It was mid-morning and I heard our gas furnace rumble to life. My smart phone told me it was 2 below and it felt like 19 below. Normally I kindle a fire in our wood-fired boiler to ease the gas pains but several sieges of the arctic vortex have left me with maybe two cords of hard maple in reserve. I'll save that for when the wind chill is minus forty or lower. It is fortunate that it doesn't take much wood to heat the house but it adds up with each severe arctic vortex.
"Bah!" I said when I saw what Old Man Winter left overnight. In addition the city snowplow socked in my driveway and the entire length of sidewalk.
Lois and I sat down for toasted homemade bread and the deliciousness of the bread, topped with peanut butter and raspberry jam along with hot coffee comforted me for a while. I shut my mind against the inevitable task of snow removal. The beagle and the Scottish terrier each got a crust of bread. When Lois had taken the two out earlier the beagle did her duty and bolted for the front door, dragging Lois behind. The terrier was adventurous, cavorting in the deep snow, oblivious to the cold.
The two cups of coffee, along with earlier coffee necessitated a bathroom break and that's when I steeled myself for a long work session outdoors.
"I s'pose I ain't gonna get nothing done if I stay inside," I sighed. I pulled on my ski bibs and another layer of socks, my heavy "Michigan" hoodie, Sorel boots and topped it off with my Kromer cap. Then came the Air Force snorkel parka and choppers with double liners. Dressing was already a day's work and the clock sneaked up to 11:00. How does time sneak past me like that? (Lois says that I fart around too much, a sign of aging.)
The gust from the northwest almost tore the storm door out of my hand. I braced against the wind, snorkeled and buttoned down and reached for my trusty steel snow shovel, with wooden handle and cleared the front porch steps and the rear porch steps. My snow blower, a brand-new Ariens was in repose near the rear steps, the engine covered with a plastic tub.
I plugged in the electric starter and primed the engine three times, set the choke and pressed the starter button. Didn't start. (Ariens recommends priming the Polar Force engine only twice, so I didn't know if I had flooded the engine or if it wanted yet another push on the primer button.) I went for broke then punched the starter button and it started. Praise the Lord! Four primes did it!
I cleared the neighbor's front walk and their path through the backyard to their garage, then their garage and our garage. I didn't even feel cold. Must be those electric warming handle grips on the Ariens. Next came the place where I park my truck.
I have parked my truck in the yard, close to the house since vandals broke both side mirrors to the tune of $1117.16 about a week before Christmas. Last September they keyed the truck from front to back and that cost $800.00. Thank God our insurance covered both instances. Six other cars in the neighborhood suffered similar vandalism. My friend, Dale had the human male phallus carved into his hood and his insurance doesn't cover that.
I cleared out my truck's parking space and the sidewalk and realized that I had spent three hours in 20 below wind chill but I wasn't chilled because I clothe myself with the real deal, Air Force parka, etc., with no concern as to fashion or coolness. I saw three young girls, fashionably attired, running, stiff as sticks from their car to the Uptown Cafe. There is probably a spiritual lesson in this somewhere.
I parked the Ariens, gassed it up for the next time and told it, "good job" as I replaced it's plastic tub.
Now it was time to try my Ford F-150. We are to walk by faith, but I was thinking of what I would do if it didn't start. It started but protested, emitting a sound like "bawl". I'd bawl too if I sat in the sub-zero wind for fifteen hours.
Late this afternoon I sat down to my keyboard to write and I noticed sunshine for the first time today. It was wan, but cheery and I gazed at the white landscape in the dusk. I looked out the other window and saw plenty of blue sky, actually a bad omen. A brief consultation with my smart phone confirmed this with a forecast for minus 20 tonight- thus the irony of sunshine. Yet it was a good day because I'm still physically able to do hard work.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Friday, December 20, 2013
Stranded Motorist
The Stranded Motorist
It was snowing and it was difficult to see
while driving. Nonetheless I had to do my errands; to dump the cardboard piled
in the back of my truck. I went to the recycling bins behind the police station
and dumped the cardboard I collected from the hotel where I work. I continued
my errands at K-Mart. The road was treacherous, slippery at stop signs and
traffic signals. It was cold, around zero, but felt much colder with the wind.
There were a lot of customers at K-Mart.
There is always a spike in shopping activity during foul winter weather. I
located the whole wheat Ritz Crackers and the isopropyl alcohol for the car and
the truck then stopped at the pharmacy for one of my prescriptions. It was too
warm in the store and I was dressed in layers since I spend a lot of time
outdoors. I hurried to get my business done.
It was snowing intensely now, obliterating
footprints made a short while ago. I started the truck and set about clearing
and scraping the windshield, thinking this
is another reason I hate winter. A tune by Borodin bounced around in my
head and I marveled that Aleksander Borodin was really a chemist before he
became a composer.
I was jolted from my
reverie by a man asking me if I have jumper cables.
“I don’t know- maybe the
battery is no good. My car is over there, see?”
“I’ll gladly help you once
I get my windshield clear.”
The man opened the hood of
the Chevrolet.
“I can’t even find the
battery,” he said.
I had accessed the battery in such a Chevy
last summer for a damsel in distress so I knew where it was. Why GM hides the
battery underneath the windshield washer reservoir and surrounded by hoses and
unknown devices beats the heck out of me. It was difficult to attach the jumper cables. My
arthritic hands ached in stinging fashion from the cold and the wind.
We tried several times to
get it going. I peered into the space with my flashlight. I couldn’t really
tell if the cables were connected solidly. It was a side-terminal battery with
tiny posts. The dopes who engineered this
mess should have to do this in cold weather.
I had him try his
headlights and they came on brightly.
“I don’t know. The battery
isn’t the trouble.” I had accepted that the car wasn’t going to start.
“Yeah, I had trouble a couple of weeks ago.
Called Greg’s Towing and he looked around under the hood then he turned the key
and it started. I had the car in Greg’s shop and he couldn’t find anything
wrong. I guess I’ll call a cab from a pay phone.”
“I can give you a ride. Do you want to call
a wrecker from my cell phone?”
“Naw, that’s okay. I’ll call later from home.”
“I live outside of Hurley so it’s kind of
far and the weather is so bad.”
“Hop up into my truck. It’s nice and warm
inside.” I noticed that he wasn’t wearing gloves and he was rubbing his hands
together. He was about sixty years old, too old to be out in the cold for so
long.
“Thanks for going out of your way for me.
You got to drive through Hurley and my house is on the Carey stretch.”
“Not a problem.” The problem was my stinging
hands as I gripped the wheel.
“I’m George.”
“I’m John. Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
He held out a ten-dollar bill.
"Naw, I can't take your money. Tell you what, just pass it on. help someone when they're in a bind."
John held out his hand. "Merry Christmas, George."
"Likewise."
Thursday, December 19, 2013
A Christmas Walk
The sun's failing light, filtered through earth's heavens,
Now amber, bouncing through the ermine-clad woods,
Entreats me to pause and watch as I stand on snowshoes.
It's a loud quiet, drowning out life's cares.
Tree limbs, stressed with snowy burdens,
Arch and form a walk-way trellis over the miner's path.
I duck as I pass, careful not to disturb His artistry.
I've seen this wonder many times but yet it's new.
I am praying but without words, transfixed
At the splendor of the moment- fleeting,
This day will die, a victim of the night.
But sublime is this little slice of time.
Now amber, bouncing through the ermine-clad woods,
Entreats me to pause and watch as I stand on snowshoes.
It's a loud quiet, drowning out life's cares.
Tree limbs, stressed with snowy burdens,
Arch and form a walk-way trellis over the miner's path.
I duck as I pass, careful not to disturb His artistry.
I've seen this wonder many times but yet it's new.
I am praying but without words, transfixed
At the splendor of the moment- fleeting,
This day will die, a victim of the night.
But sublime is this little slice of time.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Running-My new Passion
Back in the summer of 2008 I was smitten with aching hips, a harbinger of old age, I thought. I tried analgesic rubs, various NSAIDS and lessening my exercise walks; nevertheless the pain worsened and I became dependent on a cane.
Several times I found it necessary to abort my exercise walks since I could not stand the pain. My infrequent walks showed up in my blood pressure readings and I shared this during one of my regular visits with my primary-care physician. He prescribed blood-pressure medicine and he urged me to exercise as much as I could. He also ordered x-rays which showed no abnormalities.
My doctor gave me information on a local orthopedic surgeon but I did not follow through, mindful of the expected progression from the cheap pill to the expensive pill to surgery. I couldn't afford the down-time and loss of income that would result from surgery. I've also heard about unfavorable results and after-effects related to surgery.
I felt myself at the fork in the road, one option consisting of accepting defeat and that apparent old age was having its way. I was sixty-one at the time. The other option was to fight this without the expenses associated with the medical establishment that do not guarantee favorable results.
My forays consisted of a walk around the block, aided with a cane and I fought through these. The pain was still with me into the winter and I was aware that a fall caused by ice or snow could be disastrous, yet I persisted, walking through severe wind-driven temperatures that only made me angry and more determined. I still shoveled snow at home and at work and I judiciously applied my snowblower to the task. Fortunately the dogs were seniors, preferring short walks. I couldn't use a cane on dog walks- just too awkward. I put the canes away (at times I had used two.)
Joint pain does intensify in winter's cold and I wondered if the hospital had x-rayed the correct joints. Getting out of bed in the winter is okay. When I stood up and my hips took the load that was a different matter and my first words of the day were not "thanks, Lord for another day." Not considering the fact of pain I should have been thankful for my ability to stand and walk.
Severe winter conditions throttled my exercise walks and actually stopped them for a time. We have a treadmill but I just couldn't get into that and the treadmill has become a clothes rack in our bedroom.
Somehow I found the toughness to be the legs of the family as my wife, Lois had a knee replaced. She used a walker for a while then a cane and she fought through the rehabilitation curve. She had been using a shopping cart for a walker during her work at K-Mart.
In the summer of 2009 I cut down on the intake of sugar and fat as much as possible without causing upheaval of Lois' meal planning. My weight dropped and my doctor was mildly alarmed as I was still in the lower range of the Body Mass Index. He said he would not urge me to gain weight as the hip pain had disappeared, possibly due to my weight loss.
I remember the trepidation I felt on my first attempt to resume my 2.5 mile walks late that summer. I stuffed my cell phone into the pocket of my shorts and made my way up the long, hard incline of the Burma Road, the way I had walked many a time before the hip pain. The other pocket held my IPOD and I tried to concentrate on the rocking of Van Halen, The Scorpions (Rock You Like a Hurricane) and other of my favorite artists. I love Bach but I needed something with high-energy to get me into an athletic mood.
I rocked right up the Burma road and continued, trying to keep in step with the music and at the top of Burma, at the Norrie softball field I abandoned my reserve and just yelled out because it was fairly easy and best of all, there was no pain and I wasn't using a cane.
The walks continued during ensuing years and I regained strength in my legs, taking longer walks until I did a five-mile outing, a personal victory and the pain remained absent.
I did not ever think of becoming a runner, especially at the age of 64 but our family was blessed by the adoption of an orphan beagle at the Hope Animal Shelter. Skittles was young and bursting with a powerful energy. She was also less than a year old and that energy frequently got her into trouble. She destroyed some of our favorite things. I had a pair of logger's boots I had acquired more than thirty years ago. I had worn these when I worked in the woods and later for any tough job that required sturdy foot-ware. Those boots had become old friends to me and you can imagine my reaction when Skittles chewed the top off one of the boots- didn't destroy the other one, but I had to buy a new pair of work boots. The new ones weren't nearly the same.
Skittles' excess energy had to have a channel so I started running with her, on a leash. We covered a lot of ground and the running seemed to decrease, but not eliminate her in-house mischief. Skittles really grew up when we got another puppy, a Scottish terrier/Corgy that Lois names Snickers. Snickers was much more naughty than Skittles in destruction of our property.
When Skittles matured she seemed no longer interested in running with me. She had become more interested in tracking whatever critter or person had come along her path. I tried in vain to get her to run but she was doing what beagles do.
I liked running so I continued, solo, and at first I thought I was crazy, running through the streets at age 64. My legs hurt the day after running and I wondered if I was destroying them. I ran up the Burma road, barely jogging the last 20 yards and puffing, sucking air. I leaned against a stop sign and stretched my legs, which felt the burn of effort. I pressed on at a walk for about five minutes then ran some more, then walked. I did this alternation on the 2.5 mile circuit that I used to walk.
That was last year. In 2013 I have run as much as 11.2 kilometers (7 miles) although my usual run is 6.4k (4 miles). Runs are done all in running mode, no walking breaks. I have added speed bursts for hundred yard intervals, up to 5 speed bursts in a 6.4k run.
I'm addicted to running now. My blood pressure is well below the borderline. The seasonal affected disorder which has plagued me in autumn has lessened as has my depression, practical reasons for running. But mostly I run for the fun of it.
Thank you, Skittles!
Several times I found it necessary to abort my exercise walks since I could not stand the pain. My infrequent walks showed up in my blood pressure readings and I shared this during one of my regular visits with my primary-care physician. He prescribed blood-pressure medicine and he urged me to exercise as much as I could. He also ordered x-rays which showed no abnormalities.
My doctor gave me information on a local orthopedic surgeon but I did not follow through, mindful of the expected progression from the cheap pill to the expensive pill to surgery. I couldn't afford the down-time and loss of income that would result from surgery. I've also heard about unfavorable results and after-effects related to surgery.
I felt myself at the fork in the road, one option consisting of accepting defeat and that apparent old age was having its way. I was sixty-one at the time. The other option was to fight this without the expenses associated with the medical establishment that do not guarantee favorable results.
My forays consisted of a walk around the block, aided with a cane and I fought through these. The pain was still with me into the winter and I was aware that a fall caused by ice or snow could be disastrous, yet I persisted, walking through severe wind-driven temperatures that only made me angry and more determined. I still shoveled snow at home and at work and I judiciously applied my snowblower to the task. Fortunately the dogs were seniors, preferring short walks. I couldn't use a cane on dog walks- just too awkward. I put the canes away (at times I had used two.)
Joint pain does intensify in winter's cold and I wondered if the hospital had x-rayed the correct joints. Getting out of bed in the winter is okay. When I stood up and my hips took the load that was a different matter and my first words of the day were not "thanks, Lord for another day." Not considering the fact of pain I should have been thankful for my ability to stand and walk.
Severe winter conditions throttled my exercise walks and actually stopped them for a time. We have a treadmill but I just couldn't get into that and the treadmill has become a clothes rack in our bedroom.
Somehow I found the toughness to be the legs of the family as my wife, Lois had a knee replaced. She used a walker for a while then a cane and she fought through the rehabilitation curve. She had been using a shopping cart for a walker during her work at K-Mart.
In the summer of 2009 I cut down on the intake of sugar and fat as much as possible without causing upheaval of Lois' meal planning. My weight dropped and my doctor was mildly alarmed as I was still in the lower range of the Body Mass Index. He said he would not urge me to gain weight as the hip pain had disappeared, possibly due to my weight loss.
I remember the trepidation I felt on my first attempt to resume my 2.5 mile walks late that summer. I stuffed my cell phone into the pocket of my shorts and made my way up the long, hard incline of the Burma Road, the way I had walked many a time before the hip pain. The other pocket held my IPOD and I tried to concentrate on the rocking of Van Halen, The Scorpions (Rock You Like a Hurricane) and other of my favorite artists. I love Bach but I needed something with high-energy to get me into an athletic mood.
I rocked right up the Burma road and continued, trying to keep in step with the music and at the top of Burma, at the Norrie softball field I abandoned my reserve and just yelled out because it was fairly easy and best of all, there was no pain and I wasn't using a cane.
The walks continued during ensuing years and I regained strength in my legs, taking longer walks until I did a five-mile outing, a personal victory and the pain remained absent.
I did not ever think of becoming a runner, especially at the age of 64 but our family was blessed by the adoption of an orphan beagle at the Hope Animal Shelter. Skittles was young and bursting with a powerful energy. She was also less than a year old and that energy frequently got her into trouble. She destroyed some of our favorite things. I had a pair of logger's boots I had acquired more than thirty years ago. I had worn these when I worked in the woods and later for any tough job that required sturdy foot-ware. Those boots had become old friends to me and you can imagine my reaction when Skittles chewed the top off one of the boots- didn't destroy the other one, but I had to buy a new pair of work boots. The new ones weren't nearly the same.
Skittles' excess energy had to have a channel so I started running with her, on a leash. We covered a lot of ground and the running seemed to decrease, but not eliminate her in-house mischief. Skittles really grew up when we got another puppy, a Scottish terrier/Corgy that Lois names Snickers. Snickers was much more naughty than Skittles in destruction of our property.
When Skittles matured she seemed no longer interested in running with me. She had become more interested in tracking whatever critter or person had come along her path. I tried in vain to get her to run but she was doing what beagles do.
I liked running so I continued, solo, and at first I thought I was crazy, running through the streets at age 64. My legs hurt the day after running and I wondered if I was destroying them. I ran up the Burma road, barely jogging the last 20 yards and puffing, sucking air. I leaned against a stop sign and stretched my legs, which felt the burn of effort. I pressed on at a walk for about five minutes then ran some more, then walked. I did this alternation on the 2.5 mile circuit that I used to walk.
That was last year. In 2013 I have run as much as 11.2 kilometers (7 miles) although my usual run is 6.4k (4 miles). Runs are done all in running mode, no walking breaks. I have added speed bursts for hundred yard intervals, up to 5 speed bursts in a 6.4k run.
I'm addicted to running now. My blood pressure is well below the borderline. The seasonal affected disorder which has plagued me in autumn has lessened as has my depression, practical reasons for running. But mostly I run for the fun of it.
Thank you, Skittles!
Friday, September 13, 2013
http://www.mckevittpatrickfuneralhome.com/fh/resources/sympathy/?&fh_id=11137
http://www.mckevittpatrickfuneralhome.com/fh/resources/sympathy/?&fh_id=11137
God sends different people into our lives just when we need them. John was one of those people.
There were difficulties in my life that I shared with no one, including John, outside the confines of family. John's friendship was salve for my anxiety and depression. When we played baseball and basketball or swiped apples from the trees at Twin City Hospital my tension eased, a God-sent relief since there were no medical treatments then, just the admonishment get over it.
We built forts in the 'caves' area of town amid dense brush and trees and we roasted green apples over the campfire. Later we smoked cigarettes, making us feel grown-up. We played pocket-knife games for hours at my house on a cedar slab. Hot summer afternoons found us playing a table-top pinball machine I had received from Dad for Christmas.
John was the manager of the Red Sox Farm League baseball team and this team had the core of the Panthers of the previous season. The Panthers, a laughingstock lost just about all its games but a year later, with greater maturity and experience the Panthers, renamed Red Sox dominated the Ironwood Farm League of 1959, winning the league championship with a 13 and 2 record. I still have the team picture that appeared in the sports section of the Daily globe.
Our lives took us in different directions but I will never forget those experiences, the sharpness of a baseball against a wooden bat, the bark of Mr. Krznarich, the umpire and league Director. The awful taste of a green apple scorched over a fire on a stick, the searing cigarette smoke that made us hold ourselves from coughing. The feeling of a good friend.
I wrote a story about our exploits and John read and commented on it. It is at yooper517.blogspot.com
Sympathies to the Lewinski family,
George Nordling toivo44@gmail.com
God sends different people into our lives just when we need them. John was one of those people.
There were difficulties in my life that I shared with no one, including John, outside the confines of family. John's friendship was salve for my anxiety and depression. When we played baseball and basketball or swiped apples from the trees at Twin City Hospital my tension eased, a God-sent relief since there were no medical treatments then, just the admonishment get over it.
We built forts in the 'caves' area of town amid dense brush and trees and we roasted green apples over the campfire. Later we smoked cigarettes, making us feel grown-up. We played pocket-knife games for hours at my house on a cedar slab. Hot summer afternoons found us playing a table-top pinball machine I had received from Dad for Christmas.
John was the manager of the Red Sox Farm League baseball team and this team had the core of the Panthers of the previous season. The Panthers, a laughingstock lost just about all its games but a year later, with greater maturity and experience the Panthers, renamed Red Sox dominated the Ironwood Farm League of 1959, winning the league championship with a 13 and 2 record. I still have the team picture that appeared in the sports section of the Daily globe.
Our lives took us in different directions but I will never forget those experiences, the sharpness of a baseball against a wooden bat, the bark of Mr. Krznarich, the umpire and league Director. The awful taste of a green apple scorched over a fire on a stick, the searing cigarette smoke that made us hold ourselves from coughing. The feeling of a good friend.
I wrote a story about our exploits and John read and commented on it. It is at yooper517.blogspot.com
Sympathies to the Lewinski family,
George Nordling toivo44@gmail.com
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Gifts from God
A conversation with a lonely neighbor- I just listen,
The bright and shining faces of our young dogs,
When my wife smiles at my silly worries,
The percussion of fireworks after midnight, the Fourth of July.
Reveries during a crackling campfire,
Signing my name with Dad's fountain pen,
Eating ice cream with my wife; it runs down my chin,
A friend visiting our campsite for bratwurst and a long chat.
Tired muscles and euphoria after running four miles,
Being able to run four miles at age threescore and six,
Families chatting outside after breakfasting at the Uptown Cafe,
My wife banging a spoon on a skillet- a summons to breakfast.
A fiery sun settling over a dusty horizon,
Goosebumps when hearing a symphonic passage for the nth time,
The sound of splashing in the swimming pool that I maintain,
God speaking to me in an unexpected way.
A friend's recovery from a moribund state,
Angels watching over him,
Strawberry ice cream and smoked salmon, best medicine of all,
The gift of another day.
Realizing that a lot of my tragedies are trifles,
Realizing that there is one God and I ain't Him.
The bright and shining faces of our young dogs,
When my wife smiles at my silly worries,
The percussion of fireworks after midnight, the Fourth of July.
Reveries during a crackling campfire,
Signing my name with Dad's fountain pen,
Eating ice cream with my wife; it runs down my chin,
A friend visiting our campsite for bratwurst and a long chat.
Tired muscles and euphoria after running four miles,
Being able to run four miles at age threescore and six,
Families chatting outside after breakfasting at the Uptown Cafe,
My wife banging a spoon on a skillet- a summons to breakfast.
A fiery sun settling over a dusty horizon,
Goosebumps when hearing a symphonic passage for the nth time,
The sound of splashing in the swimming pool that I maintain,
God speaking to me in an unexpected way.
A friend's recovery from a moribund state,
Angels watching over him,
Strawberry ice cream and smoked salmon, best medicine of all,
The gift of another day.
Realizing that a lot of my tragedies are trifles,
Realizing that there is one God and I ain't Him.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Our Maniacal Gun Society
I saw a young father yesterday with two little girls and thought that the young man must be a good father. Then as they passed I saw the bold yellow text on the back of the young man's black t-shirt, Stay calm, carry guns. I wasn't shocked but it drove home the concept of America's arrested development.
Again and again we've witnessed the horrific carnage brought about by gun violence, whether it's road rage or just plain enough rage to push someone over the edge over the injustices and inequities of society. Heartbreak is the ultimate result, deep and lifelong heartbreak that one never quite conquers.
T-shirts like these imply that more firepower is the answer, that the Second Amendment must be upheld so that believers can carry guns to church, complete with 100-round magazines for their assault rifles in the pickup truck gun rack.
The NRA is squarely to blame. I once respected this organization. Now it is replete nutty ultra-conservatives reciting the mantra, You can take my guns when you pry them from my cold, dead fingers. Gun ownership, and by that I refer to concealed handguns, and weapons of war is crazy. There is no guarantee that the person standing next to you in a waiting line in a restaurant is a stable, armed person. No guarantee that the person living across the street does not have a killing machine with hundred-round clips.
Wayne LaPierre, of the NRA asserts that more guns will bring domestic peace. He advocates armed guards in schools as well as armed teachers. That's like saying that more alcohol will make an alcoholic sober. He stirs up fear against the government and fear that people need firepower during a natural disaster. Fear is his mantra. I can't believe he has an M.A. from Boston College!
The America I grew up with respected the law, respected education and the rights of others. We led the world in education, manufacturing, scientific research, mathematical skills and literacy, intellectual curiosity, pursuit of the arts and in available medical care.
Now we lead the world in violence. Our educational system, once, the world-leader is now a distant fourteenth. Now academics are displaced by patriotic bluster and the idea that I will carry a gun because I can. After all this is America! It's not about peace and tolerance of those different from us but it's about personal firepower.
That defines America's collective case of arrested development. The road-warrior, gun carrying macho craziness that is supposed to restore peace and order.
Again and again we've witnessed the horrific carnage brought about by gun violence, whether it's road rage or just plain enough rage to push someone over the edge over the injustices and inequities of society. Heartbreak is the ultimate result, deep and lifelong heartbreak that one never quite conquers.
T-shirts like these imply that more firepower is the answer, that the Second Amendment must be upheld so that believers can carry guns to church, complete with 100-round magazines for their assault rifles in the pickup truck gun rack.
The NRA is squarely to blame. I once respected this organization. Now it is replete nutty ultra-conservatives reciting the mantra, You can take my guns when you pry them from my cold, dead fingers. Gun ownership, and by that I refer to concealed handguns, and weapons of war is crazy. There is no guarantee that the person standing next to you in a waiting line in a restaurant is a stable, armed person. No guarantee that the person living across the street does not have a killing machine with hundred-round clips.
Wayne LaPierre, of the NRA asserts that more guns will bring domestic peace. He advocates armed guards in schools as well as armed teachers. That's like saying that more alcohol will make an alcoholic sober. He stirs up fear against the government and fear that people need firepower during a natural disaster. Fear is his mantra. I can't believe he has an M.A. from Boston College!
The America I grew up with respected the law, respected education and the rights of others. We led the world in education, manufacturing, scientific research, mathematical skills and literacy, intellectual curiosity, pursuit of the arts and in available medical care.
Now we lead the world in violence. Our educational system, once, the world-leader is now a distant fourteenth. Now academics are displaced by patriotic bluster and the idea that I will carry a gun because I can. After all this is America! It's not about peace and tolerance of those different from us but it's about personal firepower.
That defines America's collective case of arrested development. The road-warrior, gun carrying macho craziness that is supposed to restore peace and order.
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