Runaway Red Horse
Displayed in a smallish bedroom, in a dormitory-like structure on the edge of a large American city is an oil painting of unusual power and life. On the canvas, red paint boils and twists in an embodiment of raw power running amok leaving aimless destruction behind it. The owner of the painting, who is also the artist, has entitled it “Runaway Red Horse Called Dementia.”
The artist, we’ll identify only as John (not his real name), is a genuine “Renaissance Man.” For many years, he delighted hundreds of readers of his private newsletter with his wit and barbed observations of life. His oil paintings have always been in demand as have his delicate watercolors. Yet, he was an astute businessman who created the wealth to indulge his artistic talents and to travel the world in a never ending search for new experiences.
Now, in answer to a query about how he feels, he’s likely to answer, “I’m okay, hoss, I just have this dementia thing.”
The “dementia thing” that John has is the type we know as Alzheimer’s Disease. Like the runaway red horse, the disease runs unrestrained through the brain, leaving aimless destruction behind it. Its course is unpredictable. John doesn’t know which area of the brain it will attack next. He only knows that, eventually, it will destroy it all.
In John’s case, the disease is progressing at a relatively leisurely pace. Most of his memory is still intact. Unfortunately, this means he’s fully aware of his dysfunction and its ultimate conclusion. He knows he will eventually die from it.
At present, Alzheimer’s is invariably fatal but sometimes not until it has squeezed every drop of rational humanity from the patient’s brain. Death might come because the brain can no longer control vital functions. The patient might simply forget to breath.
John knows all this. Back when he could still read, he studied all the medical reports on the disease. In spite of physical pain and mental hopelessness, John faces each day with a wry grin on his face and a quip on his lip. So far, he still looks forward to daily visits from his wife, his childhood sweetheart, although neither can be sure how long he’ll continue to remember her.
Together, they face each day as though it were a complete unit in itself and milk it for all the satisfaction they can squeeze from it. Each day is a small victory in a war they know they’ll eventually lose.
This is courage. This is the unconquerable spirit. This is human dignity at its finest.
-END-
Death of a Drug Lord
Located on the Mexican border in the Big Bend area is the Texas town of Presidio, famous for hot weather, onions and delicious cantaloupe. Just across the river is the Mexican town of Ojinaga, famous for ... well ... not very much. It was, however, at one time the center of operations for one of the most colorful and successful of the Mexican Drug Lords.
Pablo Acosta was what you might call a promising young man from a very unpromising background. He was born into poverty, reared in ignorance, but he was bright and had unusual organizational skills that might have qualified him for success in any of several fields. He chose, however, to walk on the wild side.
He is said to have been a charming and intelligent man who considered smuggling to be merely an acceptable part of the border lifestyle -- a means of survival in an unforgiving land. His father had smuggled liquor during prohibition and then candililla wax. There was always a ready market and the risks were tolerable.
In 1968, Acosta smuggled his first drugs and was caught immediately. However, during his prison term, he received a first-class education in drug smuggling.
When things got too hot for him in the United States, he scampered across to Ojinaga and was soon jefe or chief of the smugglers in that area. Before long, he was paying Mexican officials more than $100,000 per month for the “right” to operate in that territory.
Unfortunately for Acosta, the greed of Mexican officialdom proved to be insatiable. The $100,000 was not enough. Besides, the talkative Pablo irritated officials with his comments on their corruption. So, the government set up the final gun battle. Pablo died with his boots on and a gun in each hand -- as an outlaw but also as a man.
More than a thousand people, mostly of the peon class, attended his funeral and paid tribute to him as a hero. While to those of us who have seen his men swagger the streets of Ojinaga with machine pistols tucked under their arms, he was an arrogant and frightening individual, to many of the poor people of the region, he was a sort of Santa Claus. He cleverly enhanced his public image and his own self-esteem by playing the free handed benefactor to the teeming masses along the border. Victims of his shoot-outs and executions were less enthusiastic in their assessments, and many heaved a sigh of relief over his demise.
Regardless of how one viewed the drug lord, the local populace held him in awed respect. As one said, “He is the closest thing to royalty we had. He had the power of life and death.”
However, now that he is gone, his death has had little impact. Drugs are still smuggled through Ojinaga as the Colombians moved back in. The Mexican government is still corrupt and dishonest. Those who make trouble for the drug runners are still executed in the streets.
I suppose that shows that, when dead, Pablo filled about the same size hole as one of the Mexican peasants he brutally murdered. The sun rises and sets, and the world keeps on turning. A few years from now, neither those who feared him nor those who cheered him will even remember his name.
-END-
Louisiana Fishing Trip
I recently took a little fishing trip down to the Bayou country of Southern Louisiana. I had my eye set on a few of those hard fighting, bigmouth bass.
As I walked down the dock to where my boat was berthed, one of those swamp-dwelling Cajon’s approached me with a plastic jug filled with a clear liquid. “Hey, mon, this here’s jest what you need for an afternoon of fishin’ fun, I go’rantee.”
I wasn’t interested in whatever he had and tried to just brush on past him. But he wasn’t to be denied. He caught hold of my sleeve and tugged.
“This be Granny Biggs best ‘shine. You betcha you’ll like it — and just $5.00 a gallon. Best stuff you ever put in your mouth. You never tasted anything quite so good as Granny’s ‘shine, I go’rantee.”
I paused. What the heck. It’s only five bucks and it might be a real conversation piece with some of my buddies... after all... a genuine jug of moonshine.
So... I said, “Okay, I’ll take it.”
I lugged that jug down to my boat and stowed it under my seat and never gave it another thought. I had a great morning on the bayou. The fish were biting and fighting hard.
Then, to my horror, I noticed I was totally out of bait. I didn’t want to waste the time of going back to base for more bait then back to the fishing spot.
About that time, I noticed a water moccasin swimming just ahead of my boat and he had a frog in his mouth. Well, I knew frogs were good bait, so all I had to do is take him away from the snake.
Reasoning that he couldn’t bite me with that frog in his mouth, I caught up to the moccasin and picked him up by the neck just behind his head. He tried to hang onto his frog, but I was bigger and stronger than that snake so I just ripped it away from him.
Then, I realized I hadn’t really thought very far ahead. I had the frog and I had the snake, but how do I turn loose of the snake without being bitten. He had his mouth wide open and was squirming to get loose enough to turn on me.
Then, my eyes lit on that jug of ‘shine. I pitched the frog into my bait can, popped the top on that jug, and poured a generous slug into the wide-open mouth of the moccasin. The snake immediately went limp and his eyes rolled back in his head. I slipped him easily into the water where he immediately sank out of sight. Problem solved.
I put that frog on my hook for bait and proceeded to continue my quest for a big hog of a fish. This went on for about a half an hour when I felt a thumping on my foot.
I looked down to see that same snake had crawled back into the boat. This time he had tw
o frogs in his mouth.
-END-
Wisdom From The Past
When JFK was president, he held a state dinner to which was invited some of the world’s most distinguished leaders in the fields of science, business and the arts. The president famously remarked, “it would be the largest gathering of brainpower in that room since Thomas Jefferson had dined there alone.”
Recognized for his brilliant intellect, Thomas Jefferson was the primary architect of the Declaration of Independence based on his development of the concept of “inalienable rights.” He was elected the third president of the United States where he was a staunch advocate of religious freedom and states rights.
He spoke five languages and had deep interests in science, architecture, and political philosophy. A tireless advocate for mankind’s freedom, he wrote many papers on the rightful limitation of federal government. He believed the independent yeoman was the most trustworthy advocate of republicanism and had a deep-seated distrust of big cities and financiers. He favored strict limitations on government and so directed his Democratic-Republican Party which dominated the American political scene for 25 years.
In addition to his achievements in politics, architecture and science, he left us many writings — expressed bits of wisdom we can use to our benefit today. Here are a few...
Quotes from Thomas Jefferson
One of The Most Brilliant Minds Of Any Time
When we get piled upon one another in large cities, as in Europe, we shall become as corrupt as Europe.
The democracy will cease to exist when you take away from those who are willing to work and give to those who would not.
It is incumbent on every generation to pay its own debts as it goes. A principle which if acted on would save one-half the wars of the world.
I predict future happiness for Americans if they can prevent the government from wasting the labors of the people under the pretense of taking care of them.
My reading of history convinces me that most bad government results from too much government.
No free man shall ever be debarred the use of arms.
The strongest reason for the people to retain the right to keep and bear arms, is a last resort, to protect themselves against tyranny in government.
The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.
To compel a man to subsidize with his taxes the propagation of ideas which he disbelieves and abhors is sinful and tyrannical.
Thomas Jefferson said in 1802: “I believe that banking institutions are more dangerous to our liberties than standing armies. If the American people ever allow private banks to control the issue of their currency, first by inflation, then by deflation, the banks and corporations that will grow up around the banks will deprive the people of all property––until their children wake-up homeless on the continent their fathers conquered.”
-END-
A Book I Think You'll Enjoy
'Shine:
by
Don Johnson
Glenn Darcy, a likable farm boy from the hills of Tennessee, is driven by the whip of poverty into a lifestyle he despises. He confronts powerful enemies who want nothing more than to destroy him and his family. But what of the elfin, pale-haired girl from the ridge? She is a Martin, but is she an enemy? A friend? More than a friend?
As I Thought I Was Saying
As human beings we possess one of the most magnificent gifts it is possible to receive and that’s the power of speech — to be able to speak to one another — and to write things down. As Americans we are especially blessed to have had access since birth to the English language — surely the queen of all earthly languages.
The “mother tongue” has borrowed freely from other languages, thus enriching both its usefulness and its beauty. There is no other language in the world in which an idea can be described so precisely as in English. That is why it is the language of science, of business, and of the arts.
That is why we often see the spectacle of two Germans (or any other foreigners) speaking to one another in English to express an idea more precisely. English is the language of beauty and power — of Shakespeare, Keats and Shelley — of Milton and Hemmingway— of the most soaring thoughts man has ever conceived.
When England faced the darkest period of World War II, alone and almost defenseless, when the German war machine stood astride the whole of Europe, who could ever forget these ringing words: "Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duty, and so bear ourselves that should the British Empire and its Commonwealth endure for a thousand years, men will still say, ´This was their finest hour.´ " - Sir Winston Churchill, 18 June 1940, announcing the fall of France, and the start of the Battle of Britain.
How could the gratitude of the British people to the tiny band of fighter pilots who, often while severely injured, climbed into their craft and hurled themselves day after day against the overwhelming force of the German Luftwaffe, been better expressed than by the master of the English tongue, Sir Winston Churchill: "Never in the annals of human conflict have so many... owed so much... to so few."
John Stuart Mill used the English language to lay down a challenge for us all in these words: “War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling that thinks there is nothing for which he is willing to fight, that nothing is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.”
Patrick Henry could not have said it so well in any other language when he cried, “Is life so dear or peace so sweet as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God!”
These examples are a few reasons it is so distressing to see this magnificent language being misused daily by those whose business it is to know better. Writers, broadcasters, public officials, sales people — all of whom depend on words for their living... is it not inexcusable for them to distort the use of words often beyond recognition?
In my former life as an advertising agency creative director, I always thought the unforgivable sin of a copywriter was, by the misuse of words, to say something other than what he/she intended to say. Perhaps today it is less important since what they are trying to say doesn’t make any sense anyway.
But, since the English language gives us words with such precise meanings, why do we prefer to muck it up with words that are ambiguous. It is no excuse that permissive dictionaries say some meanings of a word are optional.
The word “fortuitous” is not, contrary to all too common usage, a synonym for “fortunate.” It means “according to chance.” We have the word “fortunate” already. There is no point is twisting the meaning of “fortuitous” to make it serve that purpose other than perhaps a form of snobbery that thinks it is a classier word than “fortunate.”
The same holds true for the word, “nauseous.” Despite the attempt of permissive dictionaries to allow it to be used in place of “nauseated,” it still means “something that makes one nauseated.” When one says “I’m nauseous,” it means you make people sick. It may be true, but I doubt that is what most people intend to say.
Another common misuse of the language today is the use of redundancies. JFK was probably the champion of such and politicians have blindly followed him into such usage, the most common of which is “at this point in time.” Take your choice, “at this point” or “at this time” — just, for heaven’s sake, not both!
Another common redundancy is “reason why,” as in “That is the reason why he went to town.” Better to again take your choice. “That is the reason he went to town.” or “That is why he went to town. Not both!
There are many other misuses some of which will set one’s teeth on edge. Last week a television announcer (whom you would suspect was reading words written by someone else) announced that a certain miscreant had been “hung.” I wonder if the writer
or the announcer had ever considered the person might have been “hanged,” after which he hung there a while.
And, how long does it take to get across the idea that “media” is plural for “medium?” Television is a medium — not a media. Television, newspapers and radio are media — not mediums.
A direct correlation has been shown between economic success and the ability to speak, write and understand standard English. If for no other reason that is why we should try to learn the proper use of our common language.
To spare the people at the other end of your conversations, whether spoken or written, the uncertain task of translating your output into understandable English, make the effort to think a little before you speak or write. Will my plea do any good over the long haul? I doubt it.
-END-
Romance Does A Fade
One of my favorite movies when I was much younger was Magnificent Obsession. It contained a scene in which, the woman, who was blind, was being escorted by a gallant swain on a tour of European nightlife when he remarked it was about time for them to be getting back to their respective rooms.
She said, “I hate to give up the mood, the night and the music.”
Such a line, uttered today, would probably elicit a chorus of hoots and giggles.
A more likely scene from today’s movie would have a couple, by the time they should have had a nodding acquaintance, fall on one another with mouths wide open like two hogs after an ear of corn.
And we wonder why so many young people today grow up with such a cynical view of love, marriage and human relationships. Unwed motherhood is relatively common. Domestic abuse requires a major part of our police force’s time and effort.
It took thousands of years for mankind to develop a sense of romance. We have virtually destroyed it in a single generation. The concept of “true love” which can last forever and overcome all obstacles is foreign to most modern day thought.
We should pity the young person who grows to adulthood without ever knowing the unique thrill of just being near that very special person. The electrical charge imparted by the inadvertent brushing of one’s hand against that of your special sweetheart is one of life’s most pleasurable happenings.
Romance is not the same as love, but it helps make love possible—to take root and grow into the indestructible force it has been shown to be over and over again.
In the movie, Second-Hand Lion, in answer to the question “Who do you think you are?” Uncle Hub tells a young hoodlum, “I’m Hub McCann and I have fought in many wars, killed many men, and loved one woman with a passion a flea like you will never know.”
Later, he lectures the young hoodlum and his friends on “What Every Boy Should Know About Becoming a Man.” We weren’t privileged to hear the entire speech, but I’m sure it must have included a section on the appreciation of romance for that is such an important part of true love—a magical part of our being if and when we find it.
We know his speech contained Hub's thoughts on beliefs: "Always believe in courage, virtue, and honor, that good always triumphs over evil, that true love never dies, because those are things worth believing in."
-END-
The Country Schoolhouse
I had an interesting conversation recently with a police chief. He wasn’t police chief of some municipality . . .he was police chief of a school. The school is a consolidated rural school in West Texas, which I attended from grade 5 until high school graduation.
I would not have recognized the school from its looks. It was many, many times larger than when I attended. State-of-the-art library and auditorium facilities were far different from the combination gymnasium and auditorium, which served us back beginning in 1939 when the school was first consolidated from a host of small schools scattered across the area.
Since I started a year before consolidation, I got one of the last firsthand looks at the old facilities.
One of the changes was reflected in the police chief’s remark that when you take God out of the schools, you’d better put the police in. He heads a staff of five officers whose entire beat consists of the school and its grounds.
Is he right? Well, unlike some schools in the area, he says there is no drug problem in the school. Student’s clothing can’t display their underwear. Disrespect of teachers and other students is not allowed. Teachers are back in control of the classroom. Rules requiring good grooming and proper dress are strictly enforced. Respect for others is part of the curriculum.
What does the community think about all this? The school’s enrollment doubles and triples almost yearly. Property values in the school district climb to dizzying heights even in a slow economy as more and more people vie to get their children into that school.
As I began . . . it’s a far cry from the school I attended back in ‘39. One of the last country schools before consolidation was a brick rectangle with two rooms and an anteroom. One room held fourth and fifth grades the other held the third grade, which was the largest class of the three.
The teacher was Mrs. Dawkins. She was also the superintendent, the principal, the custodian and security. She would teach one class while the other two had “study hall.”
Mrs. Dawkins was the first to arrive in the morning when she would start up the big coal-burning heater, which scorched those close to it and barely took the chill off those on the outer fringes.
The coal served another purpose. The top of the shed, which contained the coal supply, was also the detention hall for miscreants who were required to perch atop the roof until Mrs. Dawkins told them they could come down. Rubber sneakers, which would develop a powerful stench through continuous wearing, took their place on that roof to dry after being washed by their owners under the direction and scrutiny of Mrs. Dawkins.
I can’t say our school was drug-free at the time. I recall that Mrs. Dawkins busted (literally) four boys for smoking out behind the outdoor privy during recess. She did all this while also preparing multiple teams for competition in Interscholastic League. I recall that our teams acquitted themselves well in spelling, declamation, mathematics, polemics and one-act play.
She had her hands full with a student body, which included a number of “toughs” not accustomed to following directions willingly. When the Rural Electrification Program rolled through the area, they drilled 8-ft. deep holes to hold the poles for the electrical wires. An idea of fun for these guys was to chase down one of the smaller students and put him in one of the holes upside down. It was only when he didn’t show up for class after recess that we missed him, traced him down and rescued him.
We didn’t have many things in that early school, but we did have God. And we learned discipline. We started every day with a prayer, and Mrs. Dawkins took it from there with the discipline.
-END-
A Book I Think You'll Enjoy
Down In the Valley
by
Fern-Smith-Brown
A tale of romance, murder and deception unfolds as the masked and cloaked, Midnight Rider—identity unknown—tirelessly conducts rescues through the underground railroad. He is aided by the beautiful young widow, Alexandra Farnsworth, Hamlet, a handsome quadroon, and Lily Graye from Shantytown.