My mental decline must be picking up steam. Really! I can feel the wind flowing through my wavy grey hair even though I'm typing at a stationary desk. I can't see any dementia in front of me, but if it turns out that dementia looks like a computer screen, I'm about 0.27 seconds away from getting my face splattered like a bug on a windshield. I'm kind of bummed-out that the ride isn't more exhilarating.
Researchers at University College London just released the results of a study they conducted and concluded that brain functions and cognitive decline begin in humans around the age of 45. According to their study, folks lose the equivalent of 3.6% of their mental reasoning powers over a four-year span beginning at that age. Apparently, after passing 49 years of age the loss of mental power picks up steam. Since I'm turning 55 years old next month, you can understand why I'd be concerned. I'm not particularly fond of roller coasters. If the London researchers are correct my car has already passed over the top and the ride is about to get scary.
Mental decline worries me, but not for obvious reasons. I worry about the mundane stuff, like whether I'll forget that I'm a blazing liberal or start believing in Reaganomics and the "trickle down" theory. What if I fall off the deep end and start blogging that tax cuts for the wealthy produce jobs? Who will be around to save me? Certainly not my Republican wife! She'll be filling out MY absentee ballot card with a straight GOP vote. I know she will, because she knows that I'd have her voting straight Democrat if the shoes were reversed. Loving spouses do that sort of thing!
As long as I maintain the ability to recognize that I'm always in the right, life will be fine and dandy, but what if my capacity for impeccably sound reasoning should falter? What if I start thinking that I could err? I know that's almost unimaginable, but still.
I commented to my wife that there ought to be a pill that improves brain functioning in men. She dryly replied that there was – Viagra. See what I mean? Women!
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Friday, January 6, 2012
IRAQI SECTARIAN VIOLENCE
Ordinary Iraqi citizens are finding it difficult to sleep at night. That's because every morning they awake to news of yet another bombing! The American troops are gone, but sectarian violence and forces waging civil war for control of the country have replaced them. Yesterday, there was a car bombing. Today, it will be a mosque. Tomorrow, the target might be an open market or a police station. The stories are the same – scores of innocent folks dead, scores more wounded and civilians everywhere are wondering whether they'll be the next casualty. It's not a kind place to raise a family.
I keep thinking about the famous photo of George Bush on that aircraft carrier with the "Mission Accomplished" banner in the background. What did we accomplish in Iraq, other than toppling a brutal, loudmouth dictator and replacing his regime with another just as bad? Yeah, Saddam was evil, but at least his subjects knew where they stood and mosques didn't get bombed on a daily basis.
Before the war, Saddam and the Baathists of Iraq, a small part of the Sunni Muslim minority who ran the country with an iron hand, persecuted Iraq's Shiite Muslim majority. Now that the Shiites are in control, its leaders are carrying out what is essentially a plan of brutal political payback. Understandably, the Sunni's are retaliating too. Shiite – Sunni violence is nearly as old as Islam itself, so it's not as if today's events were not predictable. Unfortunately, it's the common folks in both religious groups who are paying the price.
When I read the daily news of murder and mayhem coming from Iraq, it bothers me that a people who only recently got their first taste of freedom, are now moving to enslave, and in many cases, annihilate their own fellow countrymen for nothing more than political pay-back.
We wouldn't do that here in America, would we?
I keep thinking about the famous photo of George Bush on that aircraft carrier with the "Mission Accomplished" banner in the background. What did we accomplish in Iraq, other than toppling a brutal, loudmouth dictator and replacing his regime with another just as bad? Yeah, Saddam was evil, but at least his subjects knew where they stood and mosques didn't get bombed on a daily basis.
Before the war, Saddam and the Baathists of Iraq, a small part of the Sunni Muslim minority who ran the country with an iron hand, persecuted Iraq's Shiite Muslim majority. Now that the Shiites are in control, its leaders are carrying out what is essentially a plan of brutal political payback. Understandably, the Sunni's are retaliating too. Shiite – Sunni violence is nearly as old as Islam itself, so it's not as if today's events were not predictable. Unfortunately, it's the common folks in both religious groups who are paying the price.
When I read the daily news of murder and mayhem coming from Iraq, it bothers me that a people who only recently got their first taste of freedom, are now moving to enslave, and in many cases, annihilate their own fellow countrymen for nothing more than political pay-back.
We wouldn't do that here in America, would we?
Thursday, January 5, 2012
BATTLING POVERTY
When I was a kid, I lived in a wooden three-bedroom city row house occupied by seven people. Whoever built that house forgot to install radiators. The house was heated, so to speak, by an old coal furnace in the basement and what heat it produced made its way up through the house via metal grates in the floor. Our family bathtub was the kind of tub college kids now use to ice down a keg of beer, and the water used to fill that tub was heated on the kitchen stove, one bucket at a time. When we kids took a bath, my older sister went first. She got the fresh water. I went next and then my three younger siblings followed suit. After the youngest was finished, the tub was finally emptied. We thought we were clean.
We battled poverty by collecting discarded soda bottles and turning them into the small "ma & pa" grocery store across the street for the two cent deposit, by selling bluebells and dandelions each spring for a nickel a bunch to our neighbors and later by selling candy that my dad got from a local chocolate factory. He took us to upscale neighborhoods outside the city and we sold it door-to-door.
When President Johnson started the so-called war on poverty, we'd get government surplus food items on occasion…flour, butter, lard, powdered milk, corn syrup, canned beef, spam and sometimes potatoes. It wasn't much, but we made do with anything edible. It never occurred to me that there were people in this country far better off than me who resented the fact that I was getting free food to eat. I was just happy for a meal.
When food stamps replaced the government surplus program, my dad was reluctant to sign up for them. It didn't make sense to me. Food was food. By then, I'd had enough milk potato soup and boiled pot-pie to last a lifetime, and the notion of getting store-bought food seemed like a good thing. Still, Dad balked at the idea until things got so tight that he had no other choice.
I remember accompanying him to the grocery store when the food stamps arrived. If felt like Christmas in July. We loaded up the cart, mostly with the same stuff we'd been getting from government surplus, but with extras like chicken and fresh fish and apples, and headed to the check-out area. When the cashier finished ringing up all the items we were purchasing she gave my dad the total bill amount and he started fumbling in his pocket for the bulky coupon book that contained the food stamps. When he finally retrieved the book from his pocket and started to hand it to the cashier, she immediately became indignant and announced in a rather loud voice, "Oh look, more customers with food stamps." Patrons and cashiers in the neighboring check-out aisles turned and stared at us, and my aforementioned glee was immediately reduced to shame and humiliation. My dad tossed the food stamps on the conveyor belt and we left the store empty-handed. We never set foot in that store again.
I hated that cashier. A part of me still does. She didn't know my hunger and she didn't care to know. She didn't acknowledge my pain, but she was more than satisfied to heap humiliation and scorn upon me for wanting nothing more than some food in my belly. That's why I still loathe sanctimonious politicians and people who begrudge those in poverty for getting free food to eat, or government assistance with housing and medical care. I hate callous disregard for the suffering of others. It saddens and sickens me at the same time.
Today, I'm sitting in my four-bedroom home in suburbia with two cars in the garage, four computers and three flat-screen TVs to entertain the three of us who reside here. We've got a Wii, several DVD players and more remotes than even a couch potato like me can handle. The refrigerator in the kitchen is filled; so is the food pantry and the extra refrigerator in the basement.
With all that at my fingertips, you'd figure that I could finally put my poverty-related hatred to rest, but I can't. It still haunts me. Instead of collecting glass soda bottles, I collect aluminum cans. Five bucks from the recyclers feels like five million. Instead of food stamps, I clip coupons, dreaming for those opportunities when I can skillfully turn a piece of paper into free food…and every once and awhile when that happens, a cashier will look at me and say, "Good job!" And all I can say is "Amen!"
We battled poverty by collecting discarded soda bottles and turning them into the small "ma & pa" grocery store across the street for the two cent deposit, by selling bluebells and dandelions each spring for a nickel a bunch to our neighbors and later by selling candy that my dad got from a local chocolate factory. He took us to upscale neighborhoods outside the city and we sold it door-to-door.
When President Johnson started the so-called war on poverty, we'd get government surplus food items on occasion…flour, butter, lard, powdered milk, corn syrup, canned beef, spam and sometimes potatoes. It wasn't much, but we made do with anything edible. It never occurred to me that there were people in this country far better off than me who resented the fact that I was getting free food to eat. I was just happy for a meal.
When food stamps replaced the government surplus program, my dad was reluctant to sign up for them. It didn't make sense to me. Food was food. By then, I'd had enough milk potato soup and boiled pot-pie to last a lifetime, and the notion of getting store-bought food seemed like a good thing. Still, Dad balked at the idea until things got so tight that he had no other choice.
I remember accompanying him to the grocery store when the food stamps arrived. If felt like Christmas in July. We loaded up the cart, mostly with the same stuff we'd been getting from government surplus, but with extras like chicken and fresh fish and apples, and headed to the check-out area. When the cashier finished ringing up all the items we were purchasing she gave my dad the total bill amount and he started fumbling in his pocket for the bulky coupon book that contained the food stamps. When he finally retrieved the book from his pocket and started to hand it to the cashier, she immediately became indignant and announced in a rather loud voice, "Oh look, more customers with food stamps." Patrons and cashiers in the neighboring check-out aisles turned and stared at us, and my aforementioned glee was immediately reduced to shame and humiliation. My dad tossed the food stamps on the conveyor belt and we left the store empty-handed. We never set foot in that store again.
I hated that cashier. A part of me still does. She didn't know my hunger and she didn't care to know. She didn't acknowledge my pain, but she was more than satisfied to heap humiliation and scorn upon me for wanting nothing more than some food in my belly. That's why I still loathe sanctimonious politicians and people who begrudge those in poverty for getting free food to eat, or government assistance with housing and medical care. I hate callous disregard for the suffering of others. It saddens and sickens me at the same time.
Today, I'm sitting in my four-bedroom home in suburbia with two cars in the garage, four computers and three flat-screen TVs to entertain the three of us who reside here. We've got a Wii, several DVD players and more remotes than even a couch potato like me can handle. The refrigerator in the kitchen is filled; so is the food pantry and the extra refrigerator in the basement.
With all that at my fingertips, you'd figure that I could finally put my poverty-related hatred to rest, but I can't. It still haunts me. Instead of collecting glass soda bottles, I collect aluminum cans. Five bucks from the recyclers feels like five million. Instead of food stamps, I clip coupons, dreaming for those opportunities when I can skillfully turn a piece of paper into free food…and every once and awhile when that happens, a cashier will look at me and say, "Good job!" And all I can say is "Amen!"
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
ONE EXPLANATION FOR LACKING COMPASSION
"Since many people strive for positions of power as compensations for needy egos, it is hardly surprising that the corridors of power are filled with people for who the compassionate responses will be short-circuited as a matter of course." ~ Karl Marlantes, author of What It Is Like To Go To War © 2011
I was trying to figure out an explanation for why the current bevy of Republican presidential candidates are so universally opposed to government spending on social programs designed to ameliorate hunger, homelessness, unemployment and the lack of access to medical care among tens of millions of poor American citizens. To me, their attitudes border on callous indifference to those who are suffering in this nation, but then I came across Karl Marlantes' above-referenced quote regarding widespread indifference in leadership to the plight of those who innocently suffer in war, and I recognized that the same can be said when it comes to the plight of the poor in general.
In American politics, compassion is not regarded as a virtue; instead, it is viewed as a character flaw. That explains a lot!
I was trying to figure out an explanation for why the current bevy of Republican presidential candidates are so universally opposed to government spending on social programs designed to ameliorate hunger, homelessness, unemployment and the lack of access to medical care among tens of millions of poor American citizens. To me, their attitudes border on callous indifference to those who are suffering in this nation, but then I came across Karl Marlantes' above-referenced quote regarding widespread indifference in leadership to the plight of those who innocently suffer in war, and I recognized that the same can be said when it comes to the plight of the poor in general.
In American politics, compassion is not regarded as a virtue; instead, it is viewed as a character flaw. That explains a lot!
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
MARGARET ANDERSON - CASUALTY OF WAR
Margaret Anderson was an American casualty of the war in Iraq, a war she never signed up to fight. You won't find her listed among the war dead statistics kept by the Pentagon, but she was a war casualty nonetheless, and it behooves us all to remember her sacrifice and why she died.
Margaret was a park ranger assigned to the Mount Rainier National Park in the state of Washington. Her job included standard park ranger duties as well as law enforcement throughout the national park. She was armed. She recognized the dangers associated with her position, and by all accounts, she was well-liked and carried out her duties in a competent and professional manner.
On New Year's Day, the war that started over five thousand miles from Margaret Anderson's home came to America's shore, to the national park where Margaret worked, to the road where Margaret had set up a roadblock, to the vehicle where Margaret breathed her final breaths, and it turned her into a statistic - another casualty of war. The war came to Margaret in the form of a twenty-four year old man, Benjamin Colton Barnes an Iraqi war veteran who still carried the war with him. Barnes suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, suicidal ideations and probably fear, stemming from having shot four people near Seattle earlier that day. Barnes knew the police were searching for him and Mount Rainier National Park was the place he chose to attempt to avoid being captured. That is where Barnes encountered resistance (a roadblock) set up by a force he perceived as an enemy (Ranger Margaret Anderson) and he responded to that perceived enemy as soldiers of war are trained to do, by using deadly force.
I am not suggesting that Barnes' actions were justified in any sense of that word. I am not suggesting that Margaret Anderson was anything but an honorable woman performing her civic and patriotic duty. What I am suggesting is that Benjamin Colton Barnes never left the Iraq war in Iraq. He brought it home with him, continued fighting it within himself and never managed to bring it under control. As a result, Margaret Anderson became another casualty.
Our politicians and military leaders may choose to overlook or downplay the scars left on combat veterans by post-traumatic stress disorder, but until proper attention is given to its prevalence among our soldiers returning from war, casualties like Margaret Anderson will continue to occur.
Margaret was a park ranger assigned to the Mount Rainier National Park in the state of Washington. Her job included standard park ranger duties as well as law enforcement throughout the national park. She was armed. She recognized the dangers associated with her position, and by all accounts, she was well-liked and carried out her duties in a competent and professional manner.
On New Year's Day, the war that started over five thousand miles from Margaret Anderson's home came to America's shore, to the national park where Margaret worked, to the road where Margaret had set up a roadblock, to the vehicle where Margaret breathed her final breaths, and it turned her into a statistic - another casualty of war. The war came to Margaret in the form of a twenty-four year old man, Benjamin Colton Barnes an Iraqi war veteran who still carried the war with him. Barnes suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, suicidal ideations and probably fear, stemming from having shot four people near Seattle earlier that day. Barnes knew the police were searching for him and Mount Rainier National Park was the place he chose to attempt to avoid being captured. That is where Barnes encountered resistance (a roadblock) set up by a force he perceived as an enemy (Ranger Margaret Anderson) and he responded to that perceived enemy as soldiers of war are trained to do, by using deadly force.
I am not suggesting that Barnes' actions were justified in any sense of that word. I am not suggesting that Margaret Anderson was anything but an honorable woman performing her civic and patriotic duty. What I am suggesting is that Benjamin Colton Barnes never left the Iraq war in Iraq. He brought it home with him, continued fighting it within himself and never managed to bring it under control. As a result, Margaret Anderson became another casualty.
Our politicians and military leaders may choose to overlook or downplay the scars left on combat veterans by post-traumatic stress disorder, but until proper attention is given to its prevalence among our soldiers returning from war, casualties like Margaret Anderson will continue to occur.
Monday, January 2, 2012
MY CAMPAIGN IS DOOMED FROM THE START
Last week, I mentioned to my wife, a loyal Republican that I was considering a run for President of the United States. She didn't think it was a good idea and said so. Besides the lack of friends willing to donate the tens of millions of dollars necessary to wage a presidential campaign, she thought my closet full of skeletons was a non-starter and the fact that I'm a more liberal Democrat than President Obama would mean that I couldn't even carry my home district. In my heart of hearts I know she's right, but still, it pains me to think that my own neighbors wouldn't consider a native son, albeit an insanely liberal one, over some dimwitted G.O.P. politician who claims to understand the plight of people who reside in York County, but doesn't really have a clue. After all, everybody knows that to truly understand this county, you have to have been born and raised here, which I have been, and all the Republican presidential contenders have not. You'd think that would give me a leg up on the competition. Apparently not!
Sunday, January 1, 2012
MY HOPES FOR 2012
I hope those who hunger will find food and those who are sick will find medical care they need. I hope the homeless will find shelter, the lonely will find friendship and those who are torn with grief will find solace in the hearts. I hope greed and selfishness give way to kindness and compassion for others. I hope arrogance is replaced with humility and loathing with respect. I hope compromise regains its good name and politicians come to recognize that the common good entails consideration of opposing viewpoints. I hope the spirit of this past Christmas lasts more than twelve days.
I hope my wife continues to smile and my children continue being the joy that they are. I hope my friends prosper and my colleagues find satisfaction in their working endeavors. I hope my heart holds out this year, and all I do and say will do credit to the effort it makes to keep me going. If hope springs eternal, I hope 2012 is just the beginning.
I hope my wife continues to smile and my children continue being the joy that they are. I hope my friends prosper and my colleagues find satisfaction in their working endeavors. I hope my heart holds out this year, and all I do and say will do credit to the effort it makes to keep me going. If hope springs eternal, I hope 2012 is just the beginning.
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