready to go by no later than three.”

“By three! That’ll put us completely out of the launch window.”

This time Mrs. Claus got up from her rocker and walked over to where Santa was standing. His face was even more red, and his eyes bulged out like he was about to explode.

“Oh, have another cup of coffee and sit down before you pop.”

Santa sat down in the controller’s chair, and buried his face in his hands. “Three! It might as well be next week. If I’m out of the launch window, I’ll run afoul of the inter-city rocket busses taking the night shift home. I’ll probably hit every stratospheric red-light between Nome and Naples. Some of the presents won’t get delivered until well after sunrise. Do you know how many children are expecting presents to be under the tree? Do you know what they are going to say if they wake up and the presents are not there? Do you have any idea how many law suits I might face? I could be sued for treble damages, claiming alienation of affection, breach of contract and mental anguish! Somebody call Phineas T. Pettifogger, my attorney. Get the rascal out of bed and tell him to stand by for big trouble!”

He jumped up and wandered back to the table where the Elves were arguing how to proceed The Loadmaster wanted to finish loading in advance, while the Chief Engineer claimed he needed work space inside the cargo hold.

As Santa joined in the discussion, one of the Elf apprentices, easily the youngest and smallest of anyone on the maintenance crew, quietly slipped through the back door of the bunker. The little Elf slowly worked his way up behind the group, then reached up and tugged at Santa’s coat. Without even looking down, Santa brushed his hand away.

“Don’t bother me. I got work to do and things to think about.”

The little Elf persisted, but with no better success. Finally, in the tinniest little voice, he spoke. “But Santa, I know how to fix the sleigh.”

Nobody heard him except Mrs. Claus. She looked up from her knitting, stared at the little Elf, and then suddenly yelled at Santa. “Hey, you old fool, pay attention! The little Elf says he knows how to fix the sleigh.”

‘Oh, he doesn’t know anything,” sneered the Chief Engineer. “He’s only an apprentice, and mostly just washes and waxes the sleigh.”

“Nevertheless, you listen to what he has to say. You were an apprentice onetime yourself, but that was ages ago.”

Santa slowly turned around. For the first time that night, he had just the hint of a twinkle in his eyes.

“OK, Shorty, tell me how to fix that no good pile of junk out there.”

“It’s easy, Santa. Just turn the outer gizmo upside-down. Then a right-handed thing-a-bob will fit, and we have plenty of those. Comet will work almost as well as before. You’ll have to leave off one small piece of the inner shielding, but it’s not on the hot side of the tube, so this won’t hurt.”

“That’s nonsense!” stated the Chief Engineer. But then he stared into space for a moment and suddenly smiled, “But it just might work.”

The Chief Engineer, Mission Controller and Loadmaster rushed out the door to the pad, and gathered around the sleigh. Inside the bunker, one of the controllers listened intently to his headphones, and then turned to Santa and gave a thumbs up.

“How did you know this?” Santa asked the little Elf.

“We take the shielding off when we clean the sleigh every year after your trip, just before we all go to Florida. Sometimes we take the gizmos out, so I knew this one could go in upside-down.”

“See what I have been telling you,” laughed Mrs. Claus, “If you had been listening instead of talking so much, you would have saved a lot of time.” But she gave him a fond look even as she made fun of him.

* * *

It is now T-3 minutes and counting. Mrs. Claus passes the lunch basket through the hatch, kisses Santa on the cheek, and scurries clear of the pad.

5-4-3-2-1 BLASTOFF! All tubes ignite with a roar, and the sleigh leaps clear. As it quickly passes out of sight, Santa can be heard over the data-link, yelling at the top of his voice:

NOW DASHER! NOW DANCER! NOW PRANCER AND VIXEN! ON COMET, you better hold pressure, you rascal you! ON CUPID! ON DONDER AND BLITZEN!

And they heard him exclaim as he roared out of sight:

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL,

IT’S BEEN A HELL OF A NIGHT!

December 24, 2020 Part #1

December 24, 2020

Christmas is only T-25 minutes away and counting. All pre-flight checks are proceeding normally. The elf ground crew scurries around the launch pad, completing the fueling of the sleigh. So far, the count-down has been smooth, but tensions are running high as launch time draws closer.

On the launch pad, lit by strings of multi-colored Christmas lights, and by the candles in the windows of the control bunker, the massive red sleigh crouches, poised for flight. Holly wreaths and strings of mistletoe, shivering gently in the chill breeze, drape the yawning mouths of the eight rocket tubes.

Santa Claus stands in the center of the control bunker where he can see the status board showing how the launch sequence is going. Mrs. Claus kneels beside him, sewing up a tiny rip in his red space suit. Santa is complaining to the Elf Loadmaster.

“Make sure you check the gasket on the cargo door. If It leaks just a bit, it whistles and drives me batty. Also, don’t load the stuff so far aft. Last year she was tail heavy all the way to Birmingham.”

“Right, Santa,” retorted the Elf, “I’ve already checked the cargo door. As for loading, we’re right on the computer simulation. The predicted center of gravity is within 10 millimeters of ideal.”

`”BALDERDASH!” yelled Santa, “That computer hasn’t been right for the past twenty years. Besides I don’t weigh near as much as that dumb machine thinks I do. That’s why your load prediction is off.”

Mrs. Claus laughed around the pins sticking out of her mouth. She peered over her glasses at Santa and slowly shook her head.

“Why you old fool, you’ve gained ten kilos in the last five years!” Turning to the Loadmaster, she winked and chuckled “Don’t pay any attention to him. That computer was completely checked out just last summer. Load her by the book and let her go.”

ALARM ALARM ALARM. Red lights flashed and alarm bells rang in mission control. All eyes quickly turned to the status board covering one end of the bunker. The count-down clock was flashing, showing T-20 minutes and holding. An excited babble of voices came from the controllers seated at their consoles, as they talked with the pad crew, trying to determine the problem.

“What in thunderation is wrong now?” roared Santa, “If that piece of junk acts up on me again, I’m going to trade it in for a snowmobile.”

“Hush, you old fool, so I can hear the reports.” Mrs. Claus was the calm one as usual.

The Mission Controller finally yelled over the din. “Tube five is not holding pressure. We have stopped fueling while we check it out. It may be only a leaking seal which we can repack in place, but we won’t know until we remove the outer shielding.”

“Which one is tube five?” asked Mrs. Claus

“Comet” replied the controller.

“COMET!” yelled Santa, banging his fist on the top of the console. “Comet messed up on us four or five years ago. I thought we fixed it then? What’s going on out there? How long will it take to repair it? Why can’t I get any information from the pad?”

“Oh relax, and have a cup of coffee,” said Mrs. Claus as she calmly closed up her sewing kit and put it away. “If you will just leave them alone, the elves will fix it and then you can go deliver the presents, and the rest of us can have some peace and quiet.”

Twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes pass, and Santa is growing more nervous by the second. He stalks over to the window looking out over the pad, then to the mission controller’s console, checks his watch, stomps over to the table where the engineers have unrolled the blueprints for tube five, then back to Mrs. Claus. She is sitting in her rocking chair, knitting a sweater and paying little attention to his non-stop chatter.

“I have never been late! No matter what has happened, I have always made it on time. But not his year! I feel it in my bones. This time that Comet tube will have something really bad wrong with it. I just know it. I’m going to be late getting out of here.”

Right on cue, the Chief Engineer came into the room, his long face advertising the bad news.

Santa didn’t give him a chance. “What’s wrong with the sleigh? How long will it take to fix it? How soon can we load and go on the trail? I can’t waste any more time. Let’s get this show on the road.”

The elf slowly walked over to the table where the blueprints were laid out, and turned to face Santa.

“We’ve got a bad problem. The left-handed thing-a-bob that controls the outer gizmo on five has totally failed. First time I have ever seen one go completely like that. Usually they will partially operate, at least enough to…”

The Jericho Wall - Part #2

When her mother made a pronouncement in that tone of voice, it was the end of the conversation! The WORD has been made known and all would obey. As if to underline the fact that the word had been spoken, her mother turned back towards the cupboard and gathered up silverware.

Under most circumstances, Mary Catherine would never have dreamed of questioning further. This time she felt compelled to continue, to fly into the teeth of the storm. She certainly did not want to openly defy her mother, knowing what that might bring. But she felt an urge to somehow make a statement of independence, to assert the fact that she had doubts about some of the accepted beliefs, and that she was capable of debating these ideas. Picking up ice tea glasses from the cabinet, she turned and faced her mother.

“Mother, you always enjoy watching the clogging at the county fair. That’s dancing. You told me you used to clog when you were young.”

“DON’T YOU BACKTALK ME! Clogging certainly ain’t sinful. Why we been clogging in these here mountains for as long as anyone can remember. You ain’t never heard no real man of
God in these parts say nothing against clogging. You’re trying to twist my words around, young lady. You’re trying to make me say that clogging is the same as dancing. It ain’t! DANCING is SINFUL, and that’s that!”

Mary Catherine’s knees were so shaky she had to grab the back of a chair to keep from falling. As much as she wanted to go to the ballet, she wanted also to ease her mother’s wrath yet somehow be able to assert her own ideas. Summoning the very last of her courage, she struggled on.

“Please, Mother, I’m not sassing you. It’s just, well, it’s sometimes hard to understand things. Ballet is something like clogging. It’s been done in some places as long as anyone can remember.” More bravely now, she continued, “I haven’t heard any preachers say that ballet is sinful like other kinds of dancing.”

“Well,” her mother sniffed, “I suppose they think it’s all right up there in New York, but that ain’t no great shakes as a recommendation.”

Feeling that the tension was easing a little, Mary Catherine responded in a lighter tone of voice. “No Mother, ballet isn’t from New York. It’s a kind of folk dancing, and originally came from Russia.” As soon as she said this, Mary Catherine died inside.

“RUSSIA!” Her mother’s voice went up an octave and her eyes seemed to glaze over. “You mean to tell me you want to miss a meeting at God’s house to go see some outsiders doing a dance from Russia? The only thing that ever came out of Russia is heathen, devil-worshipping
COMMUNISTS! Brother Charley Baker on TV says the heathen communists are the anti-Christ, trying to establish Satan’s kingdom right here on earth. You will not miss church to go see some Russian dance. I am shocked that you would even suggest such a thing. You march right up to your room, read your Bible, and get down on your knees and beg God’s forgiveness for such sinful thoughts!”

Mary Catherine put down her dishtowel, turned and slowly climbed the stairs. She went to her tiny room, tucked into the upper back corner of the house, picked up her well-worn Bible and sat in a chair near the small dormer window.

Opening the Bible, she glanced at the page and read:

“…when the people heard the sound of the trumpet, they raised a great shout, and Jericho’s walls fell down in its place…”

She laid the Bible in her lap and stared out the window. The familiar scene of forest and mountains seemed to blur into a montage of dancers gliding across a church while scowling spirits swirled overhead screaming SIN! Above it all she could hear her mother’s voice far away calling “Mary Catherine, Mary Catherine…”

“Mary Catherine, are you deaf, child? Come down to supper. Papa’s already at the table, waiting to say grace.”

Closing her Bible, Mary Catherine slowly rose and looked around the familiar room. It now seemed different, for suddenly she was seeing things as a different person. No older, certainly a
bit sadder, but surely much wiser. It was not just missing the ballet. There would be other performances. It was the realization that the wall of rigid thought surrounding her closed, tight-
knit world was no longer solid. Although not by design, her argument with her mother had caused the initial crack. She had stood her ground, at least for a little bit, and had tried to express her own ideas. This time she had been slapped down. There would be other times. Bit by bit, the Jericho Wall would come tumbling down.

The Jericho Wall Part #1

The Jericho Wall

“Hurry, Mary Catherine,” called Mother, “We must get the table set and finish fixing supper before Papa and the boys come in from the fields.”

Even as she hurried about taking dishes from the cupboard, Mary Catherine was in turmoil. “How can I ask her?” she agonized? “The whole family has always attended every night of the Spring Revival.”

Pausing only long enough to brush her long brown hair from her eyes, Mary Catherine bustled around setting the table, trying to stay so busy she wouldn’t have time to think and lose her resolve. Finally, grabbing the last of her courage, she blurted out. “Mother, would it be all right for me not to go with you’all to Church on Friday night? Mrs. Massie has arranged for our class to go to Asheville on the activity bus. Johnny is going and he will bring me home.”

“Child, whatever has gotten into you? Why, what would it look like if you wasn’t there with all the rest of your kin? Everybody in Pinson Cove knows this here family supports our church just as much as we can, and that means we’ll always be there whenever there’s preaching to be heard.”

“Yes, Mother, I know. But I’ve been to services Sunday, and last night, and we’re going tonight and Thursday. Would it be so awful if I missed that night?”

Her mother turned. Like a hawk, she stood tall and gaunt, hands on her hips, staring at Mary Catherine with fierce eyes. “Just what is this doings you’re so all fired-up to go to? I can’t imagine anything more important that going with your family to God’s house!”

Mary Catherine wiped her hands on her apron. She hesitated, fearful to tell her mother, knowing full well how the wrong words might set her mother off down a road from which she could not be turned. However, there was no backing down now.

“We’re going to the Thomas Wolfe Auditorium…”

“Thomas Wolfe!” her mother interrupted angrily, “He’s that low-life writer they’s so proud of over there in Asheville, ain’t he? For the life of me I can’t understand why they would name something after him. Anything they’s having there can’t be no good.”

Mary Catherine cringed. If her mother got riled up over the name, there was little chance for her plan. Bravely she continued. “It’s just part of the Civic Center, Mother. There is a touring group from New York. Mrs. Massie has arranged for our class to get reserved seats. This is the first time this group has come to Asheville since 1980, almost six years ago.” Seeing

the frown on her mother’s face, she rushed on. “I have money for my ticket saved.”

The frown on her mother’s face deepened, and her voice changed to a more suspicious tone. “Just what exactly is this here fancy group from New York? I can’t imagine why anybody would

want to go hear singing by people not from this part of North Carolina. Why, we got some of the best singers round here you could ever want to hear.”

In a more belligerent voice she continued. “This ain’t no gospel singin group from one of them high-falutin church schools up north, is it? You know what we think about them so-called Christians. Why, they don’t hardly even believe in the Bible. I swear they shouldn’t even be allowed to call them churches, for they’s no better than a bunch of…”

Mary Catherine knew she had to get her mother stopped now or she would never even get an answer. To interrupt her mother was almost a sin in her family, but she chanced it.

“It’s not a singing group, Mother. It’s a dance troupe from the New York City Ballet.”

“DANCE! You don’t mean to tell me you’re thinkin you might run off to Asheville to see a bunch of half-naked, Satan-loving savages jumping round screaming heathen songs? Let me tell you, Missy, you better get your head straightened out right quick. I knowed it was a mistake letting you go to County High School. I should have insisted you go to Fellowship Christian School, even though they ain’t quiet right bout the second coming, but at least you wouldn’t be around sinners who would go to such heathen doings!”

Once again Mary Catherine dared interrupt her mother. Twisting a dishtowel around her hands, ignoring her shaky knees brought on by fear, she forced her voice to come out strong. “NO, NO, Mother! It’s not a rock concert. I wouldn’t even dream of going to one of those. This

is a ballet company. They dance, well, it’s like they dance to tell a story. The stories are very old, and …”

“I don’t care what kind of stories they are! You know just as well as I do what this family thinks about dancing. Just last fall Brother Russell preached a powerful sermon bout how dancing is pushing the young people of this world right into the gates of Hell. Dancing is SINFUL!”

When her mother made a pronouncement in that tone of voice, it was the end of the conversation! The WORD has been made known and all would obey. As if to underline the fact that the word had been spoken, her mother turned back towards the cupboard and gathered up silverware.

Morman candidate

I have watched with interest Milt Rommey's speech about his religion. Talk about much ado about nothing. The really sad thing is that he had to make this speech.
The other disgusting thing are the comments made about the so-called experts. Many of these people go on national television to demonstrate their appalling ignorance. They have not read history, and they are totally off base. It is almost sickening to hear these know-nothings call the LSD church a "cult." If this is a cult, then so are the Southern Baptists, and many other of the "religious right."

I do not agree with the Mormon theology. However, I admire almost all of the Mormons I have known. They, along with the Quakers, sincerely try to walk the walk, as taught in the Bible. Too many of the so-called main-stream religions just talk the talk. Go read the history of the Mormons during the Great Depression, and you will get an idea of what I say.

It is disgusting that a presidential candidate has to go on national television to say that he will not be influenced by his religion. Hell! I want my president to be influenced by his religion. That's a hell of a lot better than being influenced by big-business or by the lame-stream media.

Golf stupidity

Almost every golfer I know claims they play golf only for the exercise. Of course, most courses require motorized golf carts, because this speeds up the play.

For those few courses that do not have carts, golfers have the options of a caddy, carrying their clubs or using a pull cart. Pull carts are very easy to pull, even on a hilly course. But, recently I saw the ultimate in stupidity. They now make a motorized, battery-powered pull cart. Instead of pulling the cart, you merely push some buttons on the handle, and steer the cart. For a mere $700, you can have the ultimate pull cart.

Now, if they would only put a larger motor and battery on this contraption, you could hook a wheeled chair behind, and just ride along, getting your exercise.

Gas mileage

I just returned from trip to Winston-Salem. I went there for North Carolina Writers' Network Fall Conference. I am on the Board of Trustees, so I am expected and obligated to attend the conferences. The conference actually started on Friday evening. Normally my wife would have gone with me, and we would have made the 3 hour trip on Friday afternoon to be there for the opening sessions that evening. This time she decided not to go, so I waited until Saturday, leaving my warm bed at 5:30 in the morning to be at the conference by 9:00.

I drove my wife's new Toyota Prius. She has had it only 3 weeks, and this was the first out-0f-town trip. These cars get wonderful gas mileage! I averaged 48.6 for the trip. With gas at $3.05 per gallon, this was a welcome bonus. But, there is a backside to this. The car's computer constantly shows the current gas consumption rate. If I am driving on a level stretch of road, the display will show 70-75 miles per gallon, but as soon as I reach a hill, the rate will drop into the 20's. If I pay much attention to this, I find I want to do something to keep that figure high, even though I know there is really nothing I can do except maybe slow down below my normal cruising speed. But I find myself thinking about this.

The obvious solution is to turn that mileage display off. Don't worry about it, as the final average is the only important thing. At the end of the trip, check the average, and then gloat to all the other drivers who are using gas guzzling SUVs. That's great for the ego!

Foreign Ppolicy

It must be tough to be President and have to put up with 536 wannabe Secretary s of State. It's a damn shame that many members of Congress are too cheap to buy a copy of the US Constitution and read it. That way, they just might discover what their job really is, and more important, what it is not.

It is not to try to make foreign policy. The only role of Congress here is to "advise and consent." If they do lot like a treaty, they, Congress, has the right not to consent. But that is as far as they are authorized to go. They must learn this.

I cringe every time I read where some Congressman, elected to represent a district in Iowa or Arizona or Oklahoma, is off globetrotting, getting lots of media attention, and making stupid statements that often undo months of careful negotiation. But they just don't get it. They can't accept the fact that they were elected to represent one small geographic area, not to be Secretary of State. Maybe they think this will gain votes. To me, it only gains my scorn at their arrogant stupidity.