three hundred sixty nine

THE MOMENT EVERYTHING CHANGED

It is Easter morning 2023, Christians around the world are attempting to get their minds around an event that changed everything. 

We all share this short moment in time. People die and we never see them again. They are born, hopefully live a long life then they die. Whatever they did may or may not matter. They will be remembered or completely forgotten. They may leave children, wealth, inventions, great literature, music, art and a good reputation, or they may leave destruction, debt and great shame.

The one question that haunts us all, is this all there is? Many try to rationalize, minimize or ignore this age old nagging question but it never completely goes away.

There was a well documented event on this day. A man died and is alive again. Not a spirit but a walking talking eating being. Witnesses who had nothing to gain but everything to lose in this life told us this happened. They faced shame, ridicule, imprisonment, torture and died horrible deaths to bare witness to what they have seen.

The man they knew and loved, at the moment he needed them most, they abandoned him. He was beaten, shamed and brutally killed. He was dead for three days and after three days he is alive again. 

Hundreds saw him, touched him, talked with him and ate with him.  The things he had been telling them came true. Their eyes were opened and they understood he was the one the profits were talking about.

The good news of Jesus is not only about living a successful life it is more. He says we can do the same thing he did and live beyond this life. So in the grand scheme of things that is a big deal. 

This blog post will not change anyones mind about anything. I can't open a heart or mind, I can just tell you about my own hope. I'm 71 years old and am relying on what God promised me. I have long ago moved past any question about his existence. I now rely on the fact that he is faithful to his words. 

I accept the reality that I'm going to eventually die. I hope I don't leave too soon or leave too much wreckage. I'm trying to clean up as much of that as I can. I would like to think a few people will miss me and I'll live on in their memories. 

As I contemplate leaving this dimension this promise is something I rely on more and more. I'm not certain what it will be like and I don't waste much time wondering I just trust it will be good. 

My hope is that everyone takes a sober look at what I have found and finds comfort in this promise too.

There have been dark times when I was exhausted with living and wished for it to stop but even in those moments a small voice told me there was something more. At first I was given the strength to endure life, then embrace it and finally enjoy it, but then I found that I can live my life without fear.

I know this subject gets a reaction. Many don't want to think about death and what might be beyond. 

The one thing I have right was consider the possibility that any of this was true. From the moment I found this until now I searched, tested, questioned and doubted my way to believing. I didn't want to waste my life on some weird cult so I continuously beat it up and try to prove it wrong. After doing this for 43 years I have decided it is true.

This life after death thing is a big deal but sadly it often gets as much attention as the rinse and repeat instructions on a shampoo bottle. 

I hold onto this promise tighter and tighter every day. My life will not end at physical death it will only be a beginning. 

Knock, crack open the door, entertain the possibility, get curious or get angry and try to prove it wrong. Whatever you do, don't turn away. There is an answer to that nagging question.

three hundred sixty eight

 AMUSEMENT PARK ADVENTURES

If you were a kid in a small town in Ohio you might see Disneyland on television but because of the distance and cost you had no hope of ever going there. The idea of going on a family vacation to someplace interesting to a fifth grader was nearly impossible. Instead we created our own amusement park with what we had around us.

The city was founded in 1806 so the sewer system was functioning but not modern. We had a large opening to the storm sewer system close to our house. We would venture in through the spider webs past the reach of the light. We were motivated by the power of a dare. 

One day five of us met at the opening with flashlights and candles. We were going to see how far we could go. Battery technology was poor in those days so they only worked for the trip in. Candles were useless because our matches got wet so the trip back was going to be scary. 

Two brothers headed back and after issuing threats not to tell, three of us kept going. We made it to Ellsworth avenue several hundred yards from the opening where we went in.

Luckily it had storm drains that let in some light. As long as we could see light our eyes had adjusted to the darkness so we could see enough to keep going. 

The drains were not large enough to crawl through and signaling for help was out of the question. Having the police involved could not happen because our parents would be informed so we pressed on. 

After several hundred more yards we made it to another entrance we knew about. It was located behind a factory that had high fences and security guards. We got there but the entrance had bars covering it.

With wet matches, dead flashlights, wet clothes and shoes we started heading back. The darkness didn't bother me but the occasional waist deep hole filled with the unknown was my problem. Visions of rats, bats, spiders, snakes and leeches filled or thoughts. We went from trying to scare each other to trying to hide our fears. 

It took a long time to finally reach the exit. As we approached our toughness and bravery came back but when we finally made it out we could barely hide our relief. 

I got home replaced my fathers flashlight dead batteries and all and tried to sneak into the house for a change of clothes. My mother didn't see me but she certainly smelled me. 

I had a story but she didn't want to hear it. For some strange reason none of us got in any trouble. Years later I hear my older brother by seven years, talking with his friends reminiscing about their sewer adventure. I felt a secret pride when I heard they didn't get as far as we did.

It wasn't Disneyland and I'm glad we didn't find any Mickey Rats, but it was one amazing adventure and a perfect place for boys to tell turd jokes.

three hundred sixty seven

I WAS A CHILD LABOR FARM WORKER

Every spring when the school year finished we had a long three month summer ahead of us. As the final bell rang it was like being released from prison. No report cards or teachers to worry about and nothing but play and adventure ahead of us.

Our parents didn't arrange play dates or child care. The neighborhood parents kept an eye on all of us. They would give us water, felt free to scold us and at times discipline us. Mostly we were completely unsupervised until dark. We took time outs to sneak a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or whatever we could find unguarded in the kitchen. We only bothered parents if an injury required a dentist or stitches.  

One thing we did need was our own money because there was no candy anywhere other then the neighborhood store. We collected pop bottles, raked leaves, pulled weeds and cleaned up trash. A run to the local store became an opportunity to keep the change, or steal what ever we were sent for and keep the money. 

I could not steal things because my one attempt to steal candy cured me, well for awhile. On a trip to the A&P with my mother I boosted what I thought was a bar of chocolate. I tried to eat it but it was bitter and disgusting. It was dark cooking chocolate, I was sure God took all of the sweet out because it was stolen.  

The local news paper would post ads for strawberry pickers. There were several farmers who had good sized strawberry fields that needed picked. They had their own roadside markets and supplied the area stores. Because strawberries ripen fairly quickly it was necessary to hire part time workers.

The season was only a couple weeks long so every kid was anxious to make as much money as possible. They would meet us at 7 am in front of the Masonic Temple, fill their pickup trucks with kids and head for their farms. No parents permission slips or age requirements, just show up. Our parents only knew we were picking strawberries and would be back around three o'clock.

No seat belts or guard rails, the older kids would stand up looking forward over the roof. The farmer would yell at us to sit down with the threat of making us walk.

We  would get in the fields while the dew was still on the plants and pick until early afternoon. They didn't want to feed us but they did give us water, usually out of a garden hose.

Everyone was on their best behavior the first few days, we were there to make money. They gave you a card with your name on it and every time you picked a rack that was six quarts, you got one punch. They complained if they weren't piled high. I saw older boys steal racks off of younger boys, usually a younger brother and get their own card punched. 

Usually the farmer would yell at kids that weren't picking all of the ride strawberries in the row. He would warn us about eating any strawberries or we would be fired. No one could resist eating a few.

 

Like most kids after the third or fourth day we got tired of picking. The crews got smaller but a lot of kids got fired. I got fired almost every summer. Once I got caught having a strawberry fight, I hit the farmer in the back of the head. I had made a strategic error I was the only one picking the row behind him. He said "boy, go sit by the truck" I was done for that season. 

The next day if I picked I just went to a different farm. By the following year we grew enough they didn't recognize us but this farmer remembered me, I must have made an impression. 

The punch they used was not the standard round hole, they were different shapes and used a different one each day. One kid brought a whole set of the same punch tools that his father had. A couple extra punches may have worked but he went crazy and filled the whole card by ten o'clock then asked for another card, busted.

Fresh Ohio strawberries are awesome. Most strawberries are shipped in from who knows where. Fresh vine ripened strawberries grown in rich cow manure fertilized soil are the best. 

Today the same farms are all pick your own. Parents worry more today and have a habit of suing. In my opinion kids are missing out on a valuable experience. Some of the farmers were kind and very patient but most just wanted their strawberries picked. They would sound mean to some kids and I saw a few kids cry. They weren't being unfair or mean it was usually the kid's first real job. 

Doing a half hearted job of pulling weeds, raking leaves or shoveling snow would get you a quarter and a cookie from the nice old couple in our neighborhood, but farmers were paying for real work. That was a shock to some kids. Thankfully my dad gave me a head start on that one.  

I don't remember any kids getting hurt picking strawberries we could accomplish that on our own. One kid's little brother fell out of the truck at a stop light. He didn't get hurt until he got back in the truck and his brother punched him for falling out.

If you picked a lot you could make as much as thirty dollars or more. That would keep you in candy, baseball cards, soda pop and maybe buy a baseball or football. For a few hours we felt rich until our parents made us put it in the bank. 

Eventually summers would end and we had to wear shirts and shoes again. Long boring school days and snow but we did have a habit of finding mischief.

three hundred sixty six

 OLD HIPPIES

I graduated from High School in 1969 during the hippie movement. The main goal of most hippies was music, mind expanding drugs, free love, flower power and rebelling against "the man". In the 60's and 70's I bought into the peace and love, sampled the drugs but I completely struck out on the free love, not that I wasn't trying. I did immerse myself in all of the amazing music especially Motown. I did question the war, questioned authority, believed in the absolute freedom of speech and completely bought into loving everyone. 

The politically minded hippies who were nicknamed "Yippies" constantly quoted Karl Marx, Chairman Mao and Che Guevara. The SDS, Weathermen and Winter Soldiers were active on the Kent State campus and Mother Jones Magazine was handed out everywhere. I was taking a couple classes at the Salem branch so I had a student ID to get on campus. 

I didn't know who these people were so I did some research. I may not have been a good student but I knew how to ask questions. I discovered Mao and Guevara were mass murderers but I wasn't sure about Karl Marx. 

He justified our youthful feelings of entitlement and gave us rich "fat cats" to blame for our problems. They said the rich were taking advantage of the little people by steeling their wealth and they didn't pay their fair share of taxes to the government, sound familiar? 

When I was young I grew a resentment toward wealthy people and assumed they were all crooks, but then I had the pleasure of spending time with Orland Denny. Orland, an extremely wealthy business and land owner, who may have been one of the wealthiest men in the state. He owned 49% of dozens of large and small local businesses. He invested in the ability of average hard working people with good ideas and a solid plan. He silently advised them financially but never micromanaged their business. He invested in land an property but mostly he invested in people. 

He was a kind and generous man but always out of the public eye. He had anonymously put hundreds or more young men and women through college and trade school. Ten years after he passed away his long time secretary went public about his generosity. Knowing Orland he would not be happy with this disclosure.

I talked with him dozens of times. He was always smiling, always had time to talk and was usually dressed in newly pressed Dickie work clothes and necktie. His work truck was a one owner dark blue 1952 Dodge step side pickup. His everyday driver was a dark blue four door Chrysler K-car, standard shift, no rugs, no radio, no air conditioning, black wall tires and caps because he was a devoted Mennonite. His house was a modest two story brick home on his small family farm. 

His pride and joy was a restored 1940 John Deer tractor. He used it to cut his large lawn. As you drove by his house you could see him pulling a team of reel mowers behind that underpowered antique tractor. Cover alls, a well worn straw hat and his usual big smile. 

He waved at every car that passed by. When his kids were still living at home the whole family would smile and wave. Before I ever got to meet Orland I knew him as the guy who smiles and waves at everyone. I can't imagine how many bad days he changed with that simple gesture, he always made me smile and wave back. I think people took a detour to drive past his house just to get a wave. I know I did more than once.

I eventually got the chance to know him. One day at lunch in the local diner he explained capitalism, free markets and free enterprise to me in a way I could understand. He was our local Milton Friedman. He completely changed my attitude toward wealthy people. Instead of resenting and judging wealthy people I learned to admire the character of people who could build wealth and keep it in perspective. 

I addressed my prejudice for people with wealth and started looking at the person. Today we are bombarded with endless negative stories about the greedy rich. Ironically we hear these stories from rich people. Sure we have dishonest and greedy rich people but we also have dishonest and greedy poor people. Simply being poor doesn't make you virtuous. We need more Orland Dennys in our world. I believe there are more then we know about, they just do it out of the spotlight.

I had a selective service card in my wallet but I never thought about demonstrating against the war. Like most of my friends we were confused about it so we were just trying to understand it. It seemed to most of us we were fighting in the wrong country with one hand tied behind our back.

The demonstrations were self centered because it really had nothing to do with the actual war, it was all about the draft. Many of the demonstrations were focused on the soldiers which was not fair to those who made a different choice. I was disgusted by the treatment of our veterans and the hypocrisy so that was a large part of why I abandoned the hippie movement.

We were young, idealistic and a bit naive as to how the world works. The worst of us were arrogant and incapable of learning, bad traits for anyone.

Old hippies drive me nuts especially the ones who claim they were back stage at Woodstock and got stoned with Hendrix or Jerry. If they were actually there they most likely would not remember. I had friends that got to Woodstock on the third day but I was 400 miles away working in a grocery store.

I've seen old hippies at concerts dancing and spinning to gray haired and equally aging rock stars. I cringe because they might break a hip. I've seen them at farmer's markets selling tie dyed clothing, hand made peace symbol jewelry, heirloom tomatoes and rare organic blue Russian kale. I know I should accept their chosen lifestyle but I'm with Grace Slick, there is a time for aging rock stars and groupies to get off of the stage and work on their golf game. If you are into long hair at 70 it's not just a fad, I can respect that.

In the early 70's I had hair long enough for a ponytail, for about a week. I grew it to piss off my father but it wasn't as fun as I thought, he didn't really care. I went back to my usual buzz cut because I hate taking care of long hair. I thought long hair was all about the freedom to wear our hair the way we wanted but I soon learned it was just a different required uniform.

My friends didn't trust me because of my short hair, they called me a sell out and a "narc". That was the last straw, I have kept my hair the way I like it ever since. I have now shaved my head for the past 31 years because I love the way bald feels. Bald has gone in and out of fashion a half dozen times but I just keep on shaving because I like it.

I also started wearing the clothes I liked and tried my best to avoid the ever evolving latest fashion fad. Sure I still listen to the music I grew up with because it was the best music ever. I did the regular job thing for around 60 years and have tried my best in spite of my limited education to be a well informed citizen.

One thing that has never changed is deep inside I'm still that 60's idealistic rebel. I believe in freedom and liberty but I know it has never been free. My father and brother fought for this freedom I admire their bravery. Fighting to stop oppression is a noble cause but unfortunately the vast majority of our leaders are far from the bullets, they can't relate to or value the sacrifice of the average soldier. They make lofty speeches but they get distracted by pride, power and poll numbers.

America is more then a place or country, it is an idea. Hippies embraced the freedom but shirked the individual responsibility. Questioning authority is a good thing but rebelling just to rebel is foolish. The hippies grew older and many are now in positions of power. A few are still selling the same Marxist crap and the unbridled freedom foolishness. 

They now have no problem twisting the law and abusing power. As someone who grew up through the fake outrage about this behavior it is hard to listen to any of them speak. Nothing will change until the so called enlightened free thinkers grow up or pass on.

They say everything eventually turns into high school, I think they are right. Youth will always rebel, the boys during the hippie movement grew their hair long as a statement, today they have just added heels and makeup. 

Most hippies made their point and then moved on, I think todays youth will too.

three hundred sixty five

DEAN, MY UNLIKELY MENTOR

This picture looks like my friend Dean and brings back memories. The cold bite of refrigeration, the smell of fresh meat, sawdust and the strong smell of Maxwell House coffee in the 30 cup percolator. Dean added the additional aroma of filterless Pall Mall cigarettes, stale Miller beer and Wild turkey. He was my meat cutting mentor and friend.

I was in High School when I started an apprenticeship at a local grocery store called Persky's. It was a locally owned chain of five full sized stores and a dozen early convenience stores. Dean came from a large religious family. They owned a farm near Canton Ohio. In the 1930's it became one of the early meat processors in the area. They began slaughtering and processing local live stock then expanded to smoked meats, lunch meats and sausage products. Like most local farms in those days the entire family worked so Dean was nine years old when he started working in the family slaughterhouse hog kill shaving hogs. 

He was the family black sheep because of his love for fast cars, motorcycles, alcohol and a rough lifestyle. I heard plenty of stories over the years but mostly from other people. When I asked him he would just smile and change the subject. The local Sheriff did arrest him at work one day, I'm still not sure why. Things like that were not my business, I never asked and he never said.

Because of his lifestyle he didn't get involved in running the business. Instead he stayed on the kill floor and became a legend as a skinner. In those days the high demand for leather made cattle hides extremely valuable. 90% of producing a grade "A" hide with no holes or thin spots relied on the skill of the skinner. Eventually automation took over and the need for this skill vanished overnight. Dean was known locally as the best there ever was.

Eventually the business was forced to close because of changing regulations so Dean, after 30 years in the slaughterhouse became a grocery store meat cutter. Dean was skilled at sharpening and keeping a knife edge, he was ambidextrous and was the master of the efficiency of movement. He taught me these skills, except for being ambidextrous but he taught me a few things that weren't as helpful.

The meat industry was a drinking industry so there was a whisky bottle in every cooler. Many of us came to work hung over and almost everyone drank their lunch. Using equipment specifically designed to cut off hands and fingers after a shots and beers lunch was an everyday thing. I learned to begin my day with strong black coffee, a few filterless Lucky Strike cigarettes and a 7 AM snort of Wild Turkey.

The apprenticeship was old school, I got all of the crap jobs. I unloaded all of the trucks, including the swinging beef, did all the trim, cleaned all of the equipment and caught the blame for everything that went wrong. I was shown no mercy, I got harassed and hazed from the moment I got there to the moment I left. I could have quit but I learned to give as good as I got, I became part of a crew that over the years became closer then most families. In those days this rough and tumble ritual was an endearing guy thing. Being mentored by Dean wasn't all bad, he taught me a few valuable life lessons. 

At that time everything was processed in house. We received our beef in quarters, whole carcass lamb and veal, pork loins and shoulders, cut all of our chickens and made all of our grinds and sausages. There were large crews and plenty of work.

Being a meat cutter was never my dream job, I was a bag boy with a punk attitude hired before the holidays. They were about to lay me off when they opened up an apprenticeship in several of their stores. I was cleaning the meat department and they thought I was doing a good job so I was selected. I had just turned seventeen. 

At first I enjoyed the job but it soon became a boring miserable job. It did allow me to have a new car and eventually rent my own apartment. I got married and when the job market narrowed I had fewer and fewer options. For several reasons I became stuck doing the same mindless and miserable job for almost forty years. Even though I was stuck I did my job well and earned my money. 

My attitude about my work was bolstered by what Martin Luther King Jr said: "No work is insignificant. All labor that uplifts humanity has dignity and importance and should be undertaken with painstaking excellence." I also watched this played out by the men and women I worked with and my parents.

There were large windows that ran the length of our self serve counter. As the customers shopped they could watch us work. At first it made me self conscious but Dean told be that I had to decide who was watching who. He said "We aren't in the fish tank, they are". So from that day on I was no longer in the fish tank. This actually changes how I enter a room today, I rarely feel self conscious. I'm even comfortable in front of crowds, except when I have to read but that’s another story.

Locally the steel mills were closing along with the steel related industries. There was a massive movement to the sunbelt for jobs. The grocery business suffered severely because of the loss of customers. Unemployment was over 20% so if you had a job you had to keep it. 

There were thousands out of work willing to take your job. Vietnam veterans were returning, our national economy was inflated which made our local economy even worse. During the ten years I worked in the same Perskey building it was owned by five different companies. Dozens of management people with their different management styles came in but soon left with all of their crap in a cardboard box. We went through two years of bankruptcy that ended in the store closing.

Dean got me through those years by telling me during the reign of a particularly tyrannical owner. He said "These people only have the power you give them, suit up and show up, do a days work but don't kiss their ass. You're smart you'll get another job, how you look at yourself in the mirror in twenty years is what matters." That piece of wisdom changed my life.

The last thing he told me was to stay away from money, keys and bring your lunch, that's what they use to fire people. I watched dozens of cashiers, managers, department heads and employees fired for these.  I didn't bring my lunch but I was extremely cautious about anything I touched. 

Dean had a few drunk driving tickets, one was thirty days in county jail. He had a heart attack, had half of his stomach removed, got divorced and remarried his wife again for the third time. 

We became good friends but over the years we lost touch. The last time I saw Dean was in Arizona. I saw him walk past my meat case. He was visiting a daughter who had moved to Arizona. We had lunch, by then I was sober but Dean in his late seventies had this usual three beer lunch. 

I never heard what happened to Dean, if he is alive he would be in his late nineties, but I won't count him out. Dean is the toughest man I have ever met. Sure I learned some really bad things but I learned some valuable lessons. He toughened me up and helped me to be my own man. 

three hundred sixty four

CARTOON MEDIA

Everyday Wile E. Coyote almost gets the Road Runner. This is how the constitutionally protected forth estate watchdog for the people media fills the news cycle. 

Their communication network can reach to all corners of the world. With their amazing technology, massive studios and highly paid producers and personalities their quality HD broadcasts are second to none. Their signals bounce through satellites, flash through the high speed internet at the speed of light into our smartphones, laptops, iPads and 72 inch flat screen televisions. 

Sadly our so called news has turned into twenty four hour entertainment and propaganda. Substantive events that have the potential to effect our nations future and security are by design selectively ignored. The need to control information is not new, since the first newspaper, telegraph, radio or television broadcast powerful people have tried to control and use this power to manipulate the thoughts and opinions of the masses. 

The information that we do get is superficial and devoid of facts. Debate has been quashed, rude and shallow insults are common and a willful dumbing down of their audience is their longterm goal. Today the average middle school lunch room is having a more substantive conversation. 

Their claim of informing the public is a joke, petty sniping, edited clips and a funny look make careers, division, incitement and name calling are the new normal.

Along came the internet and social media. The early days of user friendly websites and blogs brought a wave of new citizen journalists. Some grew large audiences but most remained small. The currency amongst the early bloggers was truth. Sighting false information or unsupported fact would result in rebuke by the other bloggers and their readers. We wanted the truth because we knew we weren't getting it from most major news outlets. 

Eventually the powers that be saw these uncontrolled voices as a threat. They first tried to ignore, discredit and belittle them. They demonize their motives and finally tried to limit their access to servers, hide them in search results or completely censor them. 

Most of the public did not know about these efforts, some knew by experience but others fully supported their silencing. It has been documented that our government had a hand in these efforts to selectively censor its opponents but it is a story that has had little if any news coverage. J Edgar Hoover made lists, Nixon only thought about using the IRS against his enemies but now government is actually doing it with the IRS, FBI, DOJ and more. Ironically after fifty years only tricky Dick and J Edgar Hoover gets any coverage.

It has been years since I have watched a major network news broadcast. Most cable news commentary programs can rob a viewer of vital IQ points. 

They do not inform or tell the complete story, they tell "a" story. No background, context or follow up question just a snarky comment, selective sound bite or emotional rant. Their audiences have dwindled down to their true believers. Accusing the other side of everything wrong and crediting their side with absolute brilliance and coolness.

I refuse to waste a minute of my time wondering what a Hollywood celebrity thinks, any victim group representative’s opinion and the legal opinion of a random former prosecutor who is probably too dumb to get out of jury duty.

I know I'm older and opinionated but I do know how to research background, context and ask a follow up question. Wanting to know what the truth is is a curse I have to live with. Maybe one day it will become a fad again. 

three hundred sixty three

I'M A VICTIM VOTE FOR ME! 

(OR YOU'RE A BIGOT)

 First of all there is definitely crime, discrimination, prejudice, hatred and abuse. The subjects of these criminal and immoral acts are certainly victims. Law enforcement, management and our legal system are set in place to deal with these offenses but unfortunately many fall through the cracks. 

There are therapists, support groups and spiritual councilors to help the victims of these traumas. My heart goes out to anyone who has experienced crime, cruelty, abuse or unfairness.

A person who has been victimized suffers physical, mental and emotional damage. This damage will effect them through their lives to one degree on another. The question is do they perceive themselves as a person who has been victimized or do they identify as a perpetual victim? 

Most credible therapists will help a person process their traumas and move on to live a happy productive life. This may take many years but ignoring this process leaves them damaged. Without help many get stuck in permanent victim status and live a resentful and fearful life seeking pity, revenge or worse.

Unfortunately there are some so called friends, therapists, support groups, counselors and spiritual leaders who do the opposite and encourage victims to continue to wallow in their victimhood. Instead of pointing out the need to heal and move past their trauma they support their feelings and leave them in a very unhealthy place. In spite of their good intentions they victimize their subjects again. 

A few counselors with their own issues use this control to stoke bitterness and hatred and turn them into super victims. Victims find relief in this type of therapy because it justifies narcissism. They learn to enjoy the power of victim status. They are always morally right, they are not responsible or accountable and forever entitled to sympathy. 

We now have several camps. The victim who earnestly seeks healing, finds good council and works hard to move past their traumas. The earnest victim who is misled by counsel, they may feel better but they remain damaged. And there are many who fully embrace the narcissistic power of being angry perpetual victims. 

Now that I have tip toed through the mine field of saying anything about victims I'll get to the point. 

Today there are political movements using real victims and manufactured victims. Real victims are used as props. They say they care but these victims are more useful if they remain unhealed. They want them angry and encourage them to hate the people they point to as the source for their problems.

There are manufactured victims, these are people or groups who falsely seek the power of victimhood. They use this victim status as a shield or wild card. Any criticism or disagreement is labeled as an attack. Many hide behind actual victims and use them as spokesmen.

An offense is based on how things are perceived not the actual words or acts. Actions and words can be hurtful and should be policed but feelings now determine guilt. No facts are needed just a mood or opinion.

It is a mine field should I smile, say hello, hold a door, offer a seat, give a compliment or have an opinion? Should I just ignore everyone and stay silent? Do I risk using the wrong pronoun and do I have the wrong genitalia? It is a crap shoot that hinges entirely on how we are perceived.

I'm not seeking sympathy I just want clarity. The unwritten rules are ever evolving and applied retroactively. What was correct this morning can by noon be a racial slur. It is like changing all of the speed limits and then issuing tickets for speeding five years ago. 

Victim power has shut down most debate. If feelings and fears override laws, rules and common sense there is no safe place to have them. Hate speech has been redefined as speech that triggers.  

 

This tactic has slowly taken over leadership. A decade or so ago electing someone who identifies as a victim to any leadership post would be out of the question but now it is a virtue and selling point. 

In the nineties I began to notice that things were changing. At that time victims were to be helped not used. A person who came up the hard way moving beyond their troubled childhood, economic hardships, bullying, hatred, prejudice and tragedy to become a wise strong willed and qualified leader was valued. 

Today these success stories are not valued and sometimes criticized. If they commit the sin of encouraging victims to embrace personal responsibility and hard work to move beyond their limitations. They are labeled as mean, heartless, sellouts or worse.

Like everyone I faced an unfair world. I could explore the measuring game of unfairness and I'm certain others had it better or worse but my point is I was never encouraged to lay down and quit. In fact I had a few kicks in the ass and hard consequences for my poor choices. Self-centeredness, laziness, complaining, blaming and demanding attention was still looked at as shameful. I was expected to get up every morning and carry my own weight. 

Sure there were victims in my generation. They needed understanding and help. The council they received was focused on moving toward healing. There were others who embraced their victimhood and dropped out. Generations later this has started to change because all shame is gone. 

Yes I'm complaining but mostly I'm feeling sorry for our kids. What do they look forward to? The religion of global warming, unprotected gun free schools, pandemic nightmare, mind controlling social media, lethal drugs, looming World War III, student debt, gender confusion, unstable job market and an ever widening racial divide and indoctrination. 

At a time when a call for personal responsiblity is needed more then ever there is a deafening silence. Political speeches and debates rarely use any of this language. However the calls to embrace victimhood are loud, clear and angry. Narcissism, entitlement and taking it to the streets is encouraged. 

All I had was a nuclear Cold War, Vietnam, an imminent ice age, drugs, muscle cars and a poor economy, but we did have responsible adults that refused to coddle us. Yes there were things that needed to be addressed but perpetual victimhood was not encouraged. Overcoming hardship and adversity was a virtue as it should be today.

I'm not discouraged, there are some amazing young people who have these same values. They still perceive me as an old guy but they do have a handle on life and reject taking the easy way out. I admire them, they give me hope for our future. I'm middle aged if I live to be 140 so the future is theirs. 

As I leave this world to them a backpacking rule for campsites comes to mind. Always leave it cleaner then when you arrived and make sure the fire is completely extinguished. I feel like we are leaving a smoldering campfire, maybe we could have done a better job. 

three hundred sixty two

 

Salem Ohio

Underground Railroad

This is a house built in 1855 by John Street a Quaker Abolitionist. The house had a windowless basement with a secret entrance through a cabinet by the side entrance. There was originally a tunnel to a house across the street. There was an elaborate system of 14 houses to secretly transport and hide escaped slaves on their journey to freedom. 

John Brown, a radical anti-slavery abolitionist visited and slept there many times. When I was in grade 5 and 6 I walked to school with a boy named Scott who's family owned and restored the house. I spent several nights sleeping over with Scott so I had an opportunity to crawl through the secret passages.

Scotts father was always measuring the house in search of hidden rooms, tunnels and secret entrances. His mother was angry when he broke down a wall of their bedroom and found a narrow hiding place that had since been plastered over.

Salem Ohio has only one Quaker Meeting House that I know of but there are several Friends Churches in the neighboring communities. The high school mascot was Quaker Sam and Salem is still perceived as a Quaker town.

The Salem area has over 30 churches of all denominations. Because of this Salem has a long history of human rights activism. The Ohio Women's Convention met in Salem on April 19, 1850. Salem was Ohio's center for the Woman's Suffrage movement. It was the third in a series of women's rights conventions that began with the Seneca Falls Convention of 1848. Salem was the first of these conventions to be organized on a statewide basis. 

The Salem area abolitionists were much more fanatical about ending slavery. Boycotts, printing and distributing literature and making speeches were just not enough. They took a more active role risking financial loss, prison or worse. The Ku Klux Klan a secret military arm of the Democratic Party not only whipped and hung escaping slaves, they did the same to the abolitionists who helped them. They did this legally and illegally. 

The Democrat controlled congress passed the Fugitive Slave Act in 1850 this further inflamed the abolitionist passion. 

Captain John Brown took a more radical approach to ending slavery. He wanted to arm slaves so they could over throw their slave masters. Harpers Ferry armory located 60 miles from Washington DC was the site of his infamous raid. It was a failed attempt but it sparked the spread of the abolitionist movement.

Edwin Coppock

This is a relative on my mother's side of the family. There were several who served as Quaker preachers. I'm not aware of any practicing Quakers in my family today. Edwin and other family members were influenced by Captain John Brown. 

Edwin's passions for the liberty of his fellow man may have been foolhardy but this passion is not uncommon in the area where I grew up. A few of his brothers who were devout Quaker pacifists felt serving in the Union Army to fight against slavery more important. Edwin was executed for his involvement in the raid on December 16, 1859, he was 24 years old. 

Growing up there I didn't know much about the rich history of Salem. I knew about Veterans, the Underground Railroad and the Quaker abolitionists. Like anything in your hometown you take it for granted. 

On a visit I noticed a group on a guided tour, It was a black history tour but I'm not sure where it originated. Salem now has a tour trolly that offers year round tours. 

 

In my generation there were other unspoken acts of kindness. As a young child my parents bought groceries at the A&P grocery store. They bought what we needed then an extra loaf of bread, butter, eggs and canned goods. On the way home they would drop them off by the junk yard where they stored the old retired trolly cars. It was a spooky place because you could see figures of people in the cars. The windows were dirty so they were just dark silhouettes. 

My parents would not knock or wait, they just left the bag of groceries and drove away. One time I looked back and saw a man all dressed in heavy winter clothes with his face covered come out to pickup the bag. Kids or teenagers never bothered them, they knew to respected their privacy. There was probably more to the story but today there is no one to ask.

I did learn many of these men were WWI combat veterans and many were disfigured nerve and mustard gas victims. I witnessed for many years random people unceremoniously dropping things off to keep them fed and clothed. Once my dad dropped off a carton of cigarets. For some reason these thing were never talked about because it was just something people did. Believe it or not random acts of kindness were not invented by Oprah. 

My dad was a veteran of WWII as were many of the men his age. The American flag was held in reverence, as the flag passed by, everyone stood up, all hats came off, hands over hearts and veterans would salute. 

My generation became indifferent, even disrespectful but I saw the look in those men's eyes as the flag passed by. Many had tears fueled by memories I did not understand. 

I looked at my brother and other young men and women who served in Vietnam. They were there as soldiers to defend the South Vietnamese people from Communism. However their compassion and acts of kindness for the people in the midst of this war was not the image the media wanted to report. Instead they were portrayed as vicious baby killers. 

Oliver Stone rewrote history with his propaganda movies. If he wanted to tell the truth about the mismanagement fine but he attacked the young men and women who served there. Even today combat veterans are portrayed as broken and damaged. Some are but this constant mischaracterization does nothing to heal them.The politicians may have had other goals but the soldiers were there for the people. 

In Vietnam our government betrayed and abandoned the people who helped and befriended us. Another recent disgrace was our reckless withdrawal from Afghanistan, good people died and are still dying for a tough guy victory speech. 

Bold promises were made by our politicians but our young soldiers were the ones ordered to look the people we were betraying in the eyes as we were abandoning them. Listening to these soldiers, I believe this was as traumatic if not more then any of the violence they witnessed. 

World War II American soldier

Korean War American soldier

Vietnam American soldiers

Iraq War American soldier

Afganistan American soldier

These young people fighting thousands of miles from home and families were not motivated by bigotry and hatred. Their self sacrifice for strangers achieved more then any of our Ambassadors, Generals, our Secretary of State or our Presidents. They were in daily direct contact with the people.

Selective outrage, stirring racism, a blind eye to current slavery and a tolerance of the oppression of women throughout the world is also a disgrace. A steady flow of distorted history, emotional arguments and any overpaid so called expert with an opinion. All of these break my heart. 

 

I don't know if it was in the water, influenced by the many churches or we were just idealistic and naive, but we have a sense of duty and honor. Don't get me wrong I don't claim everyone has the conviction of these men and women who put everything on the line, but this is one place where they came from. 

Researching a little of my own history has helped me understand why my heart breaks today. The brave men and women and the people who helped them risked their lives for liberty and freedom. The bull shit slogans the press and politicians throw around today ring hollow in comparison.

In or out of the churches the community conscience  included this basic principle.

John 3:12-13

"My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends."

We got a dose of hard work, responsibility, service, equality and a sense of duty to help the oppressed. Asking for help is difficult and being called a victim is an insult. 

I'm not claiming the people from this area are better then others, but to label them as racist, stupid and unsophisticated shows a lack of any attempt to take an honest look at history. 

I don't always completely follow through with my convictions but at least I have them. Sadly the things I have described will never register with the enlightened.