Costco Needs to Head into Arkansas

by Pa Rock
Careful Shopper

No trip to the Kansas City area is complete for me without a visit to the local Costco.  For those unfamiliar with Costco, it is a large warehouse "club" store much like the Sam's Club stores - except Costco pays its employees a living wage and provides more in the way of benefits that the Walton-owned Sam's Club.

Tim and Olive and I spent a couple of hours in one of the local Costco stores this morning where we filled a cart-and-a-half with merchandise and had a nice lunch.  (Wednesday morning, it turns out, is a great time to shop at Costco!)  I now have enough paper goods, bottled water, soap, and breakfast cereal to last at least until my next trip to Kansas City.    If I lived closer, I would also cart home refrigerated items.

I was a member of Costco in Phoenix, and assumed that there would be at least one within a hundred miles of so of West Plains.  Wrong, Kimosabe!  Their stores are noticeably absent from Springfield, Missouri, and from all of northwest Arkansas.  My sister believes that it is because Walmart and the Walton family have a stranglehold on the area.  And my sister, as always, is right.  Not only do they have a Walmart store in every community of any size and Sam's Clubs in Springfield and Fayetteville, but most of the small towns also have an Arvest Bank (the old Bank of Bentonville) which is wholly owned by Sam Walton's son, Jim.

The area is saturated by Walton family concerns.   They suck much of the wealth out of the communities they serve, and return very little through their low-paying jobs - and almost nothing through charity.  The people of southern Missouri and northern Arkansas deserve better.  They should have a real choice - and Costco would be a significant step in providing alternatives to Walmart  and Sam's Club.

Come on, Costco, grow a set!   My friends and neighbors deserve a chance to be something more in life than just Walmart shoppers!

The Egg Man Cometh

by Pa Rock
Chicken Rancher

Rosie and I are visiting Little Olive and her parents at their home in Roeland Park, Kansas.  We had a nice drive up across Missouri and into Kansas.  She slept on my lap most of the trip, and occasionally would wake up and watch the world rush past the car window.

About the only unexpected sight along the way was what appeared to be a very short caravan of gypsy wagons - three very colorful homemade wagons, each being pulled by a team of big horses.   They were making their way along Highway 60 near Mansfield, Missouri.  Normally there are a couple of places where we encounter Amish families traveling along the side of the highway in their horse-drawn buckboards, but not today.  (The Amish are way smarter than me and were undoubtedly home by the fire on this very chilly day.  They are also way more talented and industrious than me, so they might have been out quilting, making homemade noodles, or raising a barn!)

I stopped at the Osceola Cheese Store near Osceola, Missouri.  It was my first visit to the place that has long piqued my interest.  In addition to a wide variety of cheeses, many other locally produced items lined the shelves.  I bought some Amish apple butter and a "Christmas Jam" for Tim and Erin.

I also carted along some farm-fresh eggs for family and friends in the Kansas City area - including a few double-yolkers that I thought the kids might enjoy seeing - and eating.  I am down to only twelve hens and am collecting around six eggs a day - so it takes a while to gather enough for a big outing like this.  (I think a couple of the girls may be hiding to lay their eggs.  That has happened before, and I eventually find a surprise stash.)  The coop is completely secure now, so next year I will add a few more birds and maybe put up a roadside egg stand!

It's trying awfully hard to be winter today!

Veteran's Day Poem: "Dead Letter Day"

by Pa Rock
Veteran

Tomorrow is Veteran's Day.  November 11th was chosen as Veteran's Day because that was the date that the armistice ending the First World War was signed.  (The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918 - you've undoubtedly heard that before.)

The recognition of veterans has not always in vogue.  The Civil War and the two world wars generated great enthusiasm for those returning from war - and much in the way of  praise and tributes to those left behind buried in foreign soil.  The Vietnam War, sadly, did not stir much in the way of respect for veterans.  Many Americans felt the war had been a political blunder, and some transferred their anger directly on to the troops and veterans of that long and bloody conflict.

The following poem, "Dead Letter Day," by Marc Levy tells of a letter informing a wife of the death of her military husband - in the Vietnam War - and of her response.  The Vietnam War was not the nation's high water mark by any measure, but the people who fought there endured some awful circumstances in what they had been told was noble sacrifice, and those who died there are just as dead as deceased veterans from any of our wars.

The people on the ground fighting wars, regardless of whose uniform they wear, believe they are putting their lives on the line for some benefit to humanity.  They are noble.  The ignoble are their leaders and the politicians who benefit from the wars they start and feed with the sons of daughters of the poor - sometimes simply out of greed.

Our nation's veterans deserve our respect - regardless of the real reasons their wars were fought.


Dead Letter Day
by Marc Levy


He sent the letter to the guy's wife
The same day,
Leaving out the following:
"About 2 in the morning the automatic went off
And nobody moved, we just waited for the morning
Light and the order to recon.
There were two of them. One was dead.
The other hung on all night,
Waiting to blow away some round-eyes
Before he bought it too.
He shot the second man, missing the point.
The point opened up and somebody threw a frag
And it was all over. Except that your husband
Took a bullet through his helmet that tore a
Gash in his head, and going down shot the man
In front of him. The blood was deep, dark red;
He was lying flat on his back, in shock;
His eyes were wide open and lifeless,
As if he could see everything.
They say he lived a few days in the rear,
Even got up and spoke. Then died.
Head wounds are like that."
She wrote back. First thanking him and the platoon
For writing her, then going on for pages asking
About his last moments. You could tell she was crying;
And he cried too, and did not reply to the desperate
Letter, and has desperately not replied ever since.

Rosie's New Tricks

by Pa Rock
Slave to a Chihuahua

Time for a couple of dog stories, but since Rosie is so little, I will keep the stories brief.

I have only been around one other Chihuahua in my lifetime and that was little Emme Ears, a tiny long-haired Chihuahua with ears so large that she looked like one of those gremlins from the movies.  Emme belonged to a girlfriend who eventually packed up, dog and all, and left.  And oh, how I missed that little dog!

I bought Rosie on September 1st of this year at a roadside stand where a lady was patiently selling her litter of puppies one by one.  She said that Rosie had been born July 7th - and since she came without papers, the 7th of July is the day we will have our big party.  Rosie weighed one pound and eleven ounces when I got her - and she has since ballooned to three pounds.  She only eats the finest high-protein puppy food, and although she would dearly love the occasional burger, poor Rosie gets no human vittles.

But she tries!  God love her, Pancho Villa, she tries!

Our local bank keeps a bag of doggie biscuits at the drive-up window, and Rosie, who is almost always on my lap when I am driving, quickly learned to beg for a biscuit.  Now, however, she gets to jumping around in the front seat and wagging that little tail to beat the band whenever we pull up to any drive-up window.  She is the consummate beggar!

Rosie also likes to walk in the shower just as I am finishing and lick water off of the shower floor.  She will quickly head for the nastiest chicken waterers she can find when we are outside, and quench her thirst at the expense of the hens.  Her own water bowl, however, could be filled with Evian, and she would only thumb her nose at it!

Today Rosie learned one more new trick.  We were out at the pond where I was gathering some stones to pack into a few gopher holes inside of the barn.  The pond is little more than a large mud hole - probably three feet deep in the center with a diameter of ten or twelve feet.  (It will be one of my serious projects next spring.)  As I was busy gathering stones, I suddenly heard a splash.  Yup - Rosie had done a header straight into the pond.  Greg Louganis would have probably been proud of her, but he won't have to smell her the rest of the night!

That's about it.  Rosie still chases chickens, and sometimes they chase her - and she puts herself to bed at night - most nights - without an assist or a command from Pa Rock.  It was hard getting used to having a Chihuahua in my life, but Rosie is intent on getting me trained!

Peace out, dog!

A Dark Trip Through a Red State

by Pa Rock
Film Fan

Last night as I was channel surfing on the lookout for something that would make me drowsy enough to go to bed, I landed on the Chiller Channel just as Kevin's Smith's soon-to-be cult classic, Red State, was beginning.  I had heard the movie referenced before, primarily in conversations about its writer and director, Kevin Smith, but had never had an opportunity to see it.

What a great film!

Red State is Smith's take on the rabid Christian fundamentalists of America's heartland, and, in particular, it takes aim at the infamous Phelps family of Topeka - the "God Hates Fags" folks who protest at funerals.  Director Smith, who has some obvious issues with religion, has not been this spot-on since his 1999 film, Dogma, in which he poked fun at the Catholic Church.

The Cooper family, the film's rough equivalent of the Phelps family, have a family compound and church in which the grandfather is the pastor.   His focus is on homosexuality, fornication, and general sin in America.  Like the Phelpses, the Coopers see the government as a big part of the problem - and they are distrustful of it and disdainful of the nation's flag.  Both groups, the Phelpses and the Coopers, protest at funerals and thrive on publicity, but whereas the Phelpses concentrate on carrying cameras to their events in the hopes of provoking attacks and then using their film in lawsuits, the Coopers hoard automatic weapons and drug and kill people.

But they are all good Christians.

Red State tells the story of three high school buddies who head out one night to have sex with a thirty-eight-year-old woman whom one of them came across on the internet.  There is some turmoil in the school they attend and in the community because a gay male high school student has recently been found murdered - wrapped in cellophane and dropped in a dumpster.  The Coopers, of course, showed up at the lad's funeral to protest.

The boys arrive at the woman's trailer, but before the sex stuff gets started she gives them each a beer - and the beer is spiked!  The boys wake up bound and imprisoned in the Cooper's church during a service.  They are to be some of the evening's sacrifices.

And then the local cops find out what is going on - through a fluke of circumstance, the FBI is notified and shows up, one of the captives is mistaken for a hostage by the local sheriff - and shot, there is a standoff, and someone up in the federal bureaucracy generates an order to kill everyone in the compound, even the kids.  So before  the movie reaches its conclusion, it touches on the Phelpses, Waco, Ruby Ridge, and Risky Business.

But it's still a damned good movie.

John Goodman plays the local FBI leader in this 2011 film.   One of the horny teen boys is Michael Angarano.   Angarano once played a character called John Macy in a film written by Tim Macy - so I feel somewhat paternal toward him.  It is Michael Parks, however, who holds the show together with his amazing portrayal of Abin Cooper, the grandfather-minister who keeps his flock of relatives together with fear-mongering and sadism.    I was reminded of Robert Duvall's great performance in the 1997 movie, The Apostle.

Independent director and film writer Kevin Smith is an American classic.  He has given us a substantial collection of strong and quirky films, many of which are connected to one another through characters, plot lines, and references.  Although I tuned in after the credits had run, I soon knew that this film was special - and was not surprised to learn that it was by Smith.  Red State has the feel of Kevin Smith in every scene - even without the presence of Jay and Silent Bob!  The  movie is a strong light shining into a very dark place.

Pinochle Junkie

by Pa Rock
Card-Playing Fool

Addictions may slip into remission, sometimes for years or even the remainder of an addict's lifetime, but the bug, though well hidden, is always there.  The folks at AA have it right, once an alcoholic - always an alcoholic.    And, as I am quickly coming to realize, once a compulsive pinochle player - always a compulsive pinochle player.

I've heard pinochle described as the gateway drug of card games - easy to learn, fun to play, and laced with strategies that easily adapt to other games.

My sister and I learned to play pinochle from one of our summer neighbors, Jonne Sue Legg, when our parents owned and ran a tourist court near Noel, Missouri, in the late 1950's.   I was a pre-teen, and Gail was over three years younger than me - so it is a game that stretches from the elementary schools to the senior centers of America, or it would if kids could put down their electronic gadgets and learn games that involved face-to-face social interaction.

By the time I got to college I was fairly adept with a deck of cards.  There was a continuing card game in the Student Union where players would get up and go to class and were quickly replaced by others who were returning from class.  Some of those games of pinochle, spades, hearts, or pitch went on all day.  Pinochle and 10-point pitch were my favorites.  I also made the occasional dollar playing penny-ante poker.

I was in one unit during my army years where almost all we did during the work day was play pinochle (your tax dollars at work), and I was in one military pinochle tournament while serving on Okinawa that my partner and I actually won.   My skills were sharp and my mind was quick.  I entered that tournament expecting to win it.

But then came married life and a work career.  My wife had never played cards and had no interest in learning, and the jobs that I undertook were much more demanding than that army gig.  The upshot was that I played no cards for nearly forty years.

When I retired to West Plains last March I toyed with the idea of getting on the internet and trying to find a few people who would be interested in playing pinochle on a regular basis.  I even found an old rule book and began trying to refresh my knowledge of the game.  I remembered how much I loved playing pinochle and felt that the rhythms and nuances of the game would quickly come back to me.

Fortunately, I didn't have to go through the effort of trying to form a table or two of regular players because, as I soon learned, there was a group already playing every Wednesday evening at the local senior center.  The office manager at the senior center informed me that new players were always welcome.  I procrastinated a few weeks, coming up with all sorts of things to keep me at the farm on Wednesday evenings, but I gradually overcame my fears (or shyness) and showed up one night ready to play cards.

It took several weeks before I got my pinochle groove back, but I eventually got to where I felt like I was on par with everyone else.  The diverse group of players - most all of whom are older than me - include a pilot, a biker, retirees, a couple still employed, housewives, people with disabilities, and others whose stories I have yet to learn.  Each week we draw for partners, which is a good way to gradually get to know everyone.

Most of the players bring treats to the games - chips and cookies, usually - so there is plenty to munch on.  One player even brought a bag of persimmons one night.

Up until this week I had been on a steady arc of improvement.  (This week was a disaster, probably due to my post-election funk.)  My best night ever was two weeks ago when my partner (the county Republican Party Chairman) and I won every hand except the very last one.   (Pinochle makes strange bedfellows!)

I really enjoy Wednesday nights at the pinochle tables, and have not missed a single week since I started playing last summer.  I will miss the game this coming Wednesday though due to a trip out of town.  (John Cleese, you'd better be worth it!)

A forty-year hiatus could not kill the pinochle bug - he was just lying in wait for a chance take control again.   And anything that keeps the old people off the streets at night can't be all bad!

Race: The Real Elephant in the GOP Locker Room

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Some day my grandchildren or their grandchildren may browse through these ramblings of mine just to get a sense of who their grandfather actually was, and I hope that I have spread my commentary wide enough to show the essence of my soul - both on and between the printed lines.

Politically I am a Democrat, but not to the point that I won't occasionally vote for an Independent - or take a Republican primary ballot if I want to screw with them prior to the general election.  I have even, on extremely rare occurrences, voted for a Republican over a Democrat, but basically I am a Democrat.  I believe in the need for all human beings to have access to basic nutrition, housing, employment opportunities, education, healthcare, and an unfettered vote.  I believe that Abe Lincoln, Woodrow Wilson, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Jack Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, and Barack Hussein Obama exerted great effort to show us our better selves and to pull our country forward through programs and policies designed to serve all of the people  - and not just the privileged few.

(And yes, I know Lincoln was a Republican - but if he were alive today he wouldn't be.  Today's Republican Party wouldn't have him - or that tree-hugging Teddy Roosevelt, either!)

But the primary focus of those with privilege has been, and continues to be - with rare exception - the acquisition of more.  The rich are motivated by greed, and they use any means at their command to convince the struggling poor that they will benefit from helping those with plenty.  One line of thought is the old Reagan saw that government assistance to the rich will "trickle down" and eventually get the ground wet enough that it will lift everybody's boat.  The other line of thought that feeds into the poor throwing political support to policies that benefit the wealthy is that many people feel that they won't always be poor, or that they are temporarily inconvenienced millionaires.  They are just one lottery ticket away from the good life - and and being able to take advantage of all of the tax dodges for the rich that their votes helped to create.

And I keep using the term "poor," although nobody thinks they are poor in the United States.  Everyone is "middle class."  Democrats use the term "middle class" to describe anyone living in abject poverty up to those residing in McMansions in nice suburbs.  Democratic programs are not designed to benefit the "poor," but rather to assist and protect the "middle class."  Republicans feel that the "middle class" stretches from the those living in penthouses and on yachts down to those living in McMansions.  All of their pronouncements are about the need to make life better for the "middle class."

To put an arbitrary number on it:  When one party talks of the "middle class," it is referencing those making less than a hundred grand a year.  When the other party talks of "middle class," it is referencing those making more than a hundred grand a year.   It's the same words, but describing two wholly different sets of individuals.

Democrats won't label those in poverty as being "poor," and Republicans call anyone who has to rely on the government for any basic service as a "moocher."  Those moochers are sucking up revenue which could be going into the pockets of their betters.

Race has also been a key component of American politics.   The national bloodsport of lynching finally ended during the last century, and it seems to have been replaced by police and vigilante shootings of young black men.  Since the election of our first black President in 2008, the political class has developed a complex pattern of talking in code so that they can point the finger at Black America without being explicit about it.   Fox News just spent a month trying to whip people into a frenzy over Ebola and leading them to the realization that Ebola is from Africa, the President has African roots, the President has not been doing enough to fight Ebola, and therefore . . . well, the people dumb enough to believe anything on Fox News were left to stumble into their own obvious conclusions.  The election is over, and Ebola seems to have disappeared from the news coverage.  There's a surprise.

Race played a part in this week's electoral disaster, and I want my grandchildren to understand that.   Yes, that sounds like a cheap shot, a bit of sour grapes from someone who would have liked to have seen different election results - but it also happens to be true, and it needs to be acknowledged.  While racists inhabit niches across the political spectrum, most have, since the mid-twentieth century, drifted into the Republican Party.  Yes, that sounds like another political cheap shot, but let me use the words of a Republican to legitimize and highlight my assertion.  Colonel Lawrence Wilkerson who was chief-of-staff to Secretary of State Colin Powell during the George W. Bush administration, had this to say of his party, the Republicans, on national television back in 2012:

"Let me be candid:  my party is full of racists, and the real reason a considerable portion of my party wants President Obama out of the White House has nothing to do with the content of his character, nothing to do with his competence as Commander-in-Chief and President, and everything to do with the color of his skin.  And that's despicable."

Race is the elephant in the room in contemporary American politics.  It is there, few acknowledge it and nobody wants to discuss it, but it is there.   Ebola gets talked about, with stress on its African origins - special collections are set up on the Internet to raise funds for police officers who murder black teens - voting restrictions are enacted that will discourage or prevent minorities from voting - birth certificates are challenged - schools continue to be segregated - communities remain largely segregated - prisons overflow with young black men thanks in large part to racially-stratified justice - and white people still lock their car doors when they find themselves driving through black neighborhoods.

It is changing - very slowly - and that creeping acceptance of blackness in America is driving the gun-toting, beer-swilling, Confederate flag waving, under-educated goobers crazy - and they are, by and large, an important component of the Republican base.

That's how I feel about it - and now those thoughts are part of my personal historical record.

Poor Grandpa was a left-wing nut.

Prelude to a Brawl

by Pa Rock
Citizen  Journalist

Last week when I saw a staged version of Night of the Living Dead, I had no idea how prescient that experience would prove to be.   No sooner had the horde of zombies been bowed off of the local stage than the national Republican party turned its own collection of slimy night creatures loose on the entire country.    From a quick review of yesterday's election results, it would appear that the forces out to exercise domination over women, minorities, and the poor have seized the trappings of power, resplendent in their full battle regalia.

If there was one bit of good news last night it was the victory of New Hampshire Senator Jean Shaheen over the carpetbagging centerfold, Scott Brown.   Brown, the only senate candidate to have ever lost senate races to two women, will now have to sit at one of his homes and await the inevitable employment offer from fair and balanced Fox News.  In the interim, of course, he might get lucky and pick up a modeling gig with the AARP magazine.

Kansas was especially disappointing, primarily because it appeared that the three leading Republicans on the ballot were all extremely vulnerable.   Sadly, all three prevailed.  Kris Kobach will remain as Secretary of State where he can continue his assault on voting rights.  Pat Roberts will be going back to the Senate where he will continue to serve as the third senator from Virginia - and hopefully may never have to set foot in dreary old Kansas again.  And the Brownback family will remain in the governor's mansion.

Perhaps there was one other sliver of good news.  The re-election of Sam Brownback in Kansas, Scott Walker in Wisconsin (his third win in four years), and Rick Scott in Florida surely means that all three will be trying to elbow their way onto the bench reserved for serious Republican presidential contenders.   That bench is already so crowded with evil bastards that a collapse into chaos is inevitable!

Walker, and Brownback, and Scott - oh my!

Bring on the brawl!

Banned Book #1: "Catch-22"

by Pa Rock
Reader

Colonel Cathcart kept raising the number of missions that the flight crews in his squadron would have to fly before they could be transferred home.  Every time the pilots, co-pilots, bombardiers, and gunners would begin reaching the magic number of thirty-five, or forty, or fifty - Colonel Cathcart would raise the number needed even higher.  Captain Yossarian (his friends called him "Yo-Yo") was a flight bombardier who felt that people on both sides of the war were trying to kill him, and he wanted no more of it.  Unfortunately for Yossarian, he ran squarely into Catch-22.

One way to get out of combat - and flying combat missions - was to be determined to be crazy.  It was generally agreed that people who willingly flew into the face of death day after day must be crazy, but as soon as anyone tried to leverage their obvious insanity to get out of combat, that was seen as a rational act and proof that they were not crazy.   It was an insurmountable catch:  Catch-22.

Catch-22 by Joseph Heller is the fictional story of a squadron of soldiers of the U.S. Army Air Corps stationed on a small island, Pianosa, in the Mediterranean Sea during World War II.  They were responsible for conducting bombing raids into Italy and across Europe.  Yossarian was a misfit, an unfortunate and unhappy misfit trying to survive in a war being run at the local level by other misfits, bullies, charlatans, and profiteers.

This novel has been banned over the years due to obscenity, though there is little obscene material in its pages by today's standards.  It could be read by most high school students who are fortunate enough to have educated and open-minded parents.  The real reason that some entities and locales have problems with Catch-22 is the impression that it gives of war.  The novel vacillates between absurdities and horrors to such a degree that readers tend to become overwhelmed with the craziness of war.  It is a very dangerous book, one that could lead to pacifistic tendencies.

This was my second complete reading of Catch-22, with the first time being over thirty years ago.  I'm glad that I came back to it - because it is as relevant today as it was back when it was first published in 1962.  Catch-22 is a difficult read because there is so much going on, and the action shifts forward and backward in time during the course of the novel.   The book takes effort, but the effort is rewarded with the satisfaction and learning that come with absorbing a truly important piece of literature.

Catch-22 reminds us all that the bottom line of war is business.  It is about industry, big business,  and certain people making obscene amounts of money - whether those people are Minderbinders or Cheneys.   And while the rich profit from wars, they seldom fight in them - and it is even rarer that they are victims of war.     The victims of war are and always have been the poor, the elderly, the young, and those without means.

The people at the top understand war and know what it is about.   Books like Catch-22 are dangerous because they reach across the social strata and reveal the true nature of war to the masses.

  

Monday's Poetry: "Election Day, 1884"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator

Today's poem is Walt Whitman's "Election Day, 1884," part of his monumental collection:  Leaves of Grass.  Whitman used the piece to stress that of all of America's special features and attributes, none were as important as the ability to determine our future through voting.  Whitman might not feel as uplifted about voting if he were to see how today's big money from billionaires and special interest groups has prostituted the process.

But just because the deck is stacked, doesn't mean the game can't be won.   Tomorrow is the day when we can all have our say - not just those who are overburdened with the "speech" of money.   Get out early and GO VOTE!


Election Day, 1884
by Walt Whitman

If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest

         scene and show,

'Twould not be you, Niagara—nor you, ye limitless prairies—nor

         your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,

Nor you, Yosemite—nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyser-

         loops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,

Nor Oregon's white cones—nor Huron's belt of mighty lakes—

         nor Mississippi's stream:

—This seething hemisphere's humanity, as now, I'd name— the

          still small voice vibrating—America's choosing day,

(The heart of it not in the chosen—the act itself the main, the

         quadriennial choosing,)

The stretch of North and South arous'd—sea-board and inland

         —Texas to Maine—the Prairie States—Vermont, Virginia,

         California,

The final ballot-shower from East to West—the paradox and con-

         flict,

The countless snow-flakes falling—(a swordless conflict,

Yet more than all Rome's wars of old, or modern Napoleon's:)

         the peaceful choice of all,

Or good or ill humanity—welcoming the darker odds, the dross:

—Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify—while the

         heart pants, life glows:

These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,

Swell'd Washington's, Jefferson's, Lincoln's sails.

(Historical Note:  The presidential election of 1884 saw the breaking of a string of six Republican victories in a row when Democrat Grover Cleveland defeated Republican James G. Blaine.  Cleveland barely won that election by carrying his home state of New York by less than 1,500 votes.)

Digging Up the Clinton Corpses

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

The mid-term elections are still two days away, but in many places the political focus has shifted forward to 2016 - and Hillary.  Yes, and so far all the right-wing press has found to tag her with is "Benghazi,"  which, no matter how hard the Republican punditry and particularly Fox News fan the smoldering story, it just refuses to catch fire.

Predictably, the scandals of the Bill Clinton administration are being dug back up.  Monica Lewinski, a tragic character whose last name became a dirty noun during the Clinton impeachment, has been back in the news and will undoubtedly "tell all" on the talk shows and in the tabloids.  But the right-wing press and noisemakers have to be careful using Monica - and Bill's trailer park women from his days in Little Rock - because that stuff can backfire and turn Hillary into a sympathetic character.

There is a better story out there, however, one that has always seemed to taint Hillary - and it involves an actual corpse!  Vince Foster was a deputy White House counsel who had been an associate of Hillary's when they both worked at the Rose Law Firm in Little Rock.  Foster did not adapt well to working in politics or living away from his family in Washington, D.C.   He suffered from a deepening depression and ultimately committed suicide.  A group of Republicans and their press associates tirelessly tried to link Hillary to Foster's death - and suggestions were often floated that he had been murdered.  There were three official investigations into his death, and each of the three concluded that his death was a suicide.

Today I saw a tabloid headline - in the National Examiner - while checking out at the grocery store.  It said that secret government documents have revealed that "Hillary's Lover, Vince Foster", was murdered!

Welcome to the opening salvos of the third Clinton term!

Rusty Pails #55: Trick or Treat!

by Rocky Macy

I hadn’t intended to spend Halloween night in jail.

In fact, I hadn’t been in jail since the time a group of us broke into Gladys Clench’s hen house to kidnap her prize hen, Ruby Bee.  We would have gotten away with the caper, too, if Truman Treetopper hadn’t started shaking when all the hens woke up and began making a racket.  That’s when he dropped the lantern and burned the danged place down!

Now the sheriff has the same four of us locked up again – me, Heck Frye, Judge Rufus T. Redbone, and Truman, of course.   Shadetree Mike was helping Ermine hand out candy to the little axe murderers and hobgoblins, or he would probably be cluttering up our cell, too.

The story began at a sale, that’s my specialty, after all.     Raquel Rainwater was selling off her mama’s things so she could put the family home on the market and move into the empty apartment above Esther Pearl’s junk store, “Esther’s Pearls and Swine.” 

Raquel showed up in town just after her mama’s funeral, and oddly enough, her twin brother, Rupert, who had always lived in Sprung Hinge up until that time, disappeared that same day.  Raquel said he moved to the coast and enrolled in art school.    She made herself at home in her mama’s house and took over running the mail route for Rupert.   But now, several months later, she was ready to move into an apartment and enjoy the conveniences of living in town.

Don’t ask me what those conveniences are!

I got to the sale early because there was something that I hoped would be on the auction block.   Years ago when I stopped by the Rainwater place to ask Rupert’s advice on mixing catfish bait, I noticed an old ornate trunk in the shed where he kept his fishing gear.    Being more than just mildly nosy, I asked him about it.  Rupert said it was full of his late father’s antique hand tools.  When I asked if I could see them, he acted very suspicious and said that the trunk was locked and he didn’t know where the key was.  It was a nice trunk, Rupert said, and he didn’t want to bust the lock off.

When I got to the sale I scouted around and found the old trunk sitting up on a couple of sawhorses beneath a spreading oak.  Esther Pearl was leaning on it eating a ham sandwich and listening to Raquel’s memories of some of the items that were going to be in the sale.   (Esther had been a bit put off by Raquel when she first showed up in Sprung Hinge, but now those two gals were tighter than Shadetree Mike’s grip on a dollar.)

The trunk caused a bit of a stir when it’s turn came.  The auctioneer tried to fan the fires of curiosity by talking about how heavy it was and how there was no key so whoever bought it would have to bust it open to see what they had purchased.  It was going to go high, but I was ready.  I had cashed out my change jars, called in a couple of loans, and sold a some of my old treasures.  I was going to have me those vintage hand tools – or someone else was going to pay dearly for the pleasure of keeping me from them.

I held back as the bidding got under way so that I could see which way the sale wind was blowing.  The bidders weren’t as curious as the auctioneer hoped they would be, and most quickly lost interest as the bid inched upward, dollar by dollar.  Finally my buddy, Esther, jumped the bid twenty dollars and everybody else backed off.  That’s when I stepped in and jumped it another twenty.   

The auctioneer looked at Esther and asked if she wanted to go another twenty.  No, she snapped – obviously angry that I had gotten in the way of her purchase – I’ll go fifty more!   The auctioneer was flabbergasted.  He turned to me to see if I was as crazy as Esther, and I was.   I jumped the bid by another fifty dollars, and Esther turned on her heel and marched off in a huff – or was it a snit?

After the boys and I got the old trunk to my house, we tried several buckets of rusted keys that we had collected among ourselves over the years, but none would open the trunk.    Finally we gave up and busted the lock open with a hammer and chisel.  Everyone stepped back and stared in sober silence as I lifted the lid to reveal my treasure trove of antique hand tools. 

As the lid opened wide, I saw several ladies dresses nicely folded over the top of my collection of old tools.  I carefully removed that strange packing and set them aside – only to reveal more dresses!  Now I started pitching the dresses aside as fast as I could.  Dresses!  More dresses!  And not just any dresses – old dresses – stuff my grandmother would have worn if she hadn’t preferred overalls!

The whole danged trunk was filled with ladies wearing apparel – mostly dresses, with the odd assortment of silk blouses, old coats,  hats, and some dime store jewelry.

It was going to make my next yard sale interesting!

Then Heck and Judge Redbone went on a root beer run and I made a big platter of Rustwiches.  It wasn’t until after the third root beer run that we began playing dress up, and one more root beer run after that when we all headed out to Gladys Clench’s place to trick-or-treat.    If she would have been more pleasant and put some treats in our gunny sacks, we would have never backed over her old outhouse, and she probably would not have called the sheriff.

Now Gladys had filed an injunction, the sheriff won’t let us change out of our costumes, and Esther won’t go our bail unless I give her the trunk of vintage women’s wear.  Half of the town has been by to laugh at us and take pictures, and the sheriff says if we haven’t been bailed out by tomorrow morning, he is going to put us on a chain gang to pull weeds and pick up trash along the highway – in our party dresses!

And Esther, Raquel, and even Gladys Clench are all acting pretty smug about our predicament.

That’s the trouble with Halloween in Sprung Hinge – too many danged witches!

Willie Horton Strikes Back!

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

When I hear the term "sleazy politics" two organizations immediately leap to mind:  Rupert Murdoch's barely-based-in-reality Fox News (sic) and the Republican Party, an almost wholly-owned subsidiary of Koch Industries.   Those two dark forces crank out enough manure in a good week to fertilize the entire land mass of the Louisiana Purchase.

Perhaps the single sleaziest political incident of the past half century was a television ad by presidential hopeful George H.W. Bush in 1988 in which he successful linked his opponent, Michael Dukakis, to a very scary looking black murderer named Willie Horton.  The Bush team, headed by the late Lee Atwater, a man who was burdened with no scruples whatsoever, was able to use Horton to paint Dukakis as soft on crime.  The fact that Horton was black also did not hurt candidate Bush with the racist wing of his party.  The incident was shameful beyond measure and showed just how low an American politician would stoop in order to be elevated to leader of the free world.

The fact that Daddy had been President eventually got his dullard son, George W. Bush, elected governor of Texas - and ultimately President himself where he spent eight years taking orders from Dick Cheney and Don Rumsfeld as his administration squandered the budget surpluses of the Clinton years (and the lives and well-being of thousands of innocent Americans) on a quagmire of endless and pointless wars in the Middle East.

All of that goes back to Willie Horton - or more specifically - Lee Atwater and Willie Horton.  One stupendous glob of sleaze that altered the course of human events, destroyed lives around the globe, and brought about a recession that had the potential to bring down our country.

So what did the political class learn from all of that madness?  One thing:  sleaze works.

The National Republican Campaign Committee has been involved in many congressional races, including the second district in Nebraska.  Lee Terry, the Republican incumbent in that district who was first elected in 1999, is facing a stiff challenge from Democrat Brad Ashford.   The NRCC thought they might be helpful to their boy, Terry, by cutting an ad that connected Brad Ashford with Nikko Jenkins - a convicted murder from Nebraska who is also a scary looking black man with tattoos on his face.

Willie Horton rides again!

This time, however, there was a minor glitch in the slathering of the sleaze.  At a court hearing this past week to determine his mental status, Mr. Jenkins, the involuntary subject of the Republican political ads, suddenly (and loudly) endorsed Lee Terry for Congress.  "Hey you guys," the convicted killer shouted to reporters, "Vote for Lee Terry!  Best Republican ever!"

Not surprisingly, Congressman Terry's campaign is trying to distance itself from the mess made by the National Republican Campaign Committee.   The Terry campaign said:

"We're not going to comment on the ranting of a serial killer who never should have gotten out of prison in the first place.  This man does not deserve one more second of publicity, which is why we refused to use his name or face in any of the ads our campaign produced."

Yes, but the Terry campaign didn't have a problem with the NRCC producing an ad that did.    It was all good - until the ad backfired and covered them in sleaze!

Live by the sleaze, die by the sleaze!

(One has to wonder how much better the world would be today if Willie Horton had had to presence of mind to endorse George H.W. Bush.)

The Race in Missouri's Eighth Congressional District

by Pa Rock
Voter

Next Tuesday I will cast my first ballot ever in Missouri's eighth congressional district.  Because our state has no statewide offices up for grabs this election cycle, the highest spot on the ticket will be candidates for Congress.

There are five congressional hopefuls on the ballot in the eighth district.  The Republican incumbent is 34-year-old Jason Smith, a St. Louis native, who won his seat in a special election in June of 2013.  Smith is a lawyer, real estate agent, and proud NRA member - or as they say in baseball:  "Strike one, strike two, and strike three!"  Yet, unless he gets embroiled in some major morality scandal in the next few days, he ought to be easily re-elected to his place at the public trough.

The Democrat is a first time candidate for office who ran unopposed in the Democratic primary in August.   Seventy-seven-year-old Barbara Stocker is a retired biochemical engineer who has worked with Purina and Monsanto - two entries that I would prefer not having on my resume.

Rick Vandeven is the Libertarian candidate.  He ran for the same position and lost in 2012.  Vandeven seems to adhere to most of the Libertarian Party line including those of being pro-gun and pro-pot.

The Constitution Party is running Doug Enyart.  He ran and lost in the 2013 special election to fill the same seat.  Enyart is a "consulting forester."  He is very pro-gun and believes the "gun control crowd" is trying to push "law-abiding" citizens into a corner.   He also believes states have the right to nullify "unconstitutional" acts of Congress.  (I thought the nullification issue was settled by the Civil War!)

One Independent is also running.  Terry Hampton is a young grandmother from West Plains who writes for one of the local newspapers.  She has published two books and also owned a couple of local businesses.  Hampton's primary concerns seem to be with professional politicians who are in politics for what they can get out of it, and the serious lack of controls over the financing of campaigns.

I will cast my vote for Ms. Hampton and wish her well in her initial foray into politics.  My second choice would be Barbara Stocker, third would be Rick Vandeven, and I would write myself in before voting for Smith or Enyart.

I only have one vote in this election, a contest where tens of thousands will be cast, but . . .

I'm Pa Rock, and I do vote - every time!

Congressman Billy Long Comes Up Short on Compassion

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

The "local" television stations for West Plains come out of Springfield.  West Plains is in Missouri's eighth congressional district, but Springfield is in the seventh.  Which means that although I am denied the pleasure of voting against incumbent Congressman Billy Long of the seventh, I do have to suffer his television ads.

Actually, I've only seen one.  Long's Republican district is so safe that all he has to do is run the occasional ad - and just sit back and bank the donations to his campaign.

In the ad that I saw Long hit on two interesting points.  First, he does not like television political ads - he said so right in his ad!  The former auctioneer is obviously a man of the people because we, the people, don't like them either.

The other point that Long made was that he does not like Obamacare - and by suggestion, he undoubtedly does not care for the President either.  Long, whose personal appearance would indicate that some serious health issues may loom in his future, said that he voted to defund Obamacare fifty-six times.   He seemed very proud of trying to deny health care to many of his own constituents.  That is sad, and more than a bit hypocritical, since Congressman Long has his own government-funded health care.

In fact, if Auctioneer Long had not gotten lucky and won a six-way Republican primary four years ago - with only 36 percent of the vote, he would probably be scrambling like the rest of us to find affordable health care.  Now though, thanks to the minority of Republican voters in the seventh district who felt that an auctioneer would make a good congressman, he doesn't have to worry about his own health care - and he doesn't seem too worried about anybody else's either.

(The seventh district was represented in Congress for many years by Gene Taylor, a used car dealer.  The most recent congressman prior to Billy Long was 'Ol Roy Blunt.  Those folks just can't catch a break!)

There is a vibrant and extensive health care community in Springfield including Cox and St. John's hospitals.  I wonder how their administrators really feel about Billy Long trying to defund a one of their major funding streams.  I doubt they want those people back clogging up the emergency rooms.  Springfield is also the home of Missouri State University, the second largest university in the entire state of Missouri.  I am wondering how much groaning goes on in the halls of that fine institution every time Congressman Long's name comes up.

All of the above, of course, is the concern of my friends over to the west in Missouri's seventh district - and not mine.  Well, it shouldn't be my concern, but a television spot bragging about trying to deny health care to those in need aired on my television set - and it pissed me off!

The election is next Tuesday.  If you like the benefits that Obamacare has provided - such as being able to keep your kids on your policy until they are twenty-six years old, or being able to get insurance even though you or a member of your family has a pre-existing medical condition - then send Billy Long a message at the polls.  Let him know through your vote that you are trying to defund him!

Go vote!

Mulching to Pretoria

by Pa Rock
Lawn Warrior

The leaves are falling, they are drifting to the ground and forming a blanket of dead vegetation that grows deeper by the hour.  Today I took the first action to bring the masses of fallen leaves that have been drifting across my front yard under control.

There are basically three methods that can be used to gain mastery over the leaves:  raking and bagging or burning, blowing and bagging or burning, and mowing.  Last year I came back to the Ozarks in November and spent an entire day with my son and grandson raking and burning the leaves.  It was a real mess - lots of hard work and breathing smoke all day long, and, at the end of the day, there were still lots of leaves on the ground and more hanging in the branches.  We had fun, but didn't accomplish that much.

My neighbor used a leaf-blower on his yard for several hours over the weekend, blowing his leaves into a brushy area that borders his land - and early this afternoon his yard looked no better than mine.  That was before I brought out my push mower and put in several hours marching back and forth across my front yard.  Now there is no doubt which one of us has done the best job of mastering the leaves.  It's Pa Rock, hands down!

My mower is actually a mulcher.  I bought it last spring and had no idea how it would work on leaves.  It has done a fine job of keeping the grass under control, and I was pleased to find that it is exceptional for chewing up leaves.  Now instead of the yard being covered with large leaves that shift and drift with every breeze, most have been finely ground up where they lay on the lawn waiting to decompose and enrich the soil.  It's much easier and quicker than raking or blowing, and the mulched leaves serve to make the soil better.  Win, win!

I still have lots of mulching to do before winter sets in, but I can see the progress as I mulch - row-by-row, hour-by-hour.  My rakes are going in the yard sale!

Now if I could only think of a good marching song to sing, or whistle, as I push the mulching mower back-and-forth across the yard!  Surely something will come to me!