Pre-Daylight Drama in Rogers, Arkansas

by Pa Rock
Road Warrior

I am finally back from my overnight outing to northwest Arkansas.  My intention was to have been back several hours earlier than this, but you know what they say about good intentions.

Yesterday was really nice.  I made it to Miss Patti's earlier than expected, and then she and I went to my nephew's house, which is fairly close to hers, and had a nice afternoon visit with my sister and her kids and some of her grandkids.  Later Patti and I went out to eat and then stopped by her sister's house, also nearby, for dessert.

This morning I had arranged to go from Rogers, Arkansas, to Fayetteville to see my sister's new place - and go out to breakfast.  It was cold, dark, and rainy when I left Patti's, and before I had gone five miles I missed a turn and found myself on the cobblestone streets of downtown Rogers.  I called my sister to try and figure out how to get back on the right road, and while we were talking I ran over a curb or a very large rock that had a noticeable impact on the way my car was performing.  I told my sister that I had wrecked the car -  and then slowly drove it back and parked on Main Street - where the tow truck could easily find me.

I got out and looked the car over - in the dark and in the cold rain - and it looked as though the tires were okay - and I could see no obvious damage.  Gail called her youngest son, the one who lives in Rogers, and he and his visiting sister from Chicago swooped in to help their shaken-up old uncle.  By the time they arrived, the front tire on the driver's side was flat with obvious damage.  My nephew and my niece's husband worked tirelessly to find the spare - I had not used it in the six years that I've owned the car, and doubted that it even had one - but there was a spare.  Sad to say, though, none of the three of us had the right equipment to change the tire, so we called an emergency roadside assistance person who made the swap.

That was followed by a nice breakfast that my nephew's wife prepared - while two new tires were being put on at a local Firestone store - and instead of getting home around noon as planned - one of those good intentions that pave the road to Hell, I made it back about three-thirty this afternoon.

Rosie visited with my relatives in a nice warm home during all of the commotion - and she had a wonderful time!

Thank you Reed, Jamie, Heidi, Jason, and Gail for helping to get Uncle Rocky back on the road.  I love you all!

This is New Year's Eve - so, if you don't have to be out, pop some corn, crank up Netflix, and stay inside by the fire!    2019 is going to be amazing - trust me on that!

"Lost Child": A Los Angeles Times "Overlooked" Film

by Pa Rock
Proud Papa

Rosie and I are heading out for a couple of hard days on the road in about an hour or so, and consequently I need something interesting, yet easy to post, this morning before I leave - and I regard what follows as definitely worthy of note.

"Lost Child" a film written by youngest son Tim - and Ramaa Mosley, a director whom Tim worked with previously on another feature-length film, 'The Brass Teapot," was singled earlier this week by the Los Angeles Times as an "overlooked" film - one of a very few movies to be so honored.  "Lost Child" was originally titled "Tatterdemalion," and it was filmed in and around West Plains, Missouri, the town that I currently call home.

Here is what the reviewer from the Los Angeles Times had to say about this "overlooked" film:

"'Lost Child':  A physically wounded vet reluctantly bonding with a child may sound like something you've seen before, but you haven't seen this slow-burning thriller directed by Ramaa Mosley.  Grounded in a breakout performance by Leven Rambin, the film walks a fine line, balancing elements of psychological drama and supernatural, with a surging undercurrent of social commentary that sneaks up on you."

I couldn't have said it better myself.  This exceptional movie is available through Amazon.com as well as other fine retailers - and "The Brass Teapot" is also!

And now, if you will excuse me, Rosie and I are on the road again!  I will drive safely over this wild New Year's weekend, and you should, too!

Life Picks on Trump

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Donald Trump, the questionably-elected leader of these United States, has worked hard at not working at all during the two years that he has held court in the White House.  Trump's life since the 2016 election has been one of almost continual vacationing and golf, interspersed with tweeting binges to fulfill his occasional need for chaos.  Over the past couple of years, in fact, life for America's premier con-man has been a pampered continuum of one guilty pleasure after another.  True, he would take occasional breaks to destroy the peace and harmony of others, but basically Trump's primary concern was making sure that Trump was taken care of - royally.

But now America's Dear Leader firmly is strapped to the horns of a dilemma.   Next Monday is New Year's Eve and Donnie desperately desires to be the center of attention at the festivities at his private club, Mar-a-Lago, in Palm Beach.   It is a spectacle that he enjoys every New Year's Eve, and lots of people have already ponied up lots of cash to have access to him during that long night of glitz, glamour, and sloshing champagne.  His companionship has been bought and paid for, and Don the Con, the consummate salesman, is eager to deliver.

Christmas was a wreck.  Donnie stayed in the White House to feign concern for the federal workers who were forgoing pay as a result of his partial government shutdown, and then he had to fly to the shithole country of Iraq to show solidarity with American troops, something he had been goaded into doing by that loathsome "free press" rabble who are always out trying to spoil his golf-outings.

Mar-a-Lago is special, and the people who turn up there really, really, love Donnie.  And Donnie really, really wants to be with them as the New Year arrives.   It's a private club, so only the right people get in.  And Donnie longs to be with those people, his people, for New Years.  But that awful press is trying to box him in again, comparing his lavish party to the struggles of furloughed government employees - and the others who are being forced to continue working without pay.  Federal employee number one desperately wants to be partying and leading the good life, while others (whom he brusquely dismisses as "mostly Democrats") struggle to survive by borrowing off of family members and selling personal possessions.

In order to keep the government functioning, the feds have forbidden employees who are still working from taking vacations.  Jared and Ivanka, however, are both federal employees and they have been at Mar-a-Lago since before Christmas.  Melania flew down there on Thursday evening.  It's sort of a two-track system, the royals and the others, and Donnie wants desperately to join his fellow royals at the club.

Mar-a-Lago is an exceptional profit-center, even without the government subsidies that accompany Trump everywhere he rests his large orange head.  When Donnie was elected in 2016, he doubled the cost of membership within a few weeks from $100,000 per annum to $200,000.  And the New Year's party tickets have also seen a steady rise.  Two years ago a member could get into the holiday bash for an additional $575, and they last year the price jumped to $750.  This year a single ticket to the New Year's Eve party is a steal (for the Trump's) at only $1,000.  For a grand, you can get in your best tux or evening gown and maybe get a chance to give The Donald himself your opinion on the needless extravagance of free school lunches.

But Donnie is trapped in Washington, DC, trying to appear presidential when all he really wants is to be hobnobbing with energy executives, eating French pastries by the fistful, and playing golf.

Life can be so bitterly unfair!

Another Hero Marches On

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Richard Overton wasn't a hero in the sense that he did something spectacular, like throw himself on a hand grenade or parachute behind enemy lines, but he was a hero because he stepped forward when his country needed him.  Mr. Overton, a native and life-long resident of Austin, Texas, was already in his mid-thirties by the time the inevitability of the U.S. entering the Second World War was becoming obvious.   He could have probably stood aside and done something for the war effort as a civilian, but that was not the type of person he was.

Richard Overton threw caution aside and enlisted in the all-black 1887th Engineer Aviation Battalion, a unit that arrived at Pearl Harbor immediately after the Japanese attack, and went on to see service in the battles of Iwo Jima and Okinawa as U.S. forces worked their way across the Pacific. The war in the Pacific was the true "hell" of World War II.

Richard Overton died yesterday in Austin at the age of one-hundred-and-twelve.  At the time of his passing he was the oldest World War II veteran still living in the United States, as well as the nation's oldest living man.

The old soldier credited his longevity to an occasional cigar and a glass of whiskey, which he enjoyed while sitting on the front porch of the home that he built in Austin as a young man.   One news report stated that even past the age of one-hundred, Mr Overton would still drive local widows to church on Sunday mornings.

The veterans of World War II are quickly disappearing, with those still surviving now in their nineties - and beyond.   For those who might know someone who still survives from that momentous era of American history, shake their hand and offer thanks while there is still time.

Time ran out for Richard Overton yesterday, but I'm sure that he left his front porch and headed up the steep path to Glory secure in the knowledge that he had done more than his share to make the world a better place.   That would be a wonderful legacy for anyone t leave behind.

Berlin, a City of Passions

by Pa Rock
Reader and TV Junkie

Lately, through no intentional planning on my part, I have been exposed to two compelling views of Berlin, the capital of Germany.  The city, which was partitioned and divided by a wall during the first forty years after the end of World War II, has been a geo-political focus for Europe and most of the world throughout much of my lifetime.

One of the Berlins that I have been experiencing is a view of the racism and criminal activity rolling through the streets of modern Berlin that is set forth in the new Netflix series, The Dogs of Berlin.  The line between the good guys (the cops) and the bad guys (the criminal and racist gangs) quickly becomes blurred during the first episode.  The lead character, a policeman who is a former neo-Nazi and still has family ties to extremist organizations, sleeps around, essentially manages two households, and constantly schemes and struggles to pay off his gambling debts – and he is one of the good guys!  It is an uncomfortable, yet compelling, police drama without definitive heroes.

The other Berlin with which I have been involved is the historical city captured in Café Berlin, a work of historical fiction by Harold Nebenzal.  It is an enthralling account of the rise and fall of the Third Reich as witnessed by a young entrepreneurial immigrant to the city.

Daniel Sapporta, the unlikely hero of this story, begins life as the son of a spice merchant in Damascus, Syria – the oldest continually occupied city on earth.  Daniel and his family are Jewish.  As a young boy he works for his father and learns the spice business in intricate detail, then, on the occasion of his bar mitzvah, a German couple who have business dealings with his father, travel from Germany to attend the boy’s manhood celebration.  The couple offer to take him into their home and their business in Berlin when he reaches an age where he can strike out on his own.  

Daniel leaves home at the age of seventeen and travels to Berlin by train, with much of the trip being on the famed Orient Express.  While enroute to Berlin he strikes up a friendship with a fellow passenger, a Jewish professor from Berlin who cautions him about the ascendancy of the Nazis in German politics.  Once he arrives in Berlin, Daniel moves in with the friends of his father’s, a living situation that is quickly imperiled when the businessman’s wife begins making sexual advances toward him, advances that the seventeen-year-old is neither able nor willing to reject.

A year later, after being kicked out of the household where he had been living, Daniel Sapporta begins his career as a businessman in Berlin when he buys a defunct nightclub with money that his mother had sewn into the lining of his coat.  He befriends several of the former employees of the club who are glad to have an opportunity to regain their jobs, and they help him figure out how to run a successful club.    With Daniel’s past experience in the import-export business, and his ability to speak several languages, he is soon bringing in exotic dancers from the Middle East and establishes his club as a social center for many of Berlin’s elite, including a raft of young Nazi officers.

Through the advice and encouragement of the professor whom he met on the train, Daniel acquires a Spanish passport, changes his last name to Salazar, and is now posing as a Franco supporter (and Christian) with no official war leanings.  It is from that perch that he gradually becomes a spy for the Resistance.

As his role as a spy grows, he becomes physically involved in the business of war to the point where he actually has to shoot a couple of soldiers, and is called on to help to derail a train loaded with Bosnian soldiers who have been assigned to round-up and kill Jews.

The Gestapo raid Daniel’s club as he is preparing to leave Berlin in the winter of 1941, and instead of escaping the city he is forced into hiding.  He spends the rest of the war secluded in an attic of an old house in the heart of the city, and survives on the kindness members of his former staff at the club.   During the time he is hiding in the attic, Daniel maintains his sanity and his perspective by writing a diary about his time in Berlin – and that diary is the crux of Café Berlin.

Café Berlinis obviously a bit of an homage to Anne Frank. It also has elements of Christopher Isherwood’s Berlin Stories which formed the basis of Cabaret, as well as a pinch of Bridge Over the River Kwai.   Taken on the whole, however, it is a damned fine story of ordinary people trying to survive in a time of war.  The account is fiction, but it has been crafted by a writer who prides himself on historical accuracy and detail.  

The Berlin of Harold Nebenzal is richly alluring and decadent, and every bit as dangerous as the modern Berlin that is being offered up by Netflix.  And while three-quarters of a century separate the two visages, it is still strikingly clear that they are blood relatives.

A Child Dies at Christmas

by Pa Rock
Grandfather

Children are an integral part of the tradition of Christmas, from the birth of a baby in a stable two thousand years ago to images of children joyously ripping the wrapping paper from gifts that Santa brought.  It's a celebration inspired by the birth of a child and carried out through festivities geared to delight children.

But the holiday season can also be a time of challenges for some of the least among us in society, particularly immigrants along our southern border who have braved weeks walking northward across Mexico in the hope of receiving sanctuary in the "land of the free."  The trip north is a perilous journey, and for many the dangers persist even after they manage to cross the border and set their feet on the United States of America - a land which once took great pride in opening its doors to refugees.  The Lady Liberty envisioned freedom from tyranny with the words:

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

But Donald Trump and his administration do not see frightened masses in need of safety and security - they see hordes of "animals" from "shithole" countries bringing drugs, disease, and crime from their homelands to ours, and they treat them like animals.  

For awhile immigrant children were removed from their parents upon arrival in the United States as a strategy to discourage more people from traveling northward to seek sanctuary in the United States.  Some were kept in child detention camps, while others were farmed out into the foster care system.  Then, when the public outcry over that malicious and evil practice hit a crescendo, the administration relented and changed its policy to detain families together in camps that had been designed thirty years ago to house individual adult detainees.  Children were still being incarcerated but at least now they were with their parents.

But the situation is still awful.

Three weeks ago a seven-year-old girl from Guatemala died while in the custody of Customs and Border Protection (CBP).  She was apparently suffering from hunger and dehydration, and her serious medical state had somehow been missed by the detaining authorities.   When her medical distress became obvious, she was transferred to a medical center for treatment, but it was too late.

Yesterday, Christmas Day, there was another child death along our southern border.  This time it was an eight-year-old Guatemalan boy who was also in the custody of the CBE.    He died at a medical facility in Alamogordo, New Mexico, sometime in the earliest hours of Christmas morning - at a time when countless other children were still struggling to stay awake so they could hear the bells on Santa's sleigh.

The place where yesterday's victim was staying with his father was a U.S. detention center where the cells are referred to as "hieleras" or "ice boxes" by the immigrants because they are so cold.  News reports said that people at these facilities sleep on mats on the floor, and that each person is given one mylar blanked to ward off the cold.  A pediatrician familiar with the conditions in those types of facilities told news sources that people detained there are susceptible to influenza and dehydration.

It's Christmas in Donald Trump's America - and this American is profoundly ashamed of the way our country treats immigrants - and especially immigrant children.   We are a better nation than that, whether Donald Trump realizes it or not.

The Two Americas Celebrate Christmas

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Congress went home late last week while leaving the country in a real mess.  A good portion of government was shut down because Congress and Donald Trump could not agree on a spending bill, and thousands of government workers suddenly found themselves furloughed without pay just before the big holiday.  And other government employees were even less fortunate - they were forced to keep going to work - also without pay.

But elected members of the federal government were not laid off - they just took off and went home to snuggle close to loved ones as they awaited Santa's sleigh bells on Christmas Eve - and their pay kept coming, thank you very much.

This Christmas the divide between two America's - the haves and the have nots - has been clearer than it has been in years.  Donald "poor me" Trump is holed up in the White House tweeting like mad about how everything wrong in the world is the fault of somebody other than himself - and he is taunting Congress to give him a spending plan that includes plans for a border wall, something that Ann Coulter says he must build if he is to maintain the faith and allegiance of the people who put him in office.

Trump represents privileged America, people who grew up in gated communities and only had to suffer the company of poor people when they showed up to clean their houses and scour their toilets.  He is, practically by genetic design, incapable of empathy toward those whose circumstances were not as privileged as his.  But many of our nation's poorest people support Trump politically, and they do so because he continually denigrates immigrants and people of color, thus giving America's poor whites the false security that someone is actually below them on the social and economic ladder.

Last night when he wasn't tweeting his wrath, Trump was on the phone with youngsters who were calling NORAD to check on Santa's progress - and he appalled more than a few parents when he asked their children if they "still believed" in Santa Claus.  (Probably due to that adderol-infused large brain of his.)

Last night another politician was also busy.  Congressman Beto O'Rourke, a Democrat, was out on the streets of El Paso, Texas, helping to feed and comfort more than 200 immigrants that ICE dumped into the city without warning.  There have been other surprise drops by ICE over the past few days, and more are expected.  The congressman and other hard-working volunteers collected and passed out food, gave immediate comfort, and worked at finding adequate housing for the people that the United States government had put out on the streets late on Christmas Eve.

The good people of El Paso were doing God's work.

Trump was being Trump.

And many Americans were finding it easier to believe in Santa Claus than to believe in Donald Trump.

Christmas Eve at the Roost

by Pa Rock
Typing Fool

It's Christmas Eve, 2018, and Pa Rock is sitting in front of the living room window banging out his blog.  It appears to be a beautiful day outside, sunny - and, according to Alexa, forty-one degrees.  She said that today's high temperature should reach fifty-two.  Global warming isn't so bad, just wear a hat and slather on plenty of sunscreen!

Rosie has finished her morning nap early today and is nosing around the house looking for clever ways to misbehave.  She has an office under the couch where she naps and stores all of her treasures, but now she is out and on the prowl.  

I am down to just one red hen and one red rooster.  Right now they are digging through the leaves on the ground underneath the window where I am working.  I can't see them, but Big Boy is doing his crowing and it's coming through loud and clear.  In a bit I will go out and feed them and the cats some pieces of bread, and then I will scatter some dry cat food on the ground which the chickens will help clean up.  It is a morning routine that we all love.  When I open the back door in about thirty minutes, the hen, the rooster, and all three cats will come running.

I have concluded my Christmas shopping, I think, and although I encourage people to shop with local merchants - and not from evil Walmart - I do most of mine on line.  I don't like being jostled around in stores by customers who are more rude than me, and I cannot abide standing in lines.  "Free shipping" and "two-day delivery" are the siren songs that get me through the hell of the holidays.  I'm also big on the impersonal act of sending checks.

So, it's Christmas Eve and Rosie and I are celebrating at home where we are each happy in the knowledge that we are in good company!

May your holidays be as merry as ours!

Beto Asks to be Heard

by Pa Rock
Citizen

Last night I received a long and thoughtful email from Congressman Beto O'Rourke of Texas, the man who almost sent Ted Cruz, the most odious member of the United States Senate, to the political showers last month.  Beto was writing to share some thoughts on the partial government shutdown and to offer his insights on government under the Trump administration.  His letter was unique as political communications go in that it did not request my signature on a petition, nor did it ask for money.

Beto O'Rourke just had some things on his mind that he wanted to share - thoughts about the damage that Trump's policies are doing to America, as well as his own personal insights on the way forward.

First he suggested that the partial government shutdown over the Christmas holidays was perhaps an intentional maneuver by Donald Trump to distract Americans away from the constant drumbeat of news about resignations, investigations, and indictments involving members of his administration - as well as stories about the collapsing stock market.

"From a President who promised action, we got distraction."

The congressman then went on to lament the government's growing inability to even function in a marginal sense.  He stated a fear that if people begin to openly acknowledge that government is incapable of functioning, they will begin to gravitate to other options for getting things done, and will

"choose certainty, strength and predictability over the constant dysfunction, even if it comes at the price of our democracy (the press; the ballot box; the courts; congress and representative government)."

Or, in other words, welcome fascism if it makes the trains run on time.

O'Rourke regards Donald Trump as an exploiter, one who takes advantage of our fears and prejudices for his own purposes. particularly with regard to immigrants along the southern border. He talked about Trump's sending troops to the border during the midterm elections - and holding Border Patrol "crowd control" exercises in El Paso on Election Day.  He discussed the Trump administration's defiance of the courts by taking immigrant children from their parents and keeping kids in tent camps, as well as his turning back refugees as they tried to gain asylum in the United States.  And he made note of the Trump administration's penchant for referring to people seeking asylum as rapists, criminals and animals - while describing Klansmen and Neo-Nazis as "very fine people."

Congressman O'Rourke also focused on Trump's belittlement of the press by referring to the media as the "enemy of the people."  He discussed voter disenfranchisement as a result of fake stories about voter fraud, and he noted that our country now seems to be abandoning old international alliances in favor of new ties to authoritarian regimes.  He saw all of those trends as movements away from democracy.

However, the real meat of Beto O'Rourke's letter was not his litany of all the many ways that the Trump administration has brought harm to the United States, but rather on shining a light on a path forward.  With reference to the immediate issue, the partial government shutdown, the congressman said that Congress should again pass the funding bill that it sent to Trump a couple of days ago - the one that passed the Senate on a vote of 100-0.   He said that Congress should

"Send it to the President with the confidence that we represent the people of this country and that we are willing to override his veto if he cannot respect their will.  Show that government can work, that we can see past our immediate differences to serve the greater good.  To put country over party.  To put country over one man.  To do what we were sent here to do."

And for the longer term Beto suggested that "we must strengthen all of our institutions at the very moment they are called into question."   He called on Congress to reject PAC money and corporate and special interest influence.  He also encouraged citizens to demand that their congressmen hold town halls in their communities, and listen to and respond to their constituents.  He envisioned a Congress where members work for their constituents and no one else.

Beto also encouraged action on several key national issues including:  climate change, healthcare, endless war, income inequality, immigration, the vibrancy of rural communities and inner cities, education, and criminal justice reform.  His plan of attack was to

"Define the goal in each area, build the coalition to achieve it, find the common ground (between parties, between branches of government), and move forward."

He summed up by referring back to his premise that th United States is currently hamstrung over a case of action versus distraction, and he predicted that one will save our democracy, and the other will lead to its end.

Beto's letter was brief, less than a thousand words, yet it was a clear and concise look at the United States at a critical point in its history, a clanging alarm, and a call to action.  The young congressman wasn't begging for money - he just wanted to be heard. 

The Government has Shut Down, Big Yawn

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Man the battle stations!  The government of the United States of America has shut down!  Or has it?  Is this, the third government shut down of the Trump administration, a critical impasse in our nation's ability to function, or is it merely another vaudeville act of smoke and mirrors perpetrated on a gullible public by the clowns we employ to run our government?

The gambit is being labeled a "partial" shutdown because Congress has been selectively funding programs that it considers to be critical over the past few months - and saving the funding of things regarded as less-than-critical for the dramatic final moments of this legislative session.  In fact, the government has already been partially shutdown for the past several weeks as department supervisors and administrative personnel let regular business lapse as they focused on developing contingency plans for this very contingency.

A partial government shutdown is a carefully crafted scam that is designed to inconvenience as few people as possible.  Our government likes the show of being avenging angels of fiscal responsibility, but the show comes to a screeching halt when real people start to be effected and begin to complain.  Neither Congress nor the President wants to get the blame for interfering with the delivery of the U.S. mail, for instance, nor do they want to be associated with social security checks failing to be issued.   Those are bridges that politicians will not cross.

So the shut down focuses on things that are generally out-of-sight or don't impact large numbers of real people.  This time they are talking about closing gift shops and restrooms in national parks.    Some people will be inconvenienced by those moves, and others will simply do their business behind trees - safe from the notice of park rangers who will furloughed and at home watching football games.

The military, our government's sacred cow, has been spared any inconvenience of a shutdown, as have Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid.  Homeland Security, one of the departments that is actually being shutdown, is responsible for certain things that cannot be stopped without riling the public - including airport security and border security.  TSA officials and border agents have been told that they must report for duty - but will do so without pay.  Merry Christmas, y'all!

I was working for the federal government during the great shutdown of 2013.    At that time I was employed as a civilian social worker with the Air Force.  My position was not mission critical, which meant that I was among many military support staff nationwide who were furloughed - or sent home without pay.  Those civilians whose positions were considered to be mission essential kept right on working - but also without pay.  We were all called into a meeting before the shutdown and told that as soon as the shutdown ended, we would receive back pay - and we did.  So the shutdown of 2013, from my perspective, was a paid vacation of several days.

Smoke and mirrors.

A big ol' sham.

Just like Trump's wall.

Dianna Afuvai

by Pa Rock
Old Friend

On a few occasions I have used this space to mourn the passing of friends, an occurrence that seems to become all the more common as I age.  Sadly, today is one of those days when I feel compelled to share a few thoughts about a friend who has just passed on.

I first met Dianna (Hagan) Afuvai (rhymes with "apple pie") in the early 1980's when I was a high school principal twenty-five miles up the road from where I live today - and she was an eager substitute teacher who had recently moved back to Mountain Grove, Missouri, from Texas to be near family. She was a divorced mother of a four-year-old daughter and anxious to prove her classroom abilities.  At the end of the year our district's senior English teacher retired and I was able to offer Dianna a position teaching high school English and speech and drama.

But her time at Liberty High School (Mountain View-Birch Tree Schools) was short-lived.  At the end of her first year of teaching, I took another position as principal of an elementary-junior high in my hometown two hundred miles away - and that school had an opening for a junior high English teacher.  Almost in a joking manner I offered the position to Dianna one day as I walked past her in the high school hallway, and a few minutes later she showed up in my office and said that she would take the job.

That move brought Dianna to McDonald County, Missouri, the place where she was destined to spend the rest of her life.  She retired from teaching there in 2005,  and tomorrow she will be buried in McDonald County.

Dianna spent most of her career teaching English, and she was known for being a tough taskmaster.   Recently I ran into one of her students from Liberty High School and our discussion focused on a couple of her favorite teachers - and one was Dianna.  That lady, now close to retirement herself, talked about classroom projects that she remembered from her senior English class, and she gave Dianna particular credit for helping to build her vocabulary beyond what she was exposed to daily in the rural setting of northern Howl County.

Dianna also taught Mineko, a foreign exchange student from Japan who spent a year living with my family.  I know that Mineko regarded her as a wonderful teacher, and I recently learned that they had re-connected through social media.  Dianna's influence as a teacher literally reached around the globe!

Toward the end of Dianna's career in education she became a school librarian, and after retirement she followed up on her love of books by becoming a board member of the county's newest library, a position that gave her direct input into charting the course of that facility.

Dianna also taught speech and drama at the high school level, and when she moved to the junior high position in McDonald County, she kept that passion alive by establishing the Elk River Little Theatre, a community organization that flourished for several seasons and held a variety of remarkably good performances that even included a few dinner theaters.  She provided youngsters and oldsters in the little town of Noel, Missouri, with opportunities that the rest of the county never got to experience.

And it was all "teaching" to Dianna, an art and a craft that she loved.

Dianna Afuvai is survived by her daughter Shannon Hurley, her son-in-law Dusty, and her grandson, Bowen Hurley - as well as a host of close friends and admirers.

Rest well, Old Friend, and know that your brief time on earth brought sunshine and enlightenment to many.  You will be mourned, and celebrated, and sorely missed.

Sinema and McSally: Two Faces of Arizona

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Arizona, a state that has never had a female United States Senator in its entire history, is now just a couple of weeks away from having two.  Yesterday, to the surprise of very few, Governor Doug Ducey of the Scorpion State announced that he was appointing Congresswoman Martha McSally to fill the seat that was left vacant by the death of Arizona's long-time senior senator, John McCain.

Ducey initially appointed former Arizona Senator Jon Kyl to fill McCain's seat, but Kyl took the position stating that he would only serve out this year - and he kept that promise by resigning effective at the end of this year.  Yesterday the governor took what most regarded at the easy option and appointed McSally to the post.

McSally tried to enter the Senate through the front door this year when she ran for the seat being vacated by the retiring Jeff Flake.  She lost that race five weeks ago to another Arizona congresswoman, Krysten Sinema, in a close contest.  Now, with Ducey's appointment of McSally to McCain's seat, both women will be seated in the Senate during the first week of January.  McSally will serve until McCain's term expires in 2020, and then will most likely run for election to that same position - and Sinema will serve a full six-year term that will expire in 2024.

The first two female senators from Arizona represent opposite ends of the political spectrum, with McSally anchored to the Trump right and Sinema being known for her progressive stances on issues - and that divergence in itself is somewhat emblematic of Arizona.  The state is stuffed to the gills with old people, retirees from the cold lands who fled south in search of continuous warmth and cheap plots of parched earth, ancients who listen to Fox 24/7 and think they are hearing news.  But the state also has a strong core of citizens who exert a more youthful vigor and vision across the landscape.

This dichotomy of political philosophies was also evident a few years back when joyously progressive Governor Janet Napolitano resigned from her office to become Obama's Secretary of Homeland Security.  She was replaced by Jan Brewer, a bitter pill who quickly became one of the stars of America's anti-immigrant movement.

So, while McSally and Sinema may come off as being polar opposites, taken together they are very representative of Arizona.  I suspect they will both serve the Scorpion State well - and the Old Boys Club that has been the United States Senate is almost certain to benefit from becoming more diverse.

And diversity is a strength.

The Great Wall that Will Never Happen

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

A few days ago Donald Trump was boasting that he would happily shut down the government if the emergency funding deal with Congress did not include $5 billion for his big, beautiful concrete wall along the southern border.  As of today, he has apparently seen the harsh light of reality politics and backed off of that claim.  Press Secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders is now saying that the money needed for the wall will come from other sources.  (It's nice to know the budget has than much slush!)  And Trump himself is again yammering that the military (presumably the U.S. military and not that of Mexico) will work on constructing the wall to honor and beatify himself.

When Donald Trump first began inflaming his rabble with talk of a wall to keep brown people from entering the United States across the southern border, he led them, as well as much of the rest of the country, to believe that he was proposing a giant barrier, something akin to the Great Wall of China, that would extend along the entire U.S.-Mexico border from San Diego, California, to Brownsville, Texas.  A monument to his glory, forever and ever, amen.  And to frost the cake, it would not even cost U.S. taxpayers one thin dime because he would make Mexico pay for it.  Amen, Brother Trump, amen!

Of course, in the intervening years several truths have become apparent regarding the wall.  The first truth is that Donald Trump never tells the truth.  He golfs, he throws tantrums, and he lies - and that's about a full workday for Donald John Trump.  The second truth is that Mexico will never pay for anything that interferes with the economic trade flowing between itself and its neighbor to the north - and Mexico would be loathe to help fund a barrier designed to strengthen Trump's loud belief that everything south of Arizona is a "shithole" country.  A wall funded by Mexico ain't-a-gonna-happen.

Another truth that quickly surfaced was that a big, beautiful wall along the entire border between the United States and Mexico (1,954 miles) was never feasible in the first place.  The cost would be astronomical, and property owners along the border (many of them rich, influential Republicans) would fight tooth-and-nail to keep the government from taking their land for a wall, a barrier that in many cases would create business and agricultural problems.

So as those truths became self-evident, the Trump roar quietly shifted from a complete wall to a partial wall, something that could be erected in areas where most immigrants supposedly sneaked in.  Short stretches of physical wall supplemented by ground sensors, drones, and other technology that could help border agents spot and block invaders.  A bait and switch tactic, but enough wall where Trump could rush in and get his picture taken standing next to it - or perhaps even atop of it - staring south across the barren shithole desert where brown people scamper like rats racing to the United States - only now they will be lugging ladders.

So today's truth is that the government has other money sloshing around that it can use for the wall - perhaps some that they saved by not adequately supporting Puerto Rico after the hurricane, or California after the wildfires, or children with cancer.  And it will also save money by using the military, who are already on the payroll, to construct it.

It all sounds so simple, and, of course, none of it will work.  Next year when Trump is running for re-election he will again be stirring the wall issue relentlessly because it is a proven vote-getter.  He will blame others, like he always does, for his failure in getting it built, and he will inflame racist passions as he roars about the importance of a safe and secure America.

And then he will play golf.

Same story, different day.

It's Time to Reverse the Graying of Government!

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Tennessee's senior United States Senator, Lamar Alexander has made a good decision.  Yesterday the 78-year-old politician announced that he would not seek a fourth six-year term in the Senate in 2020 when he will be eighty.  What is sad is that his move came as a "surprise" to America's political pundits.

If Alexander had run in 2020 he would have likely been re-elected to a fourth term, one which would have ended when he was eighty-six - or when God intervened - whichever came first.  He would have spent six more long years aging on the government dime while crafting laws that would impact the lives of younger, more vital Americans with whom he would be growing increasingly out-of-touch.

Yesterday I came across an editorial piece on the internet which argued for letting geriatrics serve in government as long as they are able.  The author cited Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Nancy Pelosi as being examples of older people who are very skilled and proficient at their jobs.  And that is undoubtedly and unmistakably true.

What was not addressed, however, was the fact that elderly people are subject to sudden and dramatic changes in ability.  One day they are leading the free world and the next they are confused and heading toward life in a care facility.  Worse yet, most of the aging is not sudden and dramatic - it just quietly slips up on them, day by day, almost unnoticeable, but with a cumulative impact that colors work and life decisions.  That's why some of us choose to retire, so that our growing decrepitude impacts as few others as possible.

Yes, anybody can go off the rails at any age, but it is far more likely to happen when you are eighty than when you are forty.

The United States is still a surprisingly young country.  The median age across our nation is 37.9 years.  For those of you too long out of a statistics course, that means if everyone in this country was lined up according to age, from youngest to oldest, the person at the exact center of that line would be 37.9 years old.   The most common (mode) age in the United States in twenty-six.  More people in this country are 26-years-old than any other age.

And the life expectancy in the United States as reported one year ago this month was 78.6-years-old, almost the exact age of Senator Lamar Alexander - and a hair younger than Nancy Pelosi - and that average age has been dropping  over the past couple of years.

The United States Constitution carefully sets out minimum age requirements for Representatives (25), Senators (30), and President (35), but does not address the notion of maximum ages for holding office.  Eventually an amendment limited the President to two terms, but other than that there are no legal limits to the amount of service elected officials may give to our national government.

So basically members of Congress (the House and Senate) have to meet a certain minimum age, but, once elected, can serve until they are hauled off of the Floor wearing a toe-tag.  I would argue that we would have a more vital and truly representative Congress if the minimum age for all offices were lowered to the federal minimum voting age - and a seniority cap was placed on service, perhaps equal to whatever the current life-expectancy happens to be.  That might even encourage members of Congress to promote programs that would extend life in these United States!

(Right now one of the brightest and most dynamic in-coming members of the next Congress, Alexandria Octavio-Cortez, could not even run for President in the next election because she would still be too young.     And we certainly wouldn't want the United States to be run by someone with that much clear vision and energy, would we?)

If the minimum age for running for Congress was eighteen, some of those young activists from Parkland, Florida, would have been on the ballot last month - and chances are good that they would have been elected.

The other option for removing dead wood from Congress would be term limits.  Setting maximum age limits, lowering the minimum age to serve, and instituting limits on the number of terms a member could serve would all involve changes to the Constitution.  Amending the Constitution is a complicated process, and well it should be.  But as our national leadership gets grayer and grayer, something needs to change.

It's time for people my age - 70 and over - to climb in the back seat of the government jalopy and let the young folks drive.  Maybe with youth at the wheel we will actually get somewhere!

Monday's Poetry: "Molly Malone"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator and Proud Papa

My middle child, Molly, is forty-two-years-old today.  She was born at the end of our nation's bi-centennial year and in the brief period of time between when Jimmy Carter was elected President and Gerald Ford left office.  Today Molly is an extremely busy mother of three children of her own, two boys and a girl between the ages of seven and eleven, and she spends most of every day shuffling kids to school, lessons, various practice sessions and games, and special meetings and events.  She is a textbook busy parent with a routine that never lets up.

I wanted to highlight a poem today that would be in praise of hard-working women.  My first choice was Maya Angelou's "Still I Rise," but I decided to forgo that choice when I discovered that I had already used it twice in this space - this year, alone.  My second choice was "Molly Malone," a song that I learned in a college music appreciation class at about the same time my Molly was born.

"Molly Malone" describes the life of an Irish fishmonger working the streets of Dublin.  Over the years it has become strongly entwined with the Irish capital of Dublin, and in 1988, during that city's millennium celebration, a statue of Molly and her fish cart was unveiled in the downtown area.  It has gone on to become one of the major tourist attractions of the city of Dublin.

The song's origins are unclear, but many believe it was composed by James Yorkston of Edinburgh, Scotland, in the late 19th century, perhaps as a European take on the American hit tune of the time, "My Darling Clementine."

For the purposes of this blog, and with little fear of being sued by some other claimant, I will give credit to James Yorkston.

Happy birthday, Molly - this one's for you!

Molly Malone
by James Yorkston

In Dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone
As she wheeled her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels alive a-live O!
A-live a-live O!  A-live a-live O!
Crying cockles and mussels alive a-live-O!

She was a fishmonger and sure it was no wonder
For so were her father and mother before
And they both wheeled their barrows through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels alive a-live O!
A-live a-live O!  A-live a-live O!
Crying Cockles and mussels alive a-live O!

She died of a fever and no one could save her
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone
Now her ghost wheels her barrow through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and Mussels alive a-live O!
A-live a-live O!  A-live a-live O!

A-live a-live O! A-live a-live O!
Crying cockles and mussels alive a-live O!

A Dirty Bird Goes Shopping

by Pa Rock
Defender of Birds

"Alexa, order a quart of Rocky Road, a pound of sunflower seeds, a basket of fruit - and put on some dance music!"

It's as easy as that.  Just a sentence or two, and the order is placed with Amazon - and the dance music starts.   A problem exists with the fact that Alexa will take orders from anyone, and not just the person who happens to own the particular device.  If an account is set up with the retailer, anyone with a clear voice can place an order - even a mischievous parrot!

Rocco, an African Grey parrot, was recently booted from an animal sanctuary in England due to his penchant for salty language.  One of the workers at the sanctuary felt sorry for the expelled bird and took him home with her.   But Rocco couldn't stay out of trouble, even in his new digs.

Rocco is a very bright parrot, and it did not take him long to make friends with his new landlady's Alexa.  Before long he was chatting up Alexa and ordering snacks from Amazon.  He also bought some items that caught his interest but were inedible - including light bulbs and a kite - and had her tell him jokes and read stories.

Soon, however, Rocco's nefarious acts were discovered - probably when the surprise orders began showing up - and the party was over.

Now Rocco's owner, who reports that she often comes home and finds him dancing to music that he has asked Alexa to play, says that she always checks her Amazon orders daily - and cancels the things that Rocco has ordered.

One suspects that Rocco may have had something colorful to say about that turn of events!

Michael Cohen Packs for Camp

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

If it were Donald Trump heading to prison, his lawyers would be arguing for house arrest at Mar-a-Lago.  But Trump's former attorney is not that lucky.

Trump's former attorney, Michael Cohen, was sentenced to three years in prison last week for various financial crimes (including paying hush money to a pair of Trump's . . . er . . . uh . . . mistresses) and lying to Congress.   He is due to report to the lock-up next March, giving the tainted attorney plenty of time to enjoy the holidays and engage in a long goodbye with family and friends.

Cohen will apparently be serving his time at the Otisville Federal Correctional Institution located just a two-hour drive north of his home in Manhattan.  Otisville, which has amenities that rival many county clubs including a bocce ball court, state-of-the-art exercise equipment, and a commissary with a wide array of culinary delicacies, was recently declared by Forbes Magazine to be one of the ten "cushiest" prisons in America.

Of course Mr Cohen, who had the good sense to be born white and amass a fortune working primarily for one sleazebag client, should expect nothing less than the best for his time at camp.   He has no tattoos, and he is not the sort of person who should be locked away in America's penal dungeons with rampaging hordes of black and Hispanic drug-crazed real criminals.  Cohen's crimes were of a more refined nature - and his nails are professionally manicured.

Real New York criminals, the ones who lacked the good sense to be born into white affluent families and probably don't have a clue as to how to play bocce ball - or even croquet, can fill the cells in places like Attica and Sing Sing and Ryker's Island with others of their ilk.   But Michael Cohen is different.  He's special - and by God, the American justice system will see to it that he is treated according to his station in life.

The recognition of privilege, especially white privilege, is one of the things that makes America great - isn't it?

Good Christians Don't Make Children Suffer

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Our nation is being managed (kinda, sorta, and certainly not "led") by a reality television personality who propels himself along by appealing to the anger and resentment of a substantial group of people who feel they were cheated in the great lottery of life.  Sleazebag politicians, with Donald Trump chief among them, have convinced this massive social underclass that their lives would be infinitely better if not for racial minorities pushing themselves to the front and taking all of the good things in life.   Indeed, they would have all likely become brain surgeons and rocket scientists but for the swarm of illegal immigrants who pushed across the southern border and stole all of those good jobs.

Never mind that Trump often fills menial positions at his luxury properties with immigrant labor - some of it "illegal" - because they work for less and are in no position to raise a fuss about things like pay, working conditions, and benefits.

There are votes to be gained from demonizing immigrants.

Here is a bit of reality.  It came in the mail yesterday from "Doctors Without Borders," a charitable group which won the Nobel Peace Prize several years ago - and whose efforts I have long supported with a regular monthly donation - and you should, too.  Jason Cone, the group's executive director, had this to say about "impossible choices":

"In southern Mexico, I met a nine-year-old boy who had fled Honduras alone.  The threat of violence was so great, he told our counselors, that his parents thought he would have a better chance of survival on the road.  And then in El Salvador, I met parent who told me how they feared their children would be forcibly recruited into or killed by gangs."

Mr. Cone went on to explain that in 2018, a record 68.5 million people were fleeing their homes due to violence and instability.

Some of those people who are on the road fleeing violence and situations we cannot even begin to imagine, make their way to the southern border of the United States where they are literally confronted with fortress America.  Since the very first day of the Trump administration, almost two long years ago, the administration has been focused on things like travel bans, building walls, demonizing certain groups of immigrants - those from "shithole" countries - and setting policies that would not only deter asylum seekers but would also bring great harm to blameless children in the process.

Two immigration stories were featured prominently in the news yesterday, though probably not on Fox.  National Public Radio (NPR) said that almost 15,000 children are now held at nearly full shelters along our southern borders.   For those who have never sat in a psychology classroom or worked with children on a professional basis, let me assure you that the warehousing of children, whether they are confined with their families or not, will impact them throughout their lives - and children confined in caged settings are suffering emotional trauma that is literally incalculable.

The other story involved one of those children being detained at the border by U.S. authorities.  A seven-year-old girl died nearly two weeks ago from dehydration and hunger at an El Paso hospital after arriving at a Border Patrol facility in New Mexico.  She was part of a group of 160 asylum seekers who had reported to the station the day before the girl died - and authorities at the facility did not recognize that she was in medical distress until the next day when she lost consciousness.  Sadly and unbelievably, she was not the first child to die while in U.S. custody.

This morning Congressman Joaquin Castro of Texas gave an interview on NPR in which he noted that not only was this information kept from the public, it was also not reported to Congress when Kevin K. McAleenan, the Commissioner of U.S. Customs and Border Protections, provided testimony to the Senate on December 11th.

Our border officials are literally hiding under a cloak of secrecy as these atrocities continue to occur.  They are not informing the public, and they are overtly trying to deceive Congress.

The wrong people are being locked up!

There is nothing "Christian" about making children suffer!

This is a stain on America that will never come clean, and we have the perverse bigotry of Donald John Trump to thank for much of it.

The Editor Must Have Been Drunk!

by Pa Rock
Reader

Frank and Joe Hardy stopped by the farm one evening last week and dropped of a book detailing one of their famous criminal cases from the 1940's.  This particular book, "The Melted Coins," tells of their involvement with some ruthless counterfeiters back in the mid-1940's - at a time when most other young men in the United States were off fighting World War II.

Frank, who is now somewhere in the neighborhood of one-hundred-and nine, and Joe, two years his junior, grew up on the eastern seaboard in is bustling community called Bayport.  They led extraordinary lives as the sons of Fenton Hardy, a former policeman who became a world famous detective.  As teenagers back in 1927 they began to assist their famous father with his detecting, and their reputation for being clever grew so fast that they soon were working cases of their own.  Early rewards earned in those cases helped the Hardy boys to buy their own car, motorcycles, and even a boat for traveling around the bay.  They also had their own gym in the garage, a facility that attracted many visits from their high school "chums."

The Hardy household was a picture of modern living.  Fenton Hardy was gone most of the time, usually on government business, which left his sons free to handle any matters which might land on the Hardy family doorstep.  Mrs. Hardy, their mother, was her generation's June Cleaver.  She flitted around taking care of domestic matters and then spent her free time attending club meetings and managing social obligations.  While seldom offering any interference to her sons as they chased about the land in pursuit of dangerous criminals, she did make sure that they completed whatever meal was on the table before they left the house.

The Hardy family was also occasionally home to "Aunt Gertrude," Fenton Hardy's spinster sister who would come by for extended visits and managed to figure prominently in some of the boys' cases.  Aunt Gertrude was brusque and abrasive on the outside, but at her core she was a warm and caring individual who always showed concern for the welfare of her nephews.

The Hardy Boys' adventures were chronicled by several ghostwriters who wrote under the name "Franklin W. Dixon."  Many of the early adventures were actually written by Leslie McFarlane, a Canadian who colored their exploits with great detail.  McFarlane and his cohorts penned most of the early books for between $75-$125 each.

My favorite Hardy Boys' adventure, of the fifteen or so that I have read, is "The Mystery of Cabin Island," a story so rich in atmosphere and detail that I suspect it had to have been written by Mr. McFarlane.  Sadly, the volume that the "boys" dropped off at the farm last week, "The Melted Coins," was easily the worst recounting of their amazing detection skills that I have come across.

There are three plot lines running parallel in "The Melted Coins," and none is well-thought-out enough to warrant being told in the form of a book.  One plot involves a mysterious Mexican fortune in gold that had been stolen from a family centuries before, and a curse accompanying the coins had worked its way down into modern times.  A pirate character who claimed to be a descendant of the famous Blackbeard, felt that he had inherited the curse and thought that the only way to rid himself of it was to tattoo a certain symbol onto others.  The Hardy Boys became his target in that endeavor.

The second plot line, which never connects with the former, centers on a gang of counterfeiters who run afoul of Aunt Gertrude just as the story opens.  The gang makes its money by stealing valuable old coin collections and then melting those coins down and turning them into modern quarters and half dollars.  Then they spend the counterfeit coins out on the local economy, get change from their purchases - usually dimes - and then take those dimes to local banks and trade them in for folding money.  One time they managed to turn in twelve dollars in dimes!

And a third plot line has the Hardy Boy's best friend, Chet, a portly youth whom the author relentlessly calls  "the fat boy," digging for buried treasure on his farm, an effort which bears some connection to the counterfeiters but not to the cursed Mexican treasure.

"The Melted Coins" is a mishmash of bad ideas, none of which serves to drive an overall narrative that one would hope to see associated with a book purporting to present a mystery.  The only mystery associated with this book is what the editor was drinking.

Melting valuable coins, turning them into two-and-four-bit coins, and then cashing in a few dollars in dimes?  It's hard to imagine criminals that dumb - and its hard to imagine readers of any age - at any time -  becoming engrossed in such a steaming pile of garbage.

I hope that the next time Frank and Joe come calling, they bring me something a bit more realistic to read.  But, that said, I always enjoy their company - regardless of the quality of the tales they tell.

The Poop Bot Will Get You If You Don't Watch Out!

by Pa Rock
Tweetist

For those wanting to explore the weirdest corners of cyberspace,  (and seriously, who hasn't dreamed of that?), Twitter is a good place to start.   It is where Donald Trump goes to relieve himself, where flies lay their eggs in the rotting refuse of civilization, and where failed stand-up comics endlessly search for comeback material.  Twitter is a labyrinth of deceit, decrepitude, and delusion located somewhere beneath the ground where decent people tread - not Hell itself, but certainly one of the points of interest on the road to Hell.

I know Twitter isn't Hell because "God" hangs around there - and so does his son, "Hunky Gay Jesus."   There is also a fellow there most days who goes by the name "Amish Porn Star" whom, I suspect, is bucking to become a Disciple.  Celebrities hang out on Twitter, as well as government officials and almost all members of Congress.

I am often in one of the out-of-the-way Twitter taverns where I sit behind a potted palm and yell insults at unsuspecting passers-by.  It's not really a productive lifestyle, but hey, I'm a retiree, and I take a perverse enjoyment out of being grossly belligerent.

Sometimes people tend to get carried away on Twitter, and when that happens they are either "blocked" by the party who took offense to what they said - or yelled from behind a potted palm - or they are completely suspended from Twitter for awhile and forced to go live above ground with decent humans.  That second process is sometimes called being sent to "Twitter Jail."   I have only been blocked once - and not by anyone important - and never sent to Twitter Jail - so I am obviously not as outrageous as I sometimes imagine myself to be.

But last week I was confronted by "The poop bot."  After tweeting  a response to someone's tweet that posited a list of several things, I responded with these words "And partridge poop in a pear tree."  No sooner had that tweet flown, that I received a reply from "The poop bot" informing me that my tweet had been noted by him (her?).   "The poop bot," it turns out, retweets tweets that either contain the word "poop" or might have it in the user's profile or user name.

So, for those wanting to insure that their every bejeweled tweet gets the honor of at least one retweet, you might consider changing your user name to include a bit of poop.  How does "Pa Poop" sound?  @PaPoop?  I think it has a certain air to it!

(Note:  In researching this piece, I also came across "Frowningpoopbot" who appears to be a Twitter user who only posts tweets that contain references to excrement.  Strangely, tweets about Donald Trump did not seem to qualify just on their own merit.)

Used Car Blues

by Pa Rock
Road Warrior

I drive a used car - a 2005 Saturn Vue that was already seven-years-old when I bought it after returning stateside from Okinawa in 2012.  The odometer is still on the south side of 200,000 miles, barely, yet the boxy grey vehicle, which was once at home in Alaska, has taken me from Arizona to Missouri (laden down like it was part of the Jed Clampett Moving Company), out to Oregon, east to Indianapolis, and on numerous trips across the Ozarks as well as to and from Kansas City.  It has transported chickens, guineas, peacocks, geese, and even a goat, as well as bales of straw, bags of manure, and all manner of bagged seeds and grain.

I bought the car because it ran well, with lots of power when I needed it, was comfortable, and had a good radio.  The heated front seats were a luxury that Rosie and I also soon learned to enjoy.

Because I always buy used cars, my first rule in moving to a new community is to find a good mechanic - a priority ahead of even finding the right doctor.   While others spend their time writing car payment checks each month, Pa Rock must occasionally pay the mechanic for maintenance or some unexpected repair to his family flivver.  Those scattered payments are always far less than the regular paying of principal and interest for the privilege of telling people that I "own" a new car.

When Pa Rock owns a car, he really "owns" a car.  The piper gets paid once, and then he has to go sit on the curb and await the inevitable wreck or wearing out of Pa Rock's Folly.  But now, alas, that time may be drawing near.

There were signs that things might be about to happen.  Last week my trusted mechanic of nearly five years sent me a Christmas card, something I don't remember happening in past years.  And in the same day's mail I received a very thorough form letter from my bank talking about its wonderful car loans.  (I'm not sure that I have ever had a car loan in my life, and certainly none with this particular bank.)

Then, of course, my car broke down.  Saturday morning I found a trail of fluid leaking along the passenger side.  When I attempted to drive it into town (a trip of two miles), it began tugging and stalling - and the dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree.  I managed to get the car home, and yesterday I sent it to the mechanic on a tow truck.  After loading the car, the tow truck operator eyed it over carefully and then handed me not one, but two, of his business cards.  The fellow seemed to know that if I hung onto this particular vehicle, I would soon be in the market for more tows.

So now I am sitting by the phone waiting on the mechanic to call with the bad news.  I may finally succumb to the inevitable and buy a newer used car - or I may struggle along with what I have.   Even the worst case scenario - a new engine or transmission - would still not equal more than two or three car payments on a new vehicle.

Cheap ain't glamorous, but it will usually get you to town and back.

Monday's Poetry: "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator

Yesterday world-class newsman, Dan Rather, posted the following to Twitter:

Reflecting this morning: Isn't the poetry of Hank Williams astounding? 

Hear that lonesome whippoorwill
He sounds too blue to fly
That means he's lost the will to live
I'm so lonesome I could cry 

(Not feeling lonesome personally, just appreciative and contemplative)

Rather's tweet threw me into a state of appreciation and contemplation, and today Alexa is entertaining me with what she refers to as music by "Hank Williams S. R."

I am from the extreme southwest corner of Missouri, McDonald County, which shares borders with Oklahoma and Arkansas.   It is a poor and very rural area that abuts the county in Arkansas that is home to Walmart and the filthy rich Walton family.  McDonald County has two very prominent music connections.  Albert Brumley, a country composer, was living there during the Great Depression when he wrote a couple of gospel mega-hits:  "I'll Fly Away" and "Turn Your Radio On."  The Brumley family remained in the music publishing business for a couple of more generations, and even had their own family show in Branson for awhile.

The other McDonald County connection to the music industry was through Hank Williams, Jr. (a.k.a. "Bosephus") whose first wife was one of the Yeargin girls from over around Jane, Missouri.  Hank Junior and his Yeargin bride were the parents of Sheldon Williams (a.k.a. "Hank 3"), now a young country singer who sounds more like Grandpa Hank than he does Bosephus.  I met Sheldon when he was eleven years old and traveling around the county campaigning with his maternal grandfather who was running for county commissioner.

But today we are concentrating on Hank Senior, a man who Dan Rather rightly calls a poet.  Here is the proof that Mr. Rather knows that of which he tweets:

I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry

By Hank Williams, Sr.

Hear that lonesome whippoorwill,
He sounds too blue to fly.
That midnight train is whining low,
I'm so lonesome I could cry.

I've never seen a night so long
When time goes crawling by.
The moon just went behind a cloud
To hide its face and cry.

Did you ever see a robin weep,
When leaves begin to die?
That mean he's lost the will to live,
I'm so lonesome I could cry.

The silence of a falling star
Lights up a purple sky.
And as I wonder where you are
I'm so lonesome I could cry.

Come On Mueller, Make My Christmas!

by Pa Rock
A Kid at Christmas

The holiday season is traditionally a time of merriment and frivolity as youngsters fret about what Santa may or may not leave under the Christmas tree, blended families go through temporary realignments, meals are planned, airports are visited, budgets are blown, and dinner is served.  The season, aside from its obvious connection to religion, is also a maelstrom of shopping, wrapping, unwrapping, feasting, bowl games, and preparing to make returns - all comfortably bound in a warm blanket of holiday cheer.

If there is one component of the holiday season that tends to bring it all together, to me that would be anticipation - the building crescendo of holiday music, store displays, special programs, decorations, and finally the fevered family activity that comes with the annual preparations for the holidays.  Trees and lights go up, packages get wrapped, turkeys get stuffed and shoved into ovens, and doorbells ring as loved ones and guests begin to arrive.  That is the scene we have been anticipating for months, and now it has arrived!

Over the past few years I have not been located close to family, and I slowly began to realign the way that I did the holidays - sending out a few cards and ordering most gifts over the internet with two-day home delivery - a pattern that, though fitting my lifestyle, was not very personal.  Anticipation of the holidays, on my part, showed a significant decrease in occurrence and intensity.

But now, with almost daily teasers coming out of the office of Special Council Robert Mueller regarding his investigations into Russian involvement in the 2016 elections and the possible collusion of the Trump family with those Russian efforts, I find my holiday anticipation once again building.  Every day I wake up wondering if this will be the day when it all hits the fan.  Will today be the day when the indictments fly and the conversations switch from will Trump be forced out of office to when will he go.

I was a young adult during Watergate, and I know that there is a tipping point out there somewhere, a place in the national dialogue where it all begins rushing from if to when - and I suspect we will reach that point rather quickly after Mueller makes his report and indictments against members of the Trump family begin to be issued.

Right now a monstrous flood of deceit and corruption is being held at bay by  a rickety old dam, a barrier that is plugged by dozens of bejeweled fingers of the Trump family and their corrupt enablers.   But that dam is fixing to burst and wash a whole lot of vermin out to sea.  It's coming - it's coming soon - and I can hardly wait!

The anticipation is killing me!

Come on Mueller - make my Christmas!

Christ in a Cage

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Saint Susanna's Catholic Church in Dedham, Massachusetts, is out trying to destroy the true meaning of Christmas if Fox News is to be believed.  For the second year in a row the parishioners at Saint Susanna's have stirred controversy with their nativity scene.    Last year they used their annual Christmas yard art to protest gun violence - and this year they are employing it to make a statement about immigration, a statement that some rabid right-wingers like Fox News find to be sacrilegious and unpatriotic.

This year the good folks at Saint Susanna's erected a standard nativity with Joseph and Mary gathered around the manger containing the Christ child, and the three Wise Men standing to one side preparing to join them.  But this year's nativity scene fell short of being "standard" in a couple of respects.  First,  Baby Jesus was snugly nestled inside of a small cage, an the Wise Men were cordoned off by a fence.  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph were representative of immigrants in an unwelcoming land, and a general interpretation of the Wise Men behind the fence was that they represented the caravan struggling to arrive in a land of "freedom."

The entirety of the scene was brought together with a sign that read "Peace on Earth?"

Fox News, of course, was having none of it.  One of their main gas valves, Sean Hannity, roared that "Christmas is under siege!"  That is an old trope with Fox News which is normally rolled out when someone questions the skin tone of Jesus or Santa Claus, but was wheeled out this year as a defense of our nation's hateful immigration policies.

But others see the caged Baby Jesus as art, in fact, damned good art - art so good that it is being copied and proliferated across the country.  Since Saint Susanna's went up with their controversial Nativity scene, similar depictions have arisen in places as far-flung and diverse as Indianapolis and Sacramento.  And the display in Sacramento is likely to be standing long after Christmas because church officials there vow not to remove it as long as any immigrant children are being kept from their parents.

This idea of people using religious symbolism to combat social injustice has become a righteous fire - one that is spreading too fast for the bucket brigade from Fox News to ever hope to contain it.

If your God tells you that it is acceptable to tear families apart and lock innocent children in cages, it might just be time to listen more carefully and adjust your beliefs - or find a God who is not mired in hate.

Panama

by Pa Rock
Reader

While recently searching for a copy of Thomas McGuane's second novel, The Bushwhacked Piano, a book that I originally read not too long after it came out in 1971, I came across a statement which indicated that McGuane considered Panama as sort of his high-water mark as a writer - so I decided to order a copy of that instead.  McGuane went on to publish several more novels and story collections - as well as some very successful Hollywood screenplays including The Missouri Breaks, Rancho Deluxe, Tom Horn - as well as the screen version of his own novel Ninety-two in the Shade.

McGuane, in fact, became very Hollywood during the 1970's and for two years during that decade he was married to actress Margot Kidder.  But McGuane must have also had a strong connection with Key West during the 1970's because those are the streets that his protagonist, Chester Hunnicutt Pomeroy - a.k.a. "Chet" roams and wanders during the action in the novel Panama, which McGuane published in 1978.

(Spoiler alert:  Panama is a novel about Key West, Florida, and has almost nothing at all to do with the country of Panama other than a few veiled mentions which paint it as a place of refuge - where people can go to live in safety and a climate of sanity.)

I have seen Key West through multiple perspectives:  as a married man visiting the island with his young family, as a single man looking for a bit of adventure, and as a harried cruise ship tourist rushing ashore for a quick couple of beers and a few tee-shirts.  I assumed that with those varied views of the small yet highly commercial island, I probably had a fairly complete overview of the place.

But that was before I encountered burned out rockstar Chet Pomeroy and let him take me on an extended tour of Key West, a trip that allowed me to see a technicolor view of the characters and haunts of the island through the filter of Chet's psychosis.  Chet, who during his heyday as a rocker, had managed to offend much of the civilized world, had moved back to his hometown in the mid-seventies where he began some process (known only to himself, apparently) of sorting himself out - and where he also "voted for Carter."  He managed to spend most of his waking hours looking to score drugs, get laid, or scare the bejeezus out of staid tourists from the Midwest.

Chet is relentlessly pursuing Catherine, the love of his life who shares his fondness for drugs and sex, and he is avoiding his father, a millionaire who is visiting the island, due to Chet's firm hallucination that his father died years ago in a Boston subway fire.  Chet also believes that the Missouri bank-robber, Jesse James, is still alive and speaks with him.

Key West is a carnival at just about any time of the year, but when Thomas McGuane and his alter-ego Chet Pomeroy are leading the parade, it's a full-blown Mardi Gras celebration, complete with side attractions like grave-robbers, sex in odd places, villainous cops, dogs with no names, and plenty of blood and vomit.

Panama let me experience Key West in ways I never intended.  It's a most interesting read.

Fort Trump, Poland

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Poland is a large flat country with a long Baltic Sea coast that tends to fall quickly when faced with outside attack.  Hitler's troops took most of Poland within a couple of days in September of 1939 while Russia came barreling in along the Eastern Front.  After the war ended, Poland was quickly cemented into the Soviet orb and remained essentially a satellite of Moscow for most of the remainder of the 20th century.

Now, a more liberated version of Poland is a member of NATO and aligned with the western powers.    Modern Poland still shares a long land border with the former Soviet Republics of Lithuania, Belarus, and Ukraine, and it is the land mass that separates these Russian cousins from the European industrial powerhouse of Germany.   Poland has become one of the more important members of NATO.   A strong defense of Poland would appear to be not only in Europe's best interest, but in the long-term best interest of the United States as well.  If Poland were to be overrun by an adversary, say some sinister nation like Russia, it would affect the balance of power around the globe.

So maintaining a free Poland is regarded as an important international objective, one that plays out in the defense plans of Europe and even the United States.

The United States currently has troops in Poland.  They rotate through and work in conjunction with local forces.  U. S. troops in Poland have been involved in making some permanent military-related structures (things like watch towers and office buildings), but so far they occupy no permanent base.

The idea of creating a permanent U.S. base in Poland, something up close and personal to the "Russian" Front, has been kicked around for several years and even discussed quietly in the halls of the U.S. Congress.  But building a permanent U.S. base in Poland would be an expensive proposition, and it would definitely twist the tail of the Russian bear.  In fact, just yesterday a Russian legislator went on record as saying that an American base in Poland would immediately become a prime Russian military target.

Under normal circumstances, getting the United States to agree to building a U.S. base in Poland would be a tough sell - but these times and circumstances are far from normal.

Polish President Andrzej Duda has developed a bold plan to try and lure the United States into creating a U.S. military base along the Russian Front.  He wrapped the entire idea up in Donald Trump's vanity and said that he would be open to naming the new base "Fort Trump."  President Duda also said that Poland would contribute $2 billion to the project.

So far Donald John Trump has not spoken out against this obvious bribe to his ego, and he seems to be seriously considering the idea.  Trump has said that the President of Poland is prepared to offer far more than the initial $2 billion in aid for the project.

Congratulations to President Andrzej Duda of Poland for figuring out how to manipulate the narcissism of the President of the United States.  Now, if Duda really wants to sell the project, perhaps he should look at including a championship golf course at Fort Trump along with gilded VIP accommodations.  Not only might Donald go for something like that, he might even stoop to visit the troops who are stationed there.

The bottom of the barrel has just been scraped!

Trump Gets His Mourning Game On - Finally!

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Donald Trump has finally broken through the Crepe Curtain and gotten himself invited to an important state funeral.  The U.S. politician who was pointedly told to stay away from the funerals of former First Lady Barbara Bush and Arizona Senator John McCain, has finally arrived in the front pew of grief-stricken mourners with today's funeral of former President George H.W. Bush.

Trump, easily the most petty individual to ever occupy the White House, set the low bar for personal retribution last August when he ordered the U.S. flag flying over the White House to be raised just hours after it had initially been lowered to mark the passing of John McCain.  Calmer minds eventually prevailed and the flag was once again lowered to honor the U.S. Senator, war vet, and former prisoner of war.

In addition to funerals, Great Britain's Prince Harry and his bride made it very clear that they did not want the racist American President at their wedding.

Poor Donald just couldn't get any respect.

But then sometime late last summer the Bush family contacted him and said that Poppy Bush wanted Trump to be at his funeral - in a non-speaking capacity.  Trump negotiated his acceptance of the invitation, saying he would attend if he could be guaranteed that none of the speakers at the funeral would bad-mouth him.  (He apparently lacked a basic understanding of the solemn nature of funerals.)

So this morning the funeral of George H.W. Bush is underway in Washington, DC.  Early reports indicate that Trump looked away from Bill Clinton's extended hand - but that Clinton continued to smile broadly through the poorly executed snub, and that a frosty Hillary refused to even look at Trump.  The Donald did shake hands with the Obamas who were seated between the Trumps and the Clintons.  That was reportedly the first interaction between Trump and his predecessor in the White House in the two years that Trump has been in office.

There is a classic clip circulating on the internet that shows George W. Bush slipping a piece of candy out of his pocket and then passing it to Michelle Obama as he shakes her hand.  What a warm and humorous gesture.  The Bush's may have not been the most effective leaders that our country has ever experienced, but both father and son, qualify as real human beings.

The classiest mourner, Sully, Bush's service dog, did not appear to be in attendance.  That's too bad because his presence would have added a bit more humanity to the morning of somber tributes.

My sincerest condolences to the Bush family.

George H.W. Bush, a Legacy in Flux

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

George Herbert Walker Bush, the 41st President of the United States, passed away Friday evening in Houston, Texas, the city that he called home for much of his adult life.  The official funeral for President Bush will be tomorrow at the National Cathedral in Washington, DC, and he will be interred next to his wife, Barbara, on the grounds of his presidential library at Texas A&M University at College Station, Texas.

At the time of his death, Mr. Bush had lived longer than any other president in United States history, but that record will be broken by Jimmy Carter if he survives a little more than three months from now.

During my lifetime I have seen four U.S. Presidents in person, three when they were candidates scrambling to get elected as President - Nixon, Reagan (twice), and Obama - and one who was actually serving in the office - George H.W. Bush.  On July 4th, 1991, George and Barbara Bush along with a host of Missouri Republican politicians, rode and marched in the Independence Day Parade at Marshfield, Missouri, and then took up positions in the bandstand on the town square and watched for a good long while as the rest of the parade passed by - an event which included many flag-festooned military vehicles hauling veterans of the recently completed Gulf War that Bush had led America into.  I had the privilege - along with two of my children - of being present at that historic event.

This week's news on the death and funeral arrangements of Poppy Bush have, for the most part, tilted toward being flowery and effusive, often citing his "civility" and prowess in international relations.  And he was, at least by current standards, a competent chief executive for our nation.

But George H.W. Bush also had a darker side and was, at his heart, more politician than diplomat. Yes, George Bush was in office when the Berlin Wall fell and when the Soviet Union collapsed, but he was not in a position to take credit for many, if any, of the sudden changes that were happening in the world around him.  While the world was collapsing and re-inventing itself, George Bush was struggling to chart a path that would ensure his own political survival.

George H.W. Bush had served eight years as Ronald Reagan's Vice President when he ran to succeed Reagan in the Oval Office in 1988.  During that campaign he made one colossal blunder when he promised the Republican National Convention that there would be "no new taxes" under his administration, a promise he later broke and which stirred the fires of lunacy in the GOP that still burn brightly today.

Bush also used that campaign to solidify himself with the large racist segment of the GOP base through a political ad featuring a scary looking black man by the name of Willie Horton who had been convicted of murder in Massachusetts.  Horton was granted a weekend furlough through a prison reform program in Massachusetts, and Bush used that lenient approach to corrections to paint his opponent, Massachusetts Governor Michael Dukakis, as being soft on crime.  The photos of black Willie Horton with his large Afro got the racist Republican base to the polls and helped put the "compassionate conservative" George H.W. Bush in the White House.

As president, Bush replaced retiring Justice Thurgood Marshall, the first black jurist to serve on the U.S. Supreme Court, with Clarence Thomas, a black conservative candidate with marginal abilities and who had been credibly accused of sexual misconduct toward a female who had worked in a subservient capacity to Thomas.  That appointment remains to this day one of the enduring controversies of George H.W. Bush's one term as President of the United States.

Bush also earned public enmity from some quarters when he pardoned six of the convicted central felons in the Iran-Contra Affair of the Reagan Presidency - including Reagan's Secretary of Defense Caspar W. Weinberger.  Even Reagan, the president for whom they had worked, had not gone to the extreme of granting pardons to these individuals, but Bush did.  Some felt that was an attempt to bury some of his own involvement in the whole sordid matter.

George H.W. Bush also missed the mark when it came to dealing with AIDS, one of the biggest medical and social crises of the late twentieth century.  His predecessor, Ronald Reagan, had "handled" the situation for several years by simply refusing to recognize it as an issue that should involve him.  In fact,  Reagan spent several years not even saying the word "AIDS."   Bush did address the crisis, but he did so in an off-hand and patronizing way by blaming the victims.  He stated that AIDS was the result of specific behaviors, and the problem would be alleviated if people would change behaviors.   People more firmly rooted in reality countered that just like breathing and eating were "behaviors" which would be hard to change, it would also be hard to change the "behavior" of desiring to have sex.

So George H.W. Bush prattled on in a civil manner, but he also rode into office on fear and racism, and stoked the home fires of conservatives with things like the appointment of Clarence Thomas, a casual dismissal of AIDS, and pardoning individuals who had flouted the law in the service of Ronald Reagan.

All of that, and I didn't even get to his failed war on drugs, the showboat invasion of Panama, the first U.S. war for oil in the Middle East, a collapsing U.S. economy, or his benign neglect of Floridians after Hurricane Andrew.

George H.W. Bush only served one term as President of the United States, yet, in many ways, that was more than enough.

Rest in peace, Old Soldier.