What do you keep in the other pouch?

I was on the phone a while ago talking to my friend Steve, a gun enthusiast who’d just gotten home from the range. He and his wife had been shooting a pair of 38’s; an inch and a half barreled Smith and Wesson and the other a snub nosed Charter Arms. I told him that I couldn’t hit the side of a barn with my old short barreled Smith, the one I’d bought as a back up pistol back when I was graduating from the Houston Police Department academy.

That brought to mind the fact that I was basically a welfare case while in the Academy; I just didn’t know I was poor until many years had gone by. I was making all of $ 600 a month, a modest increase from what I’d been making at Montgomery Ward. I was able to pay for my apartment rent and a car payment with plenty to spare for food and entertainment. I was doing fine; just didn’t have any money.

Before graduating from the Academy they explained that the City was supplying the uniforms; but that we needed to pay for our pistols. I waited for them to ask for a down payment on a patrol car next; wondering how I was going to pay for what I considered an expensive piece of equipment. I ended up buying two pistols that day, a Smith and Wesson K frame 357 as my primary weapon and a snub nose Smith and Wesson 38 Special as a back up. I figured they wouldn’t have suggested it if we didn’t need one.

I was a fair shot with my regular duty weapon, nothing to write home about; but nothing to be ashamed of either. I’d shoot about the same score with or without practice, in the mid to high 80’s every year. I shot exactly the same score several years in a row; could have saved the City the cost of a box of bullets by simply changing the date on my card.

On the other hand, as I mentioned earlier, I couldn’t hit the side of a barn with the snub nose 38; a slight exaggeration since I did qualify, just not near as comfortable a score. There was a Homicide detective who would come down to the Capitol Street Bridge shooting range with his snub nose pistol just to pick up chump change. He’d place a pasty square on the target down range at the far end and bet any comers that he could hit it with the first shot. That pasty looked like a small dot at that range and so he’d generally get a few takers. I have no idea how he learned to control that short barreled pistol so well; but he’d win more times than he lost.

Upon graduating the City sent us down to Supply to be fitted out in our gear, a worthless piece of garbage for a holster that had been tagged as the “Kennigy Holster”, a handcuff case, 3 “keepers” to hold the “Sam Brown” to our regular issued belt and a double pouch to hold extra ammunition. Memory has faded to some degree and I’m not sure if the City supplied all of that or if we had to buy some of it on our own; not that it’s all that important now. I remember wrapping the barrel of my brand new Smith and Wesson duty pistol in a soft cloth on the night we graduated so that the barrel wouldn’t have the blue rubbed off; that’s how crude the Kennigy Holster was. ( Anyone out there; please correct my spelling on the name; in honor of Julius Kennigy who was a police Sergeant at the time.) I know for sure that I went down and purchased a much nicer holster, one that was lined with soft leather that wouldn’t destroy my fancy looking blue job.

I later found that neither of those early generation holsters were worth a tinker’s damn when it came to pistol retention. I’d have to chase some fool down on a run holding my pistol to keep it from falling out; not exactly a cool feeling to arrive at the show down without your pistol. The City eventually phased out the Kennigy Holster in favor of one that actually had been designed for modern police work; retention and ease of use for the officer were built in; but that isn’t what I wanted to write about since I’d posted about this a couple of years ago.

http://tfsternsrantings.blogspot.com/2005/06/police-holsters.html

I was telling my friend Steve, the one who’d just gotten back from the shooting range, about the spare ammo pouches that were on my belt; I was already laughing as the memory came back. I kept six spare bullets in one and in the other I had a small box of Bayer Aspirin. It made for some interesting conversation when talking with others, police personnel or regular folks.

“Why on earth would you keep a box of Aspirin in there?” They’d go bug eyed, as if I were keeping a pet hamster in there would sound as silly. I’d go on to explain as best I could.

“I figure if I get into a real “storm” (expletive omitted) and used up the six rounds in my pistol, reloaded and then emptied the next six then I’d probably have a severe headache and it would be nice to have some aspirin handy”, followed by a quick smirk of a smile to indicate how much fun it was to make it up as I went along. The fact remained, had such a situation come about; there’s no doubt I’d be looking for something to make it all go away.

Steve was howling on the other end of the phone; I was about to say “phone line” and it dawned on me, in this day of cellular calls that the expression might not mean anything. I changed from the Model 19 Smith and Wesson to the much heavier 586 after a few years and found it stayed on target better with a little less kick. I still prefer a revolver to an automatic; call me an old fart, I’m old enough. (link in title bar)

While looking up the linked postings I noticed that June of 2005 had a few other police related stories if you get bored watching television and have nothing better to do try clicking on the Archived 2005 articles. Just scroll through until you find them.

Mother’s Day Planning

Birthdays, Anniversaries, Christmas and New Years are on everyone’s calendar; but if you overlook Mother’s Day you may as well start scoping out the dog house for the rest of the year. I was in a planning meeting this morning at church where one fairly minor detail took the spotlight; what to kind of token handout should be given the lovely ladies as a means of letting each of them know they are appreciated next Sunday on Mother’s Day.

In years past there have been two traditional gifts; a single cut rose or a small plant with some kind of small flower. This morning’s discussion centered on which one, the rose or the plant that dies on the window sill within a week, which is more desired. I never had given it much thought, naively believing perhaps that any gift offered would be sufficient as a small token of the gratitude we all share for motherhood and all that conjures; nurturing, caring, teaching and so on.

“Well, if we give a single rose it might remind some of them of how their husbands should have given them roses.” I would hope that husbands give their wives cut flowers from time to time, roses are fine; but almost any sign of affection that can be placed in a simple vase during a meal will work. I vote for a single cut flower, carnations or roses are easily handed out at the end of our meetings and will last for a couple of days as a reminder that a kind thought was sent their way.

“My wife always feels guilty for murdering yet another small plant that sits in the window. We either water it to death, let it die of drought, it gets too much sun, not enough sun; you get the idea.” I’ve always thought that handing out those small live plants made women feel good; springtime being the start of new life and all those nurturing feelings, but what do I know?

“We could give them chocolate; say those little hearts that Dove makes? It would stay with them forever.” A not too reverent burst of laughter followed the fact that anything with calories that taste as good as chocolate will go straight to the waist. You can see how planning something as simple as a Mother’s Day handout has turned into a national dilemma worthy of Henry Kissinger’s advice.

"I’d like to change my vote from roses to chocolates. We can hand the ladies a beautifully wrapped piece of chocolate with an all encompassing Mother’s Day thought tied to it with a fancy piece of ribbon, let them carry on about how they wouldn’t dare eat it and then volunteer to save them from a fate worse than death by eating the very same chocolate we wanted for ourselves to begin with; everyone goes home from church happy and if there are any left over we can eat them at the next planning meeting."

The names of those persons offering suggestions have been omitted to protect their identities much as the opening lines from the old black and white television series, Dragnet. Any similarity to members of prominence are purely coincidental and should in no way reflect our incompetence when understanding what goes on in a woman’s mind. If only we’d had input from the Relief Society during our meeting none of this would have come up; we’d simply have asked, “What would you like us to do?” and we’d have gone along obediently.

Picture courtesy of Russian Flora, (linked via title bar)

Robbery Suspect Caught

I read in the Houston Chronicle this morning where an officer was close enough to a robbery in progress to actually witness its conclusion; the part where the robbery suspect got shot. Not to make light of the situation; but when you point a gun at the police I have no tears for you ( linked via title bar )

When I was a young police officer I’d always wanted to be close enough to a major crime scene to jump into the middle of it. I was assigned to Central Patrol Evenings out of Central in the early 70’s. One particular Churches Chicken store was getting robbed on a regular basis and we decided to allocate a handful of units to stake out the place; when I say “we”, bear in mind that I was not in on the decision making process. I was; however, thrilled at the prospect of being in on the detail, it having a fair chance of offering results since the store was being robbed a couple of times a week.

My partner and I were set up about two blocks away and out of sight so that when the robbery went down we’d be in a position to catch them if they came our way. Other units were similarly positioned with one unit watching the store through binoculars. I heard the call go out, the familiar address and waited for the primary unit to alert us with details of the suspects.

“Suspects in custody”, was put out almost simultaneously. We collectively drove to the scene and were somewhat dumbstruck when we noticed that the primary unit didn’t have anyone in the back of their patrol unit. They were talking to the young man working behind the counter, taking notes as he explained how he’d just been robbed and wanted to know why we were all standing around instead of chasing the bad guy.

“We have the suspect.” The young man behind the counter had a puzzled look on his face; knowing that it was impossible since he’d just told us about the robbery. It turned out that nobody had been into the Churches Chicken for the past twenty minutes as had been observed by the unit with the binoculars. There had never been any robberies; at least not by anyone walking up to the counter wielding a pistol. The young man behind the counter, the employee had been pocketing the day’s receipts and calling in to report a robbery; so the fact remained, the suspect was in custody.

Several years went by and I was assigned to make a robbery report downtown. I listened as the young man explained that he was on his way to the bank to deposit the day’s receipts when he was robbed. The details were sketchy at best; almost as if he were making them up as he went along. A little red flag went off in my head as it occurred to me that in all likelihood I was talking with the suspect.

I had no proof, only my suspicions to guide me through as I took great care to record the details, or lack thereof, exactly as they were given. This may have been the shortest robbery report ever made; I might as well have put down that the suspect was a grey blob who vanished into thin air carrying all the money and left it at that.

The folks who check over the quality of reports turned in flagged my report as being a sorry excuse for police work and requested, perhaps too kind a term, that I do a better job as I was handed it back accompanied with something of a scowl as if I’d cheated the Department by doing shoddy work. The fact was I couldn’t accuse the one person who I believed to be the real suspect with no evidence to prove it.

I went back and made a very detailed report. I measured the sidewalk, listed the placement of the traffic signals, how high the curb was from the street surface and even listed cracks in the concrete at the location of the alleged event. I put so many useless details into that report that it had to have a second full page of single spaced details which had about as much to do with police work as this blog has. I turned it into the fellow who’d been critical of my work and explained that not all is as it appears; that perhaps he might have asked why the first report was lacking before going off with extreme criticism.

I’m sure there’s a lesson for us all in there somewhere; maybe the fellow behind the register should be watched a little more closely would be important to remember. How about we get all the information before jumping to conclusions; now that would really be asking too much, now wouldn’t it?

Lawsuit Abuse or Criminal Oppression, $65 Million?

A District of Columbia administrative hearings judge, Roy Pearson, had a pair of pants lost for a week and so he tried to extort $1000.00 from the cleaning establishment, the value he claimed the entire suit was worth. When the pants were found Roy Pearson refused to accept them and decided to sue because the establishment claimed “Same Day Service” and “Satisfaction Guaranteed”.

You have got to read the article ( linked via title bar) to appreciate the great lengths that the cleaning establishment has gone to “accommodate” Roy Pearson, A District of Columbia administrative hearings judge. I’d call what District of Columbia administrative hearings judge, Roy Pearson did extortion, criminal oppression or at the very least criminal malfeasance for an appointed judge, to use his position in the community to target anyone in such a manner as to put a gun to their heads, figuratively, with such an outrageous tort suit.

I have an idea; have the District Attorney’s office file on him for any of the above listed crimes and haul his worthless fanny off to the jail house. Ask for the judge hearing this criminal case to post Roy Pearson’s bond so unbelievably high as to make it impossible to attain freedom until the case is heard and make sure that there are plenty of continuances in order to properly prepare the case. Did I leave anything out? Maybe place Pat Pearson in a jail cell with an overly aggressive gay macho stud who may have had some sort of previous encounter with District of Columbia administrative hearings judge, Roy Pearson. Assign Roy Pearson the laziest county jailer, one who has a record of sleeping on the job, to that cell block and see how long Roy Pearson survives.

In the event that District of Columbia administrative hearings judge, Roy Pearson, does not survive; place a sign on his worthless shredded corpse as a warning to others that extortion, criminal oppression or such insidious malfeasance will not go unnoticed or without serious consequences. After these events have occurred we can move on over to the House of Representatives and the Senate and the Supreme Court.

Hypocrites in Austin Regarding Identification

Locksmiths are required by State Law to obtain a form of photo identification, preferably a driver’s license when performing service. The purpose of this exercise in common sense is to verify that persons requesting service are who they say they are. I'm also required to record that information on each and every sales slip. When I ask for such ID from customers who've lost a key to their vehicle and wish to have a replacement key for their ten thousand dollar vehicle, their twenty thousand dollar vehicle or more; at no time have I had any of them feel as if I were singling them out due to age or race.

I read in the Houston Chronicle where the Democrats in Austin, the same ones who signed off on the locksmith law requiring photo identification, are all in an uproar because the Republicans want to require this same photo identification for voters. In a similar piece of legislation going through the house similar identification would be needed to renew voter registration. (linked in title bar)

"House Bill 626, sponsored by Rep. Phil King, R-Weatherford, would require state election officials to verify citizenship of every applicant for a new voter registration card."

{...}

“"What this is is an orchestrated and national movement to suppress elderly and minority votes," Van De Putte said, adding that in Texas, the Secretary of State's office has no reports of people casting illegal ballots.”

No, Van De Putte, this is a common sense attempt to insure that those who vote are who they say they are and at the same time verify that they are citizens living in Texas legally. Maybe these requirements seem a little over the top when it comes to voting, and anyway the locksmith already checked them and said they were okay.

The Mormon Experience via PBS

Yesterday I wrote about the first two hours of the PBS show, The Mormons, as linked in the title bar. I was careful to keep an open mind and yet, all the while there was something telling me that the presentation had an ominous dark agenda. Having endured, and I believe that is the proper word, after having endured subtle and not so subtle insults and insinuations regarding sacred beliefs which I hold I must conclude that the PBS broadcast was anything but a non-biased sampling to acquaint a stranger to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I would go further and state that those unfortunate folks who watched were being sold a bill of goods.

I noticed that many of those interviewed to offer insight into the workings and the more spiritual aspects of the church were disgruntled feminists with an agenda which ran contrary to Church doctrine, excommunicated members with an ax to grind, or some rather colorful individuals intended to portray normalcy. Those authoritative members within the mainstream Church were often placed in positions of defending the Church’s stance on a variety of oddities rather than asking them to explain basic doctrine.

My son asked me why I was continuing to watch, noting that it was clear to him that it was “so negative” as to make him want to leave the room. My response was that I would be required to know what had been presented in order to counter the flawed picture which had been painted, to be able to answer questions from my friends and acquaintances, those who might be alarmed at some of the slanted information which was given as truth.

Lucy got home a few minutes after the PBS production had ended, having provided her services at the Bishop’s Storehouse most of the day helping folks properly store and can basic food supplies, something which was glossed over in half a minute on the PBS show. The man hours provided by members in such a capacity are free and the goods are provided basically at cost in order to make them affordable to the most frugal members living on a shoe string. My wife’s expertise makes her perfectly suited to help get them started down the road towards self sufficiency which is one of the goals of the Church Welfare System; but that wasn’t really brought out now was it?

Lucy noticed the beautiful music coming from the stereo which had been synchronized with the television broadcast of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir special which followed the PBS presentation, The Mormons. Lucy wondered if I had started replaying the production and I had to explain how this was a different show; this was 180 degrees turned around from what I’d just experienced, this was actually uplifting. I wish I had listened to the Tabernacle Choir for two hours instead of the “enlightened intellectuals” who’d been hand picked to distort and destroy anything sacred which my church stands for.

I then added something of how betrayed I felt when I compared “The Mormons” with something that happened to the actor Tom Selleck several years ago. He’d been invited to some talk show, supposedly to ask him about a new film he was in, a way to promote the new movie. Instead he was blind sided with a string of accusations in the form of questions regarding his views on the NRA and gun control. I’d expected some margin of negativity regarding the Church as a natural outcome; instead I was subjected to nothing less than an orchestrated attack on most everything I believe to be sacred. Thank you very much; next time I’ll take the bus.

If you want to find out about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, The Mormons; I suggest you talk to members of the Church who are living within the doctrines which define the Church. I would avoid following the information gained from a disenchanted feminist who wants to hold the Priesthood, an excommunicated member who would rather tell the leaders of the Church what they need to change rather than accepting the existing doctrines of the Lord’s Church, an interview with a rather unstable young man who upon returning from his Church Mission explained his Mission in terms that could only be compared as a lunatic with terrorist ties or historians who suspect black magic secret combinations behind the doors of our most sacred edifices, our temples. Other than that the PBS production was …, I better stop or I might say something negative about it.

The Mormon Experience in One Night

I watched the first two hours of the four hour PBS broadcast production entitled, The Mormons. I had a couple of reasons for wanting to watch the show; in some regard I wanted to see how a non-church production would present the early history of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Days. I wanted to be prepared to answer questions from my non-Mormon associations, many of whom have little if any solid awareness of what I believe or why I hold to those beliefs in the face of a steady stream of often contentious argument against my beliefs. (link provided in title bar)

I should also add that my evening was tempered to some degree with an additional treat; another PBS presentation which followed, “The Mormons”; an accounting of the Willie and Martin Handcart Companies attempts to reach the Salt Lake valley. I had, in my studies of the history of the Church, read many accounts of the hardships encountered by those who were overtaken by an early winter storm, unprepared in nearly every way with the exception of their faith in God, their testimony of the truthfulness of the Gospel and that regardless of their success or failure to reach the Salt Lake valley their eternal progression could not be halted. I will speak more on this topic later; all the while explaining that my evening television viewing was well rewarded.

“The Mormons”, as presented seemed to be preoccupied with two distractions, which while true historically, were given an inordinate amount of presentation time in relation to the other historical elements of the Church which I feel would have given those who took the time to view this work. I refer to the Mountain Meadows Massacre and the topic of Polygamy. In a two hour production intended to offer strangers to the history of the Church, the Mountain Meadows Massacre was allotted nearly twenty minutes of air time and the subject of Polygamy closer to thirty minutes.

I had a cursory knowledge of the Mountain Meadows incident prior to having watched this evening’s explanation of the issues leading up to massacre along with journal entries by those survivors, children under the age of eight years who were spared. I have no way of knowing what sparked this violence, the destruction of human life by members of the Church any more than those who speculated and then created this section of the docudrama as best they could. I found it fell within the boundaries of believable, no less a tragedy and deplorable as would be eyed by any civilized human being.

I’m not sure at all that the provocation which led to this incident was given its proper place, ignoring, as I have been informed by members with a better historical background, that certain of those targeted had been members of the “mob” and had been suspected of poisoning water holes, which in turn poisoned the livestock and led to the deaths of many native Indians. While this particular time in American history has many events associated with violence, the fact remains that the members of the Church had been living in what I would consider a state of war, sometimes declared as in the Extermination Order in Missouri; but mostly as an undeclared state of being outcasts from the secular surroundings in the formative and frontier setting of the times. While the incident exposed to the world that members of the Church had offended the laws of the land, my regret would be that so many other areas of Church history could have filled those twenty minutes, items which would have more accurately explained the “Mormon Experience”.

Polygamy was examined and given a spotlight, one which indeed does cause members of the Church to bristle and assume a defensive position. I found it enlightening, distancing the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, that being the official title of the church to which I am a member, and the fact that a goodly portion of the time extended in this PBS production was “shared” with so called splinter groups which continue to practice polygamy to this day. I’m not sure how to discuss the topic as it was presented other than to make a clarification to one aspect of Church doctrine which is, in my humble opinion, a very meaningful part of the restored Gospel, Celestial Marriage which exists because of a revelation given to the Prophet Joseph Smith. It seems unfortunate that this same revelation is associated, at least by those detractors of my church, purely with polygamy.

I will explain as best I am able, the importance of understanding the eternal aspects of entering a Celestial Marriage. Most folks are familiar with the common marriage ceremony which concludes with the preacher explaining that the vows taken are serious commitments that in the eyes of all witnesses before God, that these two, a husband and wife, are to be married until death. I refer to the vows as “common”, not to detract from their importance; only to identify that the limited commitment has a higher order, one that is Celestial in its nature and therefore not “common”. I am speaking of a bond which is ordained of God that will take a husband and a wife past the boundaries of mortality, based on their desires to be obedient to the mind and will of God as expressed through their actions while here in mortality, and through all time and throughout all eternity.

I ask you to contemplate such a glorious possibility, speaking to those who may not have considered marriage in such parameters. My recollection of tonight’s PBS presentation only mentioned Celestial Marriage briefly, possibly a blink so to speak; not giving the viewer anything with which to ponder such a grand commitment and the blessing which are availed the children of our Heavenly Father, heirs to all that He has in a literal sense.

It is one of the most basic beliefs in the Church that God and His Son, Jesus Christ exist in individual bodies of perfected flesh and bones. Joseph Smith testified that upon praying in a grove of trees that he was granted a special witness of this fact. The age old speculations of the “Godhead”, the lack of understanding as outlined in the Nicene Creed, that our Father in Heaven has a body which is separate and distinctly apart from that of His Son, Jesus Christ is of paramount importance to understanding our individual relationship to these, our Heavenly progenitors.

Many outside the Church consider such a statement as blasphemy or utterly ridiculous based on the false teachings which have been passed down through either the Catholic or the splintered and various other Protestant reformers. It is my assertion, rather than contention, that Joseph Smith did indeed record for all mankind this most important piece of information, information which when inculcated will permit the human spirit to also understand that our eternal progression is assured, that the resurrection of our older brother Jesus Christ and His Atonement are real, that we are indeed made in the image of our Father in Heaven and that the promises made to each of us are in place today as they have been since before the foundation of the world. If you come away with nothing else from the PBS production, The Mormons, know that our lives are more than the short and unpredictable experiences gained or heaped upon us while in this frail and breakable mortal body. We are intended to live our lives in such a way as to always be focused on our eternal nature so that we may be blessed for time and all eternity by that God who continues to care about us individually and personally.

I look forward to the second two hour installment of The Mormons which will air tomorrow evening. According to the information provided during the ending credits, the next show will attempt to explain how current day members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints fit into with the rest of the World, these United States of America and, hopefully, some explanation of the promises of our individual eternal progression through eternity. I’m not sure that any of this will be included and so I await with some degree of anticipation with the stated hope that my non-member friends and acquaintances will be offered at least some glimpse of those sacred issues which have had such a wonderful bearing on my own life.

I may have used up your attention span with all that I have recorded; all the same I would like to share at least a little of the emotional roller coaster which I experienced this evening by having watched the one hour production on the Willie and Martin Handcart segment which is part of Mormon history. I had watched, with some feeling of disappointment as you may have noticed from my writings above, two hours of historical data and yet spiritually lacking in most regards. I had hoped for more and yet am willing to accept that the information was offered through a venue which was not Church sponsored and so was not a missionary tool intended to gain membership into the waters of baptism.

The portrayal of immigrants from Europe, recent converts to the Church who were intent on making their way to the Salt Lake Valley at any cost, to include their lives if necessary, was an emotional investment which I took in with the assistance of many pieces of tissue to wipe away tears. The most important aspect of the demanding and often time tragic journey was their testimony that the Gospel truths which are found in the Book of Mormon and which witness of the divinity of Jesus Christ are true. If it were not for such a testimony the trip would have been impossible and each loss would have been nothing more than a reminder to them of how poorly prepared these individuals were for starting out on such an ordeal. The journal entries which were shared were only a small part of the presentation offered in this one hour show.

I would like to share something which was not shared, something which would give a little more significance to the testimonies of the truthfulness of the Gospel which gave strength and meaning to those members of the Willie and Martin Handcart individuals who lived and who often times were asked why they did not complain about the lack of planning which cost so many lives.

One survivor, I apologize for not having his name available at this time, while sitting in a meeting in which the leaders of the Church were being openly criticized and ridiculed for permitting such a tragedy to occur, a tragedy which took the lives of so many innocent members and which, according to those speaking out against the leaders of the Church, should never have been permitted to happen. This one surviving member stood up and stopped the onslaught of accusations and bore his testimony. He silenced any criticism of Church leaders and thanked God for the refiner’s fire and ordeal which solidified his testimony that the Church was true, that nothing he had gone through could have detained him from his goal of reaching the Salt Lake Valley and his desire to be among the Saints. Such strong emotions cannot begin to express my appreciation for those who have forged the way for my membership in this Church. I am grateful for the history of this Church, the good and the bad, as it reminds me of the resolve necessary to build character, something which in today’s world may seem a thing of naught.

I leave my testimony with you that the Book of Mormon is true, that God and His Son, Jesus Christ Live, that They have bodies of flesh and bone and that we are children who are heirs to all the blessings promised in the scriptures. May we live in such a way as to be deserving of those blessings; I leave this short testimony in the name of our Savior, in the sacred name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Edited May 1, 2007 11:00am

This portion of my thoughts was added the following morning after I’d had a chance to review the recorded program. I’m still in awe of the technology which provides such an opportunity, the crystal clear image and sound quality to match; as my grandmother would have said, “Remarkable, truly remarkable!”

I’d missed the first few minutes of the program and so I didn’t hear some of the opening dialogue. There was one line in particular that caught my ear. The narrator was attempting to explain how the members of our Church feel about the Prophet Joseph Smith. I was highly disappointed in his choice of words as he described Joseph Smith as the “Alpha and Omega” of our church. The term Alpha and Omega is reserved for God and no other. Most viewers would be familiar with such a comparison and I could feel my own resentment; how much more then would be the feelings of displeasure from someone who is not a member of my church, someone who is taking this in as an attempt to understand what we believe? If it had been me, prior to my investigation of the Church and prior to my becoming a member, I would have turned off the show or, at the very least, discounted anything which followed as being pure blasphemy.

Medical Insurance Help For the Children

The Sunday Houston Chronicle ran an AP story, States Expand Children's Health Coverage. (linked via title bar)

“The goal of the states is to allow more middle-class families to participate in the State Children's Health Insurance Program. The states are raising income limits so families once shut out because of their earnings now can qualify.”

The goodness of our hearts tells us that taking care of those in need is the right thing to do; stepping out on a limb, “What would Jesus Do?”, comes to mind. My cynical mind sees little red flags anytime an article starts off with “Help the Children”; call me skeptical. Children need to be taken care of and I’m sure they will be; but let’s examine what is being proposed before we all start sobbing for the underprivileged little kid with his empty bowl asking, “More, please, Sir”.

“When the program began a decade ago, states could offer coverage to families whose income was not more than double the federal poverty level. Today, for example, that threshold is $41,300 for a family of four. A few states use a Medicaid-based formula that lets them insure more children than under the income limit.”

“Already, 18 states exceed the 200 percent level, with federal permission. Five more, plus the District of Columbia, could join the list this year, according to a survey by Georgetown University's Center for Children and Families.”

I never considered myself poor back then, just prior to retiring from the police department with my family of five. I was making right about $40,000 from the City and never thought about asking the government for help, not ever. I had a portion of my income set aside for necessary expenses and lived on what was left; health insurance was part of the necessary expenses along with lots of other items that are not all that much fun.

Responsible folks build what’s called a budget and pay for the necessary items and then they consider extras like a fancy car, fancy clothing, a vacation and even what kind of food they plan to eat.

Now I know that the word budget is a four letter word in government, so they’ve used a “progressive dictionary” to alter its meaning, it now means nothing and so it doesn’t make them quite so uneasy when the numbers for money expected through taxation doesn’t come close to money promised in the form of entitlements. When that happens anything which comes up short or over can be passed on to some other generation who won’t mind.

Going back to that last quote, “Already, 18 states exceed the 200 percent level, with federal permission.” So why didn’t they just come out and say that in some states the poverty level is $82,600 a year for a family of four? I’m starting to wonder if we should start airlifting supplies for all those impoverished souls living from day to day with no hope of ever owning a new BMW.

“"State leaders are moving in a very different direction than the Bush administration is talking about," Guyer said. "They see that even moderate-income families increasingly find that coverage is simply unaffordable, and that it's appropriate to have some subsidy.””

Therein lies the problem with America, rather than take responsibility for managing and budgeting the funds available and acquired through individual efforts it has become increasingly more appropriate to have the government subsidize for the really important stuff like insurance for health care, prescription medicine or anything else that isn’t that much fun to pay for on your own. After all, if I can force my more wealthy neighbors, those born with a silver spoon in their mouths, those lucky ones who make way too much money and don’t deserve that much to begin with; if I can force them to help pay for my kids medical insurance then I might also be able to enjoy the good life.

The only way for a free people to remain free is to act responsibly. One of the rules of existence is approaching the breaking point; when a greater percentage of citizens line up looking for a hand out than the number of folks actively contributing to the public wallet then collapse is eminent. It’s time to shut off the free ride for those who are perfectly capable of carrying their own load; but they would prefer a lighter load at the expense of their neighbor.

There is Hope for Harry Reid

I read an AP article which explained that doctors are now taking advantage of the human body’s “natural openings” to undertake surgical procedures which in the past left the patient with scars and required long recuperative time. ( linked via title bar )

“A 4-year-old boy lay on an operating table in Pittsburgh a few weeks ago with a tumor that had eaten into his brain and the base of his skull. Standard surgery would involve cutting open his face, leaving an ugly scar and hindering his facial growth as he matured.”

“But doctors at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center knew a way to avoid those devastating consequences. They removed much of the tumor through the boy's nose.”

I found the information especially promising as I contemplated the many opportunities for saving the life of Senator Harry Reid. They can now use Harry’s anus to remove that brain tumor, the one which has damaged his reasoning powers so badly as to make him believe that he is a patriotic American working to safe guard the country. In plain language, “Harry, pull your head out of your ass”; it would be so much easier for the doctors to work on you.

Laughable to the Point of Crying

I read Steve McVicker’s piece in this morning’s Houston Chronicle ( linked via title bar) where the U.S. Border Patrol is looking to hire 120 agents; not to guard against the influx of illegal aliens from Mexico and points south, no, they are being hired to guard the borders of Iraq. Did somebody slip drugs into the water or what?

We have 12 million illegal aliens who have infiltrated our sovereign soil and we are going to show another country how to prevent unwanted individuals from entering their country. Does anyone, other than Steve McVickers and myself, see something wrong with this picture?

Maybe next week we’ll invite Harry Reid to talk to the Iraqi troops to teach them how to win their war at the same time, you know, kill two countries at the same time. I’m sorry, that was supposed to be “kill two birds with one stone”.

First Day on the Job

Lucy, her brother Donnie and I went to Minute Maid Park on Saturday to watch the Astros. As it turned out we actually won a game; after a seven game losing streak, a 10 – 1 blow out was plenty of fun for the 41,000 folks in the stands. That’s not what I’m writing about though; something else got my attention, I’ll eventually get to that.

We got to the stadium plenty early because there was a give away promotion, Astros Blanket Day. The first 10,000 through the turn stiles got a free Astros Blanket to take home so, knowing it was going to be close to a sell out crowd we wanted to be there when they opened the gates. We’d purchased our tickets on line and had to pick them up at the Will Call window prior to the game.

There were lines at each gate that stretched pretty much around the block and so I had them get in line while I did my impersonation of a speed walker. Will Call was on the far side from where we started so I had to go clear on around the block, all the while noticing how many folks were standing in line, snaked into the street where several police officers where attempting to keep some sort of order.

The late afternoon sun had warmed things up into the mid 80’s; but with all my walking it felt more like the 90’s. I showed my ID and they handed me the tickets about the same time as the gates opened up. I put some extra step in my step, noticing that the lines were moving at a good clip and not wanting Lucy and Donnie to have to wait. I got back to where they were in plenty of time.

Lucy had her purse which had to be searched for hand grenades, machine guns and atomic bombs so Donnie and I went in, had our tickets scanned and were handed our free Astros Blankets. While we waited for Lucy, we noticed that the supply of free blankets was just about out. The lady handing out the blankets opened the last box of 30 as Lucy waved from just outside the turn stiles. I don’t know how many blankets were left in that box; but Lucy got her Astros Blanket and we made our way up to the nose bleed section where our seats were located. Actually, the view from up there is pretty good and we enjoyed every minute of the game. We were in section 422, row 6, seats 13,14 and 15 if you want to go over to the Minute Maid Park web site and take a digital peek at how it looks from up there. ( I’ll post a link in the title bar )

I inquired where I might purchase a canister of oxygen, jokingly, as we made it ever higher and the effects of my power walking tour began to take hold. Normally when we go to a game I hold off purchasing our soda until a couple of innings have been played; not so on Saturday.

It was Dr Pepper time as I asked for two large tourist trap specials in the fancy take home souvenir Astros/Coca Cola plastic cup. I’d called my banker prior to making the purchase and he wired me some cash as I waited in one of two lines to pay for the first mortgage payment on the fancy take home souvenir Astros/Coca Cola plastic cups.

The folks in front of me had handed the young woman at the cash register a plastic credit card; only thing was she couldn’t figure out how to slide the card through the magnetic reading device in order to complete the sale. After watching the ineptitude show for a couple of minutes I decided that I’d try my luck at the other cash register. There were three young women working the two registers, one of them was teaching the other two how to properly perform at what had to be their first day on the job.

I watched carefully as I explained that I wanted to pay cash for my two fancy take home souvenir Astros/Coca Cola plastic cups. The veteran cashier explained how to enter numbers, pointing to the keys on the cash register as if the other young woman had never seen such a contraption in all her years here on planet Earth. I kid you not:

“That’s one large drink, uh huh, now press it again”, “Hit total and look at how much it says to take.” A half minute or so went by as the young woman let the information given to her roll around in that empty head of hers. The blue lights showing the total amount of $9.50 flashed on the eye level display board.

“That will be $ 9.50.” I think she was waiting for her supervisor to pin an award on her lapel for having excelled on her first attempt at pushing the large drink button twice, the total button once and for being able to read the amount due display as an awkward smile appeared from out of the edge of despair.

I handed her a ten dollar bill, took my change and bit my tongue as I handed Lucy her Dr Pepper. I know there must be a reason why there is no “period” after the letters D and r in Dr Pepper; just like I wonder why they would hire some idiot who’d never used a cash register to work in an area where 41,000 hungry and thirsty folks were going to storm her position in the next few minutes. Maybe this is one of the mysteries of the universe that I will never understand. Am I being to hard on this next generation, the generation that will be voting in the next presidential election?

Gospel in a Nutshell

What if you had never heard about the Scriptures, never met anyone who could tell you about the Gospel of Jesus Christ and all you had to go on was one page that had somehow fallen out of a bound book and been blown by the wind as to wind up at your feet. Upon picking it up, out of curiosity, having observed that it had been highlighted by whomever had at one time thought it worth making such notations, you read the typed information.
( Click on image to enlarge )

I like to go through the scriptures looking for short pieces, contained within the boundaries of a single page or even a single paragraph, looking for what I like to refer to as the “Gospel in a Nutshell”, a statement which would explain that Jesus Christ is the redeemer of mankind and that through His atonement we may return to our Father in Heaven. A single statement which would be sufficient, if that were the only surviving piece of the Gospel message left of all the other important messages that had been recorded, sufficient for you to understand what was important regarding your eternal soul.

This morning in our Bishopric meeting Ron Keller was called upon to pick a scripture to start our meeting. He opened his Book of Mormon and read from Helaman 5:12. While he read I opened my own book, well worn and marked from years of attempting to learn those lessons which will make me a better disciple of the Lord. I smiled as I recognized that on numerous occasions I had read and marked this same verse.

I also re-read the rest of that page, giving me a more rounded explanation as to why that particular verse was so important. This was a father’s heart felt prayer that his sons live a righteous life following the commandments of God in such a way as to be worthy of the names which they had been given.

Going back to my original “what if”, the supposition that this was the only available page for you to read, wondering where it might have come from; would it matter if this page had come from a history book, a novel or the Bible? The information contained in these few verses would be enough to understand the essential elements of the Gospel. I invite you to leave no stone unturned in your search to obtain the rest of this wonderful message, one that has been prepared for the salvation of all mankind.

On the Lighter Side

Thanks and a tip of the hat to my friend Judy Eckerle for sharing this through my email.

I won’t try to explain anything; just read and let it soak in.

(Click on the image to enlarge)

Guns, Police and Fantasy Land – A Rant in Progress

One any given day there are articles posted on the internet pointing out someone’s slanted belief that when certain police officers are called out, SWAT, that it will almost certainly mean the death of some poor individual who might have been saved had it not been for the military machine mentality of police departments. There are plenty of articles which point to the right of the individual to bear arms. I dare say that I’ve read plenty of blogs deriding the police state coming to take your weapons away without a warrant and on and on. Somehow there seems to be a flip flopping of thoughts expressed as to whether the police departments are at fault for not being intrusive enough to save helpless unarmed individuals or too intrusive when knocking down doors to kill mentally challenged folks who could have been talked out of being walking time bombs.

The sacred cows, those places where “children” might be found, all refuse to permit weapons except by the police departments which are employed by these places. Children are defined as anything from pre-school infants to post graduate students in their mid 40’s, a fairly wide definition to be sure. I would have to say that if I were a student working on obtaining a Bachelor’s Degree, my Masters or a PhD, anything past high school, I would consider it an encroachment on Constitutional rights to have any college or university attempt to prevent my right to defend myself by arming myself.

Those students and others who were slain in the Virginia Tech massacre were denied constitutional rights, no different than the right to speak their mind when they were denied the right to bear arms. The families of those slain should seek some form of restitution for wrongful death based on the SOP’s of the University which put such policies in place. I have read where some are complaining that the police took too long to jump through the door, that so many could have been saved if it weren’t for those overly cautious public servants, the police officers waiting for SWAT to arrive, following SOP’s which were in place (link provided in title bar). Wake up and take responsibility for you lives and quit putting it off on someone else.

If a criminal breaks into your home I hope you aren’t expecting a police officer to automatically arrive and save you; you aren’t are you? From what I’ve read, maybe some of you expect the police department already has an officer assigned, hiding in your closet spying on you while you type your anit-government articles to post on your blogs. (I must tell you about the off duty police officer I found working on the A/C unit located in my closet while I was going through the application process to join the Houston Police Department; if that wasn’t a coincidence which requires a good bit of consideration I don’t know what more to say.) If that’s your belief, then I hope you and your fantasy world do better than those at Virginia Tech.

“Paranoia strikes deep, into your mind it will creep…”, words from an old song, “step out of line the man comes and takes you away…What’s that sound everybody looks what’s going down…” Maybe the anit-war movement has prevailed to some extent, the flower children now run government, our universities, the news media and our public schools. Is it any wonder that the “sheeple” don’t understand it’s their responsibility to take up for themselves, not to wait for the police or anyone else?

Police Departments all over the place often use catchy phrases; “To Protect and Serve” is one. “Fresh Donuts Served Here”; maybe that’s going a little too far. I like to think that most officers will do a reasonable job of stopping violence when they come upon it; the key word is reasonable. Unfortunately we live in a world of litigation and micromanagement. Police officers are not one man armies permitted autonomous and complete destruction of the evil they encounter. Police officers are highly managed employees who have been carefully removed from engaging their respective departments and cities from litigation. Police officers have nearly been stripped of individual decision making through the multitude of civilian law suits, complaints and internal affairs findings which have proven to those employees that working outside of the departments SOP’s is fatal to any employment with those departments.

It’s a sad fact that as long as nothing goes wrong, that no complaints are generated, that nobody gets injured or killed and lastly and more importantly, no law suits are filed; then and only then did the police officers do a good job. If, on the other hand, any of those ugly opportunities avail themselves as a result of an individual officer’s actions, actions which fall outside parameters of the SOP’s which are written to protect the Department and the City, at that time the officer is the one who cuts off the only limb which provides support. It has come to the point where it is in the best interest of each individual officer to choose between employment or unemployment and to understand that venturing into the land of heroes also means leaving the safety net of the SOP’s.

The idea that it must be the police department’s job to defend the defenseless is pure poppy cock. It is the individual’s responsibility to defend himself/herself and to say otherwise demeans the spirit of America. Some of the articles and comments I’ve read sound more like the sort of nonsense I’d expect from those demanding that FEMA perpetuate the “victim” status for Katrina “evacuees” for yet another year, as if the government was responsible for any and all issues. Those kinds of escapes into fantasy land are why the socialist movement in our country has gained such a strong foothold.

For those wishing to leave a comment, those who might also be living off the free meal ticket supplied by FEMA or some other government assistance program which I am paying for but which you are enjoying; you must first obtain government form 1587-05b from your case worker. In the event that your case worker is not familiar with form 1587-05b, ask your case worker if he/she has any toilet paper. Sheryl Crowe has insisted that we curb excessive use of form 1587-05b to save the environment; but if you have a fair amount of BS ( I really intended to use the word poppy cock, really I did) to share, feel free to use an extra square or two. I’m a retired police officer so use simple words that I will be able to understand.

Guns Lost in the Police Property Room

I read in the Houston Chronicle this morning, HPD suspends 2 after 21 guns missing
( linked via title bar ). Basically, several pistols that had been tagged into the property room as evidence vanished and some of them have turned up in the hands of criminals on the street.

I was going to title my article, The More Things Change …; but decided that it would be totally neglected by those scanning for impact statements. There are plenty of folks who will stop by to read about possible police corruption, abuse or stupidity; wonder why that is? I should complete the thought, …The More They Remain the Same.

Going back to the early 70’s when I was a low seniority police officer working Central Patrol Evenings, I had the opportunity to become involved in a very exciting incident. I should explain the police work is pretty much a ho-hum job most of the time; it’s those “very exciting” moments that only last a few minutes that police train for, that movies and television action series are based upon. If it weren’t for those randomly dispersed moments of sheer adrenaline, police work could be done by book keepers or grocery store sackers; I’m exaggerating considerably.

I'd gotten back to work after having enjoyed a vacation up in the mountains of Colorado with my young wife; having low seniority meant that I had to pick my vacation schedule after the Summer peak and before the opening of Hunting Season. The last week of September and the first week of October were fine with me; all those fall colors up in the mountains were awesome and we had the national parks almost to our selves. Anyway, getting back to the police department, upon returning to work I got a call to “Report to Homicide”.

You have to understand the mindset of a low seniority police officer; I’m sure that it translates easily to other jobs, “What did I do wrong this time?”, as I made my way up the stairs to Homicide. A detective had me step into his office where he asked me several questions about a pistol which had turned up at a double homicide investigation; a very particular pistol that had my “mark” scratched into it under where the wooden hand grips would cover them, where police officers had been instructed to place that mark in order to be used in the judicial process later on.

The detective started to describe the pistol, a Colt 357, blue steel with ramped sites. I knew right away which pistol it had to be, having only tagged one like it into the property room in my short tenure with the department. I began nodding to let him know that I was familiar with it. “We’d like to know how that pistol had your mark on it.”

Flash back a few months to a soggy Sunday afternoon when I was riding patrol. My partner and I had finished lunch, so it had to be evening but not yet dark as we drove through our beat in the 3rd Ward, a predominantly Black neighborhood. We heard a couple of gun shots ring out close by and observed several folks bailing out of a small club called the Green Hornet Lounge. They were escaping out the back window and the front door as if it were the OK Corral scene in the movie. A light rain was falling as we positioned our patrol car safely in relation to the front door of the lounge. One rather agitated Black man stepped out the door and stood, looking in our direction, holding a huge honking pistol in his hand. We assumed the necessary defensive positions using the opened doors of our patrol car as cover and returned his “invitation” by aiming our equally huge honking pistols in his direction. I couldn’t say for sure what we told him at that time; what ever it was, he believed us as he put his hands up to surrender. We approached him cautiously, cuffed him and I took possession of the huge honking pistol.

On any other given day that would have been enough; cart the bad guy off to jail and smile; not so on this day. As the rain continued to fall, our suspect standing with us as we were about to march him back the short distance to our patrol car; a sudden burst of excitement erupted from within the darkened confines of the lounge as folks continued to hurriedly exit shouting, “He’s got a gun!”.

That didn’t sound right; we already had the gun and the guy, didn’t we? My partner and I peeked around the door frame and as we did the lone individual remaining in the joint saw the blue uniforms, our guns drawn and ready so he placed his little Saturday Night Special on the floor and gave up without a fight. We made our preliminary investigation; noting that nobody had been shot and that most of the damage had been done to a set of drums, not exactly what the drummer had in mind when making a rim shot.

Did I mention that being young and ignorant of our location in relation to the Black Panther Headquarters we had not considered the impact we had on the rest of the patrol officers when we radioed to the dispatcher that we had “shots fired” at our location. It looked like Christmas with all the police cars arriving with their emergency lights flashing away, all those knowledgeable officers getting to our location as fast as they could to save us from God only knows what. We had plenty of help securing the scene.

The forms and reports we filled out took the better part of the evening, about 4 hours of writing to explain what happened in just a few minutes. Both pistols had been reported stolen so we had to make supplement reports to their originals and we were glad that shift change matched up with the conclusion of our reports.

Okay, back to the October meeting in the Homicide Division office where the detective was inquiring about the huge honking Colt pistol with the fancy ramped sights. I explained that all he needed to do was look up the original report. I was told that no report existed in the Records Division, no call slip record to indicate that we had been where the incident occurred, no Property Room record of the pistol ever having been submitted; in other words, it never happened according to the HPD.

When I was a rookie cop one of my senior officers made it clear to me that any time I checked in evidence, turned in property or made a report that had the slightest chance of hitting the courtroom with me having to justify my actions; make a copy of anything related to those incidents and file them away in my own folder for future use, just in case.

That “just in case” had come to pass. I asked the detective to let me call home so that Lucy could go into my file folder. It only took her a few minutes to locate the report which had a copy of each and every “lost” record attached to it. There was a copy of the incident report, the booking slips, the call slip and the evidence submission forms for both pistols. I had not screwed up after all, a feeling of confidence filled my chest as I was once more able to breathe in and out normally. The detective asked me to drive home to retrieve those forms so he could have a copy to place in the department file.

I have no idea what kind of secondary “investigation” was started to figure out how the criminal, the one I’d put in jail the first time, how he got his hands on that pistol which I’d checked into the property room pending the outcome of any court ruling. I’d have remembered going to court on that one; it never happened. The bad guy used that pistol, the same one he’d thought about pointing at me, he’d used it to murder two women and then he burned their bodies in an attempt to cover up the evidence. The solid link to him ended up being that huge honking Colt 357 Magnum pistol with my mark inside the grip. Some things you never forget; don’t think you’re supposed to forget them either.

Chief Hurtt wasn’t the man in charge back then so it would hardly be fair to throw all of this on his back to go along with the 21 pistols that are currently missing from the Police Property Room. I think there are some policy changes that need to be made, things that would require recording each and every submission of evidence digitally, with video back up and secondary systems which would include commissioned police officers to oversee the activities of civilian personnel who happen to work in classified areas. I would expect those new policies to include a section or paragraph requiring an authorization form to include a place notifying the original submitting officer (s), that activity was taking place on evidence which he/she had an interest in. I would also require a supplement incident report to accompany any removal or transfer of evidence or property from the Police Property Room. I’ve been in car dealerships that had more security than the Houston Police Department Property Room; yes, there is room for improvement.

Editing note: After reviewing the information I noticed that I had originally placed the location of the Green Hornet Lounge in the 5th Ward; I went back to correctly place it within the 3rd Ward for those who require accuracy, call it a "senior moment".

How to Murder a Socialist

I finished watching an old Jack Lemon movie a while ago, How to Murder Your Wife. In case you’ve never had the pleasure, it’s worth the effort. Near the end of the show there’s a court room scene in which Jack Lemon’s character decided to cut loose his attorney, an attorney who’d done everything except strap him into the electric chair through bungling inefficiency, and take over his own defense. ( link in title bar )

He puts his attorney; the brow beaten henpecked wimp of a middle aged man, in the witness chair and presents a bold option to him, one that would turn the law upside down. Drawing a small circle on the railing in front of the jury box with a piece of chalk, a jury box which consisted entirely of middle aged married men, Lemon explains that by pushing the imaginary button his wife and all the baggage that goes with it would vanish; nobody would know he did it and he would be free to do whatever he wanted.

The lawyer’s wife protested and promised to make his life a living hell; that is right up until the moment when he walked over to the jury box railing and pushed the button, exclaiming as his finger settled onto the white chalked circle, “Shut up you old bat!”, followed by, “Remove the woman, put her in the tank if necessary.” The judge immediately asked the jury for their finding, “Not Guilty!”

The scene closed with all the men in the courtroom celebrating their new found freedom from the bands of “slavery” associated with the now defunct establishment of marriage. The court room begins to clear as they exit carrying the acquitted victor on their shoulders leaving those women present sitting speechless and bewildered at the prospect of being relegated into obscurity at the whim of their masters.

I took a moment to contemplate what those women were experiencing, the fact that the law that had regulated life up until that moment no longer existed. I know, it’s only a movie; but that feeling couldn’t exist without some merit. I saved this in my file system under Government and History because I knew where this thought process was headed as soon as that feeling registered, that feeling that the laws that have regulated life here in these United States of America no longer can be counted upon.

I am one of those sitting in that now vacant courtroom, the jubilation of shouts and jeers from the hallway from a party out of control clamoring and celebrating the overthrow of foundational basics which have governed society but are now no longer relevant. I’m not sure what happened; one day things looked as they should and then the rug got pulled out from under.

I refer to so many things that I’m not sure where to begin; perhaps the idea that marriage is a sacred bond between a husband and a wife, at least it was a few days ago. Then there’s the idea that the money I earned is being taxed at better than 50% when you include user fees, sales taxes and income taxes; that money that is being redistributed to folks who are living it up on money I earned actually believe that they are “entitled” to a better standard of living and have elected socialist representatives to make it so. Then there’s the band of free market assassins who have hijacked the system and in its place have introduced governmental controls to, in their words, make it a safer place for the consumer. The legislature has given these monkeys control over business licensing, which is nothing more than turning citizens into serfs, servants of the manor, subjects who must beg permission to do that which at one time was within their individual dominion. Rights granted to individuals by God have been reviewed at the highest levels and been determined to be irrelevant, that the elite rulers, once our peers, are far more capable of determining what is best for the common man; but I’m rambling now.

Maybe I should get a piece of chalk and draw a circle, looking for a place here on my desk. I’ve found a spot here in front of my computer monitor that will do nicely except I don’t want the chalk to damage the beautiful wood so I cut out a circle from a scrap of paper. I want you to follow my lead, place an imaginary button there in front of you. Remember how good it felt when you read the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights; that feeling of being an American, how your chest would swell, head held high with a sense of pride in knowing that you lived in a country where every individual was empowered and responsible for his own success or failure. I want you to think about who it is that has robbed you of that, who it is that continues in their pursuit to strip you of any remaining vestige of that glorious heritage. I want you to push that button.

No one will know that it was you who pushed the button. Those who have perverted the American way of life will simply vanish as if they never had been. Your freedom will be restored and all that was fought for by our founding fathers will have been restored to its proper balance. Those who desire more will have to do more and those without will have the opportunity to improve based on desire, hard work and perseverance; just like anyone else, no entitlements based on supposed deficiencies caused by skin color, sexual orientation or religious involvement. Go ahead, Push the button!

In my movie, How to Murder a Socialist, at the end of the courtroom scene, the only ones sitting quietly in their chairs, a blank expression as if hit by a two by four, will be those who have been sponging off their neighbors for so long that they thought the free ride would last forever. Push the button!

Bird of Prey

Lucy called to me a few minutes ago, “Come Look!”, pointing excitedly as she washed the morning dishes in the sink. There outside our kitchen window, on my next door neighbor’s rook was a bird of prey, I think it’s some kind of Falcon.

The Mockingbirds were making life miserable, dive bombing and pecking the Falcon’s head unceasingly as it had wandered into their territory. I took several pictures with my digital camera, never once catching a mocking bird in harassment mode. Lucy suggested I go outside and get a little closer, a chance to capture the Falcon in all its splendor. The moment I moved around the hedge at the corner of my house where it meets with the driveway the Falcon made its escape into a tall pine on the next street behind us. It happened quicker than I could snap off a picture of the wings stretched out, Mockingbirds in hot pursuit.

THE SON

I got this in my email, just another “forward” to toss in the cyber trash can, or so I thought. Thanks and a tip of the hat to my friend Andy Ricker.

The Son

A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare works of art. They had everything in their collection, from Picasso to Raphael. They would often sit together and admire the great works of art.When the Vietnam conflict broke out, the son went to war. He was very courageous and died in battle while rescuing another soldier. The father was notified and grieved deeply for his only son.

About a month later, just before Christmas, there was a knock at the door. A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands. He said, "Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in the heart and he died instantly. He often talked about you, and your love for art." The young man held out this package. "I know this isn't much. I'm not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this."

The father opened the package. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man. He stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the personality of his son in the painting. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture. "Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It's a gift."

The father hung the portrait over his mantle. Every time visitors came to his home he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he had collected.The man died a few months later.

There was to be a great auction of his paintings. Many influential people gathered, excited over seeing the great paintings and having an opportunity to purchase one for their collection.

On the platform sat the painting of the son. The auctioneer pounded his gavel. "We will start the bidding with this picture of the son. Who will bid for this picture?"

There was silence.

Then a voice in the back of the room shouted, "We want to see the famous paintings. Skip this one."

But the auctioneer persisted. "Will somebody bid for this painting?, Who will start the bidding? $100, $200?"

Another voice angrily, "We didn't come to see this painting. We came to see the Van Gogh's, the Rembrandts. Get on with the real bids!"

But still the auctioneer continued. "The son! The son! Who'll take the son?"

Finally, a voice came from the very back of the room. It was the longtime gardener of the man and his son. "I'll give $10 for the painting." Being a poor man, it was all he could afford."

We have $10, who will bid $20?"

"Give it to him for $10.

Let's see the masters." The crowd was becoming angry. They didn't want the picture of the son. They wanted the more worthy investments for their collections.

The auctioneer pounded the gavel. "Going once, twice, SOLD for $10!"

The crowd applauded. A man sitting on the second row shouted, "Now let's get on with the collection!"

The auctioneer laid down his gavel. "I'm sorry, the auction is over."

"What about all of the other paintings?"

"I am sorry. When I was called to conduct this auction, I was told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned. Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including the paintings. The man who took the son gets everything!"

God gave His son 2,000 years ago to die on the cross. Much like the auctioneer, His message today is: "The son, the son, who'll take the son?"

Because, you see, whoever takes the Son gets everything.

FOR GOD SO LOVED THE WORLD HE GAVE HIS ONLY BEGOTTEN SON, WHO SO EVER BELIEVETH, SHALL HAVE ETERNAL LIFE...THAT'S LOVE

You may forward this, if you wish. Do whatever you like, but remember that maybe "one" of the people you might have taken the time to send this to, may be just the person who needs to hear this message. You have a choice to make." God Bless.

Check out the link in the title bar, something I posted a couple of years ago. When I was learning the tricks of blogging, at that time I had not learned how to properly link to other articles. Instead of pinpointing the chapter intended, the secondary link was too general. Here is where it should have gone:

http://pecawsgift.blogspot.com/2005/06/pecaws-gift-chapter-38-conversions.html

Wow!

I get a kick out of being with my grandchildren. They have the ability to let go with their expressions of joy without fear of ridicule. JJ was with me on a couple of locksmith jobs this past week to keep me company. We went past Hook’s Airport on the Stuebner-Airline side and he got to see several small airplanes taking off and landings, almost as if they’d known he was coming. They were practicing take offs and landing, making a circle and coming back for more as we did a dog leg left around the small airfield on our way up toward Tomball on FM 2920 and JJ could see these small airplanes as they came over the top of a stand of trees and lined up for landings. ( In case you’re wondering, FM stands for Farm to Market, an antiquated reference to roads which used to be out in the “sticks”; but are now major thoroughfares in the urban sprawl of Houston and neighboring suburbs )

When the first locksmith job was completed another job came in that would take us past the big airport, IAH. JJ had been there a couple of times and had seen the big passenger jets take off from a distance; he’d even got to fly on one on a trip to see his great grand parents in Florida. The lock job happened to be at Robbin’s Chevy dealership on the Eastex Freeway just east of the airport between the two most used runways as planes lined up on final approach out of the East on their way in. JJ got to sit in the front seat of my work truck with the windows down watching planes on either side of him while I finished up. I cleaned the finger prints off the mirrors; I have no idea what he was drawing, perhaps he was keeping count of the number of jets he watched pass by.

I decided to go back home via FM 1960, basically the same way we’d come in order to avoid some of the places on the freeways that back up during evening rush hour. This route would give JJ yet another chance to watch airplanes land as 1960 runs along the northern airport boundary. We were sitting at a red light with the windows down when JJ noticed the sound of a large jet, very close; so close that the truck shook. JJ looked leaned forward as far as the seat belt would permit as the 737 crossed 1960 directly over our vehicle to land. For many unsuspecting drivers unfamiliar with how the runway is aligned, it might appear that a large jet is making an emergency landing on 1960 because of the angle of approach. We got to experience a jet coming up from behind us and all we could see was its belly with the landing gear locked down as it glided over the boundary fence. All JJ could say was “Wow!”; that’s about all I could say too.

That would be enough for what I wanted to say except that I was relaxing in my easy chair letting my back freeze with an ice pack positioned on my lumbar section. I had the Yankee/Red Sox game on ESPN’s Sunday Night Game of the Week. I watched as the inning started, the Yanks were ahead 3 to zip when all of the sudden Manny Ramirez ripped one over and out of the park to put the Sox on the board with their first run. A couple of pitches later the next JD Drew dropped one into the right field bleachers, the next batter, Mike Lowell drilled one over the fence and out onto the street and then Jason Variteck, the next batter, followed with yet another home run. “Four home runs in a row!”, “Back to back to back to back, Wow!” All four were hit off the same pitcher and it was the first time in Red Sox history that had ever happened. I’m not certain; but I think it’s only the 6th time, possibly the 8th; I’m hoping that the announcers will look that up in the books, that 4 home runs have been hit back to back in all of baseball history. “Wow!”

CT and MRI Scans

This past month has given me a chance to experience first hand some of the modern technological tools used by the medical field. I went through a CT scan; a fascinating machine that took a series of pictures of my body, similar to an x-ray machine. The MRI machine was similar; but much more noise involved. I thought I’d put my thoughts down and possibly make it easier for somebody else, a chance to preview the procedure which, I’m told, is a major worry for folks who are claustrophobic or afraid of the unknown. I’ve also provided a link in the title bar for a web site which I found very informative.

The CT scan machine, sometimes called a CAT scan, looked almost identical to the MRI machine; a large donut looking device with a table which moves back and forth in order to position the patient so pictures can be taken. The technician talked about what the machine would do, how there would be instructions on when to breathe and hold it, when to remain motionless and that the table would move slowly and that my arms needed to be held over my head in order to facilitate going through a rather small opening through the “donut hole”. She also explained that there would be a contrast agent, iodine, introduced into my veins and that I would feel something like a heat wave as it circulated through my body; that it might fool me into thinking that I was urinating on myself even though no such thing had occurred. I was asked if I was claustrophobic and I mentioned that I have experienced Vertigo; but that it was almost a pleasant experience.

I should explain my thoughts regarding Vertigo. I first learned about this when I was at the chiropractor’s office. They had a fancy table which I stepped onto and then leaned into as it was hydraulically lowered from its vertical position into a completely horizontal working position to accommodate treatments. They would attach TENS unit patches on my back to massage the muscles electrically; cold packs or heat packs depending on how bad my back was. I would then be left to relax, my eyes closed as if I were going off to sleep, with the lights dimmed as the TENS unit hummed for about 15 minutes. I thought that the fancy table upon which I was lying was set up to gently rock back and forth, sort of like a see-saw, as the sensation of rocking matched my measured breathing. I later found out, having mentioned to the chiropractor how much I enjoyed the gentle rocking of the table, that the table had been flat the whole time, that I’d imagined or more accurately, that my inner ear had experienced Vertigo.

I experienced something similar with the CT machine. When I closed my eyes to relax I imagined that the table was moving back and forth, even when it wasn’t. I also imagined that it was being elevated and lowered on a horizontal plain, sometimes straight up and then down, other times as if being moved toward a ten o’clock or eleven o’clock position relative to the opening of the “donut hole”. I took in the experience, cognizant of my past “imaginations”, opening my eyes only to find that I was stationary and that it was all inside my head, the sensation of movement and the near euphoria that accompanied the dream like state I was in. I mention this because I’ve been told that many folks are more than a little anxious, afraid to lie still and endure the procedure. In contrast, I found it totally relaxing, similar to a pleasant “flying dream” where I’m able to violate the laws of gravity and physics while gliding effortlessly in nocturnal bliss.

The MRI machine was quite noisy; almost nerve rattling at times when I was in the middle of the “donut hole”; which is more like an elongated tube, similar to something you’d find on a submarine that would be used to shoot out torpedoes. I could see how being in such a cramped space might be disconcerting, your nose nearly touching the top surface of the tube while your arms hugged the sides. The machine’s built in voice instructions would explain when to remain motionless, when to breathe in and how long to hold it. What they didn’t explain was that right in the middle of having to be still a loud mechanical thumping, more like crashing of a sledge hammer on a piece of sheet metal, would pierce the already grating sound of the rotary imaging device. That clunking would sound off unexpectedly; most un-nerving even when I knew it was going to happen.

I found that some of the images taken were not clear enough or for some reason did not satisfy my doctor’s desire to understand what my insides look like. I had to go through a second CT scan the other day and those results were not satisfactory either. I will get to go through yet another MRI as soon as a slot becomes available. There’s a hint of worry in the back of my mind as I know that these tests are extremely expensive and that the only reason for going through them again implies the probability that something nasty showed up; just not enough to figure out what it might be.

I’m glad I have insurance to cover most of the expense; the CT scan, MRI, blood work and x-rays taken last month when I was in the ER came to a little over $ 9800, of which I paid only $ 150. I am more than a bit concerned with what the future might hold depending on what those additional tests show. That imagination that has me floating or rocking back and forth, even when no such movement is actually happening, also reaches into the dark side where nasty ailments and illness eat living tissue and dissolve confidence.

The Legend of 1900 Revisited

The Astros game against the Chicago Cubs at Wrigley Field was postponed due to “inclement weather”; imagine that, precipitation and 24 degrees holding up a baseball game. I had a rough day pain wise and was going to tough it out in bed anyway. Lucy began flipping channels and I heard some familiar music as I recognized the movie, The Legend of 1900.

The first time I saw it several years ago was flipping channels and I caught it already in progress. A young trumpet player on his first trans-Atlantic trip was being treated to a sea sickness remedy courtesy of 1900. The tuxedoed piano player had the trumpet player release the brakes of the grand piano in the empty ballroom during the middle of a lightning storm. The rolling of the ship created a dance of sorts as the piano, its two passengers along for the ride, made circles on the floor and eventually crashed through a stained glass partition, down a corridor and smashed into the captain’s quarters. “Care for a ride?”, oblivious to the circumstance as he smiled toward the captain. The two of them spent some time shoveling coal as part of their penance in the bowels of the ship. That was my introduction to this particular movie, a movie that probably is on the “do not watch” list due to some vulgar language; language which I shouldn’t have laughed at but did anyway.

There’s a line in the movie, “He had America stamped on his eyes”, a reference to the observed fact that one passenger on each of the crossings could be counted on to be the first to see America, to alert the other passengers of their arrival in the promised land, the land of opportunity, the pot of gold at the other side of the rainbow. I have to wonder, in a cynical sort of way, has that stamp of American been removed, if it ever was there, from some of our own citizens? Are they so caught up pointing out the flaws in the system as to over look the beauty offered in America’s basic structure?

Maybe it’s time to watch another show, South Pacific. They say the human race is falling on its face and hasn’t very far to go…but every whippoorwill is selling me a bill and telling me it just ain’t so… They call me a cock eyed optimist immature and incredibly green… No, I looked in the mirror a few minutes ago and I’ve still got it stamped there; America! America!

X-Rays got switched by mistake

Yesterday I posted an X-ray of what I thought was from my packet. A close examination of the film with that of a well known celebrity’s has uncovered the possibility that the hospital accidentally switched my X-ray with those of Kermit the Frog, the famous Muppet Host. Kermit was unavailable for comment and calls to his agent have not been returned.

Say Ahhhhhh…

The folks at the place where I’m getting my physical therapy were having some difficulty in obtaining the lab reports associated with the all the fancy tests that I had taken at the hospital. Lucy called and found the right person who was more than happy to make a CD of all the tests along with those reports that summarized what those pictures, MRI’s and X-rays showed. Lucy then took that CD over to the physical therapy clinic and kept a copy for our files.

I figured out how to follow the simple instructions and spent the last half hour or so looking at my innards here on my computer. There were hundreds of pictures that showed what I looked like as if sliced and diced and then stacked and packed. I used to look over the ER doctor’s shoulders when they were examining a gun shot victim’s X-rays when I was a cop. I got to see some interesting “shots” complete with shattered bones, arteries spewing and filling voids that shouldn’t be spewed and filled. These pictures were a little different, these were mine.

I hope they figure out what’s pinching and how to make it right soon. I’ll share this one, a standard view of my crooked spine. If there are any medical students out there, have fun and stop laughing.

The Jiggle Bed

Lucy and I saved up and bought one of those fancy “Sleep Number Beds” about a year ago; I’m a “35”. We spent a few extra bucks to have some extra features; the mattress that lets you lift the head or the legs to conform to comfort along with a vibrator built in that soothes away a rough day. This past week I was hurting pretty good and just wanted to find a way to get comfortable and catch some shut eye. Lucy pushed the wrong button and the next thing I knew the bed had me folded like a taco. The improbable part was that it felt better so we modified it only a little and set the vibrator going until I dozed off into a light sleep. The vibrator mode has a secondary button which makes it feel like a wave moving back and forth until it times out after twenty minutes.

Many years ago Lucy and I drove from Houston to see my folks in Florida. The first leg of the trip took as far as Tallahassee where we wanted to get a good night’s sleep before pushing on the rest of the way the next day. They had one of those “jiggle beds”, the kind where you drop a quarter in the slot and get 15 minutes worth of vibration to help you get off to sleep. The only problem was that the mechanism that’s supposed to be affixed to the bed in order to transfer the vibrations was no longer affixed. I dropped the quarter in and the box began jumping around inside the box spring mattress; thumping and bumping and making all manner of racket but nothing that would be relaxing. I’d wasted a quarter and could only hope that racket would stop so I could get some sleep.

We noticed, after a few minutes, that the folks in the adjacent room had taken notice of the thumping and bumping that must have amused their imagination as they began to marvel at our “stamina”. I popped another quarter in the device and was prepared to continue until I ran out of quarters as the gasps and laughter continued from the other side of the wall. “They must be newlyweds” and related amazement mixed with laughter applauded our presumed horizontal performance.

The next morning as we exited the room and headed down to our car to finish the second leg of the trip I made it a point to give a “thumbs up” high sign to the curious fellow watching from the adjoining room, a broad smile on his face as he nodded back. I wonder what he wrote in his journal that night.

Appreciation for my health

I’ve been struggling these past two weeks tying to get back to top form. There's a bundle of nerves pinching in my back that has made it painful to move and has affected the way my right arm works. I still can’t feel part of my right hand and that makes working a challenge.

I went to physical therapy this morning and was reminded of how blessed I really am; noting that the fellow next to me had suffered through a couple of major strokes and was severely limited in what he could do. I didn’t want to sound like I was complaining, recognizing that I am able to work, to enjoy my family and continue pursuing that elusive "happiness" afforded by our unalienable rights.

It could have been much worse, not being able to get the job done and having to watch as the competition walked away with the prize; a little like the Astro’s relief pitching staff choking away the first two games of this young season (linked via title bar). Maybe I can get my arm back in time to fill a slot in the bullpen; put me in coach, I’m ready to play.

It’s Never Too Late

If you listen to Satan he’d tell you that you’ve already gone too far, you’re past saving so why even bother trying; but then again, he’s the father of lies. This weekend was the 177th Annual General Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I hope you had a chance to listen to or watch each of the sessions; but if you didn’t, it’s never too late. You can catch them as recorded in the archives section either by individual talks or by session break downs. The archival process takes a day or so to be completed and Saturday’s sessions were just now posted. Click on the title bar for a link.