On Veterans and Service

I have come to realize something, as I've progressed well into my 4th decade... And it's a frightening realization, a sobering one: I almost became a liberal.

Yes, it's true. I was wooed by their idealistic, unsupported course for awhile in my blooming youth; I flirted with the possibility of heading down that circuitous path. I'm not proud of this. I admit it. But that was the greatest threat to me in my post-high-school and early working years. It was not my parents' fear that in college, I was becoming a pothead (I wasn't even close) or that I was having a bit too much fun (well, that one was sort of true)—no, the greatest threat was that I'd go over to the dark side.

Then I spent a few years maturing. I gained a bit more knowledge about history; learned the difference between rights and privileges, and became more adept at managing money responsibly; and I figured out, with help, that true charity doesn't come from government, but from individuals and faith in God. I even spent some time discussing military service and the philosophies behind it with people in the know. Eventually, I straightened out. Becoming a Christian secured cautious conservatism for me... which is odd, because for some people, that same act ensures their liberalism. Weird.

Anyway. I wanted to take a moment to ponder the symbolic veteran of any armed service. There was a recent article on Facebook (why do I even bother with FB?) about how we Americans are over-revering our servicemen and women, people in uniform everywhere, and how those folks are actually terrible people who harm civilians for fun, take advantage of their power, and sexually abuse each other with abandon. And this article made me livid.

People are people, not black and white but all of us gray, and of course there are those among every rank, everywhere, who will wield their power for evil purposes. But people—isn't that the very reason we need armed services? Because sometimes, those people who allow themselves to be ruled by evil instincts are quite attractive? Charismatic? Great speakers and motivators? Don't you think Osama bin Laden had some charms about him? How else would he have inspired such evil acts in his name and the name of his cause? How about Hitler?

People are low-down and messed-up. That's why I became a Christian: because we desperately need a savior to stand in our lowly place come judgement. And when there's a void in a soul, something will always fill the void. Just like the story in the Bible, about the freshly swept out little home that was quickly re-infested because it stood empty (Matthew 11:24-26), desperate people, even well-intentioned ones, will join up with insanity to fill their void. Gangs are popular for this reason; there is even a handful of completely foolish youth from around the globe who are going to stand with ISIS for likely this same reason. There's a void, and they'll fill it with something that gives them purpose, even if there's a chance down the road that they might be asked to behead someone...

Long story short? There will always be people who choose to do bad, and they will often amass a huge crowd of [weak-minded] people to help them. For that wrong force, we need an opposing force of good. And people? A good majority of military people and police officers is good enough for me. There will be exceptions; I can live with that, much more easily than I can live with the ostrich mentality of "can't happen here." WWI and WWII happened. Ho Chi Minh, Rwanda, Darfur—they aren't made up. They're real. Terrible things happen, because of bad people, when good people permit the terrible things. If movers and shakers of those terrible things are unchecked, they will become stronger and even more terrible. Then, if they're not already there, they will visit you at your home.

I do believe that God can change hearts, but only if and when they are willing to be changed. Man has been given free will, and honestly, we do an awfully inept job of employing it wisely. Enter the soldier for the side of what is right. And even if they're not all perfect, American soldiers (and domestic law enforcement, too) of recent history have done a lot to check and/or stop evil people from doing more harm. They've suffered, died, fought, been injured and maimed and mentally haunted for life. They have preserved rights and freedoms by accepting unspeakable assignments. Anyone who sits in a peaceful country, in relative wealth, who's never set foot in danger for the sake of others they probably don't even know—that person does not have the right to speak ill of a soldier. If they sit drinking fancy coffee and typing their litany of complaints on their laptop, while scrolling through messages on their highfalutin phone, that's even more annoying. The "flag burners" need to put up or shut up. Or, they can go live in those places where they tell us our soldiers aren't needed, or are perceived as invading disrespectfully.

The sad truth is that there are bullies in this world of ours. And for the bullies who can't and won't allow their hearts to be changed, there is the American soldier. If I sound patriotic, I'm all right with that; I understand that the word patriot isn't synonymous with terrorist OR idiot. Thank you, veterans, for doing the dirty work so I don't have to.

Diatribe, or die tryin'

My goodness, I certainly have been an absentee blogger, haven't I?! I didn't realize just how many days had passed since my last post. It's been a loooong time. This might be my new record for blog neglect. Alas, the hiatus has ended because I am moved to write.

I finally caved and became a Facebook member; I'm sad to report that it is often as pathetic and pointless as I feared. Yet. It seems to invite people to become at least partially informed, if you happen to be friendly with informed people who post meaningful links to factual information. Facebook is responsible, at least in part, for my need to express myself today.

Why am I writing? I suppose that I'm at my wit's end with clueless people. I'm frustrated by the general lack of interest most Americans display. I'm embarrassed that my fellows would rather follow the World Cup than the immigration crisis and its mealy-mouthed managers. I want to shout at the masses, to expound upon the reasons why we even had all those picnics and fireworks last weekend. Did you know that an alarming amount of Americans don't understand the point of Independence Day, let alone how and when it came to exist? They know the finalists on the latest television talent show, but they don't know about the recent Supreme Court rulings that had conservatives celebrating a tad.

When did apathy become fashionable? And more importantly, when did the land of the free become the land of free? How quickly we choose to be distracted from bad news, from violence and murdered children, from evil marching across a country with intent to destroy good. If it's not our country, or our children, we turn the channel. It's disheartening how quickly we disconnect from everything that does not directly affect us.

But what happens here will affect us, you see. Because we're a united group of states, under Oblamma's inept leadership and tutelage. We're like the separate systems of the body, which also function to create one large being. And we all end up impacting each other—just like all the water eventually gets mixed with all the other water, rain and storm drain and purified sewage and chemical run-off. One drop must be affected by the rest. We are not exclusive.

And what happens in our high levels of government affects us all, in time. What happens in other countries and their economies affects us, in time. We're all globally interconnected. But I can't even touch on that whole mishmash of ignorance about world affairs. I'm too concerned about ignorance at home.

People came to this country years and years ago because they were desperate. They wanted freedom to pursue the things they valued: God, jobs, family, community, food and homes. They wanted to start fresh in a place where your rank in society paled in comparison to your work ethic. Equal opportunity was intended to mean access to opportunities, not assured success and acceptance. The home of the free was aptly named because people exchanged tyranny and control for opportunities to work and earn, to climb from poverty on a sturdy ladder that would not sway or snap when the government changed hands.

The land of the free isn't supposed to offer everything for free. Capitalism believes in competition. That is where opportunity truly lies. And everybody in America will never all be completely equal. Some people are smarter or richer, some are destitute or unattractive, some had a great childhood while other scraped a living out of garbage. But the opportunities still exist for everyone to grow, to learn, to change their story. That's freedom. It's not government-dictated equality. People will share when they have enough to do so, or when they are moved by their faith in someone bigger than themselves to help them multiply what they have to help take care for others. Charity and generosity of spirit can't be mandated without resulting bitterness and hard feelings.

Hobby Lobby is not telling its employees they cannot seek an abortion. Hobby Lobby is not denying its employees the opportunity to end an unborn life. It's not even forbidding them to use birth control; in fact, it's still paying for some of those prescriptions. Hobby Lobby's offense? It's simply not interested in paying for the more gruesome forms of that "choice" to terminate a pregnancy. Isn't that the right of the employer? If I owned a business, and had an employee who drank loads of hard liquor daily, then came to me and wanted me to pay for a life-or-death kidney transplant, I'd have a problem with that. The condition, after all, was caused by choices that person made. That's why people created this country—to have choices. Isn't it? Why is a bakery being forced to bake a wedding cake for a same-sex couple? Isn't that the choice of the bakery? It's certainly the choice of the people in love who are shopping for a cake to go where they want. That's why competition works, people. Because there are choices. If someone bakes horrid cakes, no one goes there. If someone bakes great gay cakes, then word gets out. Right?

Choices. We must uphold the ability to choose in this country. To choose. Period. Our self-appointed king and his big-mouthed wife can tell their own children what to eat for lunch; I'll make that decision for myself and my own family. And citizenship? Yes, it's a choice, and an opportunity. We will never be able to make all those helpless children into comfortable citizens. Even if we do? By the time they're grown, the term "citizen" will have no meaning, and the greatness of the country that drew those people will have fallen to unrecognizable standards that no longer even resemble our forefathers' Republic.

Those first true Americans weren't perfect. They were determined, and they had an opportunity... and ultimately those were worth more than any hand-out. Don't let their hard work slip away. Watch, read, learn, and speak when informed. It's still your choice.

For now, at least.

The place to be

Last Saturday, I fought the road construction, the latest "fundraising walk of the week" road closures, and the general mayhem and confusion that is driving in downtown Pittsburgh. I fought it because by God, the kid and I had decided we were going to visit the Ft. Pitt museum and learn about old-fashioned Pittsburgh leisure activities.

We headed toward town, ended up being forced off the parkway thanks to lane restrictions, then (thanks to stadium lot closures) found ourselves in a no-way-back trek northward in the HOV lane (no, we did not want or intend to head north), and then finally came back down to town... where we paid too much to park near Point State Park. In addition to Ft. Pitt Museum's throwback leisure day (where I kicked my child's butt at lawn bowling), there was an outdoor festival happening simultaneously—lots of kiosks and stands dedicated to encouraging people and families to get outdoors and climb, hike, ride, explore, etc. It was quite inspiring, and less than stellar weather did not slow anyone down. Youngsters climbed a wall, my son tried out a 3-wheeler intended to rehabilitate folks with lower-body injuries, and we indulged in the most expensive soft pretzel ever. (Luckily, it wasn't bad...)

But we were at the Point. And short of a torrential downpour, floods, tornadoes, or black ice, one simply cannot visit the Point without making the walk to the Big Fountain. It's impossible to resist. The foaming tower of water, the hordes of humans milling around its base, the fantastic scene that unfolds before you in every direction—it's a favorite destination for a reason. Everybody loves it. You feel bigger there, and yet smaller, too. You are surrounded by manmade grandeur, yet also steeped in history. You're not far from that primitive little blockhouse, oldest structure in the 'burgh, but you're also staring across the water at a submarine, a football stadium, the science center cone, and one of the two inclines that crawl up and down the face of Mt. Washington. You're standing where original city settlers stood, where Frenchmen made a stand, where native Americans came aground. You're positioned right in the midst of Lewis and Clark's starting point.

A lot has happened on that piece of property.

And a lot is still happening there, albeit perhaps on a different scale. As we walked toward the fount, a park worker offered to take our photo. (He must have pitied us, as we attempted a somewhat-centered dual selfie while perched on a rock.) We accepted his kindness, posing, then chatted with him. He shared a funny story about a recent visitor to the park. A smallish fellow had come walking on the very same path we were exploring, had struck up a conversation with this gardener. They'd talked about how the fellow was staying uptown near the Consol Center, and eventually the visitor's identity became clear: Kenny G. Yep, the Kenny G. He was strolling anonymously through the park before his big concert performance. How cool is that? Our new friend shared how friendly and unassuming Kenny had been, how'd he'd laughed at the suggestion that he should be exploring the fair city with an entourage.

Even Kenny G likes Point State Park, and wanders through the shady greenery while gazing out at the massive waters that flow past.

If you can make your way around that vast fountain, and observe children giggling in the spray, and watch lovers adoring each other as they whisper sweet nothings in the clamor of the tumbling waters... If you can hear the tugboats alert each other as they pass, and trains send their high-pitched whistle skyward—if you can take all that in without smiling, then you're a rare human being... and quite possibly a joyless one.

America, America

Hey, All you nice people! All two or three of you who actually read this!

I want to wish you a delightful Independence Day. If you are American, then hopefully you'll recognize this adorable little Lego scene. I must give credit to Carl's Jr. (a restaurant chain that apparently is not popular where I am? since I never heard of them?) but they did the honors. In homage to the many Legos littering my world, courtesy of my sweet boy, I'll allow our favorite building blocks to depict one of America's finest moments.

There were many. There are many still to come. I hope you'll take some time to ponder some of those moments that shaped our country in the next 48 hours. I also hope that if you are American, you'll proudly display a flag on or near your residence.

If you want to feel concern for America's future, as I do, perhaps you'll watch this:


If Blogger is being stupid and the link is not showing up, then copy/paste this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=gQD9IaGoLWk

The vid is courtesy of my sis. Thanks, sis!

Grande dame of the chlorinated world

In a mildly frenzied attempt to fit in all the activities we'd wanted to try before summer's end, we've been doing some running around in the past couple of weeks. Trips to fairs, museums, theaters, and water parks have all occurred here recently. One of the unexpected highlights, for me at least, was a recent afternoon at North Park Pool.

Now, North Park is huge, and I've canoed on the lake and taken walks and attended various picnics and parties there. But until last weekend, I'd never visited the pool. We simply live too close to our local pool to justify driving the extra 5 or 10 minutes to that old northern behemoth. However, after our last trip to the nearby pool, Marcus declared it too "splashy" (translation: too overpopulated with mostly older kids who kicked, jumped, and otherwise disturbed his watery revery). I'd read about the monstrous North Park pool and wanted to check it out.

I called on Saturday at lunchtime for prices and hours, and found out from the recording that the pool would be closing in just two days because they simply could not keep it staffed adequately beyond that very weekend. We panicked, threw sunscreen and drinking water into the trusty beach bag, and headed north. That day, the pool's next-to-last day, was our only chance to go this season since we'd been gifted with baseball tickets for the following Sunday afternoon.

The vast pool parking lot alone is impressive; it has to cover 4 or 5 acres, or I've lost my spatial gauge altogether. We found a spot with ease, locked my ancient vehicle, and carried our goods to the window to pay admission. Following the signs led us through the women's shower and locker rooms (the only way to reach the pool). Those spaces, too, were unbelievably large—I stepped into more than one wrong passageway before finally finding my pathetic way, kid in tow, and emerging into warm sunshine.

The view hit me immediately. Both restrooms exit onto a huge concrete patio, the largest I've ever seen. Gigantic welcoming steps lead down to the pool, which is surprisingly enormous. The boy and I carefully descended those steps, going toward the separate baby pool which is also immense. We found a spot on the grass in between baby and "big" pools, spread our blanket, and hit the water. (No plastic adjustable chaise lounges here—this is old school, people.)

There was no danger whatsoever of splashy kids. The shallow end stretches for what seems like miles; any trouble is easily visible from some distance away. It was a cinch to avoid the few bigger boys who'd rented large, yellow tubes on which to float (and to upset from underneath unsuspecting buddies). The space along the wall, normally coveted areas of moms and small kids everywhere, was so ridiculously available that we didn't even feel the need to linger there. The water was perfect, not too warm but warm enough; we could look down to the other end and watch kids zip out of the big slide, observe others jumping into a deep end that was flocked on both sides by solid, red brick bleachers. Those babies weren't going anywhere. There must have been swim competitions here back in the day—perhaps there still are, for all I know.

When we headed up to the snack bar for goodies, peering inside revealed how it was also absolutely huge. The choices were limited; the management was trying to unload all the current stuff and hadn't ordered anything new in light of the next-day closing. We got some fries and I asked about taking them to our blanket. The young girl who served us explained that no food was permitted off of the veranda.

Yes, the veranda. I noticed the same message on a sign posted near the snack window. Now, I ask you: how many pools have you visited that have a veranda? Heck, how many homes have you visited with a veranda? My answer is none. Unless you count Fallingwater. But I didn't know those people, and it's not a home these days. So.

While we sat at one of the many picnic tables, I read bits from an old plague posted on a large brick wall that keeps snackers from tumbling down to the level of the pool far below. Apparently, this lovely, impressive place was dedicated in 1936. Probably a WPA undertaking, although I couldn't confirm it. The official title those days was "Allegheny County Swimming Pool," according to a separate but also ancient plague. I looked down from the massive veranda at the thousands of gallons of wet, at the very stable brick bleachers at the far end, at the expanse of grass on all sides of water, and I imagined what it must have been like when it opened. People streaming in wearing more modest swimsuits, throngs of ladies donning their gear in that mammoth dressing room. I wondered what sorts of snacks they served in the 30s. I pondered what the admission would have been, how long it must have taken many pool-goers to drive in temperamental automobiles on back road after back road. I tried to imagine the fellows, impressing the gals with silly dives and stunts, just like nowadays, yet more innocent—or at least that's how I pictured it. I longed momentarily for olden days, when just going to a pool was enough, when a shimmering rectangle of water was a day's vacation in and of itself.

And then I realized that it's still enough. I breathed a deep breath, stole one of the last fries from my son, and we wiped greasy fingers before tossing the evidence and lazily sauntering down to our blanket once more.

The swimming pool—or should I say, this swimming pool—will suffice quite nicely. It's still every bit as appealing as it was on opening day, because a true grande dame maintains her charm, even when her dew has gone.

Sometimes it's best to bow to an expert

It ain't just about picnics, folks.

Stream of consciousness

(Note: I know that when I began this blog, I promised it would not be a “rant” journal. Please forgive me when I occasionally stray into that realm. Today’s post might fall into that category.)

So, I finally plowed through a giant history of Lewis and Clark (the long book I mentioned a few posts back) and it was quite informative. I learned, for example, that some Native American tribes did not treat their elders with respect; some of them actually left the oldsters behind with a day’s rations and well wishes for their trip to the afterlife. This is not the admirable picture that had been painted for me in school… And I also learned that often, tribesmen would offer up their wives for the visiting white men’s entertainment, as a means of trying to lay hold of the white men’s power, or something like that. (Stephen Ambrose explained it much better than I.) Anyway, all the time those men were traipsing across the country, bravely hunting and camping and building boats and foraging and that sort of thing, they also were often living it up with the Indians’ wives. End result? Many of them, most of them even, suffered from VD which they’d contracted from Indian women. (Which, oddly enough, Lewis treated with mercury…but that’s fodder for another post.)

Again, this is not the picture that was painted for me in history class.

One particularly striking image that Ambrose shared was of a Pacific Northwestern tribe; because of the warm but wet climate and their reliance on canoes for transport (is it possible to climb into and out of one without getting at least a little bit wet?), these folks simply went without clothes from the waist down. I suppose it must have been a losing battle to keep such duds dry and clean, and they probably gave up after a few days of waddling around in heavy, sodden pants and skirts. The downside was that Lewis was able by simple visual examination to determine which tribe members had VD and approximately what stage of the disease they were in.

Nice.

And this got me thinking about how nasty diseases have always been part of any culture where “modern” man has trod (the Europeans were likely the initial carriers of the infections, which they happily passed to Native Americans) and how many people of every culture will philander if given opportunities—especially when those opportunities are encouraged by other people who are around.

And that, for some reason, got me thinking about how people can be hiding all sorts of secrets inside about their bodies, but can still be quite obsessed about their cleanliness. This seems to be especially true for Americans. They have less than admirable sexual habits, if the stats are to be believed—even the kids are misbehaving more—and to top that off, most of them eat like pigs, greasy nasty processed stuff that does not do a human body good… but by golly, they’ll never miss a shower in the morning. I don’t get it. Why are Americans so worried about smelling like a living being instead of a bar of soap? Or worse yet, a bottle of cologne? And why aren’t they more worried about their insides?

And that thought, for an even more obscure reason that eludes me, reminded me of women who choose to squat in public bathrooms, and then leave their drippings on the seat for the next hapless restroom visitor. Why? Now, some toilet seats are scary, nasty things, I know—I can see why you would choose not to sit on bare porcelain. But most toilets are pretty harmless. Lay down some TP, or use one of those fancy paper seat covers, or whatever, but don’t fret: well-respected doctors all over the world have explained that nasty diseases don’t live on toilet seats. They can’t. Unless, perhaps, people leave wetness on the seat and give the nasties a good place to hang on and breed. So, I hope that if there are any squatters out there reading this, they’re also responsible enough to do a quick wipe-clean when they’re finished.

And where can you pick up nasties? Where do they actually thrive? In warm, wet places—like the public jacuzzis at that fancy club or expensive hotel. Now THAT scene is a hotbed of nasty microscopic activity.

Since that is such a nice, happy thought, I think I’ll end this post.