The Declaration Means What It Says

 

Today officially being Flag Day, I was asked to talk about the Declaration of Independence as we approach our Independence Day, recognizing its Two Hundred and Fiftieth celebration. So many thoughts sprang into my mind, wondering how could I possibly attend to each without having at least an hour.

Back when I was living at home as a teenager, my folks used Independence Day as a way to have a family picnic of sorts, all of this carried out in their backyard by the pool with all manner of food spread out on the table.  We had a sliding glass door that separated the inside from the yard, one dog in the back while the other inside kept them apart as well. 

As a precaution to occasional ‘dust ups’ between the dogs, we kept a full size Little League baseball bat near the back sliding door which the dogs came to understand meant business. Mom was about to take a bowl of potato salad out as she pulled back on the sliding door.  That was when the Independence Day Dust Up started.  Two dogs met underneath her pioneer styled dress without regard for proper etiquette.

While holding the bowl of potato salad in one hand, mom grabbed the bat handle and started bopping dogs that were entangled under her dress.  Eventually the dogs got the message and broke up, but not before she’d gotten a nasty bruise on her shin.  Mom claimed it was from one of the dogs; however, upon closer inspection we could read the name, “Louisville Slugger”.  Mom had accidentally bopped her own leg.

That was one heck of an Independence Day celebration; but that’s not why I decided to include it in today’s talk.  No, my folks wanted their children to understand the importance of what we were celebrating.  It wasn’t about the hamburgers, the potato salade or soda pop we’d be enjoying.  The Declaration of Independence was a thought issued to the world, a thought that needed to be handed down from one generation to the next. 

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…”

Ezra Taft Benson recorded, “I believe with all my heart the words of the American patriot Patrick Henry, who, on the eve of the American Revolution, said, “There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us.” Further, it is part of my faith that no people can maintain freedom unless their political institutions are founded on faith in God and belief in the existence of moral law. God has endowed men with certain inalienable rights, and no government may morally limit or destroy these.”

 “In a footnote in “The Declaration of Independence: A Study in the History of Political Ideas” by Carl Lotus Becker, published 1922, we learn:

“The Rough Draft reads “[inherent &] inalienable.” There is no indication that Congress changed “inalienable” to “unalienable”; but the latter form appears in the text in the rough Journal, in the corrected Journal, and in the parchment copy. John Adams, in making his copy of the Rough Draft, wrote “unalienable.” Adams was one of the committee which supervised the printing of the text adopted by Congress, and it may have been at his suggestion that the change was made in printing. “Unalienable” may have been the more customary form in the eighteenth century.”

“Inherent &” never made it to the final draft and we can only wonder if it was pulled due to some politically correct discussion or whether it simply sounded redundant to those issuing the declaration.  The Founders used words sparingly and with great accuracy for the most part; they likely concluded “inherent &” was unnecessary to complete the thought; life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are unalienable rights from our Creator.

The root word Inherent carries with it the idea that might be read at the reading of a will.  If we are to inherit, from whom do we owe that inheritance?  Perhaps understanding the gift of rights would make more sense if we accept that unalienable rights could only come from our Father in Heaven. 

Now, if we look at inheriting those rights and using them, taking into consideration that we’ve accepted our inheritance while our Father lives, then the parable of the Prodigal Son means even more.  Are we not all hoping to be accepted by our Father, stumbling as it were, on our way home, having spent, unwisely at times, much of what was given?  How’s that for something to think about…

Of all the issues that bother Progressives, Democrats, Socialists, call them whatever you like, the idea that God, not our government, gave us inalienable individual rights keeps them from moving forward toward their idea of Utopia, a place where the State provides everything equally to those in need.  If they could just get past that sticking point, they could do anything they wanted because then government in all its glory would determine what’s best, not the individual. These folks deny God as the head of our government at every turn; is it any wonder that they scoff at individual rights?

“For shall the work say of him that made it, he made me not? Or shall the thing framed say of him that framed it, he had no understanding?” (2 Nep 27:27)

To understand the mindset of our Founders, it’s important to find out what they believed.  There are some who claim Thomas Jefferson was an agnostic, that he’s responsible for making sure we have a separation of church and state.  They preach this in our public schools, our colleges and universities as a means of indoctrination on the path to socialization.

“Thomas Jefferson wrote on the front of his well- worn Bible: "I am a Christian, that is to say a disciple of the doctrines of Jesus. I have little doubt that our whole country will soon be rallied to the unity of our Creator and, I hope, to the pure doctrine of Jesus also.”

Does this sound like a man who wanted to establish a wall of separation to keep religion out of government? 

If we do not correct this information, making sure the next generation has a better grasp on our history, how will they know the importance of what was set aside for them, why it’s important to feel this in their own hearts.

Perhaps that’s why they finished with these words, words that mean much as I consider, …each man signed with full knowledge, … the serious nature of such a declaration…

 

“…And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

I may have figured out why some folks just don’t get it; this country we call the United States of America.  Far too many of us have become a First Verse Only people.  Most everyone is familiar with our National Anthem; but how many know there are more verses that complete the thoughts intended? 

“Oh thus be it ever when free men shall stand, Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation! Blest with victory and peace may the heave’n rescued land Praise the Pow’r that hath made and preserved us a nation! Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto: “In God is our Trust!” And the star spangled banner in triumph shall wave, O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

Are we a “first verse only” people now, content with having had our shot, able to sit back and watch as our great experiment in freedom slowly dies? Paul Simon wrote a song about such feelings, An American Tune.

“…And we come on the ship they call the Mayflower. We come on the ship that sailed the moon. We come in the age's most uncertain hours, and sing an American tune. Oh, and it's all right, it's all right, it's all right. You can't be forever blessed…” 

I should acknowledge a story related by Elder Jonathan C. Roberts of the Seventy who attended our Stake Conference many years ago. Elder Roberts had taken his family on vacation to a lake in the Ozarks, boated across the expanse of water to the middle where they deployed a large inflatable deck which they would use as a base. His wife had forgotten to bring along the food, and he jumped on one of the motorized ski contraptions to retrieve it.

Not being familiar with the lake he took notice of key landmarks prior to embarking across the water, making good use of his scouting skills lest he be unable to find his way back. Once he’d recovered the food he headed back, taking note of his position with respect to the aforementioned landmarks. He traveled to where he thought he’d started and had a sinking feeling he might have made a mistake, not being able to see the boat or inflatable deck in spite of having the landmarks lined up as his memory permitted.

He scoured the horizon and saw something far off in the distance and made his way closer, the speck growing larger to resemble the shape of a boat and later, as he got even closer, his family playing on the inflatable deck. Upon arrival he asked why they’d moved from their original spot; except his wife told him, “We haven’t moved.”

Elder Roberts checked the landmarks which no longer matched those he originally had depended upon at which time he realized they hadn’t been on a lake at all; rather, a very slow moving river. They had drifted a considerable distance from their original position.

Here we are in the year 2026 looking for familiar landmarks, landmarks that were left by our Founders to guide us, more importantly, to remind us that we, as a nation, are beholden to our Creator for our very existence. 

The Founders understood the principles which unite God and His children along with the social involvements which prevail, not only among those who acknowledge and adhere to God’s commandments, laws, restrictions and blessings; but with an understanding of those who would stand in defiance of these same commandments, laws, restrictions and blessings. Our Declaration of Independence, Constitution and Bill of Rights are an acknowledgement of the eternal order of things being made of and through Him.

I’ll close with an important thought,

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…”

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

 

Who Among Us Are Christians?

I should preface my remarks to include my natural inclination to engage in conversations which escalate toward contention rather than sit back and absorb an opinion which is contrary to my own.  With that in mind, I strive daily to overcome my instincts toward contention, to be more Christlike.

I read yesterday that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is no longer listed as being a Christian denomination. Yes, that’s a red cape being shown during a bullfight.

An article from ABC4, in Salt Lake City,  “The Defense Department slashed its religious designations list from over 200 choices to only 31 — a major reduction in the number of religious affiliations it officially recognizes.

In doing so, the department reclassified The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, listing it outside the “Christian” category.”

I’m a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Much of what is included in this brief essay were part of a talk I gave at a Sacrament Meeting back on January 11, 2009.

Elder Causse’ explained in his General Conference talk, Even A Child Can Understand, back in October of 2008:

“The Bible has probably been the subject of more interpretations and philosophical debates than any other book. However, a child reading this book for the first time will have at least as much, if not more, chance to understand the doctrine as the majority of those doctors of the scriptures. The Savior’s teachings are adapted to everyone. At eight years of age a child can have sufficient understanding to enter the waters of baptism and make a covenant with God with complete understanding.”

I didn’t join the Church until I was 28, having been baptized when I’d reached a point in my life when I humbled myself and became teachable. The Gospel is simple enough; even one as slow as I can, with the help of the Holy Spirit, even I can understand it.

An individual from another faith was upset because of comments made in an interview by Glenn Beck, radio talk show host and member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Apparently, Glenn’s answers had been posted on Focus on the Family, a Christian web site. His responses did not set well with others from different Christian denominations and the interview was pulled.

The reason for pulling the interview was later explained by Mary Wilson, of Focus on the Family; Glenn, and members of the Mormon Church (We prefer to be addressed as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints), couldn’t be Christians because our understanding of the Godhead was different.

“To cite a specific and extremely important example, the Mormon church does not subscribe to the doctrine of the Trinity as defined by the early Councils of Nicaea and Chalcedon . In fact, it’s our understanding that LDS believe in three *beings* as the godhead – three *separate beings* that are physically separate and distinct individuals who together constitute the presiding council of the heavens. But this is most definitely *not* the Christian view. Christians down through the ages have always believed that the Scriptures bear witness to *one* God who exists in *three* persons subsisting within a *single* essence.”

I recorded a statement from the Constitution of the Presbyterian Church which pretty much tosses the idea the idea that Christians have “always believed”, as if there had never been heated discussion as to the meaning of scripture.

“To counter a widening rift within the church, Constantine convened a council in Nicaea in A.D. 325. A creed reflecting the position of Alexander and Athanasius was written and signed by a majority of the bishops. Nevertheless, the two parties continued to battle each other. In A.D. 381, a second council met in Constantinople. It adopted a revised and expanded form of the A.D. 325 creed, now known as the Nicene Creed.”

When I was younger, I would be asked to stand and recite the Nicene Creed with the rest of the Presbyterian congregation. I found a reluctance to do so as I couldn’t go along with the Presbyterian explanation of God being invisible, vague and mysterious. I’d accepted the scriptural account in Genesis which explained how man was made in the image of God; not some vaporous Being without form.

The Youth Pastor told me that I didn’t need to know the particulars; I should just leave it alone. I suppose that’s why I quit attending the Presbyterian church when I was 14 years old.  I was able to find the “Mormon Missionaries” when I was 28 and about to start a family and they answered questions which had bothered me for years.

Elder Causse’, through his remarks, reminded us the simple truths in the scriptures are there for everyone, even those with limited understanding.

“What would a child understand from reading the story of the baptism of Jesus? Jesus was baptized in the river Jordan by John the Baptist. The Holy Ghost descended upon Him “in a bodily shape like a dove.” A voice was heard: “Thou art my beloved Son; in thee I am well pleased”, Luke 3:22.  The child would have a clear vision of what the Godhead is: three distinct persons in complete unity—God the Father; His Son, Jesus Christ; and the Holy Ghost.”


I’d been challenged by a fairly good friend, a Lutheran, to explain why I, a Mormon, should be considered a Christian. I wrote my thoughts on the council of Nicene quite some time back and posted it on my blog.

The many sects of the Christian world would rather be led by a consensus gained from biblical scholars and politicians rather than concede the possibility that God would rather have His Holy Prophets in charge. It is not up to a committee of Biblical scholars or theologians to determine the truth and meaning of sacred writings or to determine a comprehensive set of beliefs; that is the responsibility of each individual placed upon this earth.

Jesus was on the cross and he wasn’t talking to himself when these words were recorded, , “Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”

The scriptures make it clear, Jesus was openly pleading with His Father, a separate Being, “And when Jesus had cried with a loud voice, he said, Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit: and having said thus, he gave up the ghost.”

Many individuals of the Christian community are unable, or unwilling, to see the plain and simple truths which have been supplied. Perhaps the more important issue might be, why haven’t they asked to have the missionaries explain the simple truths of the Gospel, why haven’t they joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints?

I believe that Joseph Smith was the Prophet of God chosen to bring about the restoration of the Gospel in the Fullness of Times, to hold all the keys of the Priesthood so that the world would be prepared for the Second Coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ. We have his testimony.

“When the light rested upon me I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air. One of them spake unto me, calling me by name and said, pointing to the other—This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!”

Joseph Smith wrote a letter to a fellow named Wentworth expressing to him the basic beliefs in such a way that even a child could understand them; we call them the Articles of Faith. I’ve heard many accounts of young children being able to hold a conversation with total strangers while at the same time establishing, in plain language, these simple truths, to such an extent as to amaze learned adults. The Holy Ghost is there to testify of these truths; the child who understands the Gospel need only open his or her mouth.

The Father in Heaven to whom I pray has a body of flesh and bone and I am made in His image. His Only Begotten, Jesus Christ, is my older brother and has provided the means whereby I may return and live in the eternities with Them, this truth is validated by the Holy Ghost; even a child can understand these simple truths. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

A Recognition of Sacrifices Made

 

I'm getting to be one of those old fuddy-duddies who cries at the drop of a hat. I turned on the television this morning to have some background noise while I ate my bowl of cereal.  I hate watching the news, so I channel surfed for a movie, any movie other than having to watch Good Morning America.

The Longest Day had a twenty-minute head start, already into the scene where some guy “has a long mustache” and the French underground knows that it’s time to blow up a bridge. I make light of that, except when I heard that line tears started to flow and I couldn’t explain why. Maybe it had to do with the date, today is June 4th, two more days until the anniversary of the D-Day invasion of Europe to retake what was once a free land

Perhaps the movie, Saving Private Ryan, explained my tears. I remember the old man standing there in the cemetery with his family on the 50th anniversary of the D-Day invasion. All around him were the markers, young men who’d given their lives, their chance to roam this Earth, to have families with children and grandchildren all around them, their chance to enjoy the “good life”. This old man was cognizant of the sacrifices made on his behalf. He knew he needed to live his life in such a way as to “deserve” the opportunity to live out his life based on his having known these men.

I am a generation removed from those events; the War to end all Wars may not have lived up to its billing. There are still oppressors and oppressed, there are still wars to be fought, wars that deprive young men of their chances to roam this Earth, to have families with children and grandchildren all around them, their chance to enjoy the good life. I am cognizant of the sacrifices made on my behalf. I only hope I can live my life in such a way as to deserve the opportunity. Maybe that’s why the tears flow so easily.

 

Leading a Dual Life

 

Many of you know I was a Houston Police Officer and the last eight or so years up until my twenty-year retirement was spent on Night Shift at the Northwest Substation.  My assigned beat was Five Frank Twenty-Six, basically Long Point, Wirt, over to Kempwood, Bingle and Hempstead Road.

During that same time, during the daylight hours, I was a self-employed locksmith specializing in the automotive part of the industry. It could be said I was leading a dual life, or perhaps burning the candle from both ends.  Either way, it made it possible for my wife and I to actually retire, no more mortgage payments, our vehicles paid for and having a chance to live our senior years living in our house out in the country.  As long as we pay our taxes, utility bills and such we are comfortable.

The other day while going by Brookshire Brothers grocery store in Buffalo, Texas, to pick up a single item needed to complete a recipe my wife wanted to prepare, I happened to be walking through the produce department and thought I recognized a fellow doing his shopping.

Not being the bashful type, I asked, “Tell me how I know you”, not exactly a question, more of a recognition that I couldn’t explain.  The fellow looked at me quizzically as I extended my hand as if to make sure I was correct.  When he asked my name, I told him, “T. F. Stern”.  He thought about it momentarily and then, as his memory was triggered, he nodded.

“T. F. Stern, the locksmith.  You drove a red truck.” A smile broached his face as he returned my handshake.  He was correct, I had driven a red Dodge Dakota ever since they came out with a V-8 back in 1991.  Prior to that I’d made use of Ford Vans.  I still have a 2003 Dakota, stripped from all the locksmith benches, we use it to haul stuff around, the camper shell protects stuff even though the side panels no longer function the way they’re supposed to. 

Actually, I thought I’d known him from the police department, perhaps a fellow retired police officer; I couldn’t tell you why I’d known his face.  Turns out he’d worked for various car dealerships and eventually worked in the Tomball area.  We talked for a couple of minutes and parted with another handshake. 

Lastly, the other afternoon I got a call from a fellow in the Houston area asking if I was a locksmith.  I laughed for half a second as I replied, “Well, you’ve reached a retired locksmith”.  Before I could explain I’d retired from locksmith work 9 years earlier and moved out to the country, he apologized, said he’d dialed the wrong number and hung up.  Every now and then I’ll get a call from someone in the automotive industry hoping I still made keys for cars and trucks, my cellphone number remains the same as it has been for a very long time. The best part, I never ever get a call asking me to report for duty as a police officer. 

Goodbye Pumpkin

Pumpkin and the rest of the litter of kittens were born under a pile of limbs and cutdown brush.  They crawled out from under that pile and found refuge in between the wrought iron fence on the back side of our property and the wooden fence of our neighbor.  This photo of Pumpkin and her sister Hobo Kitty was taken on May 17, 2010.

We called them all Hobo Kitties at one time.  We suspected that the first Hobo Kitty must have placed an X on our driveway, letting wandering feral kitties know they could find a safe place to stay, get a free meal, fresh water and people who didn’t mind having them temporarily take up residence in their garage or backyard.  Most of the time we’d find out the Hobo Kitties were about to have a litter and needed a place right away. 

One time we heard muted kitten noises coming from the attic above our garage.  Following the noises we discovered several fur balls and brought them down so they could be taken care of.  Another time we heard muted kitten noises coming from a pile of cut down tree limbs that we had stacked along the back fence.  This was where we found yet another batch of Hobo Kitties, the litter from which we eventually obtained Pumpkin.

Being responsible individuals, we’d capture these Hobo Kitties, take them to the veterinarian for Rabies Shots; but more importantly, to have them neutered or spayed.  There were already plenty of Hobo Kitties wandering the neighborhood, no reason to keep adding to that issue. Each time we did this the Hobo Kitties would come back with the tip of their ear snipped off.  It was explained that this was how to distinguish feral cats that had been “fixed” from those who were not.

Most of the Hobo Kitties would remain feral, wander off and we’d lose track of them.  Some of them remained close by and would visit from time to time.  Every rare now and then one would become domesticated and had decided that wandering the neighborhood wasn’t nearly as good as living inside our home.  Pumpkin took the latter and claimed our house as her own, making sure her sister stayed outside; it was Pumpkin’s house and she wasn’t sharing it.

When we moved to our house in the country, Pumpkin chose to come with us, leaving with the people she had grown attached to.  That was almost nine years ago and it turned out the reason Pumpkin came with us had to do with our bed.  Pumpkin claimed the corner of the bed next to my pillow as her favorite spot.  When making the bed each morning I’d make sure both pillows were offset towards the far side, leaving Pumpkin’s Place carefully prepared so she could take a nap lasting the entire day. 

You may have guessed by now, Pumpkin was one of my girlfriends, the kind Lucy lets me have.  Pumpkin knew she wasn’t my only girlfriend; but figured she was my Number One girlfriend over the others who might be permitted to live in our house.

Shadow Puppy, Elsa (aka: Little Bit) and Thumper are also listed as girlfriends.  Max and Harold are just male Puppies who they put up with.  They all get along, mostly, and put together, we are a happy family.

For the past month or so we’ve noticed Pumpkin beginning to show her age, not being able to hold down her food and throwing up during the nighttime hours.  We’d have to be careful walking down the hall, spotting a mess prior to stepping in it, cleaning it up and wondering how Pumpkin could survive without keeping nutrients in her system.

This past week we noticed the loss of weight, to an extreme, as she no longer could jump onto the bed and had to settle for the bathmat next to Lucy’s sink in the bathroom.  Saturday, she stopped drinking water and I knew it was time to say goodbye.  It being Memorial Day weekend made it more difficult to watch Pumpkin’s body fade, her ability to get comfortable took much longer.

This morning I placed an older bath towel in a box as I convinced myself that I could transport Pumpkin to the vet.  Lucy said goodbye as best she could as I drove off.  I’ll leave it at that, the trip home without Pumpkin left me wondering about the “humane thing to do”, the act of ending a life.  I’d rubbed the place on Pumpkin’s head, the spot where she enjoyed being touched as she was in the box, the box awaiting the vet to finish her life. I plead guilty to having let my emotions become fragile, for letting a Hobo Kitty enter my heart and breaking it. 

The Value of a Stolen Item

 

I was listening to an account of historical value, maybe not anything earth shattering; but it struck a nerve.  The story had to do with an old guitar that had been hanging in a Brooklyn, New York, pawn shop’s window.  A fellow passing by happened to recognize it as a guitar that had been stolen from him nine years earlier when he and his band, Kiss, were at a gig in Chicago. The fellow’s name, Ace Frehley who was a big-time rocker, recognized his own stolen guitar hanging in a pawn shop window.   (image of Kiss courtesy of Wallpaper dot com)

Long story short, he was able to convince the pawn shop owner to return the guitar, pointing out the various customized alterations he’d made, the inlaid Ace on the guitar’s neck and the engraved letters “AF” on the back of the guitar’s neck.  If that weren’t enough, he showed the shop owner his driver’s license.  He really was who he said he was, the rock star from Kiss.

The guitar was in pretty bad shape but the point of the story had to do with how many memories that item held for the owner, the hours he’d spent carving out places for the electronic inserts, the tunes he’d created using that instrument, places he’d played using it and so on.  The guitar meant so much more in memories than it could ever have in monetary terms.

That brings me to the first Smith and Wesson duty pistol I had to purchase prior to graduating from the Houston Police Academy back in 1972.  Having acquired the necessary training and nearing the end of that training, I was surprised to find the Department didn’t furnish officers with a duty weapon, that officers purchased those weapons.  A representative from one of the local firearm sellers was on hand to accommodate each of us, offering these pistols at a substantially reduced price. If memory serves, I paid just over a hundred dollars for a Smith and Wesson Model 19, 357 blue steel revolver and a tad less for a Smith and Wesson Model 36, off duty snub-nosed pistol.

I should mention that at that time two hundred dollars was a huge amount of money and it put a large dent in my financial budget.  Upon graduation and wearing the uniform I found that having a large piece of blue steel strapped to my hip left bruises, another item I’d not figured on.  The Department had minimum height and weight requirements; at a hundred and forty pounds I was half a pound over that minimum.  I’d eat an entire pie or a banana split prior to going to bed to keep from losing weight.  During the day I’d eat an extra sandwich between meals, never gaining weight; just doing what I could to maintain my hundred and forty pounds. 

You may have noticed, I no longer have to worry about that minimum weight requirement.

Eventually I got used to wearing the pistol and the bruise it caused during months learning the duties of a patrol officer were being learned.  After a couple of years, I forgot all about, well mostly forgot about how awkward it was becoming a police officer.  I felt more comfortable, confident in my abilities as I found directing traffic during evening rush hour was where I fit in best.

I’m wandering a bit.  My financial abilities had risen from ‘abject poverty’ to being able to breathe, purchase a second duty pistol, a neat-looking Colt Commander, chrome 45 cal.  Another officer needed cash and so I picked it up at a reasonable price.  The only reason I mention this had to do with a burglary that took place some years later at my home.  While pulling into my driveway, the burglars were exiting my house out the back window of my daughter’s bedroom.

On the floor of the hallway leading to that bedroom were a couple of my rifles, most of my Sam Brown belt and some other insignificant personal items; the back window was wide open.  I’d missed walking in on them by mere seconds.  Unfortunately, they’d made off with my Smith and Wesson Model 19, the one that had been personalized with a Butt Plate from Nelson Silvia with my name and badge number, gold on silver.  The Butt Plate was a piece of jewelry, call it what you will, attached to my favorite pistol.

I made a police report, letting the officer know that even though I couldn’t prove it, I suspected the turds who lived on the street behind our house.  The neighborhood was a mix of middle-class working stiffs and hoodlums waiting for the working stiffs to leave for work. My insurance company settled, I think they paid me exactly a hundred dollars for the stolen pistol.

Several years went by when out of the blue I got a call from the Harris County Sheriff’s Office asking if I’d made a report of a stolen Smith and Wesson Blue Steel Model 19 pistol.  I told them that I had, that a police report had been filed and asked why they were asking.  It turned out a member of the Sheriff’s Department was at their pistol range attempting to qualify using that pistol.  When they entered the serial number stamped on the pistol, it came up as stolen with my name as the original owner. 

I won’t go into how dumb it sounded that a Sherriff’s Deputy ended up with my stolen pistol or that he didn’t notice that there had been a Butt Plate on it at one time, something which should have alerted him that it probably had been owned by a police officer, those little screw holes in the butt of the pistol.  Never mind, all that; “Would you like to have your pistol back?”

I explained that my insurance company had settled with me and that technically the insurance company was the rightful owner now.  I then contacted my insurance company, explained the recent findings and they said I could keep the pistol.  I think I paid them back a hundred dollars, maybe not.

I’d long since replaced the Smith and Wesson Model 19 with a Smith and Wesson Model 586, blue steel 357.  It was a nicer pistol, a bit heavier and it had become my favorite duty weapon.  It was nice being able to show up for work wearing either of my two favorite side arms, either the Smith and Wesson Model 586 for a while or the Colt Commander.  I had a rig for both and the City didn’t seem to mind that I’d used the Supply Department to accommodate these pistols.

While working night shift in the Spring Branch area, I’d often enjoyed the company of a young security guard working towards becoming an armed security guard.  He’d taken the training and passed all the requirements.  All he needed was a reliable duty weapon.  I sold him my old Smith and Wesson Model 19 for exactly a hundred dollars.  He was ecstatic since the going price for such a find was much higher at the time. 

What has this got to do with Ace Frehley and the pawn shop guitar? 

The value placed on objects has little to do with their financial worth.  The value has to do with the memories these items hold, how these memories came to be and at what cost, not in dollars; but in personal growth.

 

History and Imagination Working Together

 

When I was very young playing along the back fence digging in the dirt I found a piece of pirate treasure.  It was a small silver knife that must have accidentally found its way into my parent’s backyard.  I spent the rest of that day digging along the fence line hoping to find more treasure, perhaps a Piece of Eight or loot taken during a high seas battle.

Later in the evening, having exhausted myself and being covered in dirt, I showed the treasure to my mother along with my explanation of where it must have come from.  As my excitement level was at its peak it was at that moment that I recognized my newfound pirate treasure matched my folk’s silverware pattern perfectly.  I’d discovered a missing butter knife, one that had probably been used by my brother or perhaps even me to dig in the dirt. 

You might be wondering, what has this got to do with the images posted?

The top image (courtesy of Getty) shows a replica wagon similar to those that left their wheel ruts along the Oregon Trail.  Hundreds and hundreds of wagons crossed the Great Plains along various routes, pioneers hoping to find a place to start anew, their wagon wheels passing across rocks leaving marks that have lasted long enough to still be visible.

This past week a roofing crew was at our place to replace our damaged roof.  They had to tear off the old roof, and all that material had to be hauled off to the landfill.  We’d had rain a couple of days earlier so the ground was softer than usual. To accomplish removal of the old shingles their dump truck backed across our yard leaving some deep ruts.    No big deal, it’s not the first-time large trucks have left ruts on the property; those ruts will fade away and be forgotten in time.

This morning, as the sun came up, my mind saw those tire ruts in a different light as imagination kicked in. Those might easily have been wagon wheel ruts left by pioneers crossing through Buffalo on their way to the OSR.  We might have some Texas history right here on our property.  Wow, that’s neat!