My Sunday Feeling

One of my favorite stories is about the young science teacher who was applying for a job in a rural school district.  He was called before the school board for an interview.  

"Son," the President of the school board said,"We need to know something before we can offer you this job.  Half of the board thinks the world is round. The other half thinks it's flat.  What do you think?"

The young man thought for a minute.

"I can teach it round and I can teach it flat," he said.  

I was reminded of this story after a post made the rounds on Facebook.  The subject was evolution and whether one "believed" in the Darwinian theory of evolution or whether one believed in the Biblical account of the origin of the world, whether it was created in 7 days and whether the human race is descended from Adam and Eve.  

Naturally, this sparked a lively debate that, for the most part, remained remarkably civil.  

And yet, it is remarkable, at least to me, that several of the posters spoke of "not believing" in the theory of evolution.  And this issue commonly pops up in our political discourse as a matter of faith instead of as a matter of science.  

Of course, this particular debate has been going on since the so-called Scopes Monkey Trial.  And, with the advent of the Internet, we see this sort of-for lack or a better phrase-faith-based approach to other issues where what one wants to believe trumps empirical evidence.  

The most insidious form of this is in the form of otherwise sane and intelligent people refusing to allow their children to be vaccinated in the belief that vaccinations can "cause" autism.  The fact that there is no valid science to back this up means nothing.  The fact that the physician that ginned up the "study" that "proved this" was exposed as a fraud and had his license to practice medicine taken from him by the medical authorities in Great Britain means nothing.  As a woman I saw interviewed said on the subject, "I don't care if 10 doctors tell me I need to vaccinate my child, I won't do it."

Of course, the practical effect of the "vaxxers" obstinance in the face of scientific evidence as to the safety and utility of vaccinations and the actual historical experience of the near eradication of diseases like measles, mumps and polio is to increase the danger that these diseases may become ubiquitous in the population again. 

Whereas, the practical consequence for the average evolution denier are less dire.  As I have written before, one may refuse to "believe" the "theory" of evolution without much immediate impact or any impact.  However, one "disbelieves" the "theory" of gravity at her peril.  

Of course, the Bible says nothing about natural science.  And one can accept the Darwinian explanation for the origin of the species and still maintain that he or she is a believer in the Bible.  As the late paleontologist Stephen Jay Gould said, science and religion serve different magisteria. The fact that the creation myth was an attempt by the biblical writer to explain the origin of the Earth and is not a document of hard science doesn't make it any less "true" in a very real sense.  Similarly, Darwin supplied no evidence that contradicts the notion that the evolutionary process wasn't kick-started by Almighty God.  

And there are many religious people that see no contradiction between the two.  

But, as the late Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan was fond of saying, "you're entitled to your own opinion but you're not entitled to your own facts." And we are increasingly becoming a Nation in which empiricism is trumped by whatever beliefs make us feel better about ourselves.

And in a world in which our competitors are getting stronger than us in math and science, I don't think we as a Nation have the luxury of reposing faith in only those "facts" that we are comfortable with.  

Some things just can't be taught "round OR flat." 

My Independence Day Weekend Feeling

Between photography, golf. cookouts and Wimbledon there's no time for blogging.  

Hope you had a fun and safe weekend!  

Talk amongst yourselves.

My Sunday Feeling

I first got the news on Facebook of course.  Then I started getting text messages.  My friend Tony had sustained a stroke of all things late Friday night.  My first thoughts were those of shock and disbelief.  After all, Tony is only in his early fifties if that.  He doesn't smoke and he observes generally healthy ways.  Up until now he enjoyed vigorous good health. He plays softball and he bowls.  Likes to hunt and play golf.

However, his main claim to fame is that he is "Mr. Tony" to the kids at Miracle League where he has tirelessly pitched to the kids all day for most Saturdays since the league started business in Little Rock some 6-7 years ago.  

How could this be possible?

I went to the hospital to see him yesterday.  The big guy filled up his bed in the ICU and he was hooked up to all kinds of electronic stuff.  I took his hand.

"Boy, what are you doing in here?" I asked.  He started to speak.  He couldn't.  His wife Tish is a nurse.  Thank God.  She recognized the symptoms and called 911.  He couldn't answer her last night when she spoke to him.  Tony is a talker.  Time to hit 911.

I was pleased to see that he had good grip strength.  No facial paralysis or drooping.  Movement is returning to the right side.  He can make vocal production but he loses his words when he attempts to state a sentence of more than a couple of words.  He communicated with me with his eyes and facial expressions.

Still, as I told folks later, he is lucid.  Tony is still Tony in there.  That is not always the case after a stroke event.  And I have every hope that he will enjoy a full recovery and return once again to his life of selfless service toward others.

But boy.  This is the kind of thing that wakes you up.  I mean, we are all aware of our mortality.  As the Richard Thompson song "Did She Jump Or Was She Pushed" memorably puts it, "She thought she'd live forever but forever always ends."

Still, you never think guys like Tony, or my late friend Hugh, are gonna get struck down. Not even for a little bit. So strong and larger than life.  This is the kinda of thing that happens to other people.  Like to people that smoke cigarettes by way of conspicuous example.  

Or guys like me.  Not to put too fine a point on it, but thanks to my father's genes I have cardiovascular disease. Indeed, the sludge in my system is in the left anterior descending artery, commonly (and amusingly) known as "the widowmaker."  

Now I work out vigorously, am completely asymptomatic, get 2 stress tests a year and am otherwise hovered over by a gaggle of white coats.  And my family doc says the odds of me keeling over like Buck did are "zero."

But stuff like this gets your attention.  We take our life and our health for granted.  We know not the day nor the hour.  Well, most of us don't at least. But that's a story for later.

Like I said, I have every hope that my buddy Tony will make a full recovery and will be back throwing at kids in wheelchairs sooner than later. The rest of us will step it up over at Miracle League until he can come back.

But damn.  Stuff like this wakes you up.  Life is short.  Way short.

Forever always ends.

My Sunday Feeling

No MSF today due to family obligations.  

Talk amongst yourselves.  

My Father's Day Feeling

I've written before that I don't much think about Father's Day anymore.  After all, I'm not one.  And my own father has been gone for so long that it is almost as if he never existed. That's still an odd feeling for me, to have no recent memories. There are a few pictures of me with Buck when I was a kid.  But none as an adult or near adult.  

That's what happens when your father checks out when you are a senior in college.  A kid at Catholic High once asked me when I first considered myself to be "on my own." 

"When my father dropped dead at 52," was my response.  You tend to grow up fast-or faster in any event-when something like that happens.  But the truth of the matter is that I don't much think about it anymore.  It is just "distant ship smoke on the horizon" as the song by Pink Floyd memorably put a similar state of cognitive dissonance.  

Indeed, I hadn't thought of it in sometime one way or the other until the other day when I called an old friend to express my condolences upon the passing of her own father.  

"You were so young when you lost yours," she said. "I just can't imagine."  Well, I did.  It's true. But so many years have passed it's almost just like one of many facts that pile up over time in the building of a life.  Certainly at the time it was a terrible and frightening shock.  But now it's just part of the resume.

That's not a sad thing.  It's just a thing.  A thing that happened once upon a time when I was young. Certainly it shaped and informed my world view.  Surely it had an impact on my early struggles with law school.  I wasn't stupid.  But looking back on it I probably should have held off a year which Tulane offered. But I didn't and 7 months after Buck passed there I was in New Orleans.  

That's a lot to unpack in retrospect.  Not that I was one to unpack things back in those days.  I didn't start that until fairly late in life when it was kind of thrust on me.  Better late than never I suppose.

Off the top of my head I can't think of many of my contemporaries that still have their fathers.  Maybe 2 or 3.  Big Don (who has to be pushing 90) is still plugging along with Virginia.  When I saw him last Summer he took great pleasure in referring to me as "the old retiree."  He still stands tall and his grip is strong.  He and Virginia are still self-sufficient and in fairly good health. Good for them.  And I enjoyed visiting with them as I don't get to spend much time with the parents of my friends anymore.

But do I wonder what it might have been like had Buck not succumbed to the likely outcome of his addiction to cigarettes?  I used to get this question a lot when I was younger.  After all, if my father were alive today he would be 88 or 89.  Not many folks live that long.  Especially with the cardiovascular disease he had and passed on to me.  

I know I have told this story before, but Buck wouldn't let me play golf. Although I am very right handed, I swing a bat (and a golf club) from the left. They tried to make me a switch hitter in baseball but I was useless from the right side.  Despite that neurological problem he would not hear of me playing golf.  I can hear his voice to this day.

" Son," he said. "It's just not done.  Left handed equipment is too hard to find.  The courses are all set out for right handers.  Golf is hard enough for right handers.  I'm just not gonna let you do it."

Of course, he was completely wrong but neither did I have sufficient funds on my 14 year old self to go out and buy left handed clubs to test his hypothesis. Not that I had ever heard the word "hypothesis" at that age either.  

And so when I took the damn game up in my forties, I wondered what he might have thought.  I wondered what it might be like to play a round of golf with him? Guys talk a lot on the golf course.  What would we have talked about?  I can't imagine asking him for advice, because in the real world I did adulthood pretty much on my own and largely on my own dime, because that was the way it was. And so I can't even much fantasize about this.  Still, I think it would have been nice to play a round of golf with my father.  I don't know why I think that.  But that's what I think.  I just don't think about it very often.

My friend Hugh passed away unexpectedly about 4 years ago.  Left two teenage girls.  I remember holding the girls in my arms and telling them that I wasn't much older than they were when my own father died.  I know that girls and their daddies are a different dynamic.  Especially in these parts.  

But I told them that, hard as it might be to believe it at the time, everything would be OK.  

"Trust me," I said. "I know.  It will be OK."

And if they are like me, 35 years from now it will just be a thing.  

A thing that happened to them when they were young.

My Sunday Feeling

Up until recently, my working knowledge of the foster care world had been pretty much limited to emergency situations back when I was a young Legal Services lawyer and-well-defended people that were accused of abuse and neglect.  Guess I better not run for office in Arkansas where you can be accused of being in favor of pornography if you represented a negligee store somewhere a long the line. Well, I had better not run for office for any of a number of reasons.

But in the past couple of years I have learned more about the foster care system, primarily from a lady I work with who, along with her husband, has been a foster parent.  And around December of last year I agreed to be a volunteer photographer for The Project Zero which is a private foundation that works with the Arkansas Department of Human Services.  You can check it out here: http://www.theprojectzero.org/ .

They had a big "Disney Extravaganza" last Saturday at a large Baptist church in West Little Rock.  Where kids played games, ate hot dogs and interacted with Disney characters.  I have to say that Cinderella was pretty cute. Well, she was.  Anyway, I assisted another photographer in taking pictures of the kids that are eligible for adoption.

We had to have done 50 that day.  Individual shots.  Families.  One group was a family of six siblings. From teenager to little bitty.  Six.  My suspicion is that these kids got removed from somewhere.  People don't just give 6 kids up.  In retrospect, I have to say that most of them there at the church that day were probably the product of abuse and neglect with biological parents who had their parental rights terminated.

I have to believe that there is a special place in Heaven for those that provide foster care.  As the friend at work says some of these kids come with all kinds of problems, some of which are almost insurmountable.  You get emotionally attached to some.  And so it hurts when they get adopted out or otherwise leave to go somewhere else.  And she describes dealing with the State as nothing short of a constant pain.  You have to really want to do this.

My friend E provides foster care on a short term basis.  She wants to adopt.  She was there last Saturday checking things out. I get smartphone videos from her occasionally when she has one underfoot.  She hates to give them up when it is time for them to go to wherever they go in the pipeline. God bless her.  She really wants this to happen someday. I hope it works out for her.

I don't know.  I love children.  And I thought as a young person that I would be a father someday.  But that didn't happen.  It's nothing that I go screaming in the night about.  After all, God knows I seem to be involved with everybody else's kids around here.  But there are people, like my friend E, who have this palpable need to have a child.  I do not.

God also knows that the need for foster care and adoption services is great.  Like I said, we had about 50 there last Saturday who would be perfect candidates for a good home.  But you have to really want it.  And I'm not that person.

If there is any justice at all, and I'm not sure there is, then there is a special place in Heaven for people like E who open their hearts and homes to kids in the system.  Maybe some measure of that place can be preserved for the guy behind the camera.

Overtaken By Events

Am busy doing a photography project for a local charity.  

That and practicing law a little.  I know.  It's scary.

Will be back soon.  

Thank you for your support of this ministry. 

My Memorial Day Feeling

Thanks to all the men and women who wore, and now wear, the uniform.  We in civilian life owe you a debt that we can never fully repay.  

And thanks, Buck.  

My Sunday Feeling

It is with no small amount of trepidation that I write today about Pulaski County Circuit Judge Chris Piazza's recent ruling in which he declared unconstitutional 2 state laws prohibiting and/or refusing to recognize same sex marriages.  One is Act 144 of 1997 passed by the Arkansas General Assembly which states that "[m]arriage shall only be between a man and a woman. A marriage between persons of the same sex is void."

The second was Amendment 83 to the Arkansas Constitution, which was approved by a majority of voters, states that, in pertinent part, that "Legal status for unmarried persons which is identical or substantially similar to marital status shall not be recognized in Arkansas."  This means that gay unions solemnized in jurisdictions that allow same would not be given full faith and credit in Arkansas. 

The resultant furor that instantly erupted was predictable.   Certain legislators called for the impeachment of Judge Piazza for allegedly failing to uphold the Arkansas Constitution.  Others wondered how "one man" could strike down laws passed by the electorate and/or their representatives, typically described as being accomplished with a "mere stroke of a pen."  

Let me premise this discussion with a few observations.  There are folks that are repulsed by gay people.  I understand that.  There are folks whose opposition to gay marriage is a matter of deeply held religious beliefs.  I understand that.  There are churches that do not perform or recognize gay marriage.  The church I belong to is one of them.  I understand that many people are indignant as a result of this decision.  What I don't understand is the apparent lack of working knowledge of how the system works on the part of many people.  But I view moments such as these as teachable ones.  My trepidation lies in a certain fatalism on my part as to the prospects of even minimal success.  But off we go.

Let us put something else on the table, which Judge Piazza writing for the Court seized on in its opinion and which nobody else to my knowledge has commented upon.  Although the Court didn't go this far, marriage can be and is typically a function of both church and state.  The vast majority of folks get married in a religious service pursuant to the teachings of a particular faith.  However, some folks choose to get married in a purely civil ceremony.  At the Courthouse perhaps.  The similarity between the two rituals is this: the condition precedent to both is the issuance of a marriage license by the State which the Court referred to as a "civil document." 

In my view, the 13 page decision of the Court may be boiled down to the second full paragraph of page 9:

"A marriage license is a civil document and is not, nor can it be, based upon any particular faith.  Same-sex couples are a morally disliked minority and the constitutional amendment to ban same-sex marriage is driven by animus rather than a rational basis.  This violates the (Equal Protection Clause) of the United States Constitution." (Parenthetical supplied.) And while the Court was discussing Amendment 83, it is no stretch to state that similar logic would most likely apply to Act 144.  

One may notice my copious references to the decision being rendered by "the Court." This is because this decision is not merely Judge Piazza (or "one man" to use the popular parlance) giving his personal opinion on the issue.  This is a ruling by a Court of Law after all sides were given the full opportunity to brief and argue the issue.  This is what Courts do when so called upon. And, like it or not, as the United States Supreme Court has said, " It is emphatically the province of the judicial department to say what the law is."  It is called judicial review.  The quote above came from Chief Justice John Marshall in 1803 in the case of Marbury vs. Madison.  It is the first case every young law student learns in Constitutional Law. 

Further, as other folks have said, rights aren't subject to a vote.  That's why they're called "rights." Agree or disagree with this decision as you will.  But the Court is authorized under the principle of judicial review to examine any statute passed by the legislature or any regulation promulgated by an agency, assuming the case is otherwise properly before it. 

Concerning the calls for the Judge's impeachment for failure to "uphold the Constitution" they may be dispensed with quickly.  Judge Piazza (and myself as well come to think of it) took an Oath to defend both the Arkansas and United States Constitutions.  The Judge applied recent United States Supreme Court (along with other Federal Court) decisions and applied the law as he saw it.  That is what his Oath compels him, and every judge, to do.

You may fervently disagree with the decision, which is your right.  But history demonstrates that just because an amendment has been tacked onto the oft-amended Arkansas Constitution doesn't make it Constitutional under the United States Constitution, which like it or not, is the supreme law of the land.  So, his decision is not even remotely an impeachable offense.  Besides, the Legislature isn't even in session.  There's no place to file the Articles of Impeachment if they drew them up last night.  This is lunacy of the first water.

Saner heads, which seem to be in short supply at times, have rightly stated that the appeals process is the only proper route under this and any other set of facts.  And indeed, the decision will be appealed, consistent with the rule of law. And the Arkansas Supreme Court has issued a Stay of the decision pending its review.  

I have no earthly idea what the Arkansas Supreme Court will do.  I do know that laws similar to Arkansas' are being invalidated by Federal Courts throughout the country.  The Pulaski County Circuit Court may be wrong.  The Court may be right.  We shall see.  But it would not surprise me terribly if these laws, and laws similar to it throughout the land, are eventually struck down.   That's not a personal opinion.  That's my professional opinion.  

And impeaching Chris Piazza,or fantasizing about "activist judges," isn't going to change that.

My Mother's Day Feeling

It  wasn't until about last Thursday or so that I realized that today was Mother's Day.  Mother passed away in 2009.  That isn't such a long time ago.  But still.  She's not around and I'm pretty oblivious to the culture around me most of the time especially when it comes to advertising.  But really, it didn't occur to me until one of the moms in my life told me her daughter was taking her to Tunica for the day.  

A surprising number of my peers still have their mothers.  R's mom is pushing 90-something if she's a day.  J's mom is getting up there too.  She told me yesterday that her mom wants a hamburger today and that she wants to get her ears pierced when she hits 90.  Something tells me that these things will happen.  Don still has both his parents and they are doing pretty well all things considered.  Off the top of my head, he's the only one with the full compliment still although I'm sure that's not right.

And then there are my friends who are spending their first Mother's Day without their moms.  My friend B lost her mom last Fall.  Then her father up and died a week after that. I just can't imagine. I got a text from her late yesterday afternoon.

"I guess it's normal to be crying all weekend on the first Mother's Day without her, right?" the message said.

Oh man.  

"It is normal," I wrote back." It is normal to be whatever you are. These things are markers and they are unsettling.  But it gets better.  Really it does."

Indeed, I managed to forget that today is Mother's Day.  

She allowed as how she knew that I missed my own mother.  Well, as they say on Facebook, "It's complicated."

Mother was so sick and miserable in her final days that her passing was a blessing.  It would have been selfish to have wanted her to last 5 more minutes beyond her allotted time under the circumstances.  Further, we didn't have much of a "parent-child" relationship the last 10-15 years of her life.  It was like the roles had reversed and I was the caregiver.  I was also the agent of her destruction and the occasional object of her anger and frustration.

Which I accepted.  I didn't even take it personally.  She was extremely ill.  She hated not living in her home. Somebody had to wear the bulls eye.  Might as well have been me.  Don't misunderstand me.  Mother was a very good person and was capable of great kindness.  She was just miserable the last 10 years of her life.  Like I said, I didn't take it personally. And mostly I just don't want to think about it.

I suppose that I miss the "concept" of having a mother in my life.  But that's all it is.  A concept.  A warm fuzzy.  It's not anything I really had since I came back from law school.  

The more I think about it, perhaps the reason that I don't feel a particular void is because I am fortunate to have about 500 women hovering over me at any particular moment. I am, indeed, "mother-henned" to a fare-the-well.  I cannot sneeze without somebody in pumps materializing with Kleenex, soup and the occasional stern lecture.  Of course, I exaggerate. But not by much.

I don't know how I came to be this lucky.  It's certainly nothing that I deserve. But neither am I going to turn it down. 

So for one reason or another Mother's Day doesn't resonate with me much anymore.  The first one spent without Mother was a marker.  Now it's not even that. 

As I told B, the markers get better over time.  As for me, "it's complicated" has not.

We shall see if that ever changes.  But it's OK if it does not.

My Sunday Feeling

Even those who are but dimly aware of the existence of the National Basketball Association are bound to be cognizant of the controversy surrounding certain inelegant remarks made by Los Angeles Clippers owner Donald Sterling about about blacks in general and Magic Johnson in particular that a female associate named V. Stiviano recorded and leaked to the tabloid TMZ.  ( Let's leave her title as "associate" for no other reason than the exact outer-perimeter of the extent of her relationship with Mr. Sterling remains murky even as of this writing.) 

As is now known, Sterling was recorded telling Ms. Stiviano to quit hanging out with so many black guys.  A selfie taken by her with she and Magic Johnson was found particularly objectionable by Sterling.  And he told her so in no uncertain terms.

And so last Tuesday NBA Commissioner Adam Silver announced that Sterling was banned for life from the NBA and the Clippers.  He was also fined 2.5 million dollars.  (Collecting that might be a trick under the circumstances.)

Let's do the backstory on Sterling.  He started out as a Plaintiff's lawyer doing divorce and PI work in Los Angeles.  He invested heavily in commercial real estate where he made his fortune as a classical "buy and hold" investor.  In 1981 he bought the San Diego Clippers which he moved to Los Angeles apparently in order to run the franchise into the ground in a more prominent location.  

And make no mistake about it, up until fairly recently, the Clippers were the joke of the NBA.  Indeed, one can make the case that the Clippers, for the vast majority of their existence, were the worst franchise in the history of sports.  And yes, I am aware that this closed universe of misery and incompetence contains the Cleveland Browns, the Los Angeles Dodgers under the McCourts, the Buffalo Bills, perennial favorite Chicago Cubs and, most recently, the New York Knicks.  

As if this were not sufficient embarrassment to the league, Sterling is no stranger to the court system.  He has been sued for housing discrimination.  He has been sued for sexual harassment.  He was sued by former coaches Elgin Baylor (Elgin Baylor!) Bill Fitch, Bob Weiss and Mike Dunleavy.  

So suffice it so say that when Sterling's provocative views on racial matters made the light of day,it may be safely observed that he didn't have a lot of goodwill in the tank to fall back on.  

And yet, there have been some who have raised questions about the fairness of the action taken by the NBA.  After all, this was a private conversation that was perhaps illegally recorded under California law.  There has been some questions raised about whether the NBA's actions violate Sterling's rights of free-speech.  Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban worried about this creating a "slippery slope" where owner's could be penalized for speaking their minds, an outcome well-known to the oft-fined Mr. Cuban.  Rush Limbaugh spun a conspiracy out of whole cloth wherein he imagined a plot on the part of-guess who?-Magic Johnson to wrest control of the Clips from Sterling.  Predictably, Tea Party darling Allen West weighed in on the matter.  And predictably, he got it completely wrong in wondering whether "where being a jerk is grounds for confiscation of property."

As I like to say at such times, this is an opportunity to teach.  

Except for circumstances not presently before us, only the government can violate your rights.  Only the government can confiscate property.  The NBA Constitution allows an owner to be kicked out after a 2/3 vote of the other owners.  It also allows the Commissioner to act in the best interests of the sport (basically) in areas not covered by said Constitution.  This is a private action taken by basically a private club which is seeking to expel one of its members.  

I wouldn't be surprised if the litigious Mr. Sterling sues to block this action (although the NBA Constitution forbids it).  Maybe he can sue Ms. Stiviano for defamation (good luck) or for violating his rights under California law.  But make no mistake about it, the NBA's action against Sterling doesn't violate his "right to free speech" under the United States Constitution.  And neither has his property been "confiscated."

And speaking of which, if Sterling is forced to sell, he stands to turn a profit of about a half a billion dollars according to some experts.  If anybody out there wants to "confiscate" me to that extent they are welcome to come on.  

But does the fact that Donald Sterling faces such a harsh penalty over a private conversation bother me?  Yeah.  A little.  But what was the NBA supposed to do?  Sponsors were bailing.  Boycotts and rallies were being cooked up over this.  The players union was apoplectic.  And as for the Clippers themselves, Head Coach Doc Rivers described his team, even the two white players, as "pissed." And the biggest impediment to their progression through the playoffs was the guy that signed the checks.

Clearly swift action had to be taken.  It wasn't like they caught Frank Vogel or Greg Popovich inexplicably saying these things on tape.  It was Donald Sterling.  The man who had no goodwill in the tank to sustain him when a lifetime of odious conduct finally caught up with him and took a big chunk out of his ass.  

After all, did you hear a single soul express surprise that Donald Sterling was capable of such venom?  No, you did not.  Not a single soul.  

Which tells you pretty much all you need to know.

Waiting for Lefty

That crazy arthritis thing in my hand has flared back up.  So it's back to the doctor tomorrow.

I'm going to avoid typing as much as possible until this subsides.

Talk among yourselves.

Lefty

My Sunday Feeling

I used to have to deal with guys like Nevada rancher Cliven Bundy who you may recall is being horribly miscast in the nutbar media as a patriot and much put upon small time rancher who is standing up for State's Rights as the feds try to round up cattle that he has been grazing on Federal land.  

Back in my day, the government protester types were the Militia and the Posse Comitatus and they existed pretty much pre-Internet.  And thank God. Because the lack of an instantaneous world wide forum kept the dispute between the government and the loons I had to deal with confined locally and on paper.

Actually, while some of the militia types I dealt with were nuts, many of them were desperate and under the sway of criminals who convinced them for a fee that they could repay debt with "10th Amendment Letters of Credit", biblical defenses to foreclosure and other nonsense.  It was a pretty crazy time.

But none of my "patriot" types had armed sympathizers show up at any government foreclosure sale.  Or if any of them were packing they had the good sense not to throw down at the courthouse steps. Nobody ever escalated the situation with me as has Clive Bundy.

Here's the narrative that I have seen rolled out on Facebook and in certain media outlets who either flunked out of News School or decided there was more money to be made in forgetting anything they ever learned there. 

According to that zeitgeist, Bundy is an embattled rancher who is fighting to preserve his freedoms and to the Feds and their "jack booted thugs" (always "jack booted thugs")from seizing his cattle that are grazing on lands set aside for conservation.  Bundy claims a right to be out there because his family supposedly "homesteaded" the area in the late 1800s.  Further, he claims to not recognize the Federal government and he states that only Nevada law applies to his case.

Anyway, the Feds began rounding up the cattle.  Bundy called in his supporters, many of the armed, to "defend his rights." Cameras rolled.  Sound bytes were gleaned.  Uncle sensibly backed off, not wanting to get into a shoot out with an elderly man over cattle.

The arc of the narrative is that this brave patriot, in standing up to a capricious government, is standing up for all of our rights.  Rights that have been usurped by a rapacious and uncaring Federal government.

Of course, most of this is not true.  The truth of the matter is that Uncle didn't just decide one day to go out and make an example of Clive Bundy.  Bundy has been in litigation with the Department of Justice over these issues since 1996.  

The United States government own practically 70% of the land in Nevada. It issues permits to allow grazing and other activities on the land that it owns. In the early 1990s the government dedicated hundreds of thousands of acres to be set aside for conservation.  They approached affected ranchers and attempted to buy back the grazing rights.  Bundy refused to sell.  The Bureau of Land Management revoked his permit.  In 1998, a Federal Judge issued a permanent injunction against Bundy and ordered the cattle off the land.  He appealed.  He lost.  Regardless, he refused to remove the cattle.  He racks up fines that he refuses to pay.

In 2012, the BLM goes back to Court seeking another injunction. In August 2013, the Court orders Bundy to remove within 45 days.  In October of that year he is ordered not interfere with any attempt to seize the cattle.  During the 1st of April all of his children and grandchildren join him in the family compound to defend against the planned seizure of the cattle.  About 30 armed sympathizers show up as well.  As stated earlier on, the Feds backed off.  For now.

Clive Bundy is no patriot.  He is a deadbeat and scofflaw who has grazed cattle for free on lands where we well knew that he was not allowed to.  In doing so he has been systematically and continuously ripping off the taxpayers, that would be you and me, while placing folks in physical danger who are guilty of no more then doing their jobs.  Jobs they had every authority to carry out by more than one court order.

And his claim that the laws of Nevada trump the laws of the United States? Complete bullshit.  The Nevada Constitution expressly recognizes the supremacy of the United States Constitution.  He doesn't have a leg to stand on legally.  But you wouldn't know that if you listen to the Tea Party types that are trying to make Cliven Bundy the second coming of Thomas Paine.

I wish I didn't have to pay income and real estate taxes.  But I do.  I wish I didn't have to pay car insurance. But I do.  And if I failed to do those things I don't think that I would hold myself out as some kinda patriot while sounding the completely false alarm that my rights were being infringed upon.

What a world.  Conservatives used to believe in rule of law.  Most still do. At least the ones I know still do.  And all of us can be sympathetic to a man acting on what he perceives to be principle, even if they be wrong-headed.

But forget what you hear on Fox or on Facebook.  Cliven Bundy is not a man of principle.  He is a deadbeat draped in the flag.

But boy am I glad that Bill Wade and the rest of the Posse back there in Greene County didn't have cable TV or Internet access back when I had to fool with them.  And I'm glad that I don't work for the BLM in Arizona right now. 

Some civil service jobs just ain't worth it.  

Injured List

No MSF today.  I'm getting over one of my periodic arthritis flareups in my right hand.  So, I'm giving the keyboard a rest.

Talk among yourselves.

Later,

Lefty

My Sunday Feeling

Last Friday, I did something I haven't done since I was a young Legal Services lawyer in Forrest City.  

I walked to work.   It felt like one of the few "full circle" experiences I have had thus far in my life.

It has been an interesting trip since I walked out of the Federal Building in 2011.  As folks tried to tell me going into it, "retirement" would be nothing like I thought it would be.  And they were right.  Don't get me wrong.  Everything is way cool.  It's just not like I thought it would be.  

I thought I would be back working full time in 6 months.  That didn't happen.  But then again, it's not like I tried real hard.  Hell, I didn't try at all.  

I didn't think I could stand working from home.  It's actually pretty great.  I didn't think I would do work for a bank.  But I am.

And I really, really didn't think I would find myself standing in front of a room full of high school girls at Mount Saint Mary's Academy.  But there I was, God help us all, proctoring chemistry tests and presiding over study hall.  

This all came about long about January when I decided I needed to be busier than I was at that time.  And because I often think I might be good at teaching I figured that substitute teaching would give me a taste of it to see if I liked it.  Both Saint Mary's and Holy Souls are within walking distance.  Catholic High is a mile away.  So I got VIRTUS certified (sexual abuse training), let everybody know of my availability and that was that.

I confess that I was pretty nervous as I walked down 'I" Street along with all the kids.  And I'm not the sort to get that way.  But I had never been in charge of a bunch of girls before. My friend Ann was out in the yard as I walked past. She called out to me.  She took notice of my jacket and tie.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.  It was a fair question.

"I'm subbing at the Mount today," I replied.

She hugged me. 

"You'll be great," she whispered. "the girls will love you." 

"Yeah well....we'll see," I muttered as I turned and manfully pushed myself into the wave of backpacks and uniforms.

I reported for duty.  They gave me my materials and a bottle of water.  Oh, by the way, we are having a tornado drill first thing. 

Perfect.  I promised myself that I would not let this be a metaphor for the day.

They assigned a kid to lead me to the room.  Good idea. I walked in.  There they were.  You're a real boy now Pinocchio.

I decided to lead with the truth.  It was all I had. 

The opening speech all day went something like this.

"Good Morning, ladies.  Obviously, I am not Dr. Hendrickson. My name is Paul Bowen.  I will be giving you the test this morning.  While I will be happy to answer any questions that you might have, you are pretty much on your own.  I am a lawyer.  I don't know the first thing about chemistry. Good luck."

All the classes were equally amused by my confession that I was a lawyer. Under other circumstances I might have explored this.  But there was work to do.  

I passed out the tests and sat down in the teacher's chair with my iPad.  It occurred to me that it had been 34 years since I sat in a classroom where folks were taking a test.  That was when I was at Tulane.  That was in a previous life.  And here I was now at Mount Saint Mary's.  Here I was now watching girls take a chemistry test.  Another "full circle" experience.  Two in one day.  Not bad.  

While my room was quiet, there were sounds of life elsewhere all throughout the building.  I spend a lot of time down the road at Catholic High.  It gets pretty noisy over there.  But there are also stretches of silence.  There was no time during the day last Friday where I wasn't cognizant of voices.  Always voices somewhere.

I thought to myself,"This is pretty cool.  I can do this."

Besides, hanging around with these kids sure beats practicing law.

About an hour into it, the iPad buzzed.  It was an email from downstairs. 

"Can you come back Tuesday morning at 8?"

"Yes I can."

"Great! "

Yeah it really kinda is.  

As I walked home I sent Ann a text.  I told her that I really enjoyed my day.

"You were raised to do this," she wrote back. " You were raised to be a teacher."

It occurred to me, off the top of my head, that this was the nicest thing anybody had said to me in a long time. A very long time. 

"Besides, Steve and I look forward to a lot of great stories out of this adventure."

Me too, actually.  

I used to walk to work when I was a young lawyer in the Delta. I hope it's a pretty day next Tuesday.  

It will feel good to walk to work for another day up on the hill.  Maybe I will decide that teaching is not for me.  Maybe I will go back to the dark side and practice law again while I still halfway remember how to do it.  

But for now, the "full circle" aspect of this is pretty amazing to me.  And I am grateful for the experience.  And, like my friend Ann, I look forward to the stories that are sure to come.

VOX POPULI: The Consultant

"So," I said to the man. "What's new with you?"

" I guess you could say that I am a consultant," he said. "That's why I'm here tonight."

"That's why you're at (insert any mall thing that you might care to)?, I asked. "Not following."

"Came over to use the Internet access at Starbucks."

"Ah."

Bless his heart.  

My Sunday Feeling

I saw in the paper the other day that Gerald Fincher had passed away.  Rev. Gerald Kemp Fincher was an important guy as I was coming up because Brother Gerald was the minister at Mabelvale United Methodist Church back in those days.  I had the occasion to visit with his daughter a couple of years ago.  She said that her parents were in poor health.  I found out when I read the obituary that Mrs. Fincher died last November.  

I refer to him as "Brother" rather than "Reverend" because when I was a kid, that's the way that the Methodist clergy, at the least the Methodist clergy as it obtained back in Mabelvale, referred to itself.

I started out at Oak Forest Methodist (not yet United) which is not too far from where I live now.  The pastor there was Brother Clint Burleson.  His daughter Katie and I spent countless hours playing board games on the front porch of the parsonage.  Brother Bob Trieschman followed Brother Clint.  He used to play touch football with us on the church parking lot.

We moved to Mabelvale when I was in the 5th grade. My first preacher there was Brother Ben Hines, followed by Interim Pastor Arthur Terry.  He went by Brother Terry, possibly in recognition that he was damn near 80 when they stuck him in there and that it might have been unseemly to address one so elderly by his first name.  By the time I hit Hendrix College, Brother Gerald was on the job.  

It occurs to me that Brother Gerald's generation of Methodist preachers might have been the last one to eschew the honorific for the more humble title of "Brother."  I still find myself addressing the clergy at my church as "Brother" from time to time out of force of habit, which is understandable given my history with the issue.   At least the males of the species.  But unlike today, there was no other kind that I was aware of back in the day. 

Anyway, Brother Gerald was a very important man in my life and not just because he was a good guy. Which he was.  But, as I have written in the past, my father died in December of my senior year at Hendrix. And I had applications pending at law schools all over the place.

The issue of how this was gonna get paid for was El Problemo Grande.  Hendrix and Tulane introduced me to the Student Loan Guarantee Foundation.  Brother Gerald got me hooked up with the General Board of Higher Education and Ministry of the United Methodist Church (Really.  That's what it still calls itself.), which loaned me money to go to law school. Reasonable minds may disagree as to whether financing a legal education was a fit purpose for this program.  But I wasn't gonna turn it down if they were gonna loan it to me.

Looking back on it, the machinations I had to go through each semester were kind of comical.  As I recall, I only had to sign one note for each school year.  But every semester Brother Gerald had to certify that I was indeed a Methodist of good standing. And every semester I had to submit my bona fides to the campus minister (I forget how I addressed him) at the Wesley Foundation at Tulane in order to get the loan funds disbursed to the Business Office over in Gibson Hall.  

I was telling my buddy Don this story the other night after I had learned of Brother Gerald's passing.  He allowed as how, based on his recollection of my allegedly sinful ways in law school,in which Don was equally complicit much of the time, it was evident that Brother Gerald didn't quiz me too carefully about my Christian journey in Orleans Parish.

Which was true.  I'm guessing he didn't much care. Either that or figured that I wouldn't get into too much trouble.  No, he mainly wanted a report on how things were going each semester.  He wanted to know if I was OK.  Sometimes, not always, he would have a little extra money for me that an always anonymous donor would funnel through him.  It wasn't much. Gas money mostly.  

But it was a gesture that said, "We're proud of you. We still love you back home." 

Contrary to the noise from certain sectors of the media and politics, the vast majority of "success stories" are not completely self-made.  Most everybody I know didn't get to where they are today without the assistance of others. I know I sure as hell didn't.  

And I've tried to pay it forward and to pay it back. Because, in part, because that is what Gerald Fincher and all of the other mentors and encouragers that propelled me along would have wanted.

Rest in peace, Brother Gerald.  I will always remember you.  And be grateful.  

My NCAA Tournament Feeling

This blog has been temporarily suspended due to obsessive basketball watching and a deadline on a real world project.  Will resume shortly.

Talk among yourselves.  

My Sunday Feeling

A friend and I went to a deal at a local art gallery last night.  One of the featured artists is a local photographer who does amazing stuff.  He's one of these guys that isn't scared to go up in a helicopter or an airplane to get a perspective.  Or maybe he's scared but he's willing to make the sacrifice for his art. 

One of the pictures was an aerial view of a flooded out New Orleans after Katrina.  A neighborhood shot from above.  Probably somewhere in the Ninth Ward. What was interesting about the photograph was it appeared that lights were on in some of the houses, although my best guess was that the windows were reflecting the light from the searchlight on the helicopter.  

"You should buy it," she said. "Tulane and New Orleans are part of your past. It would look good in your living room. That picture is you."

I'm devastated and water logged?

"I don't know," I said. "I wasn't looking to buy anything tonight." 

She took me by the arm. 

"Let's find out what they want for it.  It won't hurt to ask."

I asked.  It wasn't bad. I told the owner of the gallery to mark it "sold" and that we would settle up next week.

Still, it wasn't like I needed any more stuff to hang on the walls around here.  Or that I needed to spend money on the same.  I expressed these thoughts as we walked to the car.

"Look," she said. "This is what I think.  You worked hard for a really long time.  This is the part of your life where you should reward yourself now and again.  You've earned it.  So it cost a little money.  You've got money. Besides, that picture is a link to your past and will look great in your living room."

And that was all there was to it.

I suppose that I am just now getting comfortable with the notion that I am in a phase of life that is traditionally associated with a certain age demographic.  

I'm very fortunate.  I'm in a good spot.  I don't count it as my due and I don't take it for granted.  But it's probably not a bad thing that I have enough of my mother in me to not throw money around.  I like to think I have things in perspective.  Then again, a person can be wrong about such things.

A friend of mine died a week or so ago.  I hadn't known her for very long and I didn't spend that much time with her.  She had a virulent form of cancer that she fended off for over 8 years.  

She was tough and brave.  Never complained.  I probably only saw her a handful of times in the year and half or so that I knew her.  Mainly, we texted and talked with each other.  Or, to put it more accurately, I mainly just listened.  

She sent me a message saying that it was time to say goodbye.  Of course, this was during the last ice storm and the roads were impassable.  And I had a meeting that I agreed to do first thing once the roads cleared.  Besides, she had always beat the cancer back before.  I figured that I had time to get to her. I told her I would check on her in a couple of days.
  

"Okey dokee," she texted back.  I never heard from her again.

I figured I had more time.  I figured wrong.  I blew it and there is no fixing it. And I have spent a good bit of time since then trying to kick myself to death.

Although I still consider myself a young man, I am in the stage of the game where the arc of statistics and biology start favoring the casino.  Second chances will come fewer and more far between from here on out.  

My fellow patron of the arts is right.  Second guessing myself about spending a little money is kind of silly in the great scope of things. I can always get the money back down the road. Nothing wrong with enjoying simple pleasures while you can.   

Better to save the second guessing at this stage for those defaults that can't be undone in the hope that they never happen again.  

Because there are some things you can't do over. There are some things that you can't get back.  

And because the odds are favoring the casino at this stage of the game. 

My Sunday Feeling

Maybe it's true.  Maybe the worst is over.

Yesterday was gorgeous with a high of around 70. This time last week it was sleeting as the officials at the Little Rock Marathon were trying to get folks off the course.  What an awful experience that was.

I don't run in races any more due to my back.  But I have run in many of them in my day.  I've run in the cold.  I've run in rain and I've run in high wind.  I have shown up at races and thought "this is going to be tough."

Never have I arrived at a race and thought "This is a mistake."  It was sprinkling when I got there, the wind was howling and the temperature was degrading it seemed by the minute.  Little Rock was under a Winter Storm Warning at the time.  

I was just taking pictures and I was dressed appropriately.  Still after a couple of hours, I couldn't feel the camera.  The wet wind cut through the layers under my wind jacket.  I decided about then to start heading home.  

I was about halfway to the house when a car pulled up.  Window comes down.  Young guy in the neighborhood named Colin.

"Do you think we'll ever play golf again?" he asked.

I paused to watch the hypothermia victims as they headed for the downhill leg on Lookout.  Most of them looked beyond miserable.  

"God, I don't know," I said. "I just don't know."

The latest ice storm hit us around 6 that evening.  And I thought to myself that I couldn't remember a more brutal winter.  From December to March, Central Arkansas averaged at least one winter storm a month. The low last Monday was 14 with a wind chill of zero.

But yesterday was nice.  A bunch of us planted trees along Kavanaugh Boulevard.  Most people appreciate that sort of thing.  There are exceptions to every rule of course.  You can't please everybody.  

But it was nice to be outside doing stuff.  Runners and bikers were everywhere.  Men and women out pushing strollers.  Now that's more like it.

And today Daylight Savings Time begins.  Thank God. As I have said before, I hate Standard Time.  I need more time to sit on the swing, cook on the grill, hit golf balls and otherwise stay outside in the light.  If ever I had Seasonal Affective Disorder it was last Sunday night as I sat and listened to the sleet hit the ceiling and windows.  

My neighbor is from Texas.  He was getting out for a bike ride for the first time in months.

"Do you think Winter is over?" he asked. "Really over?"  

"God I hope so,"I replied. "I hope so."

Because I can't remember a worse Winter. Man, I really need me some Spring.  

My Sunday Really Sick of Winter Deivered on Saturday Feeling

I am typing this on Saturday.  It is @ 70 degrees outside.  I hear birds outside my window.  There are golfers down at hallowed and historic War Memorial. The shop across the street heralds the advent of Spring when only last week she was pushing "warm scarves" for sale. And,a zillion people are in our fair city.  Around fifteen thousand of them are signed up to run in the Little Rock Marathon which is scheduled to be held tomorrow.  

I insert the weasel word "scheduled" for the reason that, naturally, by six o'clock tomorrow morning Central Arkansas will be under yet another winter storm warning.  According to the National Weather Service, at the very minimum the participants and volunteers can expect rain, or even more amusing, a thunderstorm at the start.  The winter precipitation, in whatever form it winds up gracing the event, is predicted to start around noon or so.

Today's high was 70.  Tomorrow's low will be 18.

Welcome to Little Rock! 

Now, they could be completely wrong.  Their track record thus far this year ain't the greatest.  In January Entergy sent me a text in advance of the predicted ice storm advising me to prepare to be without power for a week and to lay in an extra supply of fat back, cordwood and whiskey.  We got a little ice but the worst of it stayed West of here.

Early last month, NWS predicted 7 inches of snow on a certain day.  Entergy was silent. A little stuff got in the trees which made for some great pictures.  But the roads were dry.  It was no big. And I think there was one other prediction that was overblown. I can't keep it all straight.

I used to do what is euphemistically referred to on ESPN Radio as "sports investing" back when I was in my thirties.  I dabbled only in basketball, a subject that in the abundant hubris with which I was infected during those days, days that were otherwise semi-filled with something approaching promise, I thought I knew a little about. 

I subscribed to what I then pompously referred to as "The Hot Team Theory" as if it were both a law of nature and that it originated with me.  The "theory," simply put, is that you "ride" (as the knowledgeable sports investor puts it) the team from a decent conference on a serious roll going into the NCAA tournament.  

And I did OK with that.

By now, Gentle Reader is probably asking, "Well, this is fascinating but what the Hell has this got to do with anything?"

And the answer is this.  

I am now in my dotage.  I am burned out, completely beaten down by life itself and suspicious of the possibility of sustained continuity in virtually any aspect of human endeavor.  

Apart from the eternal suckinage of the Cubs that is. Lordy, even the Saints got good. But then again, the Cubs are accursed by God.  That's a different deal altogether. 

But the Weather Service, unlike the Cubs, and contrary to their recent track record, is bound to get one right during this awful winter of 2013-2014.  I have inherited my poor Mother's grim view of life. And she would have predicted that an ice storm would strike this weekend. 

"What are you doing this weekend Son?" she might have asked.

"Going over to take pictures at the Marathon Mom," I might have said.

"Now Paulie Boy you be careful.  You never know when an ice storm may hit a major sporting event." 

So once again, welcome to Little Rock, all you Marathon folks! Home of wild temperature changes, howling wind, freezing rain in March and my paranoid notion, now that I subscribe to something that might be called the "Opposite of the Hot Team Theory," that the Weather Service may actually be right this time.  

Which is not good for y'all.  

Did I mention the major seismic fault line that runs close by?

Never mind. That can keep. I never told Mother about that, come to think of it. 

Anyway,y'all have enough on your plate for tomorrow.