Proof of Heaven, or Not

by Pa Rock
Skeptic

My Aunt Mary, an elderly lady who remains as sharp as a proverbial tack, recommended a book to me a few months back, and I have finally gotten around to reading it.  Aunt Mary, who is somewhere in her mid-to-late eighties, is of an age when the subject of mortality begins to be more and more at the forefront of a person’s thoughts.

(In fact, those same thoughts also are beginning to eat up vast amounts of my time as well.  When the dogs bark outside late at night, one of my first assumptions is that it is the Grim Reaper peeking in my windows and checking his watch.)

Mankind has spent millennia stumbling around in pursuit of the promise of an afterlife, often padding the pockets of ministers, psychics, and other charlatans in the process.    Death comes to all, but can’t there be something beyond so that one does not actually cease to exist at the point where our physical bodies give out?  That would be such a comfort.

The book that Aunt Mary recommended was Proof of Heaven by Eben Alexander, MD.  Dr. Alexander, a neurosurgeon, went into a six-day coma in 2008 due the sudden and unexplained emergence of bacterial meningitis.   He had, through his vocation, come into contact with people who had suffered “near death experiences” (NDEs) in the past, something that he and his colleagues had discounted as a burst of last-minute brain activity as the patient lay presumably dying.   Dr. Alexander’s opinion of these near death experiences changed dramatically after he had one of his own in 2008.

While Dr. Alexander is quick to point out that no two near death experiences are exactly the same, they often contain several of the same elements:  the person’s consciousness rising out of the body and observing the scene from an elevated position, being drawn toward a bright light, and the appearance of an afterlife guide in the form of a deceased loved one.  Usually the person in the process of almost passing retains a knowledge of who they are in life.

Dr. Alexander’s view into the afterlife was a tri-parte affair with the initial stage being a place of darkness that sounded like a view of his body from inside of itself.  He called this the Earthworm’s Eye View and soon became uncomfortable with it.  Beyond that a segmented bright light led him into an aerial view above a bucolic scene inhabited by people in peasant garb.  And beyond that was the Core, a place of comfort where he was able to communicate directly and completely with God through every aspect of his being.

The patient, Dr. Alexander, did not retain a knowledge of who or what he was during the six-days that he remained in the coma.  He did encounter a guide, a young woman sitting on a butterfly wing who imparted the sense that everything was going to be alright.

Dr. Alexander, who obviously had the very best of medical care, awoke after six days, something which surprised his physicians, doctors who had been preparing the family for his removal from life support.  His malady was a direct attack on the brain, so his physicians were further nonplussed when it became apparent that he was slowly regaining mastery of his medical knowledge and training.

It was an amazing medical case with an apparent miracle cure, and the patient emerged from the coma a changed man.  He came out of it with a belief in the existence of God and an afterlife.

Whereas the good doctor had routinely ignored or discounted the near death experiences of others, he now was a believer – primarily for two reasons:  first, his experiences in the great beyond were so vivid and realistic, and second, the guide on the butterfly wing turned out to closely resemble a deceased natural sister whom the doctor, adopted into another family as an infant, had never seen.

And those are the points at which I feel the need to part company with Dr. Alexander.  It sounds a bit egotistical and self-serving for something to be real only after it happens to you personally.   And when he first saw a picture of his sister (post coma), he did not immediately recognize her as being his afterlife guide.   I see nothing in his account that preempts the notion of a sudden burst of brain activity (and his brain was definitely under attack and fighting back) bringing on his visions of a next world.  And while Dr. Alexander may have never seen his birth sister or her picture prior to the medical incident, he had met his birth mother and another sister, both of whom could have had some impact – through appearance or mannerisms – on his vision of the ethereal guide.

Like Fox Mulder, I want to believe – and it pains me that Dr. Alexander’s book failed to take me to the plain of self-satisfaction where my Aunt Mary resides.  Maybe, if I make it into my eighties, I will reread it and be convinced, but for the time being I must remain skeptical.

More on this subject may be found at:  www.eternea.org

More Damned Judicial Activism!

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Years ago I sat at a political rally and listened to comedian Dick Gregory speak on social injustice.  One way that he had found to combat discrimination on a personal level was the naming of his daughter.  Her formal name was “Miss Gregory” so named, according to her father, so that people who addressed her would be forced to do so in a respectful manner.

The naming of a child, at least in this country, is generally left to the parent, and rarely tampered with by the courts.  Other countries may be more rigid in the process of naming babies.  Denmark, for example, has a list of nearly 7,000 acceptable names from which parents must choose.   In Germany, the first name must make the child’s gender readily apparent and names must be chosen which do not negatively affect the well-being of the child.

I don’t know whether Child Support Magistrate Lu Ann Ballew of the Cocke County Chancery Court in Tennessee went to law school or not, but if she did it either wasn’t a very good one, or she was sitting on the back row praying when the U.S. Constitution was being discussed.  She obviously missed the part about the importance of keeping church and state separate.

Judge Ballew made the news this week when she arbitrarily used her position of authority to change the name of 7-month-old baby boy.  The infant, Messiah DeShawn Martin, was in court because the parents, Ms. Martin and Mr. McCullough, were in disagreement over which of their surnames he should bear.  Judge Ballew came up with a compromise of sorts, and, in the process, changed the baby’s first name.

The new name of the little guy, at least temporarily, is Martin DeShawn McCullough.

The judge didn’t like a mere mortal bearing the moniker “Messiah.”  In addition to her fear that it might cause him problems later in life, Judge Ballew imposed a healthy dose of her own personal religious beliefs into her decision to rename the baby.    A local television station quoted her as saying, “The word Messiah is a title and it’s a title that has only been earned by one person – and that one person is Jesus Christ.”

The Social Security Administration has reported that “Messiah” was in the top four hundred baby names for 2012.  “Messiah,” however, may not be used as a name in New Zealand – which had some fairly rigid naming laws.

Baby Messiah’s mother, Jaleesa Martin, is appealing the judge’s action.

Praise Jesus and pass me a copy of Inherit the Wind - another fine Tennessee courtroom drama which shows the circus that can result when God and government get co-mingled!

The Missouri State Klan Rally: Send in the Clowns

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Missouri has a bit of history with clowns.  Legendary circus clown, Emmett Kelly (Senior) lived in the small community of Houston, Missouri, during his boyhood, and for two decades that town celebrated with an annual “Emmett Kelly Clown Festival” in honor its famous former resident. 

So it should not come as too much of a surprise that clowns again made news in the Show Me state this past week.  It began when a rodeo clown donned an Obama mask and walked into the rodeo arena at the Missouri State Fair.  A second clown soon joined him and began playing with the lips on the Obama mask.  But it was a third clown, the rodeo announcer and Superintendent of Schools in Boonville, Missouri, Mark Ficken, who proved to be the most disgusting of all.

Superintendent Ficken, who also happens to be the President of the Missouri Cowboy Rodeo Association, reportedly whipped the crowd into a near frenzy when he began commenting on the clown in the Obama mask.  Some of the comments publicly attributed to Superintendent Ficken include:  “Anybody like to see Obama run down by a bull?”  “We’re gonna smoke Obama, man,”  “We’re going to stomp Obama now,” and “As soon as the bull comes out, Obama, don’t you move.  He’s gonna getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha.”

Perry Beam, a fair-goer who witnessed the incident, said that as the announcer carried on his diatribe, the crowd went “absolutely nuts.”  Mr. Beam said, “They mentioned the President’s name, I don’t know, 100 times.  It was sickening.”  He added, “It was feeling like some kind of Klan rally you’d see on TV.”

Senator Clair McCaskill of Missouri, expressing her outrage at what occurred, said, “Missouri is better than this, and I expect someone to be held accountable.”

Radio clown, Rush Limbaugh, himself a Missouri native, waded into the controversy by observing that President Obama had demeaned the office of the Presidency by going on the Tonight Show the previous week, and therefore the incident at the rodeo was understandable.  Just another fluke, eh Rush?

To paraphrase Senator McCaskill, America is better than this.

If Superintendent Mark Ficken made the remarks attributed to him and if he is still employed, citizens in Boonville, Missouri, need to be finding out why.

Monday's Poetry: "The Society Upon the Stanislaus"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator

Last Saturday I took a day trip to the historic mining community of Jerome, Arizona, where I soaked up some of the local ambiance and studied the glory of an important chapter of America's history  It was a beautiful day, and I had a wonderful time exploring and learning about the small, but still bustling, town.   Upon leaving Jerome, I stopped in the neighboring community of Clarkdale where I wandered through a flea market and a bookstore.   At the flea market I came across an 1899 edition of Bret Harte's The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Stories.  It was in good condition and priced at only five dollars, so, needless to say, it is now at home in Glendale where I intend to read it as soon as I finish the books that I am currently enjoying.

Combining the topics of mining camps and Bret Harte, I came up with the following poem, The Society Upon the Stanislaus, for today's selection.  It is somewhat whimsical, yet well crafted and evocative of the cowboy style of poetry.

The Society Upon the Stanislaus

by Bret Harte

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games;
And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man,
And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim,
To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.

Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see
Than the first six months' proceedings of that same Society,
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,
From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare;
And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules,
Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault,
It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault;
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown,
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent
To say another is an ass,--at least, to all intent;
Nor should the individual who happens to be meant
Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when
A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen,
And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,
And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage
In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age;
And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin,
Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games,
For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;
And I've told in simple language what I know about the row
That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 

In Praise of Talking Animals

by Pa Rock
Pet Appreciator

Several years ago while teaching a college evening  course, Introduction to Psychology, to a group of students who were mostly older than me and had no agenda other than learning and having something to do on a Tuesday night, I asked a question that nearly derailed the entire evening's work.  The question was this:  Can animals think?

The answers, almost all strongly in thee affirmative, came fast and furious.  Everyone had a story to tell about a dog or cat, or even a goat, that often proved themselves to be smarter than their humans.  Even fish, someone pointed out, had the ability to outwit a determined fisherman.  And, kicking into full disclosure mode, I felt then, as well as now, that many animals are quite proficient at independent thought.

So, the next question, if I had had the opportunity to get a word in edgewise and follow up, could have been this:  Can animals communicate or "talk?"  There is ample evidence that they can communicate directly with other members of their own species, and many pet owners get to where they can tell what their furry, feathered, or scaly friends want by their actions or particular sounds that they make.  It usually doesn't take too much guessing to know that Fido wants to go outside or the cat is out of kibble.

Animals are smart and they communicate.

But can they talk?  Can they engage in human-speak?

Some birds can be trained to speak clearly with vocabularies of dozens of words.  That is usually rote memorization with little or no obvious conscious thought on the bird's part.  I knew an old man a long time ago whose name was Earl Brown or "Brownie" as he was generally known.  Brownie had an old dog, a mutt, who, when Brownie twisted his ear just right, would say "Brownie."  Pain can be a powerful motivator.

Humans are fascinated with the notion of animals that speak, and this idea is often carried into works of fiction.  Dr. Dolittle, spoke to the animals, but in their own languages - as did Ellie May Clampett.  There were also those wonderful conversations that Eva Gabor and most of Hooterville had with the pig, Arnold Ziffel.  Francis the Talking Mule and Mister Ed (a horse is a horse of course, of course) both held endless conversations in English with their human masters and joined them in some great adventures.  There was also Cleo, the basset hound on the 1950's television show called The People's Choice, who had all kinds of things to say about her master, Jackie Cooper.   The audience could hear Cleo's pithy remarks, but no one on the show could.

Recently I came across a detective novel with a dog somewhat in the mold of Cleo.   Chet is a large canine who managed to flunk out of police dog training school due to some undisclosed mishap on the last day.  He was eventually adopted by Bernie Little, a private detective, and became and important partner in the Little Detective Agency.  Chet, like Cleo, lets the readers in on his thoughts.

The book, To Fetch a Thief, is part of a series.  This volume revolves around an elephant and her trainer being kidnapped from a circus.  The story line is actually quite good and held my attention well - though Chet's literal translations of what humans say and his subsequent puzzlement do begin to wear a bit thin before the novel concludes.  It's like a joke is told, refashioned and told again . . . and again . . . and again.  The bad guy, for example, says "Okay, I'll spill my guts." and Chet immediately begins looking for the exposed entrails.   Lots of colloquial human sayings get garbled by the poor dog.  But what Chet lacks in vocabulary skills, he more than makes up with his seasoned detecting abilities.

The author of To Fetch a Thief, Spencer Quinn, obviously believes that animals can think - and so do I.

A Beautiful Saturday in Jerome, Arizona

by Pa Rock
Explorer

I first discovered Jerome, Arizona, quite by accident in the summer of 2007 when Nick and Boone and I came to Phoenix to see my second grandson, Sebastian, who was just a few weeks old.  We rode the train - Amtrak - from Topeka to Flagstaff and then rented a car for the drive down into the Valley of Hell and Phoenix.   I had just put in an application to work at Luke Air Force Base, and though I didn't expect to get the job, we left Phoenix going west instead of north so that I might get a look at the air base.

We missed Luke by about five miles, but I did get a good look at the desolate and evil-hot Sonora Desert and the West Valley of Phoenix.  We drove west for awhile and then headed north knowing that we could eventually make it over to Sedona and Flagstaff.  During that jaunt we began climbing into the mountains of Arizona - large brown hills that would not be classified as mountains anywhere but in Arizona.  Suddenly we found ourselves winding through the crooked streets of a quaint tourist town called Jerome - old and unique buildings desperately clinging to the side of Mount Cleopatra and offering breathtaking vistas of Arizona at its rugged best.  Jerome quickly brings to mind the town of Eureka Springs in Arkansas.

That was six years ago and I had not made it back up to Jerome since - until today.

The drive from my house in Glendale to the old mining camp of Jerome is a little over 120 miles and about two hours in length.  Much of it was along U.S. 17 which connects Phoenix to Flagstaff, but the turnoff to Jerome is at Camp Verde, about thirty miles south of Flagstaff.  Highway 17 was crowded with motorists escaping the Valley, probably in hopes of finding more humane weather in the higher elevations.  Once I took the turn toward Cottonwood, Clarkdale, and Jerome, the traffic thinned out and I was able to enjoy the beautiful scenery much more easily.

Almost at the instant that I passed by the Jerome city limit sign, a mule deer jumped out in front of my car and ran across the road.  I took that as an omen that I would have a good visit to the mountain community - and I did.

My first stop was at the Jerome State Historic Park which includes a museum located in an old mansion that once belonged to one of the town's leading families.   As I walked up to the museum, a brown Arizona lizard began walking along beside me on the sidewalk.  When I stopped he would stop, and when I resumed walking, so would he.    The little lizard finally peeled off and went his own way as I got close to the museum entrance.   He did not try to sell me any car insurance!

While at the museum I watched a short film on the history of Jerome.  It was founded as a mining camp in 1876 (more than 30 years before Arizona became a state), and at times had several thousand people living in the community.  The primary mineral that was mined in Jerome was copper, but gold and silver were also found in the area in significant amounts.  The town was named after a mining executive whose last name was Jerome.  He was a cousin to Jenny Jerome who became the mother of Winston Churchill.

Several bad fires, landslides, and depletion of the copper led to Jerome almost becoming a ghost town, and the few resident locals dubbed it a "ghost city" in the 1950's.  Hippies arrived in the 1970's and began resurrecting the community by fixing up the old historic buildings and coming up with unique businesses, many dealing with art, that drew in tourists with fat wallets.    There is still a big hippie presence in the local businesses, but it appears to be a new generation of much younger free spirits.

I had lunch at Bobby D's Barbecue which is housed in the old English Kitchen, the oldest restaurant in the state of Arizona.  The pulled pork sandwich was tolerable, but the ambiance (and view) in the outdoor beer garden was exceptional.  After that I did a walking tour of the town, stopping in many of the shops.

The only notable native of Jerome was, as far as I can determine, actress Rosemary DeCamp.   (Her IMDB biography on the Internet said that she is a native of Prescott, AZ, but the locals in Jerome claim her as their own.)  Miss DeCamp was a stage actress and radio star before moving over to movies and television.  She was a regular in three memorable television series including The Life of Riley, The Bob Cummings Show, and That Girl.

Coming down off the mountain, I stopped at a flea market and a bookstore in Clarkdale.  It was a great day for a road trip and I had a really enjoyable time.  Now I'm thinking about heading down to Bisbee, another mining community, next week.   Bisbee is south of Tombstone.

There is lots of history in Arizona.

The Social Blight That Is Facebook

by Pa Rock
Blogger

I thought that I was done with Facebook, truly hoped that I would never have to mention it again.  But Facebook, it would seem, is like a virus which, once it gets into your system, never completely goes away.

This morning I received an angry email - no, a livid email - from a very good friend of long ago and far away.  She was spewing with rage because she had tried to contact me on Facebook and discovered that she had been blocked.   Well, she curtly noted, it might also be because I had quit Facebook, but who quits Facebook?  Obviously I had done her a great personal injustice, something akin to stealing Christmas gifts that she had made by hand for blind orphans.

Well, I had indeed quit Facebook a few weeks ago - primarily to get away from the drama, and hurt, and anger, and confusion, and stupidity, and danger, and . . . did I mention drama? . . . that is Facebook.  People who spend all day checking the status of people they haven't seen in years and who become nearly suicidal when someone un-friends them need to be locked in a big room with herds of others like themselves who have given up on real life.

My former job as a mental health therapist showed me just how powerful Facebook is and how thoroughly it has woven its way into the fabric of society.  Most, and by most I mean damned nearly all, of the people I counseled had a Facebook issue that was negatively impacting their lives.  The social network has become a playground for bullies, stalkers, pedophiles, and a thousand other varieties of miscreants who are more comfortable operating from the shadows than they would be revealing themselves in the cold light of day.

So I regret that my friend was offended, but I do not regret quitting Facebook.  If I want to show you pictures of my neighbor's cat, or my neighbor, or my grandchildren, I will send them to you directly as an attachment to an email - or in a real letter.  I will not toss them into the Great American Sewer for all to ogle.  And if that pisses you off, so be it.