A place to worship?

In the latter years of his life, my father was pastor of a small Baptist church in a tiny Kansas community. The church building was a very small, ancient wood frame structure. As the little congregation grew, the need for more space became paramount. The congregation gradually scraped together enough money for the framing lumber, sheet rock, roofing, etc.

My elderly father, who had worked as a carpenter in his youth, worked with other men in the congregation for many days to build the addition to the church building. Yes, they swung the hammers, operated the saws, built it by hand.

That is the American definition of building a place to worship.

Do those people supporting the New York "Ground Zero Mosque" really believe we are stupid! Do they think we will accept that a fifteen story, $100 million structure represents a congregation building a house of worship? What size congregation would be required to raise $100 million? How long would that take?

Dr. Thomas Sowell has called the proposed 15-story structure a middle-finger salute to Americans. Others have called it a "law school", a place where Islamic Sharia law will be taught and promoted.

I don't know what it will be. I can bet what it will not be: a place to worship, built by a local congregation.

Soap in my life.

When I was a small boy on the farm, my mother made our soap. I have no idea how she did it or what was in it. She poured her mixture into a pan, like a cookie sheet, about 3/4 of an inch deep. When it solidified, she cut it into bars. I have heard jokes about "grandma's lye soap", and maybe she put lye in it. I never knew. I do not remember what it was like using her soap, either, because I hated soap in all its forms.

Mostly I hated the rule that, after running around the farm barefoot all day, I could not go to bed until I washed my feet. We had no inside plumbing, so washing my feet meant going to the well, pumping a pan of that ice cold water, sitting on the edge of the well and washing my feet in that pan.

I remember mornings when I was ready to head out the door for school, mother would grab me by the ear, turn my shirt collar inside, and wash my neck and ears. Sometimes I went on to school with my collar still turned inside. In fact I remember Annie Turpin, my teacher for the first four grades of school, pulling me aside and turning my collar out. One time she said, "At least I know your neck and ears are clean."

Anyway, mother's homemade soap served all purposes. How I long for that simple way of life!

Today, I step into the shower, and, starting at the top, there is hair soap... called shampoo. I use it on my hair and my beard. Then there is face soap. Good for ears, nose, neck etc., although I am not sure exactly where your neck ceases to be part of your face and becomes part of your body!

On a few occasions on the farm, I was caught swearing and got my mouth washed out with mother's soap. Today there is a special soap for that - called toothpaste.

With a clean head, I now reach for the body wash. This liquid goes on a wash cloth for arms, legs, pits, etc. And don't forget the hand soap! It is anti-bacterial! Wow!

There is no foot soap... guess I don't have to worry about bacteria on my feet! After all, I no longer run around barefoot all day - haven't been on a farm in decades.

I wonder what would happen if you accidentally got the hand soap on your hair? Or the shampoo on your feet?

Sometimes I think that sitting on the edge of the well washing my feet with cold water and homemade soap, wasn't as bad as I remembered!

Scary Weather!

I remember standing in the kitchen of my Kansas City home, adjustable wrench in hand, on a hot summer afternoon in the 1950s. I was watching a huge tornado move west to east across a residential area several miles to my south. My plan was simple - sensible or not: if the tornado swung north, toward my home, I would run outside and use my wrench to close the valve on the natural gas line. Then I would come back into the house, pull the main breaker on the electrical supply, and hurry to the basement to sit out the storm.

The tornado did not swing to the north. It just sort of petered out and ended. Later inspection of its path revealed houses in piles of pick-up-sticks, refrigerators and washing machines, sofas, beds, and every other kind of household furnishings tossed about the devastated neighborhood.

That was a scary storm, but not the scariest to make me tremble: that was while on board a U.S. Army Transport - a troopship - on the South China Sea, during a typhoon. I used to try to tell the story of that unimaginable violent weather, until it became clear that every listener appeared to believe it was just another wild exaggeration. Was it? Had the event grown wilder in 65 years of memory?

Yesterday I chanced to meet an old friend on a street corner. I say old friend because he is in his 90s, and I have known him for at least 15 years. He and his wife had just returned from a peaceful little cruise on the Great Lakes. He excitedly described his cruise until I remarked that after spending an aggregate of about six weeks on an Army troopship, I had no hankering for any time aboard a floating vessel.

He laughed and assured me there was a vast difference between the two sailings. Then, typical of an aging world War II Veteran, he began to describe some of his own troopship experience. The worse part, he vowed, was being caught in a typhoon on the South China Sea. He described how the bow of the ship would rise high out of the water, then slam violently down again. Then, as the bow went deep into the trough of the wave, the fan tail would rise high out of the water, exposing the screws, the ships propellers, to the air. They would gain speed and whine loudly, as a huge wall of water broke over the bow of the ship. He spoke of looking out into the violent blackness that surrounded the vessel and the realization that it you went overboard you were a dead man... you could never have been found even if the ship could turn around. All exactly as I remembered it!

I know there are seamen who have experienced this sort of weather on more than one occasion. They could probably top our stories for scariness. But for a couple of old landlubbers, like my friend and I, it was a horrible experience.

Yesterday, however, I found a bit of comfort in having my own aging memories verified.

Enough to make a grown man cry!

I recently heard someone comment about the inner workings of America's military men and women. Sorry... I forgot who said it, but it was explained that America's soldiers (marines, sailors, airmen, etc.) have a cause. They have a fire in their bellies for America. Before their first military training, they are already filled with a love of and loyalty to our nation. No other fighting men or women in history have fought more fiercely for their country.

Contrast that with the Afghan Army we are trying to train. These new soldiers may well love the land on which they live... but they have no history of a nation, a state, worth dying for. In addition to teaching them how to handle a weapon, move as a unit, and accept the discipline required of an effective fighting force, we must first convince them the fight is worth fighting.

But there is much more. A recent report was of a Afghan unit that came under fire and sustained casualties. They were able to radio for help - specifically for helicopters to evacuate their wounded. But not one member of the group knew how to read a map. They could not tell anyone where they were.

In another report, cash military payrolls were being raided by superiors along the way. A decision was made to issue cash soldier pay by ATM machine. Alas. The Afghan soldiers did not know how to work the machines and they were being forced to pay bribes to someone who could operate the machines for them.

The frustration for U.S. and NATO trainers trying to forge a reliable fighting force in Afghanistan must, at times, be almost overwhelming. May bring tears of frustration to adult eyes.

I am reminded of a story from my past. One of my daughters contracted Type One diabetes when she was eleven years old. After she completed college and became a school teacher, the disease gradually robbed her of her sight. She was assigned to teach a class of visually impaired children. Curious as to what grade level her students had achieved, I asked her to explain what the children were being taught. One little boy, she explained, persisted in beating his head against the wall. They were trying to teach him not to do that. No "three Rs" in the foreseeable future.

So the public asks, "What's taking so long to train the Afghan Army?" Uh... maybe less time than it will take to answer your question.

Blago. Convict or acquit?

Actually that is not truly the choice... to be acquitted, he must be retried. I am opposed to that.

I have no love for or loyalty to Rod Blagojevich, former Governor of Illinois. Admittedly I do not know the truth as to what he did or did not do. (Does anyone?) But my impression is distinctly one of disdain. I find it hard to believe that Mr. Blagojevich was little more than another crooked Chicago politician.

But he is being prosecuted by another man whom I perceive to be a crooked politician... Patrick Fitzgerald.

So what is the difference between the two? Fitzgerald has power. Blagojevich has none. Don't know about you, but I am much more fearful of crooks with power than of crooks without power.

"Cracklin's"

Looking for a change-up in snacks, my wife brought home a container labeled "Pork Rinds"!

Sounds like tree bark, lemon peel, parts of old footballs - or, as my dictionary states, a "hard or tough outer layer"!

Actually, they are not pork rinds at all, and I don't know who gave them that name. When I was a kid on the farm, we called them cracklin's. I loved them then, still do! Cracklin's are a by-product of rendering lard. Lard has been demonized by the health czars, but, used in moderation, it is not dangerous and imparts a flavor to fried chicken that has no equal.

When we butchered hogs on the farm, my dad trimmed off much of the fat before curing the hams and slabs of bacon. This fat was marbled with flesh, so it would be more accurate to say he trimmed away those parts that were mostly fat. These trimmings of "mostly fat" were the raw material for making lard.

Trimmings we put in a large pot and heated on the stove. I was too young then to remember details today, so I don't know how hot or how long, but eventually the fat melted and was drained - strained - off. This liquid fat was poured into large cans and, when cooled, was lard.

What was left was cracklin's, those traces of lean flesh, now cooked crisp and devoid of all fat. Or, almost all fat. Cracklin's do contain some fat... and calories.

Cracklin's are a great snack. As in the case of most simple foods, just remember the "M" word... moderation!

Watching Nature

In the Southwest desert trees grow alongside streams or where people plant and water them - rarely elsewhere. Here we are accustomed to endless views, generally as far as the next high mountain range.

Accordingly, it is fun to sit on the back patio and watch nature.

The other afternoon, we watched a hawk soaring over the landscape - rarely moving a wing - just gliding on thermals. His presence, while enjoyed by my wife and I, became very troubling to a neighborhood mockingbird. This smaller bird decided it was time to harass the hawk and, perhaps, persuade it to hunt elsewhere.

Repeatedly diving at the hawk, the mockingbird caused the hawk to react, but could not succeed in driving the large predator away. Instead, the hawk just circled and flew back toward us.

Finally, the mockingbird decided to increase the pressure. It dived so close to the hawk it appeared it was actually pecking the hawk on the head. On the next attack, it appeared to actually make contact with the hawks left wing. That was its mistake.

What happened was too quick for the eye to follow. All we saw was the mockingbird dive into the hawk's wing, then suddenly tumble to the ground. Somehow the hawk had delivered a knockout blow.

Birds, with their hollow bones and fluffy feathers, are lightweight. Perhaps the mockingbird survived the crash. Perhaps it landed on a creosote bush. We could not tell.

My wife was saddened, observing that the mockingbird was only trying to protect its nest from a perceived danger.

We were reminded that nature rarely plays favorites... just or unjust, if you make a mistake you'll pay.

Recent Events.

VJ Day was 65 years ago on August 15th. The anniversary of that event quietly passed the other day... completely ignored by our current president. Aside from events involving family, I believe VJ Day in 1945 was the most joyous occasion of my life. VE Day (Victory in Europe) had passed a few months earlier. I was working in a defense plant in Southern California on that day. All work was stopped and all workers were called to a meeting place. We were told that the war in Europe was over, but were reminded that the Pacific war continued to rage. There was more to be done and we all went back to work.

But VJ Day meant it was all over. I was in downtown Kansas City where huge crowds spilled into that city's famous 12th Street. We all sang patriotic songs and every guy kissed every girl. There was truly unbounded joy that lasted well into the night.

Art Linkletter died last May at age 97. This TV personality was a good guy who entertained us for years simply by demonstrating that "Kids Say The Darnedest Things" - which became the name of his show. I thought of him last week. After a six-hour drive to visit our granddaughters, I was sorely in need of a visit to a bathroom. Leaving the bathroom and returning to the family gathered in the living room, I was soon followed by my two-year-old granddaughter who loudly announced to the family that "Grandpa made my bathroom smell like poop!"

Elvis Presley was remembered August 16th, the anniversary of his death, by a large gathering at his former Memphis home - more quietly, elsewhere. I'll always remember the day I received a call (at the radio station where I worked) suggesting that I should check out some recordings on the Sun label by a kid from Memphis named Elvis Presley. "Who?", I asked. The caller, "Bubbles" Gilmer, manager of the Record Department for the Katz Drug Store chain, had to spell the name for me. No one has to spell his name today. 33 years after his death, it is still one of the most familiar names in the entire world.

About Prop 8 and That judge.

Recently I had a conversation about the California marriage referendum and the action of a federal judge negating the will of 7 million voters. Opposed to the judge's actions, I was challenged on the grounds that the law could not deprive one of their "rights". As someone with Libertarian leanings, I agree that the government needs to butt out.

But, when, exactly, did marriage become a right? If a man has a right to be married, some woman is obligated to marry him. What if no woman wants to marry the creep? If he has a right to be married, some woman must marry him. Are we all "endowed by our creator" with that right? (Sorry, lady. I have a right to a wife and you're it! Start rattling those pots and pans!)

Do you still think of marriage as a right?

And, if marriage is a right, why isn't polygamy? Certainly polygamy has greater historic significance than gay marriage. Think Solomon! Marriage is not a right. It is a tradition.

Marriage between one man and one woman is a tradition that has existed for a millennium. In my eight-plus decades of stumbling through life, I have come to the conclusion that ancient traditions became traditions through the test of time. It is terribly egotistic to think we are the first generation to think of something other than traditional marriage. Surely it has been tried. Surely it has failed the test of time.

Can we imagine why?

Statistics regarding single women raising (actually flunking at raising) kids are mind-boggling. Children with idle time at home with no parent in the house are much more likely to become troubled children. Single moms raising kids are overwhelmingly poor. Another recipe for troubled kids.

Lower birth rates are a death knell for any society. We need child-bearing families. Not easy for gay couples.

I could go on and on with the sad statistics of spouse-less parents and parent-less children. But the facts are simple... gay marriage satisfies only the selfish desires of two people. It benefits no one else.

Certainly we should not deny two people who love each other the joy of spending their lives together. But neither should we call them "married", and shout their relationship from the rooftops. Instead we should be promoting the virtues of traditional marriage... the benefits to both the husband and the wife, the benefits to children from having a mom and a dad, and the benefits to society from a generation of kids likely to be more successful.

A Mosque at Ground Zero?

I am not a member of any organized religion, but I am a passionate supporter of the First Amendment. In America, no law may prohibit the free exercise of one's religion.

However, according to Dr. Peter Hammond, author of "Slavery, Terrorism and Islam: The Historical Roots and Contemporary Threat" Islam is not a religion, nor is it a cult. In its fullest form, it is a complete, total, 100% system of life.

The Constitution does not guarantee the right to any system of life. Head-hunting, cannibalism, and other practices are prohibited because they necessarily incorporate practices so forbidden by the laws of a civil society, that the question of religion is not relevant. And some "religions" do the same.

The religion of the ancient Aztecs that required ripping the heart from the chest of a living person and the devil-worship religions that require the sacrifice of even willing victims, are two examples. The practice of cutting off the nose and ears of a young woman, for some supposed moral transgression is another.


So, please, no more about freedom of religion as regards the Ground Zero Mosque. Hernan Cortez eliminated the ancient Aztec's blood-letting religious practices. Civilized societies everywhere should eliminate these current murderous religions.

The Wimping of America.

Remember the "Little Rascals" (sometimes called "Our Gang") ... Alfalfa, Spanky & friends? That early film (later, TV) comedy series followed the bumbling, stumbling antics of a group of kids. This unkempt, often unwashed gang; black, white, fat, thin, were not much, but they were always boys. (Yes, some girls did appear in the series.)

I loved the Little Rascals. So did a whole generation of ordinary kids... a generation which grew up to be The Greatest Generation.

This past week, my wife and I have been babysitters for four granddaughters: ages 12, 10, 6 & 2. Needless to say, I have watched a lot of The Disney Channel. A disappointing experience.

No more Spanky. No more Alfalfa. No more boys, as I knew boys to be. The male children on TV today are perfectly attired, beautifully coiffed little girly boys. All scrubbed clean, looking like they never even heard of dirt... much less had any under their fingernails from digging fishing worms with bare hands.

How could any girl be attracted to these girls in boy disguise? Maybe that is why so many boys want to marry other boys. And why girls want to marry other girls. There is no opposite to be attracted to.

Are the producers of these show purposely trying to groom a generation of wimps? What, exactly, will this generation of wimps grow up to be?

Here's one that made me say "Wow!"

On July 30, I underwent a stress test at the clinic of my Cardiologist. Upon completion, they gave me a letter which stated that I had received an injection of Thallium-201 Chloride, a radioactive substance for the purpose of medical imaging. They said to carry the letter with me at all times for the next couple of weeks - especially if I would be going through a Border Patrol check point, as I may set off their detectors. Yeah, right. I'll watch out for flying pigs, also!

Six days later, on Thursday morning, August 5, I did go through a BP check point. The very courteous officer asked if either my wife or I had recently undergone any medical imaging procedure.

I Showed him my letter and, still very courteous, they checked my I.D., then had us step out of and away from the car. With a Geiger counter, they checked out the vehicle, then they checked me. When he neared me, his instrument clicked like crazy.

They then checked with my Cardiologist to confirm what the letter said, thanked us for our patient cooperation, and wished us a good day.

Merely driving up to the check point in our car, I had set off their detectors! Wow!

I am not a fan of 'Big Brother' tactics, but if anyone is concerned about someone entering the country with a "dirty bomb", rest assured someone is doing something to prevent it.

Recently, some TV commentators have rudely criticized the Border Patrol. Not us. We congratulated the officers for doing their job and thanked them for their service.

Incidentally, most of the agents were Hispanic, as are many of our local police officers. So, never believe the lies about Border Patrol and police in the southwest practicing racial profiling. In all my years in the Southwest, I have never heard of a local police or Border Patrol officer accused of profiling by a Hispanic person.