It would be amusing if it weren’t so serious. Last weekend’s expressions of supposed free speech were almost universally called demonstrations by the media and “mostly peaceful” by some. In contrast, the Jan. 6, 2021 breach of the U.S. Capitol was labeled an “insurrection” and “riot” by the media.
In the southwest corner of our linoleum floored family room, rested a brown Naugahyde fabric Lazy Boy recliner. Overhead light was provided from a 70’s style swag lamp casting a “just bright enough to read” warmth. It was a comfortable throne for my Dad ( Bud Thomas) to do his crossword puzzles. Under that lamp, he would consistently read three full newspapers a day. Family court was presided over by him on current events or the latest ball games involving any of his three sons. Answers to questions were often uttered from behind that newspaper. The words, “No, that’s not necessary” were more commonly spoken than the alternative of: “Sure son, go ahead and take the car. And by the way, here’s a five-spot to spend. Have fun!”
NHA TRANG, Vietnam - Rod Kjersten has returned to Vietnam for the first time since he was a nurse in the U.S. Air Force hospital in Cam Ranh Bay. Now 77, he recalls the precise date when he left - May 28, 1970. He served at the hospital for two years where he treated wounded American soldiers and saw many die. He says while he was initially "gung-ho" about the U.S. and South Vietnamese war efforts, he has since become "neutral." Asked why, he said it was after seeing the Ku Chi tunnels on this trip. These were some of the tunnels used by North Vietnamese and Viet Cong soldiers to hide and "pop up" to shoot at Americans.
While watching a youth recreation league baseball game (14 and under age group) a couple nights ago, my wife and I made several observations. The evening weather was perfect and we were comfortably seated along the third base line in my truck. In between gobbles of tater tots and spoonfuls of a fried ice cream shake (my new favorite flavor), I regaled her with stories of my baseball career that was played in this very same park, on this very same field. I commented how everything pretty much looked the same. The exception being how neatly the actual diamond is now manicured. Kudos to our city rec baseball director, Joel Webb.
It is a truism that one must travel or live elsewhere to learn about your home. Like many small-town farm boys, I could not wait to get away from home, whether it be to college or church mission service. I can still remember glancing up into the rearview mirror at the sight of my forlorn mother standing in the driveway, watching me squeal the tires escaping to start my college life in Provo, Utah. I had packed a suitcase with clothes lovingly stitched by her with my name on the labels. My saxophone, my stereo and my basketball were jammed into the back seat of my new Camaro and I beat a fast path out of town. This was after “borrowing” a tank full of gas from the farm tank out back!
While contemplating the horror of two young and soon-to-be-engaged Israeli Embassy employees who were gunned down by a man shouting "free Palestine" and "I did it for Gaza," outside the Jewish Museum in Washington, D.C., last week, I recalled the opening line to a song from the old off-Broadway musical "The Fantasticks" - "You wonder how these things begin." That song speaks to the love between a boy and a girl. Applied to the Washington shootings it makes you wonder how hate begins.
Ben Franklin tells a story of his youth when he came upon a few extra pence in his pockets. Eager to spend it, he rushed to a local shop where a variety of goods, including toys, were on display. His eyes and ears were drawn to a whistle that, to him, made a delightful sound when brought to his lips. He gladly handed over all the coinage he carried and galloped off towards home, whistling with each stride. Throughout the house he roamed, showing off his newfound joy and toy. Explanation of his purchase to his family, including brothers, sisters and cousins brought the sad realization to Ben that he had grossly overpaid for the whistle due to his impulsive enthusiasm.
The massive cover-up of Joe Biden's mental and physical decline, which is only now being revealed by certain media types who were part of it, reminds me of a similar event more than a century ago.
I am an overthinker, a worrier, a wringer of hands. If I shift from the energetic ADD adult whose mouth and brain often lack a filter, to a quiet, moderately grouchy, pondering soul, you know something is troubling me. In that condition, I best be left undisturbed. If the music from my headphones is especially loud, you know I am searching for some sort of homeostasis for my brain. I have several mantras that run on a loop in my mind when I recognize this inner trait emerging. “Control the controllable” is my most recent phrase. Others include: “Not my monkey, not my circus” and “Nobody’s gonna die!”.
The imagination of a child can be immeasurable in terms of creativity and energy level. According to my mom, mine was active to the point of exhaustion… in her, not me. It is a good thing that I was raised as an only child, so to speak. This was due to an age gap of 7 years between each of us three boys. Mom had to have been overwhelmed at times with me and my unlabeled ADD and hyperactivity. It took grade school roll call for me to learn that my real first name was actually Todd, not “you little bugger, stop that!”