Here's an article from Michelle Malkin's site about Obama's new science czar.
In a vaccum, perhaps this outlook on humanity as a ecological problem that needs control might make sense. The problem is that no aspect of our existence on this Earth can be taken in a vaccum. Whether it is our politics, our marital relationships, our business dealings, or anything else that we do on Earth, everything we do leaves us accountable. To our fellow human beings, and most importantly, to God.
A government without accountability to a higher power is tyranny, pure and simple. Science unchecked by morality, or goverened by a warped morality, is evil. Ask the victims of the Holocaust on that one.
A government that would institute a man with these sorts of beliefs as the overseer of scientific progress in this country is immoral. Pure and simple. This focus on global warming and other "green" bunk is simply a front to advance the agenda of a totalitarian, socialist, morally corrupt facet of society.
This health care plan that Obama is pushing? The state will decide who gets care and who doesn't. And with a science czar like this to help determine who is fit to live and reproduce, have you any doubts about where a political conservative is going to end up on an organ transplant list? Probably pretty low as a recipient.
But as a forced donor?
I'm just saying.....
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Journey and the War
As a preface to this post, let me say that my bible study group just kicked off a study on spiritual warfare, which is a really interesting topic, in an EXORCIST sort of way. The basic premise is that if you believe in God, then the converse also has to be true. There is a Devil, and it’s a malevolent being that is pretty powerful here on Earth. This entity’s job is to take down as many souls as he can by making their lives miserable, breaking their faith in God. There's an active war between the two entities, with mankind right on the front lines.
OK, that sets the stage nicely for the next four days.
DAY ONE
Last Thursday, I was in court in a different jurisdiction as a special prosecutor. On the way back to town, I received a telephone call from my sister. My dad was in the hospital. They weren’t sure what was wrong, but he was too weak to move. Somewhere in the middle of a canyon, the call drops. I hate cell phones as a general principle, but they are handy when they work. I went overboard and ended up with an Iphone. Very nice, very convenient. The GPS is handy for navigationally challenged people such as myself.
Anyway, the situation sounded bad. The flight schedule was such that I wasn’t going to be able to get out until fairly late the next day. That seemed unacceptable.
I was scared, worried, etc. Things didn’t sound good, and his condition has deteriorated from a back injury, as well as Parkinson’s, diabetes, and a heart condition. Smoking doesn’t help any of it, either. Also, he’s still grieving for my Mom, whom we lost less than a year ago.
It seemed like the best solution was to take off driving. I cleared stuff up as best as I could at work, and hit the road around 5:00.
I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in about a month. I can run ok on no sleep for awhile, but everything has its limits. I have no idea why I can’t sleep, other than insomnia kicks on big-time with me if I’m under stress, and there’s been a lot of that. A couple of hours into the trip, I realized that driving straight through simply wasn’t going to be an option. I was too darn tired. I had driven about 31/2 hours that day already traveling for work. I decided to strike out for the Metroplex, since I have friends in the area. It’s about ½ of the trip home, so that seemed like a good option. I could get a bit of sleep and get rolling early the next morning.
DAY TWO
My body apparently decided that sleep could no longer be avoided, and I crashed hard. So hard that I slept through the alarm, and woke up around 10:00 the next day, which is about the time that I planned on being at my destination.
In the scramble to get out of town, my cell phone went swimming in a glass of water. Since Iphones aren’t naturally aquatic, this was a disaster. No cell phone, which is somewhat essential to keeping up with what’s going on the world. “Angry,” is not an adequate description of the emotions that I was feeling at the time. Were gamma radiation present, I would have gained 500 pounds and 3 feet in height, turned green, and smashed the hell out of everything around me. So those of you in the Metroplex got off light.
I make it into town finally in late afternoon. Dad is diagnosed with a hiatal hernia, and they’ve done some fixing on it during the test. He’s able to get some food down, which was a big part of the problem, and was getting stronger. He was still having problems from the back injury, which included atrophy in the leg muscles on that side. His weight was down slightly below 130 pounds, which is pretty light for my dad. He needed to lose a bit, but not that much, and not in that manner. We have a good visit in the hospital. He decided that he needed to get some intensive rehabilitation to get stronger, and thought he probably needed to go to a rehab/nursing home for awhile.
That was heartbreaking news. He didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want him there. I felt guilty as hell for not being able to take him in or be there to help him myself. I made the offer to have him move in with me, which I’d do without hesitation. But he didn’t want that, to say the least.
His mood was improving, though. He was looking at it in the right way. He was planning on using the time to build himself back up to where he could go back to work and home again. That’s a healthy step and a healthy attitude.
Late that night I head to the old house. It had been vacant a day or two, and it was dark and foreboding when I arrived well after midnight. Once I got in the house, I felt like I had stepped into a horror movie. I killed no less that five scorpions within the first few minutes. They were active and feisty, which is not the way I prefer my scorpions. However, they were no match for the old trusty 3-wood, which is as fine a scorpion killing device as I’ve ever seen.
I then had to clean the nasty little buggers up. While trying to vacuum their smashed, chitinous little bodies up, the vacuum cleaner decided it would be great fun to bog up on one, and spit it in the air directly at my face.
This is not funny. At all. I am deathly afraid of those things, having had a pair of them in my sleeping bag on a camping trip. I’m all about sharing sleeping bags under the proper circumstances, but definitely not with arachnids. After stomping the corpse into its component atoms and using words I didn’t think I actually knew, I re-holstered my little Model 60 .357, and set about trying to find a defib kit. I think the revolver was called for when zombie scorpions take to the skies to attack. That crap is terrifying.
Once the adrenaline had finally dumped, the major organs were functioning again, and all the corpses disposed of, I finally got to bed around 2am. The only scorpion free room appears to be my mom’s room, which is unchanged since she died. I camp down there for the night, with an odd sense of peace.
DAY THREE
Nobody in town sells replacement Iphones. They’ll only do it with a 2 year contract extension, which I already signed a few months ago. No amount of cajoling or legal threats gets me anything else. They’ll sell me a Blackberry, but the data plan is different from what I had (read: more expensive).
Dad’s decided that he’s feeling well enough to smoke again. The suggestion that he’s feeling better because he isn’t smoking isn’t met with enthusiasm. The cigarette, as expected, makes him a bit sicker.
After much waffling, I get a Gophone from the local Wal Mart. I also found affordable pistol ammo, which is a good thing as well. The SIM card from the Iphone seems to work, especially after I finished drying it off. Sometime around 8 that night, I have cell phone service once again.
No scorpions are found in the house that night. Prayer and pesticide have done their work, apparently. Prayer from me, and Dad says they sprayed the house earlier that week, which must have stirred all the critters up.
DAY FOUR
I helped to move Dad into the rehab home around lunchtime. I can’t bear to call it a nursing home. I ran him over there from the hospital, having gotten there around 8:00 that morning. He’s looking better, gained a little weight back, and seems to have a positive attitude about the whole thing, which is good. Based on that, I decided that I needed to get back north for work the next day. I’m looking at 9 hours of solid driving. I figured that if I stock up on protein bars, diet Dr. Pepper and water, I can make it quite a ways before having to stop. This is not counting bathroom breaks, of course. I plan to get to the house no later than 11:00pm, which is quite acceptable. I hit the road around 1:00pm.
All is going according to plan, when the tire blows. I am on the middle of the new loop around Austin, basically in the middle of nowhere. Traffic is moving at a minimum of 80 on that thing, and there’s not much room on the side of the road to change the tire. To top it off, these tires are less than a month old.
Several years ago, I had a cousin killed while changing a tire on the side of I-35. So I’m again a bit nervous. I wait for breaks in the traffic to loosen lug nuts, put the jack under the car, etc. It’s a slow process, because I stop when there’s traffic whizzing by three feet from my head. If I’m going to get run over, I want to see it coming.
After awhile, it’s absolutely ridiculous. Traffic is heavy. There’s a point where my faith in humanity is shaken. A few people wave as they sail by at 80mph. Again, I offer up a small prayer to get me out of this and back to my son alive.
I’m in the middle of popping a lug nut off as a prelude to jacking up the car, when a voice asks me if I need any help. It scares the thunder out of me. I never heard the car pull up. Apparently, the guy went past, pulled over, and backed up. He’s a tall, older guy in a Ford pickup. I tell him much appreciated, and ask if he has a hydraulic jack. I hate the little weenie jacks that most cars come equipped with these days. When I had a truck, I made sure to have a good solid floor jack in it.
He says no, and asks if I was nervous about the traffic. I admitted that I was. He asks where I’m heading, and offers to stand guard while I change the tire. This is exactly what I need. I get the tire off, get the little doughnut on, and get everything back on. The guy asks if I’m intending to drive on through. He says there’s a tire place fairly close, and offers to pilot me in. He does. I’m now off the main road, and at least into town. Before he leaves, I give him my business card, and tell him to look me up if I can return the favor if he or his family are in the Panhandle. He asks if I have a church home where I’m from. This is a neat moment. I remember my prayer on the side of the road.
However, they don’t have my size tires at this Wal Mart. Discount Tires, where my set came from, is not open on Sunday. There’s an NTB on I-35 that I limp to. Almost three hours after the blowout, I’m on the road again, $127 dollars poorer, but happy to be rolling.
I make it home around 1:00am. I am worn out, sick of protein bars, tires, the highway, and swearing never to touch another Diet Dr. Pepper, but feeling pretty good, all things considered. A lot of obstacles were thrown in my path, but the trip seemed to have the desired effect of helping my dad a bit, physically and emotionally. Therein lies the glory.
OK, that sets the stage nicely for the next four days.
DAY ONE
Last Thursday, I was in court in a different jurisdiction as a special prosecutor. On the way back to town, I received a telephone call from my sister. My dad was in the hospital. They weren’t sure what was wrong, but he was too weak to move. Somewhere in the middle of a canyon, the call drops. I hate cell phones as a general principle, but they are handy when they work. I went overboard and ended up with an Iphone. Very nice, very convenient. The GPS is handy for navigationally challenged people such as myself.
Anyway, the situation sounded bad. The flight schedule was such that I wasn’t going to be able to get out until fairly late the next day. That seemed unacceptable.
I was scared, worried, etc. Things didn’t sound good, and his condition has deteriorated from a back injury, as well as Parkinson’s, diabetes, and a heart condition. Smoking doesn’t help any of it, either. Also, he’s still grieving for my Mom, whom we lost less than a year ago.
It seemed like the best solution was to take off driving. I cleared stuff up as best as I could at work, and hit the road around 5:00.
I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in about a month. I can run ok on no sleep for awhile, but everything has its limits. I have no idea why I can’t sleep, other than insomnia kicks on big-time with me if I’m under stress, and there’s been a lot of that. A couple of hours into the trip, I realized that driving straight through simply wasn’t going to be an option. I was too darn tired. I had driven about 31/2 hours that day already traveling for work. I decided to strike out for the Metroplex, since I have friends in the area. It’s about ½ of the trip home, so that seemed like a good option. I could get a bit of sleep and get rolling early the next morning.
DAY TWO
My body apparently decided that sleep could no longer be avoided, and I crashed hard. So hard that I slept through the alarm, and woke up around 10:00 the next day, which is about the time that I planned on being at my destination.
In the scramble to get out of town, my cell phone went swimming in a glass of water. Since Iphones aren’t naturally aquatic, this was a disaster. No cell phone, which is somewhat essential to keeping up with what’s going on the world. “Angry,” is not an adequate description of the emotions that I was feeling at the time. Were gamma radiation present, I would have gained 500 pounds and 3 feet in height, turned green, and smashed the hell out of everything around me. So those of you in the Metroplex got off light.
I make it into town finally in late afternoon. Dad is diagnosed with a hiatal hernia, and they’ve done some fixing on it during the test. He’s able to get some food down, which was a big part of the problem, and was getting stronger. He was still having problems from the back injury, which included atrophy in the leg muscles on that side. His weight was down slightly below 130 pounds, which is pretty light for my dad. He needed to lose a bit, but not that much, and not in that manner. We have a good visit in the hospital. He decided that he needed to get some intensive rehabilitation to get stronger, and thought he probably needed to go to a rehab/nursing home for awhile.
That was heartbreaking news. He didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want him there. I felt guilty as hell for not being able to take him in or be there to help him myself. I made the offer to have him move in with me, which I’d do without hesitation. But he didn’t want that, to say the least.
His mood was improving, though. He was looking at it in the right way. He was planning on using the time to build himself back up to where he could go back to work and home again. That’s a healthy step and a healthy attitude.
Late that night I head to the old house. It had been vacant a day or two, and it was dark and foreboding when I arrived well after midnight. Once I got in the house, I felt like I had stepped into a horror movie. I killed no less that five scorpions within the first few minutes. They were active and feisty, which is not the way I prefer my scorpions. However, they were no match for the old trusty 3-wood, which is as fine a scorpion killing device as I’ve ever seen.
I then had to clean the nasty little buggers up. While trying to vacuum their smashed, chitinous little bodies up, the vacuum cleaner decided it would be great fun to bog up on one, and spit it in the air directly at my face.
This is not funny. At all. I am deathly afraid of those things, having had a pair of them in my sleeping bag on a camping trip. I’m all about sharing sleeping bags under the proper circumstances, but definitely not with arachnids. After stomping the corpse into its component atoms and using words I didn’t think I actually knew, I re-holstered my little Model 60 .357, and set about trying to find a defib kit. I think the revolver was called for when zombie scorpions take to the skies to attack. That crap is terrifying.
Once the adrenaline had finally dumped, the major organs were functioning again, and all the corpses disposed of, I finally got to bed around 2am. The only scorpion free room appears to be my mom’s room, which is unchanged since she died. I camp down there for the night, with an odd sense of peace.
DAY THREE
Nobody in town sells replacement Iphones. They’ll only do it with a 2 year contract extension, which I already signed a few months ago. No amount of cajoling or legal threats gets me anything else. They’ll sell me a Blackberry, but the data plan is different from what I had (read: more expensive).
Dad’s decided that he’s feeling well enough to smoke again. The suggestion that he’s feeling better because he isn’t smoking isn’t met with enthusiasm. The cigarette, as expected, makes him a bit sicker.
After much waffling, I get a Gophone from the local Wal Mart. I also found affordable pistol ammo, which is a good thing as well. The SIM card from the Iphone seems to work, especially after I finished drying it off. Sometime around 8 that night, I have cell phone service once again.
No scorpions are found in the house that night. Prayer and pesticide have done their work, apparently. Prayer from me, and Dad says they sprayed the house earlier that week, which must have stirred all the critters up.
DAY FOUR
I helped to move Dad into the rehab home around lunchtime. I can’t bear to call it a nursing home. I ran him over there from the hospital, having gotten there around 8:00 that morning. He’s looking better, gained a little weight back, and seems to have a positive attitude about the whole thing, which is good. Based on that, I decided that I needed to get back north for work the next day. I’m looking at 9 hours of solid driving. I figured that if I stock up on protein bars, diet Dr. Pepper and water, I can make it quite a ways before having to stop. This is not counting bathroom breaks, of course. I plan to get to the house no later than 11:00pm, which is quite acceptable. I hit the road around 1:00pm.
All is going according to plan, when the tire blows. I am on the middle of the new loop around Austin, basically in the middle of nowhere. Traffic is moving at a minimum of 80 on that thing, and there’s not much room on the side of the road to change the tire. To top it off, these tires are less than a month old.
Several years ago, I had a cousin killed while changing a tire on the side of I-35. So I’m again a bit nervous. I wait for breaks in the traffic to loosen lug nuts, put the jack under the car, etc. It’s a slow process, because I stop when there’s traffic whizzing by three feet from my head. If I’m going to get run over, I want to see it coming.
After awhile, it’s absolutely ridiculous. Traffic is heavy. There’s a point where my faith in humanity is shaken. A few people wave as they sail by at 80mph. Again, I offer up a small prayer to get me out of this and back to my son alive.
I’m in the middle of popping a lug nut off as a prelude to jacking up the car, when a voice asks me if I need any help. It scares the thunder out of me. I never heard the car pull up. Apparently, the guy went past, pulled over, and backed up. He’s a tall, older guy in a Ford pickup. I tell him much appreciated, and ask if he has a hydraulic jack. I hate the little weenie jacks that most cars come equipped with these days. When I had a truck, I made sure to have a good solid floor jack in it.
He says no, and asks if I was nervous about the traffic. I admitted that I was. He asks where I’m heading, and offers to stand guard while I change the tire. This is exactly what I need. I get the tire off, get the little doughnut on, and get everything back on. The guy asks if I’m intending to drive on through. He says there’s a tire place fairly close, and offers to pilot me in. He does. I’m now off the main road, and at least into town. Before he leaves, I give him my business card, and tell him to look me up if I can return the favor if he or his family are in the Panhandle. He asks if I have a church home where I’m from. This is a neat moment. I remember my prayer on the side of the road.
However, they don’t have my size tires at this Wal Mart. Discount Tires, where my set came from, is not open on Sunday. There’s an NTB on I-35 that I limp to. Almost three hours after the blowout, I’m on the road again, $127 dollars poorer, but happy to be rolling.
I make it home around 1:00am. I am worn out, sick of protein bars, tires, the highway, and swearing never to touch another Diet Dr. Pepper, but feeling pretty good, all things considered. A lot of obstacles were thrown in my path, but the trip seemed to have the desired effect of helping my dad a bit, physically and emotionally. Therein lies the glory.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
An Open Prayer For Mom
I didn’t write this on Mother’s Day. I should have. Truth be told, I just couldn’t make myself.
This is the first Mother’s Day without Mom. It’s not the same, and the day has a bittersweet tang to it that doesn’t make it something that seems worth celebrating, despite the fact there are other mothers around who deserve the holiday. Holidays are personal, and with her gone, my personal connection to it seems somewhat muted.
I miss you, Mom. I miss my number one fan. I regret the times that I shut you out, knowing that you just wanted to touch a part of my life, and to have that connection with me. I regret holding a grudge against you for so many years due to the drinking. Nobody is perfect. I was holding you to a standard that is impossible for anyone to meet. I regret moving away in the midst of your illness, in the mistaken, arrogant belief that it would help my marriage. I regret not being there for Dad, when I know that your main focus as you were dying was to make sure that he’s taken care of. I regret being such a selfish jerk, and not making more time with you in your final years.
I can’t tell you all this now, but I hope that somehow, God lets you see in my heart, and lets you see how much I love you, and how much I miss you. Now, more than ever. I can’t tell you how much I want to know that you’re ok, that you’re free of all the misery and pain this sorry world of ours has to offer us. I feel just like a little boy who has lost his mother, instead of an adult who ought to be handling this better.
Lord, take care of her up there. She had her faults, but loving her children certainly wasn’t one of them. I just pray that we’re all reunited one day again, and that she doesn’t hold my faults and failures against me.
Happy belated Mother’s Day, we all miss you.
This is the first Mother’s Day without Mom. It’s not the same, and the day has a bittersweet tang to it that doesn’t make it something that seems worth celebrating, despite the fact there are other mothers around who deserve the holiday. Holidays are personal, and with her gone, my personal connection to it seems somewhat muted.
I miss you, Mom. I miss my number one fan. I regret the times that I shut you out, knowing that you just wanted to touch a part of my life, and to have that connection with me. I regret holding a grudge against you for so many years due to the drinking. Nobody is perfect. I was holding you to a standard that is impossible for anyone to meet. I regret moving away in the midst of your illness, in the mistaken, arrogant belief that it would help my marriage. I regret not being there for Dad, when I know that your main focus as you were dying was to make sure that he’s taken care of. I regret being such a selfish jerk, and not making more time with you in your final years.
I can’t tell you all this now, but I hope that somehow, God lets you see in my heart, and lets you see how much I love you, and how much I miss you. Now, more than ever. I can’t tell you how much I want to know that you’re ok, that you’re free of all the misery and pain this sorry world of ours has to offer us. I feel just like a little boy who has lost his mother, instead of an adult who ought to be handling this better.
Lord, take care of her up there. She had her faults, but loving her children certainly wasn’t one of them. I just pray that we’re all reunited one day again, and that she doesn’t hold my faults and failures against me.
Happy belated Mother’s Day, we all miss you.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
All That We Can Do
Sometimes, you do all that you can do. And it isn't enough to stop the evil from happening.
A suspect beat his baby’s momma within an inch of her life. He was stopped by a witness who came to her rescue with a shovel. The police were unable to arrest the suspect when they found him, much later. They didn’t get there when the assault was happening, and the Defendant didn’t appear to be an immediate threat of continuing domestic violence when they made contact. That’s one of the deals about arresting people. It has to be done within the scope of the law, and the law said it couldn’t be done. Any conviction obtained if that arrest had gone down would be thrown out, and the suspect free to do it again.
A warrant for his arrest was filed. That’s all that could be done. The rest depends on the suspect getting arrested. Hopefully, an officer will see him on the street and make the arrest. Maybe a traffic stop ends up with the suspect getting flagged because the warrant shows up in the computer. Maybe he’s caught in the act of another crime. Maybe he dies of a drug overdose, or is killed by one of his buddies in a drug crazed fit of rage. Maybe a detective gets lucky and finds him after a diligent search.
Maybe the Defendant slips under the radar altogether.
The same suspect this weekend broke into a house where his baby momma had taken refuge with a nice couple. She made it out the window and lived.
Her rescuers didn’t. They were murdered. Horribly. They were in their 20's. Their life extinguished because they chose to love their neighbor, and shelter a domestic violence victim.
It’s sad, and senseless. But the fault does not lie with law enforcement. They did all they could, all the law allowed them to do. It wasn’t enough.
A suspect beat his baby’s momma within an inch of her life. He was stopped by a witness who came to her rescue with a shovel. The police were unable to arrest the suspect when they found him, much later. They didn’t get there when the assault was happening, and the Defendant didn’t appear to be an immediate threat of continuing domestic violence when they made contact. That’s one of the deals about arresting people. It has to be done within the scope of the law, and the law said it couldn’t be done. Any conviction obtained if that arrest had gone down would be thrown out, and the suspect free to do it again.
A warrant for his arrest was filed. That’s all that could be done. The rest depends on the suspect getting arrested. Hopefully, an officer will see him on the street and make the arrest. Maybe a traffic stop ends up with the suspect getting flagged because the warrant shows up in the computer. Maybe he’s caught in the act of another crime. Maybe he dies of a drug overdose, or is killed by one of his buddies in a drug crazed fit of rage. Maybe a detective gets lucky and finds him after a diligent search.
Maybe the Defendant slips under the radar altogether.
The same suspect this weekend broke into a house where his baby momma had taken refuge with a nice couple. She made it out the window and lived.
Her rescuers didn’t. They were murdered. Horribly. They were in their 20's. Their life extinguished because they chose to love their neighbor, and shelter a domestic violence victim.
It’s sad, and senseless. But the fault does not lie with law enforcement. They did all they could, all the law allowed them to do. It wasn’t enough.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Dad
It's been awhile since I posted. I was inspired by the incomparable Brigid to write a bit about my Dad.
I remember my first golf tournament. I was scared to death, no real clue about what I was going to do out there, or how to do it. I remember thinking that I was out of my league, out of my mind for being there, and just flat out of my element.
The tournament was out of town. My dad was self-employed at that time, so he could pretty much do as he pleased. He never missed a single sporting event that I participated in that I can recall.
Golf is a pretty solitary sport. Even though you are competing against others, you are really competing more against yourself. You are fighting your swing, trying to make it do what you want it to do. It's easy to get discouraged, to feel alone and helpless out there when your ball shanks off somewhere, and you have no one to blame but yourself.
Sounds terrible, doesn't it? I wonder what the heck I actually see in this stupid game? What the heck does that say about me? Anyway, I digress.
Somewhere about the fifth hole, I picked up on the fact that somebody was watching me. I couldn't quite figure out who, or where they were. This was different than being watched by the guys I was playing with. There was somebody out there looking specifically at ME, and I didn't know where they were.
Somewhere about the 9th hole, I caught a glimpse of somebody about 75 yards away, watching from behind a tree. They were taking great pains to keep out of sight. Not in a weird way, just trying to be unobtrusive.
I knew it was my dad. Even though I couldn't see him, I recognized his silhouette. I was even more certain when I saw the faint puff of bluish smoke form his ever-present cigarette.
He was there for the rest of the tournament. I did horribly, but I played better after I knew he was there.
He was watching me, offering support in a different sort of way. He knew that I was out there alone, and he knew that I had to be. He knew that he couldn't help me, but he wanted to be there just the same.
He never told me he was there. When my round ended, he headed home. He even pretended that he wasn't there. And to this day, I haven't told him I knew. I think he does know, though. It's a Dad thing.
It wasn't the last time he was out there, clandestinely.
Every thing I've ever done, I knew that Dad was somewhere behind me, offering quiet support and strength. He knew I had to do it alone, but wanted me to know that he was back there, ready to do what he could to help. He also knew that failure taught more than success, and that I had to take hard knocks just like everybody else.
I remember my first golf tournament. I was scared to death, no real clue about what I was going to do out there, or how to do it. I remember thinking that I was out of my league, out of my mind for being there, and just flat out of my element.
The tournament was out of town. My dad was self-employed at that time, so he could pretty much do as he pleased. He never missed a single sporting event that I participated in that I can recall.
Golf is a pretty solitary sport. Even though you are competing against others, you are really competing more against yourself. You are fighting your swing, trying to make it do what you want it to do. It's easy to get discouraged, to feel alone and helpless out there when your ball shanks off somewhere, and you have no one to blame but yourself.
Sounds terrible, doesn't it? I wonder what the heck I actually see in this stupid game? What the heck does that say about me? Anyway, I digress.
Somewhere about the fifth hole, I picked up on the fact that somebody was watching me. I couldn't quite figure out who, or where they were. This was different than being watched by the guys I was playing with. There was somebody out there looking specifically at ME, and I didn't know where they were.
Somewhere about the 9th hole, I caught a glimpse of somebody about 75 yards away, watching from behind a tree. They were taking great pains to keep out of sight. Not in a weird way, just trying to be unobtrusive.
I knew it was my dad. Even though I couldn't see him, I recognized his silhouette. I was even more certain when I saw the faint puff of bluish smoke form his ever-present cigarette.
He was there for the rest of the tournament. I did horribly, but I played better after I knew he was there.
He was watching me, offering support in a different sort of way. He knew that I was out there alone, and he knew that I had to be. He knew that he couldn't help me, but he wanted to be there just the same.
He never told me he was there. When my round ended, he headed home. He even pretended that he wasn't there. And to this day, I haven't told him I knew. I think he does know, though. It's a Dad thing.
It wasn't the last time he was out there, clandestinely.
Every thing I've ever done, I knew that Dad was somewhere behind me, offering quiet support and strength. He knew I had to do it alone, but wanted me to know that he was back there, ready to do what he could to help. He also knew that failure taught more than success, and that I had to take hard knocks just like everybody else.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Ugly, But Effective...Redux
I’ve always liked the nice sports cars. I think it would be an absolute blast to run around in a Ferrari every day. It would turn heads, look spiffy, and probably attract a lot of attention from law enforcement, car thieves, and people who like to drag their keys down the side of somebody else’s nice, new car. So that’s why I don’t drive one. Never mind the fact that a cheap new Ferrari is probably north of $180,000 or so.
Even though it’s nice to have a flashy sports car, it’s not really all that practical. You can barely get a sack of groceries in one, much less a car seat and two passengers. It’s lousy in bad weather, which this part of Texas tends to have. Rear-wheel drive vehicles don’t do well in ice, for the most part. You can’t go to Home Depot and load lumber in the back of one. You can’t pull a trailer with one. It’s utility is actually rather low, in that light. Which is why I drive something a bit more practical.
I’ve noticed the same thing about my personal defense weapon. Sure, I love to shoot a nice 1911 .45. The triggers are great, the design is actually rather pleasing to the eye, and it’s about the most accurate handgun platform that I’ve had the pleasure of shooting.
But what weapon am I choosing to rely on to defend my life, and that of my family in the direst of circumstances? I’ve carried a nice 1911, but it wasn’t really comfortable to me. I like Sigs, but there’s not really a big caliber Sig Sauer that is concealed carry friendly. Sure, you can hide one under a coat, but I can hide a shotgun under a coat if I really wanted to.
I keep coming back to a Glock, time and time again. The Glock subcompacts are proving best compromise of an easy to carry, easy to conceal weapon with large capacity, big bore stopping power, durability, reliability, and easy maintenance.
I’ve been going with the Glock 27, by and large. It fits in a pocket holster, belt holster on the cold jacket days, or in an ankle holster when I really have to hide one. .40 caliber is nothing to sneeze at, and ten rounds of it in a relatively tiny pistol is nice. I am not the biggest proponent of the .40, mind you. I think it’s somewhat snappy in recoil.
Shooters all have their personal preference. And I have always liked .45 automatic as my caliber of choice. It’s big. It’s accurate. And its recoil characteristics are fairly pleasant, even as large a bullet as it fires. It’s just hard to find a small .45 that conceals well.
It appears my small .45 has arrived. The Glock 36 is just about a quarter inch longer than the 27. It’s thinner, since it has a single-stack magazine. The frame is actually a bit thinner than a normal Glock as well. People griped about how fat the grip of a Glock tends to be, and how blocky they are. Well, Glock decided to listen. Best of all, it’s a .45 automatic. A REAL .45 automatic, unlike the .45 GAP Crap that Glock has inflicted on the shooting public in the past. It holds 6 rounds of happy .45, with one in the chamber. That’s the equal of most small 1911's.
It appears to do what Glocks do best, which is put bullets downrange with a minimum of fuss and bother. It’s small enough to conceal in the same manner as the 27, which is nice. Though the slightly longer grip makes pocket carry impossible with some types of pants, it still manages to conceal nicely. It fits in all the other Glock holsters that I have, which is a good thing.
It’s not a nice-looking weapon. Nobody can say that it’s as pleasing to the eye as a 1911 or Browning Hi-Power. It’s not as point-friendly as a Sig Sauer, but it does point the best of any Glock I’ve ever picked up. It doesn’t have the great triggers the aforementioned pistols have, but it’s got the exact same trigger as every other factory-spec Glock on the market.
And it works. I don’t worry about scratching it up, because it wasn’t pretty to begin with. I don’t worry about it functioning when it needs to, because that’s what Glocks are known for. I don’t worry about the thing not hitting to point of aim, because it will hit whatever I’m aimed at. If the round misses, it’s nobody’s fault but mine. The sights aren’t going to get out of whack.
It fulfills the purpose of a weapon, which is a tool just like a screwdriver, hammer, or tire iron. It helps to keep me and mine secure. In the end, that’s all that matters. It’s not a Ferrari. It's a pickup, and not one of those fancy, nice ones with satellite radio and leather seats that cost more than the truck itself. It's a plain old truck that goes on down the road with monotonous reliability. Not pretty to look at, but it works.
Even though it’s nice to have a flashy sports car, it’s not really all that practical. You can barely get a sack of groceries in one, much less a car seat and two passengers. It’s lousy in bad weather, which this part of Texas tends to have. Rear-wheel drive vehicles don’t do well in ice, for the most part. You can’t go to Home Depot and load lumber in the back of one. You can’t pull a trailer with one. It’s utility is actually rather low, in that light. Which is why I drive something a bit more practical.
I’ve noticed the same thing about my personal defense weapon. Sure, I love to shoot a nice 1911 .45. The triggers are great, the design is actually rather pleasing to the eye, and it’s about the most accurate handgun platform that I’ve had the pleasure of shooting.
But what weapon am I choosing to rely on to defend my life, and that of my family in the direst of circumstances? I’ve carried a nice 1911, but it wasn’t really comfortable to me. I like Sigs, but there’s not really a big caliber Sig Sauer that is concealed carry friendly. Sure, you can hide one under a coat, but I can hide a shotgun under a coat if I really wanted to.
I keep coming back to a Glock, time and time again. The Glock subcompacts are proving best compromise of an easy to carry, easy to conceal weapon with large capacity, big bore stopping power, durability, reliability, and easy maintenance.
I’ve been going with the Glock 27, by and large. It fits in a pocket holster, belt holster on the cold jacket days, or in an ankle holster when I really have to hide one. .40 caliber is nothing to sneeze at, and ten rounds of it in a relatively tiny pistol is nice. I am not the biggest proponent of the .40, mind you. I think it’s somewhat snappy in recoil.
Shooters all have their personal preference. And I have always liked .45 automatic as my caliber of choice. It’s big. It’s accurate. And its recoil characteristics are fairly pleasant, even as large a bullet as it fires. It’s just hard to find a small .45 that conceals well.
It appears my small .45 has arrived. The Glock 36 is just about a quarter inch longer than the 27. It’s thinner, since it has a single-stack magazine. The frame is actually a bit thinner than a normal Glock as well. People griped about how fat the grip of a Glock tends to be, and how blocky they are. Well, Glock decided to listen. Best of all, it’s a .45 automatic. A REAL .45 automatic, unlike the .45 GAP Crap that Glock has inflicted on the shooting public in the past. It holds 6 rounds of happy .45, with one in the chamber. That’s the equal of most small 1911's.
It appears to do what Glocks do best, which is put bullets downrange with a minimum of fuss and bother. It’s small enough to conceal in the same manner as the 27, which is nice. Though the slightly longer grip makes pocket carry impossible with some types of pants, it still manages to conceal nicely. It fits in all the other Glock holsters that I have, which is a good thing.
It’s not a nice-looking weapon. Nobody can say that it’s as pleasing to the eye as a 1911 or Browning Hi-Power. It’s not as point-friendly as a Sig Sauer, but it does point the best of any Glock I’ve ever picked up. It doesn’t have the great triggers the aforementioned pistols have, but it’s got the exact same trigger as every other factory-spec Glock on the market.
And it works. I don’t worry about scratching it up, because it wasn’t pretty to begin with. I don’t worry about it functioning when it needs to, because that’s what Glocks are known for. I don’t worry about the thing not hitting to point of aim, because it will hit whatever I’m aimed at. If the round misses, it’s nobody’s fault but mine. The sights aren’t going to get out of whack.
It fulfills the purpose of a weapon, which is a tool just like a screwdriver, hammer, or tire iron. It helps to keep me and mine secure. In the end, that’s all that matters. It’s not a Ferrari. It's a pickup, and not one of those fancy, nice ones with satellite radio and leather seats that cost more than the truck itself. It's a plain old truck that goes on down the road with monotonous reliability. Not pretty to look at, but it works.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
That's The Kind of Dad I Want To Be
Brigid gives a moving tribute to her dad.
There's some great writers out in the blogosphere, but this lady has a gift like none other.
There's some great writers out in the blogosphere, but this lady has a gift like none other.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
