Memories of Laughter; memories of love

We just lost our seventh dog. That’s not quite right; the dog didn’t run away; the dog died. Yet, I don’t feel particularly good about putting it that way either. I sentenced this dog to death, and the veterinarian was the executioner.

Vikki had been with us/me for over 13 years. She was a beautiful, brindle Cairn terrier I’d purchased from a wonderful couple in Rhode Island. I had to go through a three hour interview on a Sunday morning before I was even allowed to view the pups. As I recall, I was asked to remove my shoes before I entered the house because they had a new litter in their bedroom upstairs and didn’t want to expose them to something I might bring in [if they’d only known where those socks had been – just kidding]. By the way, that new litter, as I recall was less than a week old. Following the interview, I went to see the 8-week pups playing in the backyard and told the breeder which one I’d like. “We’ll call you in a couple of weeks with our decision,” she said.

One week later I called the breeder. “Look, we don’t wish to wait another week,” I said. “We’ve had dogs before and we’re a good family for them. I’d like you to tell me ‘yes’ or ‘no’ please.” It sounded to my mind somewhat angry…which it was. “That’s funny; we were just about to call you and tell you that you can pick up your dog whenever you want,” I was told.

To shorten the story…We did. My late wife had eight wonderful years with our Vikki, and I had five more. About two years before Joan was diagnosed with cancer, the dog knew she was sick. There were no signs or symbols, but one evening, Vikki suddenly jumped into Joan’s lap, snuggled down and began licking Joan’s hand. She began doing it more and more often…right up to the time of the deadly diagnosis. No one will ever convince me that Vikki didn’t know Joan was ill.

In her 13^th year Vikki went blind. She knew the house and the yard well enough to get around and do so rather skillfully. Whether her other senses sharpened or not, I have no way of telling; however, this blind=as-a-bat pooch must have had one hell of a sense of smell because she presented us with three baby rabbits the day before she collapsed. Her collapse occurred in the backyard. She was lying in the grass and went to get up. Her hind legs just collapsed and she landed on her side. No matter how hard she tried, her body would not respond. Juli carried her into the kitchen and lay her on the cool tile floor. I called the vet and was told to bring her in the next day.

Vikki was the seventh dog we had owned since 1961. We knew she was in serious trouble. When the vet came into the examining room, she sensed immediately how upset Juli and I were. After a brief examination, she inquired, “Are you both here to say goodbye to Vikki?” We looked at our dog, then at each other, and despite my promise to myself that I would not show emotion, the tears began to flow. This was my seventh dog. I have no idea how many Juli had before moving to Massachusetts. I had never cried before. I love every one of our other dogs, but I’d never cried. I rested my head gently on Vikki’s as the injection was made. I cried like a baby and so did Juli.

Then it was over; Vikki was gone.

Someone said to me a day or two later, “I know what you’re going through; it’s like losing a child.” I’m certain I just looked at them and said nothing. Had I opened my mouth it would have been to say, “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” A child is your flesh and blood; a pet is a wonderful part of your life that leaves too soon, but to compare the two is sheer idiocy. I will always remember those last moments; better yet, I will remember Vikki falling in the pool and realizing she could actually swim, eventually understanding that on a hot summer day, “Hey, this is a pretty cool thing they put here for me.” Stick up the finger of one hand – not that one, fool – and sweep your other hand around it. That was Vikki in the middle with the world revolving around her. I wasn’t quite that bad, but you get the picture.

When they are pups, they leave little treasures for you to clean up. As they age, they bark at the back door. They let you know when they want to eat and when they want to cuddle. They are loving and they are a pain in the butt. There are times you’d like to slap ‘em upside the head and the next minute they’re laying beside you licking that hand you were going to use before. One moment they’re as stubborn as a rock; the next they are at your side. They are your pet, and if you’ve shown a little love on your part, you get a passel back that’s so big it will just melt your heart. The breed doesn’t matter. If you get a puppy and treat it with kindness, you will receive love that is unconditional. We’ve had Charlie the Dalmatian; Tammy, the Siberian Husky; Snowy, the small poodle, Dapper, the All—American something-or-other who was our only dog to appear on a Boston television show – that’s right a star was born and died on TV…but only when told to die. We had Lacey, our first Cairn. She died of cancer at six…and then we had Vikki. You know the rest.

Will I have another dog? Here’s what I wrote to Vikki’s breeder: “Since I am now 78, I fear this is the end of my pet days. After I go, Juli will be moving back to California with her family and, quite frankly, I just don’t think the kids want any more confusion in their lives Ann already has two labs, and Rick has some monster named Bandit who, I gather is a cross between the Incredible Hulk and Mr. Hyde. Janet’s kids are too young for a dog and they’re so into sports I fear the dog would be a second class citizen.” You should also know that I later e-mailed this breeder, asking if she had any puppies available. If she has, Juli will take him/her to California when my time is up. Vikki has been gone less than a week; the sense of loneliness is inexplicable. Could I love another dog? Of course not…well, not until that first lick on the back of my hand or on my cheek. What a bloody softy; I just hope I never grow up!

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A so-called friend

“…and how is your lovely wife,” he went on, and before I could say anything, he was talking about all of the wonderful times we had at the beach and how he loved being around us because we always seemed so happy and what a wonderful woman she is and how lucky I was to have found a beautiful, intelligent woman as a life partner…and on and on and on. It’s called ‘oral diarrhea compounded by mental constipation;’ at least that’s the way in which it was explained to me.

When he finally began to run down and had to stop to take a breath, I informed him that my wife had died nearly five years ago. That stopped him momentarily…but just…and he went on to describe her taste in reading materials, in this and in that until I’d finally had quite enough. Since he never bothered to ask how she died or what happened or any of the questions which might have been asked, I figured, “fuck him;” I’m going to have the fun that Joan would have wanted me to have with this supposed friend we hadn’t seen in twenty years prior to her cancer.

As he was jabbering on, I quietly said, “Yeah, it’s really tough when you go for a swim and a shark comes out of nowhere and just chomps down; what a bitch. It was really fascinating to watch the feeding frenzy with the bluefish and all the others though.”

Gotcha, you son-of-a-bitch!

Have you ever seen someone’s eyes bug out; I mean, really bug out, like you thought maybe they were going to leave their sockets and roll down the cheeks into the mouth that had already dropped to the person’s chest…it’s like this huge ‘O’ just waiting to catch the eyeballs, but you know they won’t quite make it because of all the nerve endings and shit, but that’s sorta what it looks like? The clouds stopped moving across the sky; the wind died down to nothing; the trees stopped their gentle blowing; even the waves stopped making noise when the broke on the shore…I was on the beach with some ‘real’ friends when he had stopped by. Even they had been momentarily stunned by my declaration of death.

“But….how….what….when…sharks…bluefish…but…what…” How to describe it…the wind went out of the sails, perhaps? A professional place kicker had walked up behind him and sent his balls some distance away to an imaginary field goal? Mike Tyson had put all he had into a gut shot? Any of those descriptive gems pale by comparison to the look on the face of our chatterbox faux pal. In addition, if he had had a summer tan, it was now ghostly white.

Without waiting, I went on…”Yeah, you know how Joan liked to go for her morning swim about 50 yards out. I was just watching that beautiful stroke and then BAM, that shark picked her right up out of the water.” I pointed at my two friends. “They were here; they can tell you what it was like; man, it was just something to watch. You know how blues can smell blood in the water. They joined in so fast, it was enough to make you wish you had a rod ‘n reel!”

I’d gone over the edge with the “rod ‘n reel” bit. If I hadn’t thrown that in, I could have had him for oh, maybe another hour or so, but that last bit gave the entire thing a loss of credibility.

He just looked at me for a moment. Aside from the fact that he insinuated that my mother was pedigreed; he didn’t put it quite that way; and that my father was an unknown factor, he also expressed concern for my psychological wellbeing and while I have never heard of a sick fornicator, I supposed there could be such a thing. While my friends were rolling around on their blanket holding on to their stomachs and trying to avoid laughing hard enough not to pee in their bathing suits, I withstood the harangue with a perfectly straight face. He finished with “…and when I see your wife I’m going to tell her exactly, exactly – in case I didn’t hear the first one – exactly what you said.”

“You can’t do that,” I told him.

“I most certainly can,” he huffed, “and you can bet your ass I will.”

“My wife is dead,” I said.

“You’re a goddamned liar,” he replied.

I suppose there might have been some justification for his skepticism, and perhaps I was a bit of an ass myself, but his pomposity at the outset had just gotten to me. Don’t come up to me after twenty-some-odd years and pretend that we’re big old buddies when we were never all that friendly in the first place. My real friends know exactly how my wife died; how she outlived the doctors’ predictions; and how she valued quality of life over quantity, and how one doctor told me and some of his colleagues that if he was ever in a foxhole, he’d want her beside him because of her toughness.

So I told this so-called friend the story. But you know what…he just walked away after he’d heard about her battle. He never once said he was sorry for the loss or offered condolences. After that, I was really glad that I’d had my fun. If I ever get back to the beach, I doubt I’ll be seeing him. Gee, ain’t that a shame!

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Where is heaven?

So there I was sitting there, thumb in bum and mind in neutral – that’s just a figure of speech; please don’t take it literally – when I decided to Google a question that had been intriguing me. Certainly, some genius along the way had to have put the answer to my question on the Internet…and it would have to be true because we all know that only the truth makes it to the Net. The question was this: “Where is heaven?” It wasn’t that I was going to take a Sunday drive and wanted to know if I should turn left or right out of the driveway, and it wasn’t that I was going to make reservations…those, I believe, have already been made…or not. I was merely curious about what others might have to say regarding the location of heaven. Can you believe it; in less than a quarter of a second, I had over 381 million references to my question. Is this Internet thingie fast or what? Many of the sites that popped up on my screen cheated to some degree because they discussed the corollary of where heaven is located by also describing the location of hell.

There were all sorts of biblical references to the location of heaven as well as where hell might be found. Isaiah, Revelations, John, Corinthians, Matthew, and nearly any other book of the Bible was quoted by this writer or that. This is fine for those who believe that the Holy Bible – which version I don’t know – but that the Holy Bible is the be all and end all of what we as Christians should expect or understand about God, the Blessed Trinity, and the Holy Mother…as well as everything else. To doubt the bible, we are told, is to doubt God; and to doubt God is not only a bad thing, but it sort of excludes us from any shot at getting into heaven. I don’t happen to see things that way but what the hell, that’s me and I’m just one lonely little soul on earth…for a while longer I hope.

I do doubt the Holy Bible. I have no question at all that it was scribed by brilliant men who believed every word they were writing. I also believe in the old quote, “History is written by the winners.” Who is to say that what is written is not a compromise of what actually took place? Who is to say that women were so subjugated that there are no scriptures written by women? Who is to say that some of those who transcribed or even originally wrote scripture weren’t prone to exaggeration or to the twists and turns of their own minds regarding Christ?

Am I the “doubting Thomas” of whom we hear so much? I most certainly hope that is not true. But then, there are those who believe everything that is printed in today’s newspapers or seen on television…and that’s kind of pathetic. For example, I’m certain that Osama bin Laden is dead. It’s the story of how he died that I question. There are so many versions that I’m not certain which one to believe. Some would say that it doesn’t matter because this horrible man is dead, period, end of report. I’m not one of those; I’d like the complete, unadulterated version by someone who was there and who is not going to attempt to glorify what happened…so there!

Let’s get back to the question of where heaven is located. I think of heaven as a place. Since I haven’t been there – to the best of my knowledge – I really can’t give an adequate description. Were I an avid golfer, I would probably envision the most beautiful fairways and greens with no fees and where my driver could send the ball a nine iron away from the green after every single stroke. Were I an ardent fisherman, I would see a beautiful stream running to an endless lake, where I could cast and get a hit each time. Were I this; were I that, I could spot whatever held my greatest interest and from which I would never tire. But I really don’t know. My personal feeling is that the foundation of heaven is in my heart and in my soul. I build that foundation with the manner in which I treat others as well as the way in which I treat myself. I think that Malcolm Forbes had it right when he said, “You can tell the character of a man by the way in which he treats those who can do absolutely nothing for him.” I believe that the strength of my foundation is truly dependent on treating those ‘others’ as I would like to be treated. Yes, yes, it’s the Golden Rule and very few of us are able to live by it…most assuredly, not yours truly. Perhaps it should have been called “The Golden Guide,” because man is what man is and treating others the way you’d like to be treated just ain’t gonna happen on a regular basis!

Anyway, I believe that the foundation for our house in heaven begins with how we act on earth. When we die, our foundation travels with us, and somewhere the foundation is placed. Where? How the hell do I know; I told you that I haven’t been there – pay attention! With our foundation now gone, we will meet God. He will ask us about our lives on earth, and we will be unable to tell anything but the honest truth. We will not lie because God is God and we will be in such awe of His presence that our words while few, will be without elaboration or exaggeration. My God, the God to whom I will confess my sins – and I will recall each and every one of them as though they happened yesterday – is not a vengeful God. He is a God of Love and Understanding. He will punish, but His punishment will fit the manner in which I lived my life. His guidelines for entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven are far different from my own; I cannot even begin to describe what they might be. If, however, my God decides that I am to be welcomed into heaven, my house will appear, fully constructed, perhaps as a shack; perhaps as something “better,” but it will be my house for all eternity. What will it contain? Well, I doubt we’ll be watching HBO or Cinemax. My wish would be that my house be filled with books, just as the golfer wants his fairways just outside his door and the fisherman wants his lake and stream nearby, I want my books. I’d like to spend my eternity reading and learning. Of course, that’s just me. Go build your own place. You are, however, welcome to visit any time.

So where is heaven? Heaven is in you. Where is it when you die? I don’t have a clue and I don’t believe that one of those 381 million on Google have a clue either. All we have to do to learn the exact location is to die, and I’d like to read a few more books down here first.

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Belief system…or not!

“When you were born, you were crying and everyone around you was smiling. Live your life so that when you die, you’re the one who is smiling and everyone around you is crying.”

The author is unknown, but the sentiment is, for the most part, true.  ‘For the most part’ really depends on the depth of your faith. If you happen to be attuned to Shirley MacLaine, you know that you’ve been here before and will be coming back. If you are like several of my professed atheistic friends, you believe that dead is dead and that’s it. The majority of us are somewhere on a scale of faith. Whether this scale is one to a hundred or one to sixteen trillion – had to get the national debt in there somehow – it doesn’t really matter. For simplification, let’s say that the scale is one to ten. Most assuredly, the Pope, Cardinals, and all the way down to the most recently ordained priest ,minister, rabbi, imam, or whatever would rank right at the top of the scale. Daily communicants and those who attend church regularly in addition to being good people are up around the seven to nine ranking. It’s entirely up to you to figure out where you rank on this scale. To use me as an example…I don’t go to church. The reason is quite simple; I don’t believe in organized religion. I prefer to pray to a God who I am positive exists. In that same vein, I am positive that I will meet God and will have to answer for my sins. From that meeting it will be determined whether or not I am welcomed into the paradise of heaven, am required to spend “time” in purgatory, or confined to the fires of hell for all eternity. That’s my belief. Yours may rank somewhere else, but as I say, it’s for you to figure out.

Getting back to the first statement above, there are many times when someone dies that you, if you believe, should be smiling. You should smile – again, depending on your belief system – because you know that person has gone to a far better place than he or she occupied on earth. I cried when my wife was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer; there is no Stage V. However, I did not cry when she died; at the wake; or at the funeral. My belief system says that she went to a better place.

The last time that I saw my kid brother – eleven years younger than me– he was in a wheelchair and on oxygen. That was nearly ten years ago. He died two days ago. When I talked with his wife this evening, we agreed he is so much better off, wherever it happens to be, than he was while still living. Just as many of you did, I shed tears for the children of Newtown. However, I’m not certain whether my tears were for them or for their families. And why didn’t I cry for the kids from Columbine? Tears don’t help the children or their family so why should I cry? I am confident; I am beyond positive that each of those students and each of those adults who gave their lives to a madman and to two madmen are in a better place.

My personal goal is to live my life in such a way that when I die, people won’t be crying. They will be telling stories and even laughing. They won’t be particularly happy that I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil but they will know that I’ve gone where I wanted to go; that the time was right for me to say, “Hey, I’ll see ya later.”

Given my druthers, I’d like to believe that I’ve tried to live my life with the ultimate goal of the last stanza of “The Dash” by Linda Ellis…”So when your eulogy is being read with life’s actions to rehash, Would you be pleased with the things they say about how you spent your dash?” And I can look at that guy in the mirror and say, “Yes, yes, I’m pleased.”

Let them smile when they look down on you in that box.  Let them recall all of your goodness, and let them be happy for you because they know you have gone to a better place. I’m happy for my late wife, and I’m happy for my kid brother. I want to believe that I’ll see them again but, truthfully, that part of the belief system is one on which I’m still working.

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The facts of life

Discussions about gun control are always interesting. I casually mentioned to some folks at the gym that the time was probably close when we would have to see armed guards in schools.  The people were shocked. “Are you crazy?” “What a horrible idea!” “We can’t allow that to happen!” I then casually asked, “Well, what is the alternative?” The responses were immediate and darn near unanimous…”Ban assault weapons in the United States!” Now, the people with whom I was speaking appear to be reasonably intelligent.  We’ve had discussions on other topics in the past and I have been impressed with their points of view. This one floored me.

We have somewhere between nine and eleven million illegal aliens living in this country. That means we couldn’t impose our immigration laws on them; they came into the country illegally. No doubt many of these people are making significant contributions to our society; they are still illegal. We have more damned drug task forces than we have God-only-knows-what, but we don’t seem to be able to quell the manufacture, transportation, distribution, sale and use of illegal drugs in our country. In 1920, we attempted to prohibit the manufacture, etc, of alcohol, and while the ban lasted for 13 years, the manufacture, sale, distribution, and consumption of alcohol didn’t seem to miss a beat.

There are well over 100 gun manufacturers in the United States.  Are we going to tell Mark and Chuck Larson of Rock River Arms that they have to close up shop and find a new line of work? Should we let Bill Alexander of Alexander Arms know that his Beowulf and Grendel cartridges can no longer be made because they’re too powerful? How about the Springfield Armory in Illinois, or Remington or Smith & Wesson; what do we say to those folks? “Oh, you can manufacturer for the military and you can make; you can make; you can make…aw, hell, we don’t want you to make anything that might kill our civilians!” How bloody naïve can are we? Putting a ban on assault weapons now is somewhat akin to locking the barn door after the horses have run. Can we slow down the sales? Most assuredly we can have a minor impact, but that’s about all. Can we guarantee that an assault rifle will not fall into the hands of someone who is unbalanced? That’s open to debate. How do we know who is going to snap for whatever reason? The answer, obviously, is that we don’t. Therefore, mall shootings, school shootings, business office shootings, supermarket shootings, etc., are going to happen. We don’t like it – not a one of us – but it’s a fact of life in the society in which we just happen to live.

When you boil down the bullshit, one fact remains clear: If you fire a gun, you are trying to become proficient at killing. You may call it sport shooting or target practice or whatever name you wish, but it boils down to aiming a weapon that’s sole purpose is to kill. Whether you are trying to become a better hunter for the food that you need to put on the table or whether you are attempting to eliminate an enemy before he/she/it eliminates you, your gun’s ultimate purpose is to kill something. “Oh, I just have it for protection,” someone will say. How does a gun protect you if you are not willing to use it? And, if you are willing to use it, you are willing to kill because that’s what guns do. I love these television shows and movies where the bad guys always miss from 30 feet away with an AR-15 while the good guys can make a head shot from fifty yards with a .45 caliber pistol. Anyone who has ever handled weapons knows just how unlikely these scenarios are. Therefore, the phrase, “Shoot to wound,” is about as unrealistic as it can possibly be. If you are firing a gun at someone to stop them from killing you, the largest mass of the body is that for which you are aiming; that is not the head, nor an arm or leg; it is the chest and stomach, both of which are generally kill shots.

We must wake up to the fact that we are not living in the genteel days of the 50s, 60s, or even 70s. We are living in a time, for whatever reason, people are taking violent actions in their rage. What causes anyone to go into a shopping mall, a theater, a school, or even a business and begin firing? I don’t know, and until the time comes when we can identify predictors of aberrant behavior, no one will be able to accurately predict who is going to do what or when.

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Life in the New World

America appears to be a nation that revels in excuses for actions that are intolerable. When Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris went on their massacre at Columbine High School; when Seung-Hui-Cho killed 32 at Virginia Tech; when Adam Lanza slaughtered 20 children and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School; when, when, when, when, when…we attempted to justify the killers’ actions.  Klebold and Harris were bullied. Cho had an anxiety disorder. Lanza  was described as having a personality disorder.

Since 1992, there have been 387 school shootings. Some, like Sandy Hook and Columbine and Va Tech have attracted national and international attention. Others like Inskip Elementary School or North Charleston High School received a minimum of publicity. Think of the numbers, however; think of the fact that school shootings have numbered nearly 400 in 20 years. The fact of the matter is that we really don’t know what is causing all of this hatred and killing, so we make up excuses for why these murderers killed. I wonder if anyone has ever considered the fact, for that’s what it is, the fact that these are just evil children. It has nothing to do with a personality disorder or a medical problem diagnosed because we have made such great strides in psychoanalysis. Hell, I’m positive that if I was to go to a reading specialist or a school psychologist today, I would be diagnosed with some kind of learning disability that would require medication of some kind. I will put money on the table that bets that damn near every kid with whom I went to school would be scarred in some way by today’s professionals. My youngest was diagnosed with dyslexia and with attention deficit disorder. The college admission officer, a personal friend and former colleague, wanted to put her in a year-long, post-high school program to prepare her for college. I declined that offer because I was certain of my child’s capabilities. She not only graduated as a four-year Academic All-American, she overloaded by one course in every term after her freshman year. Oh, and she also graduated holding all of the Eastern Collegiate Athletic Conference swimming records for each of the three butterfly events. Learning disability my ass; the kid learned differently from other children.  Bullied? Klebold and Harris were bullied? Other killers were bullied? Whose problem is that? You may get the crap beat out of you if you stand up to a bully or you may just finish it by walking up to a bully and getting in the first punch. Either way, you really can end it without a gun. Ask me; I’ve been there.

“Some people are just hard wired differently,” I hear the analysts say. Okay, I’ll buy that. Then let’s find out who has the wiring that will cause them to kill and kill them first. If you know that some child is going to kill, why are they allowed to live? “Oh, well, we can’t really identify them. You wouldn’t kill a child just because you know he or she is going to be born with Down’s syndrome, would you?” Excuse me; I’m not talking about an illness. None of the children who have killed other children and adults have had Down’s or CP or MS or and other diseases that I know of. They certainly have “excuse” diseases. They have been given charming names like “personality disorder,” or “lack of social skills,” or acute this or extreme that. They are what might be found in a doctor’s PDA under “bullshit diagnoses.”

For years we have heard police officers, lawyers, and judges say something about serial killers to the effect that, “You look at them and all you can see is pure evil.” It, in and of itself, is a diagnosis. When could that look first be seen? Was it when the killer as a kid tied cats to the clothesline, doused them with lighter fluid and lit them up? Was it when he or she did ‘funny’ things to other children? Was it when strange behavior was considered humorous? Exactly when did we get the first clue that little Theordore might become killer Ted Bundy? Hmm, when did that behavioral pattern first emerge? Did that funny kid, Jeffie Dahmer like to bite other children or grab them in the crotch area? “Oh, well, you know, boys will be boys!

I have no clue regarding the totality of the responsibility of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. I am aware that when these school shootings first began, that the unit was interviewing jailed serial killers in an effort to learn if any of their traits were also present in the school killer kids. It’s not physically possible to psychologically profile every child born in this country. It’s not even possible to get parents to be aware that their child might be different. How many times have you heard a parent say, “Not my kid; my kid would never do anything like that. You’ve got the wrong kid:” All this, despite the fact that the kid is standing there with a rock or some other evidence right in his hand.

The truth of the entire matter is that there will be more school shootings. There will be more mall shootings and theater shootings. We will graduate to larger ‘audiences’ or killing fields. Who knows, maybe some kid will get his – or her; let’s not be sexist – hands on a rocket propelled grenade and release that somewhere. Maybe some idiot will begin thinking that improvised explosive devices are a fun thing to use and set off by their smart phones; I have no idea what goes through the head of today’s sick and twisted youth. Maybe it’s not the kids we should be looking at. Maybe we should be examining the traits of the parent or parents who raise these kids. Where did they go wrong? Were they the ones who went wrong? What did they miss in their child’s behavior? Were they to inattentive; not sufficiently attentive? Did they dismiss something as ‘boys will be boys’ or ‘girls will be girls?’ Who the hell is responsible and how the hell do we prevent it from happening again? And, as I say, we don’t know who bears the responsibility for identifying the potential killers.

The world of the 21^st Century is a violent world. We read in damn near every report issued that violent crime in America is on the decline. If that is the case, that’s great. Then how do you explain the horror of these killings that have taken place in Littleton and Aurora, Colorado? How can you explain away Newtown, Connecticut? Is it just a case of how we reveal our statistical data?  I don’t care what laws are passed to control guns. They may have pretty words on paper and sound convincingly appropriate. However, we aren’t going to stop people from getting guns. We won’t confiscate every AK-47 or 100-round magazine. It’s unrealistic to think it can be done. We certainly haven’t reached the point where teaching is done in every home by computer to ensure child safety and pray God we will never reach that point. But to say that armed guards are too frightening to have in schools is sticking our collective heads straight into the sand. “This, my child, is a gun. It is used to kill. It is used to put food on the table and to prevent someone from coming into this wonderful building and killing you. Get used to it kid; it’s part of life in the New World!”

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Time to think

This little essay is not meant to be inciting, irritating, or berating of children everywhere. It will sound that way so let’s get that nonsense taken care of right up front.

Once we…yes, I was a child at one time; you can’t possibly believe I was born this pissed off at the world…but once we reach a certain age, get married, if we do, have children or other commitments in our lives, it’s really quite horrifying at how much we don’t wish to be bothered by those things entitled “parents.” Oh, they’re lovely enough to have around at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and on their birthdays or those of our children – they bring cash – but other than that, they ask embarrassing questions and remind us that we, too, are growing older and it’s something that we really do not wish to see or hear. Some people out there will by now be saying, “Oh you horrible person.” I love my parents so much that I see him, her, whatever every week. I know people like that; when you pin them down; when you dig out the real truth, they are by and large resentful of the time they share with their parents. Whether it’s  that they feel they should be at work, doing things around the house, paying more attention to their own children, or whatever, there is a definite undercurrent being intruded upon, and that my friends is resentment.

Perhaps this is a confession piece of writing; I can’t honestly say. When my Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer – yes, from those f*&king cigarettes – we lived perhaps 40 miles apart. We had three kids and it seemed that every weekend there were swim meets here, there, and everywhere…never anywhere near where Mom and Pop were living. There were times when I was unable to attend the meets because of work…and which is more important, parents, wife, children, or work? Every single person who may read this could make a strong argument for any one of that quartet. Did I visit my Dad enough? No, he had lung cancer, was dying, and I should have visited him more. In one way I have to admit to being somewhat terrified. I didn’t know a hell of a lot about oxygen, but I did know that oxygen and fire don’t play well together. Whenever Dad would light a cigarette with oxygen cannula in his nose, I’d cringe and wonder if their mobile home was about to be scattered in pieces around the park and our bodies along with it.  It was an excuse; a lame one I’ll admit, but I have to say that having one’s body delivered to my family in a small box was really not my idea of a good time. Obviously, it never happened and in my dotage I can see that the chances were not all that great in the first place. It was an ‘out;’ a way that I could avoid seeing my Dad degenerate. After he died, it was Mom’s turn. She lived less than 45 minutes from where we were. My wife always had to be home with the kids and my trips to see mother grew fewer and fewer. Eventually, we wound up in an argument over the time that elapsed between visits and we no longer spoke to one another. If you don’t believe that’s not the dumbest excuse in the world, you haven’t been listening. It was my mother, and for the last three years of her life we didn’t speak…stupid, incredibly stupid. But, quite candidly, that’s what we as children are. Our age doesn’t matter; as long as our parents live, we are still stupid children. In many cultures, parents are revered; not so in the majority of western society. There are other cultures where the elderly are openly abandoned to die. We call those cultures uncivilized. What does that make me and so many others like me?  What does that make my daughters and six of my grandchildren whom I haven’t seen in over two years? The invitation comes every Thanksgiving and Christmas, but the woman who is my partner knows how the kids feel about her, and she’s very uncomfortable in their presence. The words the children utter seem nice enough, but there’s an undercurrent that makes them sound acerbic.  Funny, but I spoke with a friend today who is going through the same thing with his only child. Maybe it’s a part of childhood midlife crisis. I don’t know, but I do know that I’m not going to worry about it.

One day, when my sister and I were arguing over nothing, I remember my mother saying, almost under her breath, “May you have many children and may they be just like you.” Good call, Mom, you hit the nail smack dab on its head! Perhaps that’s exactly what happened. Our kids grew up to be exactly like us…all except my sister who graduated from high school, went to New York, had an outstanding career as a model and advertising executive; moved to California, got married, never had kids, and didn’t look back. Did she come back for the funerals? Of course she did? Did she love our parents? Of course she did. Did she visit as often as we did or should have? Don’t be ridiculous; New York City and anywhere in California are not drop-in spots when you live in Massachusetts!

This is the season when we Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. If your parents are still alive, I hope that you will think about this time as being one of renewing your own miracle of birth and the people who were responsible for that miracle. I’ve used myself as a perfect example of what you should not do. Looking back to my much, much younger days, I realize just how much my parents loved and taught me. My folks taught me responsibility and accountability. They taught me ethics and manners. They taught me the meaning of what’s right and what’s wrong.  They taught me to hold on to my beliefs and to never, ever give away my integrity. Yes, school and college were great learning environments, but they couldn’t compare with the living examples in my own home. Dad had a ninth grade education and Mom left school in the sixth. I still have to laugh about the time my mother came home from work. She’d taken a job as a bookkeeper when Dad had gotten laid off. Her only qualification I think was that the place she worked was owned by a family friend and that she kept a pretty tight budget in her own home. One afternoon she walked in and yelled to my Dad, “Hey, honey, what’s double-entry bookkeeping? The auditor said it was great that that’s how I’m keeping the books.” Yep, that was my Mom, a smart one without even knowing it!

These are the memories I have. I’d rather have the memory of sitting and talking with my Mom during those last three years. I’d rather have the memory of being with my Dad as the cancer continued to eat at his body. My own wife died of cancer. Now I know how much better it would have been had I spent more time with Dad. It’s too late for me; I just hope it’s not too late for my kids.

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Celebration, not stupidity

“Tis the season to be jolly…fa, la, la,, fa, la, la, la, la, la.

The period between Thanksgiving and New Year’s is supposed to be the happiest time of the year, particularly here in America. Yet, it appears to me that for far too many Americans, it becomes a season of terrible tragedy.

As I watched the news this morning, it occurred to me that there has not been one – not one – morning newscast this week where people were not thrust out into 20 to 30 degree weather, many in their pajamas and robes, because their apartment building was on fire. Fortunately or ‘un’ as the case may be, only one person has so far lost his life. There appears to be some direct correlation between dramatic fires and cold weather, at least here in the Northeast. There was a time when we attributed this to the use of space heaters; however, either they’re making safer space heaters or idiots have found other ways to burn down their domiciles. The one man who was killed was using a plumber’s torch and dollars to donuts he didn’t have an asbestos shield behind where he was working.

There will be more fires before Christmas 2012. In some cases they will be caused by candles left unattended; in others it will be because someone had a few too many holiday ‘spirits’ and fell asleep with a cigarette in his/her hand. Speaking of which, I heard a man complaining this morning that his apartment building fire meant he had no place to stay. There he was, casually smoking a cigarette and saying that he’d lost everything and had no insurance. I wanted to say, “Hey, asshole, with cigarettes at $70 per carton, it’s your own damned fault if you don’t have insurance! Renter’s insurance runs a little over $500 a year. Don’t bitch when you’re not trying to do anything for yourself.” I don’t want to appear holier than thou but I cannot begin to conceive of the amount of money that I’ve saved since quitting cigarettes in 1998. Okay, that was “holier than thou;” sorry.

This is also the time of year when too many people lose their collective marbles about spending. When the bills begin rolling in after January, they suddenly realize that the great deal they got on that 104” television, the one for the sixteen by twenty foot living room, is one that in hindsight they really could not afford. As a consequence, the joys of Christmas morning are suddenly replaced by the realities of beginning 2013 in way over one’s head. The marketers of Black Friday, Small Business Saturday, oh joy, oh joy Sunday, and Cyber Monday have suckered us in another year. They really don’t have anything for Sunday yet, but it will probably be Joyous Jesus Sunday when you can celebrate the upcoming birth of Christ day – which isn’t when He was born anyway – by “Saintly Spending” to celebrate His birth!

We are such a friggin’ materialistic nation that it’s beginning to turn my stomach. However, and this is a very large, very bold faced underlined and italicized ‘however,’ I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a woman who loves me, a roof over my head, food on the table, a furnace that works, a couple – not many but a couple – of extra coins in my pocket and a POSBIR in the garage . Wealthy? Hell no, I’m not even comfortable, but “Ah has what ah has…and that’s all I need.” I have some very wealthy neighbors who take all sorts of trips and who have the latest toys…but I don’t want to be them; I don’t need to be them. What they do is what they want; what I do is what I want. I will say this, “My neighbors are also just as frugal in their spending as I am. We will not be conned by the marketers who would have us go in debt over our collective heads. I have driven through parts of this country where the dwelling is a broken down mobile home and in the front yard is the biggest damned television receiver you have ever seen. I suppose that to those folks television is more important than the cracked windows in the place where they live. It’s not my idea of responsible living but then, to each his own.

So, the fires will continue. At least one toddler will die because he or she played with an extension cord; Christmas trees will fall over and a family will be overcome by smoke. But look on the good side, Roland Dow and Jessica Linscott will be spending this holiday season behind bars, and won’t have the opportunity to torture and burn her child ever again. That’s really a cause for celebration

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Getting one’s just rewards

Someone sent this story to us recently. It was clipped from a newspaper; however, I have no idea of its true origins but I’m betting on religious beginnings of some sort or other…

“…A priest dies and is waiting in line at the Pearly Gates. Ahead of him is a guy who’s dressed in sunglasses, a loud shirt, leather jacket and jeans.

“Saint Peter addresses this cool guy, ‘Who are you, so that I may know whether or not to admit you to the Kingdom of Heaven?’

“The guy replies, ‘I’m Jack, retired airline pilot from Houston.’

“Saint Peter consults his list. He smiles and says to the pilot, ‘Taking this silken robe and golden staff and enter the Kingdom.’ The pilot goes into Heaven with his robe and staff.

“Next, it’s the priest’s turn. He stands erect and booms out, ‘I am Father Bob, pastor of Saint Mary’s for the last 43 years.’

“Saint Peter consults his list. He says to the priest, ‘Take this cotton robe and wooden staff and enter the Kingdom.’

“Just a minute,’ says the good father. ‘That man was a pilot and he gets and silken robe and golden staff and I get only cotton and wood. How can this be?’  ‘Up here – we go by results,’ says Saint Peter. ‘When you preached – people slept. When he flew, people prayed.”

So, in this regard, I guess that Heaven is not that different from ‘down here.’ Perhaps Heavenly requirements are a bit stricter, but the principle’s the same. The singular difference appears to be that while you can fake your way down here, the day of genuine reckoning will eventually come around.

One of the ways I’m quite certain I’m building points with Saint Peter concerns the gym to which I belong. When I show up in the morning, half the younger crowd is praying that I’ll keel over and do what people my age are known to do on occasion. The other half of the group is praying that I’ll finish my workout and die on the way home. Either way you look at it, I got ‘em to pray!

I remain unconvinced that prayer is the only route by which one makes one’s way to the Pearly Gates. Not only that but I’m not certain a) that there are gates or b) that minding them would be a job for Saint Peter. You see, there is a saying among college fundraisers and development people in other not for profits I’m sure that goes like this; “Give ‘til it feels good.” There was a time when I thought that to be the biggest crock of you-know-what ever to be uttered by a supposedly intelligent human being. Since retirement, however, there have been a few occasions when it really did feel good. I think that’s because I knew exactly where my resources were going and how they would be used. In each case it felt good in one sense but bad in the sense of knowing that I couldn’t do more. When you do feel good about giving, that probably counts on the positive versus negative chart that somebody somewhere is keeping on each of us. The way I look at it is this…”Let my life speak for itself; I’ll happily be judged by that.”

It’s been said that the first rule for a physician is “to do no harm.” I’ve never seen those exact words in any version of the Hippocratic Oath, but they really are pretty good words to live by. Most assuredly, if one is in the military and in conflict, the words would hardly apply, but for the most part, if you can live your life without intentionally doing harm to others, you’re certainly living both the Oath and what we have come to know as “the golden rule.”

Should our lives, as the parable suggests, be completely results-driven. If that’s the case, I guess I’m gonna meet a great many friends on whatever ring of hell on which I reside. No, results are great but just living your life without doing harm to others ranks up there pretty  high on my own particular list of things to do while I’m on earth.

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It’s a crime wave

We’re all going to die. Make no mistake about that. As one writer put it, “Life is not a dress rehearsal.” Personally, I have 78 years under my belt. That’s a pretty long time when you think about it. Not a hell of a lot happened on the day I was born; a Saturday it was. In fact, when I checked it out, it looks like me and a few hundred others might hold the record for one of the dullest days in history…yep, that makes a great deal of sense. Things began to pick up, however; Seiji Ozawa was born on the same date the following year and on my fifth birthday Hitler invaded Poland. The point is that I’ve seen a lot of changes in the time I’ve been alive; I rather like it that way.

Perhaps it’s living to be this old that I get really pissed off when some young life is snuffed out…killed before he or she even started to live. It irritates the daylights out of me that those kids from Littleton, Colorado, Christina Green; the little 9-year old killed in the Tucson Arizona shooting; the one-year old who was killed in North Houston, Texas this past August…that these children will never have a chance to see some of the things that I take for granted every single day. What makes a 29-year old man feel that he can take the life of a 19-year old college student? Did someone name this guy God? Did any of these killers think at all about what they were doing?

I cannot comprehend why these killers are allowed to live. The United States has more people in prisons than any other country in the world. China has a much larger population; they don’t have as many prisons or people occupying them. India has more people, but they don’t have the prison problems. Doesn’t it make you wonder exactly what it is we’re doing to have such overcrowding? I have a very simple philosophy on this. If you take a life, you forfeit your own. Yes, there will be mistakes. Gee, that’s tough, but why were you a suspect in the first place? Is this Judge Dread justice? Absolutely, but it’s no worse than what you have already done to earn a call from the Judge.

“OMG, that’s horrendous thinking,” someone will say.  Others will use their faith as a crutch and ask, “How do you know that they hadn’t already completed their assignment from God and it was ‘their time?’” If you believe that, I guess I must really suck at whatever assignment God gave to me. Can someone look me in the eye and tell me 19-year old Lizzi Marriott had fulfilled her role in life? Can they tell me that the karate instructor who took her life did so because that was his role on earth? I’m terribly sorry, but I believe in the God of the New Testament, the kind, loving, and forgiving God, and I just don’t happen to believe that His parameters for behavior go quite that far.

That one-year old in Houston may have missed taking her first steps; she missed saying her first words; she missed potty training and sleeping in a big girl bed. So tell me what this child’s role was that she lived on this earth for such a brief period of time. At the very least, her killer lived long enough to learn how to shoot a gun.

America is in a bad place. Forget the politicians and the upcoming elections. There are too many angry people living in this country, people who feel that they must kill in order to settle their disputes. When my youngest was in college, a friend of hers was walking home alone, back to campus. A group of three young men confronted him and told him they wanted his jacket. He refused and one of the three took out a gun and shot him dead. He then took the dead kid’s jacket. Why? What for? Did it make him more of a man to kill? Did it make the dead boy a stud because he refused to give up his jacket? Neither makes a hell of a lot of sense, but that appears to be the way things are today.

I have seen so much that these dead children will never see. Just the other day, I watched a man free fall from 23 miles up, break the sound barrier and float safely to ground. We have pumpkins on our front stoop that came from our own garden. I have seen the birth of frozen foods, watched more wars in which American men and women were killed than anyone has a right to watch.  I have lived to ride in propeller airliners and those with jet engines. Who knows what marvels and miracles the next fifty or sixty years will hold…but those children will never see them

It seems to be a pretty low priority on the list of a great many people, but it’s about time America woke up to the fact that we have a crime wave on our hands, like it or not.

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