03. August 2011 · Comments Off on Who Gets the Flute · Categories: General

An Open Question [1] [2] for the 2012 candidates for President.

This letter has been sent – or will be sent – to most of the candidates for the presidency in the Democratic and Republican parties in 2012. Some won’t get it – their web site utterly lacks ‘contact me’ email or a web form.

I have no pretension that I’ll get anything but a form letter back. If that.

It would be instructive if they would answer the question. But that will have to wait until a person with more umph asks the question at a debate, or a member of the press with some brass ones pitches it to them. Or, possibly, if a lucky member of the public finds themselves face-to-face with the candidate.

Or maybe you could re-blog, pass it along, send it to the candidates, put a bug in the ear of a reporter.

Sir / Ma’am,

I am asking this question of the announced candidates for President.

The answer will be very instructive, will tell the voters a great deal about your philosophy, how you will perform in office.

I will publish the results on my blog, Space For Commerce, and a mil-blog that I contribute to, The Daily Brief.

Amartya Sen wrote in ‘The Idea of Justice’ this thought experiment;

Take three kids and a flute. Anne says the flute should be given to her because she is the only one who knows how to play it. Bob says the flute should be handed to him as he is so poor he has no toys to play with. Carla says the flute is hers because she made it.

Sen argues that who gets the flute depends on your concept of justice.

Bob will have the support of the economic egalitarian.

The libertarian would opt for Carla.

The utilitarian will argue for Anne because she will get the maximum pleasure, as she can play the instrument.

Who gets the flute?

R/s

Brian Dunbar
Neenah, Wisconsin


[1] On review I see the summary owes a great deal to – if not an outright theft from – Eric Falkenstein at Falkenblog.

Sorry about that.

[2] Tip o’ the hat to SouthBend7 for sparking the idea.

03. August 2011 · Comments Off on Stuff Going On This Week · Categories: Ain't That America?, General

I’m up at Stephanie Barko’s blog with some thoughts on book marketing – here.
And I posted a guide for the perplexed with regard to Tea Party and Terrorism here at Open Salon.
Snowed under with paying work and trying to finish Deep in the Heart. I’ll post another chapter at the end of the week. Promise.

. . . in the words of Strother Martin, from the old Paul Newman movie Cool Hand Luke, “is failure to communicate.” Although, in the case of one Private Nasser Jason Abdo, one really does wonder how much of that deliberate non-receptivity is on the part of the receiver; firstly – being eighteen years of age. Most eighteen year olds are idiots. I was one, and I remember thinking that yes, most of my peers were drooling morons. (Most of them did grow out of it, so there is hope.) Secondly – he willfully and with aforethought enlisted in the Army. Enable routine, inter-service slam here: oh, yeah, he enlisted in the Army. Any brains, you’d pick the Air Force or Navy, any balls, you’d go for the Marines. Disable routine, inter-service slam, and for the record I have known many brainy and ballsy Army troops, it’s just that . . . hey, opportunity presents and custom demands.

Anyway, our young hero decides to join the Army, go through Basic and probably tech school, and oh, wow – suddenly discovers that he has enlisted in a wartime military, where . . . umm . . . they kinda expect you to go out there and kill the enemy and blow up their stuff, routinely and regularly, in exchange for a paycheck, PX privileges and the burden of not having to decide to wear what to work each morning. This war thing, in Afghanistan – it’s a thing which has been going on since 2003. I know it doesn’t make the headlines every damn day, but really . . . if you were deciding to join the military in late 2009 or early 2010, it’s one of those things that I would have hoped that a bright young enlistee would have noticed, even if his recruiter failed to point that out. And if his recruiter had not made it relatively clear, I’d have thought Army basic training would have. So, anyway, upon receipt of notice that he is bound for deployment to Afghanistan, our your hero suddenly gets in touch with his inner Muslim and discovers that he is, in fact, a contentious objector, and the requirements of religion forbid him to kill other Muslims. Note; historically and in current events this particular stricture would come as rather a surprise to . . . say, participants in strife between Sunni and Shia, between Iran and Iraq in the 1980s . . . and in Afghanistan itself, where the local Muslims seem to kill each other, frequently, bloodily and with every evidence of keen enjoyment. And also – past times in the US military, declaring yourself to be a conscientious objector in the US military did not automatically relieve one from an obligation to serve in uniform. During WWII many conscientious objectors served as combat medics, and in fact, there were two Medals of Honor awarded for having performed heroically in that role.

So, on the basis of his suddenly-discovered pacifistic inclination, our young Private Abdo is made much the pet and prize of the anti-war movement, such as it exists in these strange days, but just as the Army is about to wash its hands of him metaphorically speaking, investigators find kiddy porn on his government computer . . . which is either very convenient for the investigators, or the abyss of stupidity on Private Abdos. I’m kind of torn on this one, but our young hero doesn’t exactly strike me as Mensa material – note above, regarding joining the Army in time of war and then being horrified to discover that participation in said war is obligatory.

And to crown the whole farrago of self-serving stupidity to go AWOL and be captured in Killeen, Texas . . . for trying to purchase guns and bomb-making materials, with the apparent intent of setting off explosions in an off-post eatery popular with the local troops. Okay, then . . . Private Abdos apparently does not grasp that whole conscientious objector concept, as we in the wonderful world of the military – and possibly even most of those on planet Earth – understand it , and in a fairly comprehensive way. This is an irony so dense that it threatens to drop through the earth’s crust, all the way through the molten core and come out the other side, and having a particularly dark and ironic sense of humor, I am getting at least a few chuckles out of this from watching the anti-war organizations dropping him as if he were made of plutonium, nearly as much as I did from the unmasking of Jesse McBeth.

(re-edited to permit comments)

28. July 2011 · Comments Off on What? The End of the Week Already? · Categories: General, Old West, Wild Blue Yonder, Working In A Salt Mine...

I’m sorry, people – I am just swamped, with two huge paying projects with deadlines … OMG .. in a day or so, since this is Thursday.
I’ll be back on Monday. Stuff happening, got a raffle for tee – shirts going. Particulars at my book blog, here.

This is all courtesy of some lovely peole at www.ooshirts.com!

24. July 2011 · Comments Off on Something Happening Here · Categories: Ain't That America?, European Disunion, General, World

There’s something happening here
What it is ain’t exactly clear
There’s a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware
I think it’s time we stop, children, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down…

Exploding cars, and a Beslan-like massacre of teenaged campers, plus a claim of responsibility from the usual suspects (until the full horror perhaps persuaded the be-turbanned goons that perhaps they’d better walk back from that one) nothing says long hot summer and interesting times more than what happened last week in Norway.

I visited there once, in 1970 – Oslo, Bergen and Stavanger, as a Girl Scout doing that youth hostel and backpack thing. Lovely country, very wet and rainy, even in summer it seemed to drizzle about forty-five minutes out of every hour, and it was a miracle to me that anything but moss and lichen had enough sunlight to grow along the coastal rocks. We stayed in a sailboat, which had been converted to a Youth Hostel, ate fish pudding for dinner once (it’s white, gelatinacious and completely without taste), had wonderful smorgasbord breakfasts and saw Edvard Grieg’s home – being raised on classical music, I very much fear I was the only one of our group to really appreciate it. And we took a long train ride to Stockholm, sharing a long open rail car with a touring chorus from an international music camp on the US/Canada border. It was about a three-hour trip, and we sang all the way, having between the chorus and our group, several guitars and a considerable repertoire of folk songs, summer-camp songs and other musical arcana. I have no idea what the regular passengers thought of all this, by the way. That was then – this is now, and sometimes the summer of 1970 seems as far away . . . well, another time-space continuum. The horror of last week on Utoya Island would have been inconceivable, then – in Norway or anywhere else in the Western World.

There’s battle lines being drawn
Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong
Young people speaking their minds
Getting so much resistance from behind
I think it’s time we stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down…

So, on past form, just about everyone over the sentience level of a mollusk assumed it was one of those horrible, unexpected outrages perpetuated by an unrepresentative member of the religion of peace who hadn’t gotten the word about being an adherent of the religion of peace or given any consideration to the backlash such an act would ignite against innocent coreligionists. Hey, it’s not cynicism, it’s just good pattern recognition – when something goes boom among noncombatants in a fairly major way of late, usually there’s someone named Mohammed involved, no matter if the venue is Afghanistan Thailand, Bali, Somalia, Iraq, Spain, Britain, India or Israel. It’s just how this has worked out. And flog that line about the IRA, Tim McVeigh or assorted small abortion-clinic bombers as hard as you like – the sheer quantity of the occurrences of kabooms involving gentlemen named Mohammed (as well as the numbers of victims involved) are kind of overwhelming.

So here – as it turns out – we have another freelance nutter, supposedly from the conservative and supposedly anti-Islamic immigrant side of the political aisle, going all mad-dog and deciding that his particular mission is to slaughter teenagers and young twenty-somethings at a political party-sponsored summer camp . . . careless of the fact that by this particularly vile act, he will have alienated just about every potential ally and sympathizer towards his particular concerns – which might (or might not) have had a chance of a fair hearing, up until July 22. Strange days, indeed – strange and brutal days.

What a field-day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and carrying signs
Mostly say, hooray for our side
It’s time we stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down…

Of course, the eventual truth about Anders Breivik will eventually out – although I fear, not before the meme/conventional wisdom will congeal about him. But there are so many contradictory notes, so many . . . not quite wrong, incomplete, contradictory or curious things about him, as he is being presented by the mainstream or even the new media. Businessman, well educated, plenty of guns (Hey, I live in Texas, supposed to be bristling with free-lance gun-slingers.) Supposed to be a Christian, supposed to be a freemason, supposed to be . . . well, a lot of things. A manifesto cribbed from Theodore Kacznski’s writings, Facebook pages and Twitter accounts that come and go. Nutter, stooge . . . or what? Definitely a stone-cold killer; for which he may serve 21 years in the Norwegian equivalent of the super-max; and if it doesn’t be violation of his civil rights and upon being formally found guilty, I hope that he serves a bit longer. The parents of the murdered campers may have hopes for even longer than that. But all I really know about this is what I read in the newspapers. Or on-line.

Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you’re always afraid
You step out of line, the man come and take you away
We better stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down…

I can’t say that I really know Norway, after all – the closest I came were those nice people that I met in various Youth Hostels and train stations, and on a motor-boat ferry ride between Stavanger and Bergen, all those decades ago. And what I read in various venues, of course. It’s comfortable to assume –a nutcase with delusions of glory and Wagnerian grandeur, even perhaps a brain tumor, a la Charles Whiteman, the UT Austin sniper, or a Ted Kacznski wanna-be. But what if – just suppose – he is a kind of Nordic John Brown, frustrated beyond all patience, feeling marginalized and insulted by the ruling political elite with regard to his particular concern . . . and deciding that the perpetration of a horrific crime would be worth it, just for the opportunity to make an unmistakable and irrevocable gesture. What then, oh wolves?

Much more comforting, I suppose, for the transnational political ruling class to write this off as the act of a brilliant but unfortunately deranged actor. For the other consideration would be just too unbearable to contemplate.

21. July 2011 · Comments Off on Cage-match! · Categories: Ain't That America?, Fun and Games, General, Politics

So, here we have what is shaping up to be a cage-match between Debbie Wasserman-Schultz and Allen West . . . well, it’s bound to be an improvement on the 19th-century encounter between Massachusetts Senator Charles Sumner and South Carolina Representative Preston Brooks. In that instance Brooks caned Sumner unmercifully on the Senate floor, on the grounds that Sumner had bitterly and personally calumniated Brooks’ cousin, Senator Andrew Brooks in a speech in the Senate when Senator Brooks was not present to defend himself . . . say, doesn’t that sound familiar? One thing to grandstand, another to do so when the person you are addressing is actually present. On the whole, the chipmunk-cheeked Debbie Wasserman-Schultz is perhaps lucky that dueling is illegal and out of style. Just as an aside, she reminds me of one of those nasty little middle-school bullies who provokes and provokes and when someone finally snaps and takes a swing at her, starts sniveling, “you can’t hit me – that’s not fair!”

And it also sounds – from the various news reports that she and Allen West do have a bit of a history going there, and not in a nice way. So – as someone remarked on another blog, perhaps it might have been better if he saved the email in the draft folder and slept on it . . . but then again, maybe not. I pretty much believe that as a career Army officer in the rank of colonel that got there by become pretty adept at managing the battlespace, either on the field or in the administrative bowels of an institution like the military – and his own temper. It doesn’t look like he is backing down, either; it looks like it’s a line in the sand, drawn by the new conservatives (as opposed to the limp, squishy go-along-to-get-along career RINO establishment.) And that line implicitly says – do not insult us and depend upon our innate good manners and willingness to suck up the abuse to escape consequences.

So – interesting times. And if either of them comes onto the House floor carrying a cane and heading for the other’s desk . . . I hope to heck the Sergeant of Arms takes it away, quick.

17. July 2011 · Comments Off on A Fact or Two for Hanoi Jane · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, Rant, War

So here we are, Jane dear – and I address you as such because this is a family-friendly blog and some of the other . . . ummm . . . words used in military circles in conjunction with a discussion of your person are not exactly family friendly, unless of course, your family is, say, Saddam Hussein’s . . . anyway, the news media is apparently agog with the intelligence that you have been bounced from a guest slot at QVC, because a lot of people have been calling QVC and complaining about your scheduled appearance.

OK – bounced from QVC . . . snort, giggle . . . bwah-haha-HAH-HAH! (wipes away tears of laughter) . . . I think I’ve got that out of my system. So you wished to flog your crappy book to the QVC audience, because you believe you have something to offer the audience demographic who watches QVC. I hate to be a snob, but wasn’t there anything on Oprah Winfrey’s Network?

Let me break it gently to you, Jane dear; your actions 40 years ago – which were widely photographed, broadcast and discussed at the time – are indeed not in the least forgotten. Not by military serving at the time, military serving after that time and down to the present day, the military establishment as a whole, blue-collar working-class guys subject to the Vietnam War-era draft, their spouses, girlfriends, children and grandchildren, their parents, cousins, second cousins, friends, members of the American Legion, the Veterans of Foreign Wars and the Disabled American Veterans and former POWS . . . all of them remember. Possibly the Boy and Girl Scouts remember, too – this is a sort of heirloom memory, handed down from generation to generation like a bit of jewelry or a Chippendale escritoire. We do not need some vast Reich-wing and well-financed organization to support us in this either, unless you do consider the AL, the VFW and the DAV that kind of organization. It’s more of an organic thing, Jane dear . . . oh, I forgot; probably the Vietnamese refugees who came out of Vietnam upon the fall of the Saigon government – they probably remember your actions pretty vividly, too.

Jane, dear – a fairly large portion of the individuals represented in the above-listed groups hate you. They hate you with a depth of feeling ranging the gamut from scornful distaste to the depth of loathing equivalent to the burning of a thousand white-hot suns. They hate you for using your celebrity to set yourself up as a great authority, for providing a propaganda opportunity for the enemy in time of war, for appearing to rejoice in the deaths and/or captivity of American servicemen, for accusing former POWs of lying about the conditions of their captivity. There are mens’ latrines at military clubs and VFW halls that have stickers in the urinals with your face on them; they hate you that much, even after all this time. For myself, I hate that stupid exercise book of yours – exercise and healthy living to keep fit and shapely my a**; it was bulimia and plastic surgery that kept that little fraud going, but never mind.

You have never really apologized for your little stunt in going to North Vietnam; just offered up one of those mealy-mouthed “sorry of you were offended” non-apology apologies. So now, you want to flog another stupid book to the masses, and you discover to your shock and horror that a good part of the demographic it’s intended for don’t want to touch it with a ten-foot pole, or see your face on QVC . . . Go get yourself some sympathy from the Dixie Chicks, they know all about alienating a key demographic, and watching appreciation for their celebrity go down the tubes. It’s called karma, and it’s just taken a longer time for yours to come around.

16. July 2011 · Comments Off on The Shape of Things to Come · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, History, Politics, Tea Time

(A comment by Xennedy at this thread on Belmont Club which struck me as being particularly perceptive — and histoically apt.)

I’m not thinking of military history for this one. I’m thinking of the various schemes by which the southern states retained political dominance of the United States over the increasingly more numerous and anti-slavery northerners prior to the Civil War. Eventually these schemes became so odious and unpopular that they destroyed the political structure of the Union as it had existed. The response of the South wasn’t to accept demotion or immediate war – it was to engineer a supreme court decision to end the house divided, as Abraham Lincoln put it, and make the whole union slavery friendly. I’m thinking of the Dredd Scott decision, and in my evaluation of that ruling in theory southerners could bring their slaves into (say) New York and compete with free labor unhampered by the free state status of that state. In practice the Civil War intervened before anything like that actually happened, but my point is that the political establishment of the day attempted to rule game over and cement their hold on power in perpetuity regardless of the will of the people.

Seem familiar? In my view similar events are happening today. Cram Obamacare through, hold 40 Senate seats, and it’s extremely difficult to repeal. Issue EPA regulations from the executive branch, and ignore Congress. Re-elect Obama, pick another two or three supreme court justices, and the Constitution means whatever the left wants it to mean.

The problem with this – or perhaps I should say the solution – is that eventually people tire of the rigged game, and lose their willingness to play.

So was Obamacare a new Kansas-Nebraska Act – which preceded the formation of the modern Republican party – or a new Dredd Scott decision – which preceded secession and civil war? Or neither?

I don’t claim to know. But I do think we are in the opening acts of a much larger story, and the drama over the debt limit is much less important than it appears in the immediacy of the here and now. The welfare state paradigm of American governance is collapsing, and that collapse will continue even if a debt ceiling increase gives it a slightly longer run. To quote that famous Chinese curse we live in interesting times. Alas.

14. July 2011 · Comments Off on Deep in the Heart – Chapter 12 · Categories: General, History, Literary Good Stuff, Old West

(Another excerpt from the work in progress – soon to be finished with the first draft! And I am featured today at the book-blog Royalty Free Fiction … a blog for historical fiction about characters who aren’t kings and queens and that…)

Chapter 12 – Returns

Mr. Burnett’s messenger to Carl in Bexar, sent by one of Captain Coleman’s volunteers, through the good offices of the local alcade returned to Austin the day before Alois Becker was buried in a ground of Margaret’s selecting: just a little way from the stump of the great oak tree, on a patch of level ground. The messenger reported that Sergeant Becker was off on a long patrol with the Ranger Company, around the borders of the Comanche-haunted Llano country, and perhaps even venturing deep into it. He and his men would likely not return for many months. Margaret had rather expected something of the sort. At least this absolved her of any responsibility to ask her brother for advice and consent regarding Alois Becker’s funeral and the disposition of his property – and of any necessity for considering his wishes on the matter. Indeed, Margaret suspected that her brother would have as little or the same care for the burial of their father as he would in the dispatch of a dead cat or dog into the nearest midden-pit – and that if he was not present, then he would not have to make a pretense of feelings that he did not have, or embarrass her by a openly displaying a lack of them.

“I that he may rest near the apple trees,” she had said to Mr. Burnett, and to Mr. Waller and those others who came to pay their respects to a man who, while never being well-liked among his fellow citizens, had something of respect for having been an early settler of the region. “He cared so tenderly for the apple trees – and we may tend his grave easily.” As no one else is likely to, for the love of him, she thought, as she and the boys walked back to the house, on that first afternoon, when she had talked of a grave for Opa on his own property, and they had gone down to inspect that place, a little below the top of the hill upon which the house sat. Mama would have – but Mama’s grave was under an oak tree near Harrisburg, that branched up in four great limbs. The best part of your father – died with your mother, Race had said. All those years since then, the act of living for Alois Becker had been merely existence, a habit, the motion and pretense of living, without the heart of it. And Margaret thought, with a twist of unease in her own breast – was all of her life and the manner of her living it since Race had gone from her, merely a well-established habit? Was she truly alive and loving, caring for her sons and her household, caring for her town and her friends, and not just some peculiar automaton, walking through the days and the necessary tasks out of habit and obligation? That question plagued her, all through the hours and days following Alois Becker’s passing, although she had some moments of savage amusement, upon realizing that she had no need to go into black for her father; she had already been wearing the customary colors of mourning for her husband – as much as these customs could be uphold on the frontier.

I am tired of it, she thought, as she walked back from the grave Alois Becker had been put to rest, and the earth above mounded up. She would have a fine stone carved, of course, and perhaps a little fencing put around the place, to keep the cattle and horses from trampling over where he lay for eternity. I am tired of it. I want to go towards living my life in hope. I want to not be afraid. I want to build the house as I want it to be, to live in it as I think fit to live. Horace walked at her side, Peter at her other with his hand in hers. The boarders and townsfolk who had attended the brief ceremonies followed behind: Mr. Waller, Richard Bullock and his family, Captain Coleman, Angelina Eberly and her family, Mr. Ware, stumping gamely along on his wooden foot.
She and Hetty had laid out the usual spread of cakes, of bread and cold meats for the mourners, on several tables set out on the porch. There were dozens of saddle horses, tied to the rails of the little corral in back, any number of traps and carriages, although most had preferred to walk from their houses nearby. So taken up with the demands of hospitality was she that Margaret had hardly taken notice of the hollow, thudding sound that the clods of earth made against the coffin; they had not the heartrending effect upon her that she had felt, upon burying Mama, in that lonely grave just outside of Harrisburg.

“So, what will ye do, Mrs. Vining? Will you be hiring anyone to work the land, then?” Angelina Eberly tucked into a platter of vegetable pickles, biscuits and sliced ham, in a shady corner of the porch. Shrewd old storm-crow, Margaret thought, with a mix of annoyance tempered with affection. She must be rejoicing at the thought of eating food that she has not cooked herself. Margaret was exhausted – she had been receiving the condolences of all of the mourners for much of the afternoon. Now – much as she had expected – the gathering had turned into rather a convivial one, with friends gathering with like-minded friends, here and there in the parlors or on the porch, enjoying the cool breeze that wafted through the trees, and the distant view of the river, as the afternoon sun slanted through new leaves and turned the water to quicksilver. Hetty had firmly taken upon herself the duties of keeping the various dishes and platters generously filled, commanding Margaret to play the part of the hostess and move among the guests. Margaret had done so, until her feet hurt – so did her hand, from having it so comfortingly pressed – and her face ached from having to keep it in the same demure expression. Now she found it a pleasure to sit in the corner and converse with Mrs. Eberly, whose blunt speech and decided opinions had the merit of being both original and amusing – if now and again more startlingly frank than Margaret thought was acceptable at her table.

“There’s hardly any of it left to make it worth-while, save for a hay-field and another of corn. I expect that I shall hire someone to come and plow it in the spring. My father farmed out of habit, I believe – and only just enough for household needs. We’ll keep the garden, and the milk-cows, of course, but I will probably sell the draft oxen.”
“Aye, and I am not sure that he thought all that much of it himself, any more.” Mrs. Eberly shook her black-bonneted head. “Poor man – he got so worn-looking, these past two or three years. In his prime, he must have been a handsome, well-set up man.”
“He was,” Margaret answered, “and more than that – he was magnificent. When I was a child; I used to think that Papa looked like the illustration of a king or a god, in the old storybooks.”
“It’s a tragedy, getting’ old,” Mrs. Eberly sighed, gustily. “But I tell you what, Miz Vining – it’s a sight better ‘n the alternative.” Margaret left unspoken the first thought that she had – which was that the worst curse of growing old often deprived one of the company and affection of those whom you loved and loved you most dearly. Mrs. Eberly still had children, grandchildren and even step-children living, so Margaret supposed that she had the love of those to keep her warm in the evening of life. But for Papa, that fire had gone out, years ago. Mama and Rudi had gone before him into eternity. If there was any comfort for Margaret in contemplating Papa’s last moments, it lay in the hope that he had been reunited with them at last; which left herself, her sons and Carl on the shores of this present world, to fend for themselves. Margaret found that rather ironic. That was what Papa had done throughout much of his, anyway.
“He loved my mother so very much,” she answered at last, “and my brother Rudi, who fell at Goliad. I fear he was a broken man, after that loss. I believe he would have rejoiced in his heavenly reunion with them – which is why I am not myself left desolate with grief. Papa has gone to be with those which he truly loved. I cannot help but think that he would have seen departing from this life as a blessing and relief.”
“Aye, you’re right, Miz Vining – so it would have been.” Mrs. Eberly took another bite out of the biscuit and ham upon her plate. “Maybe it was for the best. He was difficult, and that we all know well. It was to your credit, to have been so patient with his ways for these years. But still, where does that leave you, Miz. Vining? You cared for him in his declining years – what are you left in his will? Pardon me for speaking so bluntly – but I can not help noticing that it was your efforts which kept his estate on a level plane and a roof over all of your heads. If your father had a comfortable home in his last years, that was entirely of your work and your doing. I would not sit by and see you done out of your rights. What has he left, and what did he leave of it to you? I know that brother of yours, he’s a good lad and a brave Ranger, and he would stand to inherit something, I am sure – but where has he been for you, all these years. I won’t hear that he has inherited the larger portion, for that will not be fair at all . . . an’ pardon me for speaking so blunt an’ speaking out of turn, if you’ll forgive me, Miz Vining – but it’s a man’s world, unless we stick up for ourselves and stick together. I am a woman who would see justice done, right and proper!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Eberly,” Margaret answered, rather touched by Mrs. Eberly’s concern. “You have no need for concern. Papa did not have a will, outlining any share of his property to us . . .”
“Jus’ like a man,” Mrs. Eberly snorted, “Think he’s going to live forever! So, you and your brother share equally. Well, that’s only fair, I suppose . . . less’n he comes back with a new wife, an’ wants his share in the house! What then, I ask you?”
“I have consulted with Mr. Ford,” Margaret answered, sedately. “For he practices law, as well as medicine – and he has advised me. Papa owned several town-lots . . . as well as this house and the property surrounding. There was also a large sum of currency, which Papa had in payment from the State, when he sold all the rest. He never spent it – we found it among his things.”

Margaret and Hetty, and John Ford had gingerly made inventory of those few personal things which Alois Becker had kept, in a small box under his bed in the kitchen. They had made a pitiful showing: a small pocket-watch and a silver pen-knife, and a very old Bible in German with a tattered cover. There was a fat wallet of currency – that payment for the land, which he had received and hardly spent anything of, two deeds for a pair of town-lots, bought at auction under the oak tree on the day that Austin had been established – and which one day might be as valuable as the land upon which the homestead stood. There were also two folded papers, sighed by Erastus Smith, and an officer whose name Margaret could not call to mind, one testifying to the service of Alois Becker as a scout for the Army during the war, and another certifying that he had participated with great distinction in the battle at San Jacinto.
“You should be able to apply for a tract of land, on the basis of his service,” Mr. Ford had remarked upon reading them. Margaret set that thought aside; yes, the widows of the Gonzales men who fell at the Alamo had all been awarded land-tracts, for the faithful service of their husbands. At the very bottom of the box was a small thing of cob-web fine linen, folded small: an elaborately ruffled woman’s house-bonnet of the old-fashioned cut, which Margaret had recognized as being Mama’s; a ghostly scent of the verbena sachet which Mama had favored still clung to it, although it had mostly taken on the musty-paper odor of the paper currency and the property deeds. Margaret had sat back on her heels on the kitchen floor, and thought on how her father had lived as a monk, during those last years of his life. He had his farming tools, the apple trees, two or three ragged shirts and a hunting coat . . . but so little which was personally his, in the way that Race Vining’s books had been his. He was buried in the best of his clothes, and Margaret had burned the rest, as they were so ragged she wouldn’t have given them to a beggar . . . nor did she wish to cut them into strips to braid a rug out of. She did not want Papa to haunt her house, any more than he did already.

“Mr. Ford advised that we split the land into equal portions,” she explained now to Mrs. Eberly. “The town-lots are, or would be equal in value to this house. The sum in notes that my father was paid for his land is easily enough apportioned. And I have kept a good account of the cost of improvements that I made to it. I love my brother very dearly, but if he should choose the house over the town-lots, then his portion of Papa’s estate would be debited for the cost of improvements that I made to it . . . out of my own earnings. Mr. Ford has drawn up and had witnessed the necessary papers,” Margaret added, and Mrs. Eberly set aside her plate, and clapped her hands together,
“Mrs. Vining, you have not wasted your time, in renting to legislators,” she exclaimed, “That is looking after your interests very fairly, indeed. I should not have worried so, that you would be done out of your rights and fair share.”
“Certainly not,” Margaret answered, with serene confidence. “It was very kind of you to take such a concern, Mrs. Eberly. If there is a petticoat government in Austin, then I think you must be the uncrowned queen of it, and your rule is gracious and far-seeing! But I have always been good at looking after my family. I believe that we must either see to ourselves and our families, or leave this place. For myself, I had no choice: My husband was invalid, my father mad, and my brother . . . has long chosen to take his place among the ranks of our defenders – from which he may eventually return . . . or not. I wish that I had not needed to acquire and practice such efficiencies, but there you have it. This is where we live. There exist in this world women who must, or perhaps have been made to feel that their duty and obligation to custom oblige them to sit in the parlor with their hands folded, and expect the men of their kin to make their pathway smooth in all respects. I am not among them.”
“No,” acknowledged Mrs. Eberly, in what seemed to Margaret to be a rather regretful tone of voice. “Would have been nice for us, if it were; no bothers, no worries – everything taken from your shoulders . . . sitting in the parlor all the morning long, taking calls from visitors . . . eh, it would have been restful, wouldn’t it?”
“It would have been boring,” Margaret answered, firmly, and Mrs. Eberly laughed and answered, “Miz Vining, there are some days when I would like boring, would like it very much, indeed.”
“And then you think, of how very pleasing it is, to arrange your affairs and your household, and the tenor of your day in the manner which best pleases you,” Margaret answered, “And I think that I would soon become tired of helpless dependency. It does not do our men any favors, to have a helpless seraglio of one inhabitant, hanging uselessly around their necks, week in and week out.”
“You never struck me as bein’ the helpless type,” Mrs. Eberly answered. “Just as well, then.”
“I prefer, I think – the animating contest of freedom, rather than the tranquility of servitude,” Margaret answered, “As would, I believe, any woman of character and education. There is much to be said for being a widow with control of property.”
“Aye, well,” and Mrs. Eberly sighed. “You are very well right – but still, ‘tis nice to have a man about the place, sometimes. You know, Mr. Ward has been seriously courting Sue Bean – I hear they’re to be married at mid-summer. She’s over the moon in love . . . well, it must be love, then! Poor man, with him lacking an arm, and a leg as well. I hope she keeps him happy, so I do.”
“And away from cannon,” Margaret answered, very dryly. “He cannot afford loosing another limb.”
“Well, two more, but he ought to try and keep hold of that smaller limb that a man has!” Mrs. Eberly chuckled, rather knowingly, “and that bein’ the main bit that keeps a wife happy, after all.”
“I’m sure they will be very happy,” Margaret thought she made a good pretense of having missed the point of Mrs. Eberly’s jest. “Mr. Ward is a very fine and upstanding man – I am certain that he will take care of her, and the children.”
“Still, and all,” Mrs. Eberly mused, “He’s had his bad times, I am sure – and I am equally sure that his experiences must affect him – just as your father’s experiences did him. I am not certain I would want to marry a man who bore the burden of such bad fortune – or to advise any daughter of mine to do so.”
“If she loves him,” Margaret answered, “truly and deeply – then she will not see those pitiably misfortunate scars of the flesh and mind. She will see only his good character, his finer qualities, and make her decision as her heart bids her.”
“Oh, she’s young, yet.” Mrs. Eberly answered, and Margaret thought to herself that she was also young – considered next to Mrs. Eberly. Now Mrs. Eberly’s keen eyes went past Margaret, to a late arrival, a tall and rather slovenly-attired man who had just ridden up to the area before the house. He took off his hat, and sat blinking, as he sat upon his horse, surveying the gathering. He looked familiar to Margaret in some ways, rough, well-whiskered and clad in the cheap and durable clothes of a workman, and then as he ventured tentatively,
“Is this my welcome-home party? I did not expect such.”

“Well, bless my soul, if it isn’t Doctor Williamson!” Mrs. Eberly exclaimed. She added, in a much louder voice, “Say, look well, all ye – it’s Doctor Williamson, come home from Perote!” and at her words, all within earshot paid attention to the gawky scarecrow of a man, clumsily dismounting from what was obviously a hired nag, who held the reins in his hand and looked around as if he wondered what on earth he should do with them . . . indeed, and what happened in far Mexico, and by what miracle had he arrived here, upon this sorry mount? Gratifyingly, he was soon at the center of a circle of men, being warmly congratulated, as everyone exclaimed their relief and questioned him regarding his experiences, slapping his dusty shoulders with approval and enthusiasm of such a hearty sort that it appeared as if he might soon collapse underneath it. Margaret caught the attention of Johnny and Horace, who had been supporting her all this day with all the grave and careful courtesy of his twelve years.
“Go and take the horse from Doctor Williamson, unsaddle the poor beast and let him out into the pasture for a while.”
“The doctor looks very ill, Mama,” Horace answered, “D’you supposed he was tortured in Perote; with horrible instruments, and hung about with chains?”
“No, I do not think he was,” Margaret said, “for he did not write to me, complaining of such. The poor man – all he was tortured by was the loss of liberty! I think he was just tired from the journey, for he must have come such a long way! And Johnny – if he has brought anything with him, take it up to the room. Remember, we have moved his things to the little room upstairs . . .” But before Horace could even move from Margaret’s side, Mr. Burnett’s man, Hurst, had appeared as if by magic, and with efficient courtesy relieved Dr. Williamson of his horse and the small baggage it contained – mainly Dr. Williamson’s sadly battered medical satchel.” Margaret came down from the porch and through the crowd of men, which parted for her like her vision of the Red Sea parting before Moses, until she came to the doctor, still looking as baffled as he usually did in social situations.

“I am so very glad that you are free, and come home to us!” she exclaimed, and captured one of his hands in hers. “You must be exhausted, after your journey – we would have made a welcome twice as warm as this, if we had even known that you were on your way . . . Johnny, take the bag from Hurst,” she added, as her sons gathered around her, looking at Dr. Williamson with awed respect – and on the part of Peter, no little amount of puzzlement. “We have put those things of yours that you left with us, into one of the little rooms, upstairs. Do you remember the way – or do you want one of us to show you? There has been so much that has happened, since you went to San Antonio.”
“I did not think there would be so much of a crowd,” Dr. Williamson answered, peering around, in that baffled manner which suggested that he had misplaced his glasses again. “I . . . I sent a letter to you from Perote, to tell you that we were released . . . I can only think that it must have gone astray. Or that I we traveled so rapidly as to outdistance the post…”
“No matter – we are overjoyed to see you, and welcome you home,” Margaret answered, and Dr. Williamson hesitantly raised her hand to his lips for a brief kiss.
“As much as a home that I have,” he said, simply – and Margaret interpreted his baffled expression. The doctor had never liked small changes within the household, and adjusted to them with reluctance. Now, she wondered if it had been right, in moving his possessions to the upper and more private room, at the top of the house.
“We had not received any letter from you, or indeed any news of the release of the Perote captives,” Margaret said, “But you are all the more welcome – for this is the day that we have buried my father. He died, three days ago – of a cerebral stroke…”
“Is that a medical diagnosis?” Dr. Williamson inquired; his weathered face bright with sudden interest. “I would not have judged so without I had performed a dissection…”
“That was the judgement of Mr. Ford, who was in practice in San Augustine,” Margaret answered hastily. How very awkward, that Dr. Williamson had returned on the same day as Papa’s burial; there had been so much that had happened, over the last two years. Margaret had confided much of her concerns in her letters to him, been frank, humorous, and sometimes needful of reassurance in her letters – and in all, the doctor had responded in much the same nature. And now, they were face to face again, not separated by miles and prison walls. Somehow the written words had wrought a connection that was simply not there, in face to face conversation. In her mind’s eye, she had a picture of him that just did not match his present appearance and presence – and she briefly wondered if he had not created a worshipfully roseate image of her in return. But he was still a trusted friend, a guest under her roof – for she thought of it now as decidedly as hers, rather than her father’s roof – a guest of long-standing, a friend and physician to Race Vining.

“You should rest a little from your long journey,” she advised him, “In the room set aside for you, where we placed all the possessions you left with us. Wash, and change into your own clean clothes – then come downstairs and greet your friends.” She clasped his hand between hers, overtaken by a sudden feeling of affection and concern. He looked so baffled, so lost. “It is a blessing that you are free, and returned to us . . . Peter – my dear little duckling – will you show Dr. Williamson up to the little room? You remember – the doctor who cared for your Papa?” To her vague distress, her youngest son shook his head – no, he did not recall. Doctor Williamson had been a prisoner in Perote for almost half of his life. “He is our very dear friend,” she whispered to her son. “He is very tired, and he has had a very long journey – and I must stay with the guests who have come to honor your Opa. Show him into the little room, opposite yours’ and Miss Hetty’s, at the top of the stairs. All of his things are there; we made it very pleasant for him.”
“Yes, Mama,” Peter answered manfully, and turned to Dr. Williamson. “If you would kindly follow me, sir – I will show you to your quarters.” Margaret concealed a smile. It seemed that Peter had been coached by someone, someone well-accustomed to the ways of courtesy and hospitality – possibly Hurst, for she had often observed her youngest son deep in conversation with Mr. Burnett’s manservant during the last few days.

“I will see you then, among the guests,” Margaret pressed Dr. Williamson’s hand between hers once again – intending that slight embrace to be a comfort and encouragement. He still appeared somewhat lost and baffled, above and beyond his usual way. “You are among friends, now – and most welcome,” she added, impulsively going upon tip-toes and brushing his bearded cheek with her lips. “And I am glad above all to see you safe. Welcome home!”
And with that, Peter led him upstairs, just as Hurst led his poor bony livery-stable horse in the other direction. Margaret turned now to the care of her guests – oh, so many of them there were, lingering on a spring afternoon. She was glad of that, for the evidence it gave of Alois Becker being held in the high respect of his fellows, or at least – affection for her, as his daughter. But then, any reason for a gathering – be it election day, or the celebration of the victory at San Jacinto, or even just a funeral – was embraced eagerly; it had been so when she was a girl in Gonzales. With the keen judgement of a hostess, she had sensed that this particular gathering had been revived, transformed from a wake to a more joyous celebration. She looked into the kitchen, where Hetty was just adding some more wood to the fire. Two pans of biscuits sat on the table, ready for the baking.
“Oh, good,” Margaret said, “I was just thinking of more biscuits – and Dr. Williamson likes them so.”
“Aye, ‘tis a miracle,” Hetty shielded her hand with a thick fold of her apron, and closed the firebox door. “And so unexpected, Marm – we had not even made up the bed, in the little room! I took up a jug of water and some towels, for Peter said the Doctor wished to wash after his journey, but I was distracted an’ all–”
“Oh, dear – I’ll see to it, then, Hetty. It will only take a moment.” Margaret filled her arms with clean sheets and blankets from the cupboard underneath the stair-landing where they kept such things. She made her way up the stairs, thinking that she would only take a few minutes from her guests, and that surely the doctor would have changed into his own clothes and joined the others by now. There was no sound coming from behind the door, which stood half-open, so she went in with the linens . . . but he was there, standing before the opened window, as if arrested by the very sight of the sky outside, an open razor in one hand, and half the bristle scraped from his chin.

“Oh – I thought you had gone downstairs,” Margaret exclaimed in surprise; surprise which turned almost immediately to concern. She dropped the linens and blanket on the shuck mattress of the bed. “Doctor – are you unwell? Is there something the matter?”
“No . . . that is . . .” he looked at the razor in his hand as if wondering how it came to be there. “I was thinking that . . . it was so very strange to look out of an unbarred window. And that this is not a dream, or Perote was but a nightmare. But it was real.”
“It was real,” Margaret answered. Danny Fritchie had said much of the same thing, and she thought that Dr. Williamson appeared to be pitiably lost, as if he had well and permanently lost his glasses. “And it was a horrible place – but you are free, now.”
“Free,” he said the word tentatively, as if he did not quite believe. “Free of one set of chains, but not another.” He had not made a motion to continue shaving, or to change from the rough clothing that he had worn for travel, although he had unbuttoned his collar and cuffs, and draped a towel across his shoulders. Margaret clicked her tongue.
“I cannot imagine what set of chains you mean,” she said, and began spreading out the sheet, fitting it over the mattress.
“No, you would not,” he answered, and Margaret’s heart was wrung. Danny Fritchie had held his baby daughter, and wept as though his heart was about to break, remembering the deaths of his friends on the Salado, and her brother Carl had looked out at the stars and wrapped silence around him, unable to sleep within walls for years, upon his return from Goliad. With his sleeves turned back, she could see the scars of healed sores that encircled his wrists like cruel bracelets. Men held their hurts inside; she hoped desperately that those scars were the very least of his. She smoothed a second sheet over the bed, spread out the blanket and turned the sheet back, all while Dr. Williamson made no further motion to complete his toilette. Something ailed the man – Margaret could not think what it might be, save that he might be uncertain about where his things – those books and extra clothing that he had left behind. She and Hetty and the boys had lugged them all upstairs and arranged them pleasingly in the little room.
“We brushed your good coat, and aired all the other things often,” she said, attempting to encourage him. She had guests downstairs, and she had told Hetty she would only be a moment. “Here – I will set them out for you.” The little room held a chest of narrow drawers, into which she had placed all of his clothing save the coat. The faint scent of verbena rose from the shirt and trousers that she arrayed on the newly-made bed. Margaret loved the odor of verbena – a liking for which she credited to Mama’s fondness for it. There was a black neck-cloth in the topmost drawer, and she laid that out as well. He was still looking into the distance, of the aspect of Austin, seen over the row of apple-trees, which still held some faint white clouds of bloom among the tender new green leaves.
“You have been very good to me,” he said at last. “You wrote to me . . . those letters were welcome. They were . . .”
“You were my husband’s friend,” she answered, firmly. What was the matter with him, she thought – with considerable impatience. She was needed downstairs, and his friends and fellow-citizens, they would be waiting to talk to him, to ask him questions about his experiences in Perote, and for news of those last few held there. “Here are your clothes. I wrote to you because you were our friend – and I thought of you with particular fondness, for tending my husband . . . and you were in such desperate need of a confidant . . .”
“I’d have gone mad, without your letters, and those others from my friends,” the expression on his craggy face was one of desolation, and she recalled again, how her brother could not bear to remain confined within walls. He and Rudi and the others taken after Coleto Creek had spent a week of imprisonment in the Goliad chapel – so crowded that the fit men and boys had slept on their feet, leaning against the walls and each other, for lack of room.

“I’m only happy that my poor scribbles were of comfort to you,” Margaret said. “And I would confess that yours were of comfort to me, as well. Sometimes I have felt very alone, even with Hetty and my friends and the boys as my solace. When I was in distress or in confusion . . . and there were so many times when I was, in these last two years – it relieved my heart no end, to have a confidant, someone whom I could pour out my worries.” Now, she feared that she might have been too frank, for it seemed that Dr. Williamson was struggling with a powerful emotion, which held him speechless. She had already settled the pillow in a clean slip at the head of the bed. Now she came around the foot of the bed, to where Dr. Williamson was still standing, irresolute, between the wash-stand with the scrap of mirror-glass hung up over it, and the window, with the razor in his hand. “You are my dear friend, also. Do not doubt that – but you have those friends and men of Austin downstairs, waiting for you to come down. Here,” she took the straight-razor from his hand, “You are nearly finished – this little bit. Hold still – there.” She capably scraped the last of bristle from his cheek, and taking the end of the towel, wiped off the remaining soap, noting almost in passing that his eyes were grey, and that she needed to reach up a little way, for he was taller than Race had been. “I have put out your clean clothes, Dr. Williamson. Put them on, and come down. Hetty will be taking a batch of fresh biscuits out of the oven. You always liked her biscuits.”
“They were always very fine,” he answered, at last, and Margaret touched her fingers to her lips, and then brushed his cheek with her fingertips. He was a dear man, but so absent-minded, and she supposed that the confusion of his home-coming – for this was about the only home that he had – must have left him as temporarily at a loss as Danny Fritchie had been. Things had changed, in his absence over the last two years, and he was not a man who dealt well with changes.

“There – I have given a distant kiss to you. You are ready to be seen in public, as soon as you put on your clean clothes. Five minutes – that is what I shall tell your friends.”
“Friends?” he sounded rather baffled, uncertain, and Margaret concealed a sigh. What was the matter with him? Honestly, it was as if his experience in Perote had turned all his mind to jelly. And Margaret knew that he had a keen mind, if at times a rather eccentric one.
“Yes – you have friends, waiting to welcome you home. They came for Papa’s burial, but they have remained to welcome you,” she said, in the same kind of encouraging tone that she used to urge her sons, when the were small, rather than terrify them into compliance with her wishes with a show of authority – what Hetty called her ‘Maeve-face’ – the look of an imperious queen, whose wishes were not to be casually ignored. But perhaps she had a bit of the ‘Maeve-face’ on her at that minute, for Dr. Williamson looked at her, really looked at her as if he understood at long last, and answered,
“Then I shall come down. It is the right thing, is it not, Mrs. Vining?”
“Yes, it is,” she said, with secret relief that he was going to put on an appearance of amiability – he was so often disinclined to fall in with the demands of what society commanded – really, this had been so often an embarrassment to her, when her table was crowded with boarders and their conversation, and he had propped a medical text against the cruets and read through-out the meal. “Put on those clothes that I have laid out for you – do you want a manservant to come up and tie your cravat? Mr. Burnett’s man, Hurst – he is an expert. I will send him up, if you require assistance.”
“No . . . I am capable of managing my own cravat,” he answered, and Margaret thought to herself that perhaps she ought to send Hurst, if Dr. Williamson did not appear within ten minutes.
“Then, we shall expect you,” she said – and was fairly sure that she did not say so with her ‘Maeve-face’. “You are a man very well-liked in Austin, and so you should have a good welcome home.”

11. July 2011 · Comments Off on Well, Then · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, Home Front, Politics, Rant

I am so spoiled for choice when it comes to political idiocy of the week, but this particular bit of arrogant ‘the proles are too stupid to live without the guidance of the best’n’brightest of the current administration’ just about tops my list when it comes to a list of people who – in a just world should be pelted with rotten vegetables and then shunned by all decent citizens. Words fail – but only momentarily, upon following the breadcrumb trail to the original account in the Wall Street Journal – which is unfortunately subscriber only – just the first few sentences only are quite enough:

“In a conference call with reporters, Mr. Chu said the more-efficient bulbs required would save consumers money over the life of the product, even if the up-front price is higher.
“We are taking away a choice that continues to let people waste their own money,” he said.”

Excuse moi! Or to put it in blunt military language – who the f**k died and made you god – that you and your disgusting ilk think yourselves have the right to dictate what or what we shouldn’t do, when it comes to personal choices as regards the care of our households? Or by extension, what we should eat, wear, drive, drink, where we should live – I had a bucket-load of that when I was in the military, bucko, that’s why I am a prickly libertarian today. And – you kids, stay off my lawn! Keeping people from wasting their own money, forsooth? How about closing down state lotteries? Or Indian casinos? Yeah, thought not.

So, here’s the down-low, Mr. Chu darlin’ – the only possible way that I accept someone dictating to me what is a waste of my own personal money, is either to be my dad (who has passed on) or to marry me (and a couple of million other citizens). Pucker up, buttercup – or take your worthless dictatorial *ss off and get yourself another hobby. Otherwise, this – *0 – is a rotten tomato, headed in your direction with considerable force. And I will be purchasing another case of 100w incandescent light bulbs as soon as possible. Anything to put the tiniest crimp in our government’s grand intentions of foisting off all those insanely expensive curly-whirly, un-flattering light-producing, un-dimmer-switchable, so-called energy-saving bulbs . . . which really don’t last all that longer than incandescent bulbs anyway.

You heard me, Mr. Chu. I’ll spend my money on the light bulbs of my own choice . . . and if you don’t like it – come and take them. Be warned, though; it didn’t work out all that well, the last time someone in Texas tried to come and take it.

08. July 2011 · Comments Off on Coming Up For Air · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, Working In A Salt Mine...

….er, what? It’s Friday? Already? (insert astonished face emoticon here) Oh, heck and no blog posts since Monday, which was the 4th of July, and Blondie dragged me off to Canyon Lake for the day (and a very hot one it was, too) and when I came back I had work to do. Like in work for money, and a client proposal to review… and somehere, somehow, someone bought 23 copies of To Truckee’s Trail last week, according to my Amazon Author Account Page — for no particular reason that I can discover.
And we have just gotten another one at Watercress Press, and prospects of still another, and a transcribing job for another client, plus the endless editing job … and oh, yes, two or three more chapters of the first draft of Deep in the Heart to finish.
It strikes me that as a basically unemployed person, I am really, really, really busy. Certainly no time for a fresh installment of bloggy ice cream.

Back next week, when I come up for air again, with a trenchant opinion on something or other. Practically anything but the Casey Anthony trial outcome, I promise.

04. July 2011 · Comments Off on The Declaration of Independence – The Same as it Ever Was · Categories: Ain't That America?, General

When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security. –Such has been the patient sufferance of these colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his assent to laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has forbidden his governors to pass laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.

He has refused to pass other laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of representation in the legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.

He has dissolved representative houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.

He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the legislative powers, incapable of annihilation, have returned to the people at large for their exercise; the state remaining in the meantime exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.

He has endeavored to prevent the population of these states; for that purpose obstructing the laws for naturalization of foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migration hither, and raising the conditions of new appropriations of lands.

He has obstructed the administration of justice, by refusing his assent to laws for establishing judiciary powers.

He has made judges dependent on his will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has erected a multitude of new offices, and sent hither swarms of officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, standing armies without the consent of our legislature.

He has affected to render the military independent of and superior to civil power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his assent to their acts of pretended legislation:

For quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:

For protecting them, by mock trial, from punishment for any murders which they should commit on the inhabitants of these states:

For cutting off our trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing taxes on us without our consent:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of trial by jury:

For transporting us beyond seas to be tried for pretended offenses:

For abolishing the free system of English laws in a neighboring province, establishing therein an arbitrary government, and enlarging its boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule in these colonies:

For taking away our charters, abolishing our most valuable laws, and altering fundamentally the forms of our governments:

For suspending our own legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.

He has abdicated government here, by declaring us out of his protection and waging war against us.

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burned our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.

He is at this time transporting large armies of foreign mercenaries to complete the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the head of a civilized nation.

He has constrained our fellow citizens taken captive on the high seas to bear arms against their country, to become the executioners of their friends and brethren, or to fall themselves by their hands.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian savages, whose known rule of warfare, is undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these oppressions we have petitioned for redress in the most humble terms: our repeated petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have we been wanting in attention to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends.

We, therefore, the representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent states; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the state of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as free and independent states, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts and things which independent states may of right do. And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.

New Hampshire: Josiah Bartlett, William Whipple, Matthew Thornton

Massachusetts: John Hancock, Samual Adams, John Adams, Robert Treat Paine, Elbridge Gerry

Rhode Island: Stephen Hopkins, William Ellery

Connecticut: Roger Sherman, Samuel Huntington, William Williams, Oliver Wolcott

New York: William Floyd, Philip Livingston, Francis Lewis, Lewis Morris

New Jersey: Richard Stockton, John Witherspoon, Francis Hopkinson, John Hart, Abraham Clark

Pennsylvania: Robert Morris, Benjamin Rush, Benjamin Franklin, John Morton, George Clymer, James Smith, George Taylor, James Wilson, George Ross

Delaware: Caesar Rodney, George Read, Thomas McKean

Maryland: Samuel Chase, William Paca, Thomas Stone, Charles Carroll of Carrollton

Virginia: George Wythe, Richard Henry Lee, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Harrison, Thomas Nelson, Jr., Francis Lightfoot Lee, Carter Braxton

North Carolina: William Hooper, Joseph Hewes, John Penn

South Carolina: Edward Rutledge, Thomas Heyward, Jr., Thomas Lynch, Jr., Arthur Middleton

Georgia: Button Gwinnett, Lyman Hall, George Walton

26. June 2011 · Comments Off on Rethinking Borders · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, History, Literary Good Stuff

No, not that border – the one featuring hot and cold running migrants and weaponry moving in whichever directions seems the most convenient at the moment – but Borders Books. Contra current nationwide expectations, the Borders Books in San Antonio are doing pretty darned well, being that they are on the short-list of stores doing well enough to remain open. When I was setting up book-signings and events for the latest book, I went through the motions of calling the Huebner Oaks Borders, and one of the closest Barnes and Noble outlets, not really expecting much of a response. And after the last signing event, at the Twig, I was expecting even less, but lo and behold, an email last month from the event manager at the Huebner Oaks Borders. Yea these many years ago, the-then manager was very active in getting local authors in for events; such is the turnover that he was about three managers ago, but the current manager team is very keen, and so – after a couple of false starts and reschedules, Blondie and I found ourselves sitting behind the Dreaded Author Table last Saturday afternoon. This seems to be their peak traffic time, and for sure there were a fair number of people wandering in. People who looked like they were seriously interested in books, and willing to buy books Better yet – in spite of having been placed on their calendar for the 25th of July (still kinda puzzled about how that happened!) – the staff pulled together at a couple of hours notice, and put up a table, with a tall stack of copies of Daughter of Texas, and supplied us with ice-water, a glass of iced-tea, several announcements on the store PA system, and gave every indication of noticing and welcoming my presence. The staff generally seemed full of hustle and helpfulness towards customers.

Last month, another author – and I don’t remember if this was on the IAG author group, the Historical Novel Society author group, or even if I had read it on one of the Linkedin groups – posted a kind of pep-talk and guide to doing signings. First, he said – none of this sitting at the table, staring out in space, or worse yet, sitting there reading a book. (Which I plead guilty of doing now and again – especially if there are no customers in the store, or there is a customer or two, clear the other side of the place and deliberately appearing to avoid the corner with the Dreaded Author Table.) You’ve been invited to the venue to sell books – so sell books. You have to strike up a conversation with people in the vicinity of the table, and he recommended opening it by saying, in an appropriately chipper and friendly voice, “You look like someone who is looking for a book!” – and then steering the conversation towards your own book or books, as soon as they said “Well, yes I am.” This gave me an opening to ask if they liked historical fiction, and would they consider mine – which were right here (gesturing towards stack on the table) and pointing out that I could even autograph a copy with a personal message. And I have to say, it did work out pretty well, even if half the responses were something like, “Oh, no, I’m just here for a magazine-waiting for my spouse-strafing the marked-down bin.” And of course, there was the one customer who said, “Yeah, it’s called Lone Survivor, about this Navy SEAL, but I can’t remember the author,” to which I answered, “Marcus Luttrell, and if it’s in-stock, it will be back in the military section, or possibly current events.”

Blondie found this all hilarious, BTW – but as an opening gambit, it worked very well – and I believe that I am quick enough with the witty repartee to counter any smartass who answers, “Yeah, that’s what I walked into a bookstore for.”
Four copies sold, a fair number of good conversations, passed out a boatload of Adelsverein Trilogy postcards, and business cards with the website on it, recommended a fellow indy-author’s book about the Civil War in Indian Territory to a guy who had wandered in from the Cherokee Rez in Oklahoma, and plan to do it again at this Borders closer to December, when they have a big storewide event with a chorus singing Christmas carols, and offer food samples. I can work a crowd . . . as long as there is a crowd to work!

For anyone looking to buy my books locally in San Antonio – both the Twig at the Pearl Brewery, and the Huebner Oaks Borders both stock Daughter of Texas. The upcoming hard-bound version of the complete Trilogy will also be available at the Borders late in August, and so will the sequel to Daughter of Texas . . . umm, sometime in late November.

24. June 2011 · Comments Off on I Can Hear GWB Facepalm From Here · Categories: AARRRMY TRAINING SIR!!!, General, GWOT, Military

Or so is one trenchant comment on this discussion thread, with regard to Obama’s more-than-embarrassing confusion while visiting the 10th Mountain Division at Fort Drum, between a living recipient of the Medal of Honor and one who was awarded it posthumously . . . You know that the MOH is not handed out like tricker-treat candy, and to be the one presenting it to a soldier/sailor/airman/Marine who has survived . . . one would have thought a few details, like the name of the first living recipient since the Vietnam War would have stuck in the presidential mind. (Note to the president: the living MOH recipient is SSgt Salvatore Giunta, and he was and is a 173rd Airborne troop.) Really, one would have expected better of the mind of one so frequently lauded by a lickspittle press as being so intellectually superior. Back in the day, Sam Houston was absolutely legendary for his recollect of the name, service and exploits of just about every man who had ever enlisted and fought under his command in Texas; he, of course, had at best only a thousand or so to keep in mind. Still – one would like to think that the names of those awarded the MOH during his administration could be kept in mind, if not by the commander in chief himself, at least one of his flunkies.

Stuff like this – the names of heroes – is one of those things that military members are expected to know. It’s kind of a core-knowledge thing. We used to have a special category of spots to air on military TV and radio about heroic deeds, and the names and faces of those who went above and beyond, and that’s the kind of history included in our basic training, promotion testing, and professional development courses.

So – here we have a CinC who either can’t be bothered to get it straight – or doesn’t care, and goofs it horrendously in front of a lot of people who did and do care, very much . . . and possibly could have served with the late SFC Monti. It says a lot for the self-discipline of the 10th Mountain Division troops that there seemed to have been no overt reaction, other than a lot of poker-faces going rather more poker-faced. Very likely this would be seen by ordinary civilians as . . . well, really, one of those silly and quite understandable goofs. But to military members, this kind of mistake is not seen in that light at all. At best – inexcusably careless, and at worst contemptuous of those who serve in the US armed forces.

23. June 2011 · Comments Off on The Ghost Poet · Categories: Domestic, Fun and Games, General, History, War, World

(Found through a link posted in a historical novel enthusiast group – the story of a poet who’s words inspired his community … the Warsaw Ghetto in the early 1940s.

Hey, Louis! You probably don’t know
What your punches mean to us
You, in your anger, punched the Brown Shirts
Straight in their hearts—K.O.

Lost Words – an article from Tablet Magazine

19. June 2011 · Comments Off on On the Internet No One Knows You Are a Dog · Categories: Ain't That America?, Fun and Games, Geekery, General, Media Matters Not, sarcasm, Technology, That's Entertainment!

Yes, it would appear that the lesbians are actually straight men, the women are women, and the tween-agers are FBI agents, and a certain NY congressman with a slightly risible last name and a penchant for tweeting suggestive pictures of his body or parts thereof – is a bit of a perv. Honestly, I thought everyone had gotten a piece of Wiener last week, and there were absolutely no further possible ways in which the gentleman in question could embarrass his party, his constituents and his spouse, after the pic of him in the gym dressing room, clutching his ding-a-ling through a towel, but my daughter alerted me to this gem, courtesy of the UK Daily Mail. Seriously, I am wondering what possibly could top that for humiliating revelations, although now that he has resigned, perhaps that will stop any more from appearing.

The Gay Girl in Damascus and the Paula Brooks thing – honestly, it seems like the plot for a movie – something titled The Gay Deceivers just suggests itself right off the bat. Seldom in real life do we have such a delicious confluence of pretense . . . what is real, what is the real identity behind those pixels on a screen, and how much of what you put out there is really, really, really real. And I speak as someone who has been blogging under a not-terribly opaque nom du-blog since 2002, mostly because I didn’t want to put my real name out there. My daughter was still on active duty, my parents and brothers are listed in the phone book, and I had enough of demented devotion from eccentric fans when I was on radio, here and there among military radio stations. Yes, you have a million fans, if you are in the public eye in some manner, and a half-dozen really sick f**ks as enemies, all of whom have never met you, don’t really know any more about you than what you put out about yourself . . . and I didn’t really want to deal with it, or have my family deal with it.

There were often discussions, early on – about blogging under a real name, or under a nom-du-blog; questions of credibility, of standing behind what you wrote. I took the line that yes, for piece of mind or actual physical safety, there were excellent reasons for someone to blog under another name. One could establish a reputation for verity, and honesty, no matter what name you called yourself. Over time, your on-line reputation could be as solid as it was in real-space, congruent with your real-life experience.

And there are bloggers who have been doing that – under cover or by their real names in various countries, and some of them in physical danger: Salam Pax is one that comes to mind at first, mostly because of the blogosphere controversy over whether he was a real and credible person, reporting from inside Saddam Hussein’s Iraq. Hossein Derakhshan, the godfather of Iranian blogging may or may not still be imprisoned by the Iranian authorities. The Egyptian blogger who goes by the nom du blog Sandmonkey was briefly arrested in the recent past. They took – and still are taking risks by writing, and blogging. Creating a whole other persona and identity, at odds with real life, and claiming to bear first-hand witness in a blog to extraordinary current events, when you are actually hundreds or thousands of miles away?

When I do that, I call it a bit of historical fiction, and clearly label it such. Dunno why “Amina” and “Paula” didn’t think of doing it that way. Would have saved a bit of embarrassment, all the way around.

19. June 2011 · Comments Off on RIP Clarence Clemons · Categories: Ain't That America?, Memoir

In late August of 1975 I was 13 just a week away from 14 and a week and a half from high school when music for me suddenly changed drastically.  If you were like me, you fell asleep with a small FM transistor radio under your pillow playing soft enough so Mom and Dad couldn’t hear it.

One of those nights it was so hot that I actually left my bedroom door open so a breeze could run through the apartment.

On that night, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band’s “Born to Run” came over the radio in it’s entirety.  From Thunder Road to Jungleland.  That big block of wood guitar.  Those keyboards that sounded like they come straight off a midway.  That bass and drum-kit driving, driving into the night, and that saxaphone…that soaring magical flow of brass that rose me above the street right down the gangway between our apartment and the next.

I can’t tell you how many times that saxaphone literally saved my life through the rest of the 70s.  Some of it’s just normal teenage hormonal angsty bullshit, some of it was real insanity that comes from living in as a teen in a major city in the 70s.

Thank you Big Man.  God bless and keep you in his band.

15. June 2011 · Comments Off on The Grand Adventure · Categories: General, History, Literary Good Stuff, Memoir, Military, War

“You’ll simply have to read his books, if you want to understand about Greece,” my next-door neighbor told me, very shortly after my then-three year old daughter and I settled into Kyrie Panayotis’ first floor flat (which is Brit-speak for second-floor apartment) at the corner of Knossou and Delphon streets in the Athens suburb of Ano Glyphada, early in the spring of 1983. Kyrie Panayoti did not speak any English; neither did his wife, or his wife’s sister, Kyria Yiota, who lived upstairs with her husband. The only inhabitants of the three-story apartment house who did were Kyrie Panayoti’s middle-school aged sons, who were learning English at school. And I – dullard that I am with languages aside from my native one – only retained a few scraps of high-school and college German. Given the modern history of Greece, and the long memories of older Greeks, a German vocabulary was neither tactful nor useful.

I can’t recall exactly when we hit the first linguistic snag, but it must have been within days of me moving in, lock, stock, barrel, toddler child and household goods. In mild frustration, Kyrie Panayoti leaned out the kitchen door of his apartment, and shouted in the general direction of the apartment block next door, a distance of about twelve or fifteen feet away.
“Kyria Penny!”
Almost immediately, a woman’s head with an old-fashioned kerchief tied around it, appeared out from one of the first floor (or second floor windows) – and that was my first introduction to Penny. She was English, married to a genial Greek accountant named George. She was slightly older than my own mother, her two sons were teenagers. Penny had been the British equivalent of a State Department employee, and in that capacity she had been assigned to various British consulates in Europe until she came to Athens, met and married George, and settled down into tidy domesticity in the three-floor, three-flat apartment building next to Kyrie Panayoti’s. Penny’s mother-in-law lived on the ground floor, Penny and George lived on the first – or second floor, exactly opposite mine – and George’s widowed brother and his two children lived in the top-floor flat.

I rather think Penny missed speaking English regularly, anyway – and we became excellent friends because of a mutual love of books and mad passion for Greece, ancient and modern. A love for Greece in general, on the part of us English and American eccentrics is one of those inexplicable things – rather like enduring affection for an exasperatingly self-centered boyfriend with one or two bad habits. He’s devastatingly handsome, scenic in all the right ways, erratically but theatrically devoted – but just when you have given up all hope and resolved to cut him off – he does something so heartbreakingly gallant, at something of a cost to him and with no thought of personal gain – that all is . . . well, not forgotten or overlooked (until next time). Anyway, I loved Greece, being a history wonk, and cheerfully overlooked all kinds of disincentives . . . a very real terrorism problem, endemic anti-Americanism, and a certain slap-dash approach to everything from driving habits to telephone company service. No exaggerating there: getting a phone in Greece in those days was . . . interesting, and supposedly took years, well above the time that any Americans serving at Hellenikon AB were prepared to wait. Kyrie Panayoti’s flat and Kyria Yiota’s each had a telephone jack. Mine might have had one also; I never cared enough to look for it. But there was only one telephone between the two families. They passed it between themselves, I guess according to need. Many was the time that I heard someone calling between apartments, and observed the telephone being hoisted or lowered past my kitchen window, in a plastic market bag at the end of a long length of rope.

Among the first books that Penny advised me to read – was Gerald Durrell, who wrote about his childhood in Corfu in the 1930s. He was Lawrence Durrell’s little brother; I rather think that Dad must have been a child like Gerald Durrell; entranced by wild animals of whatever sort, to the mystification of his parents – eventually being a zoologist and all, and giving us all the very best nature-walks ever, as the four of us grew up.

And the second of Penny’s recommended authors – Patrick Leigh-Fermor, especially his books about Greece: Mani and Roumeli, respectively southern Greece and Northern. Penny’s redoubtable mother-in-law was from the Southern Peloponnesus – the Mani. I read them both, traveled down into that part of the country when I could, and read the first of his books – A Time of Gifts – about the journey on foot that he had made at the age of 18; as the title goes, “On Foot to Constantinople: From the Hook of Holland to the Middle Danube” in the fateful year of 1933. He took a little more than a year to make that journey, but writing about it took up the rest of his life. I bought a copy of the second installment, Between the Woods and Water as soon as it came out, the year after I had left Greece. At the time of his death earlier this month, the last installment of that journey was unfinished.

Of Patrick Leigh-Fermor’s greatest adventure? He never really wrote about that himself, although in certain circles his exploits as a British SOE agent during Crete in WWII became legend. He another SOE officer, in a daring strike by Leigh-Fermor’s band of Cretan guerillas kidnapped the German officer commanding the whole island, spirited him across the Cretan hills and mountains, and had him evacuated from Crete to North Africa. His co-conspirator, W. Stanley Moss wrote about that in his own book, Ill Met by Moonlight – which was made into a movie, in the days when movie-makers appreciated such real-life exploits. One of the grace notes to this adventure is that Moss and Leigh-Fermor left documents behind; clearly explaining that it was British commandos who had taken the general-commanding, so no point in going all reprisal-ish on the local Cretans.

About thirty years later, a Greek television version of This is Your Life reunited many of those participants. And Patrick Leigh Fermor lived for most of the rest of his life in Greece, regarded with awe and wonder, almost as a local saint.

13. June 2011 · Comments Off on The Media Declaration of Independence · Categories: Geekery, General, Media Matters Not

When in the Course of media events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political shilling which has connected propaganda diretly to one ideological party with the information stream and to assume among the powers of the communications system, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Truth and Objectivity entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of non-radical leftists requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation from that source of propaganda, slander and lies.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all TRUTH is created equal, that it is endowed by its creators with certain unalienable properties, that among these are non-distortion, non-coverup, and the pursuit of facts and evidence.

That to secure the right to the truth, media outlets are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the recipients, — That whenever any Form of MEDIA becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute New Media, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect the obtaining of truth, through facts and evidence.

Prudence, indeed, will dictate that media outlets long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.

But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Media Outlets, and to provide new Guards for their future security. — Such has been the patient sufferance of these blogs; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of newsgathering. The history of the present mass media is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over the information stream. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

They have refused his Assent to ethics, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

They have forbidden their minions and lackeys to pass along information of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in leftism; and when so traversed, they have utterly neglected to attend to them.

They have refused to pass along other information for the accommodation of “flyover country”, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the information stream, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

They have called together stringers, wire services and freelancing bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of actual information, for the sole purpose of fatiguing those in search of truth and into forced acceptance of slanders, lies and distortions.

They have dissolved Representative opinions repeatedly, for opposing with steadfast firmness their invasions on the rights of the people to obtain the truth.

They have refused for a long time, after such dissolutions of ANY opposing opinion, thought, ideology or concept, to cause others to be blackballed, isolated, removed, wherein the vile propaganda, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the information stream remaining in the meantime exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.

They have endeavoured to prevent the control of the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to assist this land of ours to pass laws and to protect our borders and to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new invasions of Lands.

They have obstructed the Administration of Justice by refusing to report upon the breaking of Laws and usurpation of rules, regulations and our very Constitution.

They have made radical and unaccountable Judges dependent on their Will alone for the tenure of their offices, and the amount of interference with the adherence to the will of the people.

They have supported and assisted in the erection of a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of officious intermeddlers to harass our people and eat out their substance.

They have kept among us, in times of peace or war, standing orders to distort the reportage as being deflating when the “enemy” party is in power and wholly absent of facts when a leftist is in power, to the complete detriment of the People.

They have effectively assisted in rendering the Military independent of and superior to the Civil Power.

They have combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving their assent to the usurpation of the rights to self-govern this land of ours, by and through the wholesale distortion of our communications systems, and the rape of our information stream.

For protecting them, by a mock Trial from punishment for any violence which they should commit on the TRUTH in this land of ours:

For cutting off our loyalty to Israel and with other allies of the world:

For advancing class warfare and hoaxes for the purpose of imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefit of fair access to the Court of public opinion:

For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences, through slander, distortion and the promotion of anti-free market libel:

For abolishing the free System of truth and objectivity in neighbouring outlets of academia, entertainment and new media, establishing therein an Arbitrary “truthiness”, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute falsehoods into these outlets

For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable public forums for the gathering of facts, evidence and objectivity and replacing them with lockstep propaganda.

For suspending our own system of debate, and declaring themselves invested with power to make issues “settled” for us in all cases whatsoever, without the benefit of inspection.

They have abdicated honor and loyalty here, by declaring us out of their Protection and waging War against us if we dare to oppose rampant and unchecked leftism as our religion.

They have plundered our farms, ravaged our energy resources, burnt our flag, and destroyed the information gathering of our people.

They are at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to complete the works of treason, treachery and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Slander & Perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the “papers of record”.

They have constrained the voices of our fellow Citizens taken Captive in the U.N. and for the purpose of creating a “world body” of opinion to bear ill will against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends’ beliefs, loyalties and opinions and our allied Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.

They have excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and have endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless anarchists, small communists and tear down the system Savages whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A fourth estate, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the supplier of information of a free people.

Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our meda brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their ilk to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

We, therefore, the Recipients of information in these United States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these lands, solemnly publish and declare, That these united peoples are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent readers and viewers, that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the Old Media, and that all political connection between them and the mass media empire, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent readers and viewers, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent readers and viewers may of right do. — And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.

— commenter cfbleachers, in this PJ Media comment thread

DIY

09. June 2011 · Comments Off on DIY · Categories: Ain't That America?, Domestic, Fun and Games, General, History

Right off the top, about the first thing we learned – and learned it the hard way – about making your own cheese is that ultra-pasteurized milk is no good for cheese-making, even if it is the high-end and expansive organic milk. The ‘ultra-pasteurized’ notation was in such small print on the cartons that we overlooked it entirely. Ah, well – chalk that up to experience. The good-enough HEB standard whole milk works well enough,

So, when did we get off on this whole do-it-yourself kick, regarding things? Partly, we’ve always been on it: I grew up sewing my own clothes, following Mom’s example. I made just about every garment my daughter wore, between the time she outgrew the baby-shower bounty and when she began to shop for and purchase her own. Owning a sewing-machine, and possessing a modicum of skill means never having to settle for what ready-made offers. So – the mind-set is already there, encouraged along by the subtle realization that a lot of the staple foods that we like are expensive.

It’s the natural outcome of having champagne tastes and a beer budget, for which there are three solutions: learn to like beer, drink water six nights and champagne on the seventh, or learn to make champagne. The first two are unappealing – hence, learning to make good stuff yourself. We have experimented with brewing beer, by the way. This is not hard – just follow the recipe.

After clothes – we progressed to bread, although my daughter is keener on that than I am. I just throw the ingredients in the bread-maker, and rejoice that I am not paying $3 and up for the all-grain seeded loaves. The homemade version is much more substantial than the mass-market version, too. But we are still lamenting the fact that Sam’s Club doesn’t stock the 25-lb sacks of high-gluten flour any more – that made good bread.

When we lived in Utah, I went through a round of canning jams and jellies; either it was something in the water, or I couldn’t stand letting the fruit go to waste, with a back-yard full of apricots. Had fun with it, but for the life of me, I couldn’t taste much difference one way or the other between what I did, and jams and jelly off the supermarket shelf. Well, the Concord grape jelly was a cut above the supermarket brand; three or four bunches, picked at once and into the kettle before the dew was off them – that made sublime grape jelly, even if I didn’t really like grape jelly. (Overdose of PB&J in school lunches as a child.) And I came away from Utah with a stand-alone freezer and a food dehydrator, items which have proved intermittently useful.

So – on to cheeses: two cheese molds, a stock of industrial-strength rennet tablets and a length of butter muslin. We got good at mozzarella, and it looks like the farmhouse cheddar will shape up nicely, even though my current cheese-press is a chunk of limestone and four exercise weights. The cheese presses from the supply houses cost a bomb, and it’s kind of an esoteric hobby, so we probably won’t see one at a yard-sale soon. I think I can whip one together, though – from two pieces of wood or two or three long threaded bolts and wing-nuts. Two gallons of milk make two pounds of cheese . . . and if I can line up a source for fresh goat milk, we can really branch out.

There is another reason for DIY foodstuffs – that being the actual experience of making it pays off when I write about the 19th century. Practically the whole of a frontier farm woman’s life was spent (between doing laundry and raising children) in processing food for the daily meals or to be put away for the winter – vegetables from the garden, fruit from an orchard or gathered in the wild, from the milk of the cows, from corn and wheat flour grown in her family’s fields and ground in a local mill . . . pickled, dried, preserved with sugar, smoked over a smoldering fire – that work never ended for a frontier woman. Pottering around with making cheese, bread, sausage and beer and the like brings me something of a sense of what it was like for them, although I’m certainly not hard-core enough o do it all over a wood fire.

Still, though . . . I’d like to learn more about the process of parting out a pig, for hams and sausages and all that. I found some accounts on line, but nothing is like actually watching it being done . . .

06. June 2011 · Comments Off on Seriously? · Categories: Military, My Head Hurts, Veteran's Affairs

Mullen Says Pay, Benefit Cuts ‘On the Table’

Yeah, because there’s nowhere else where the military can save money.  If I were more cynical, I would say it’s someone’s “sneaky” idea to kill the volunteer service and go back to the draft.  If I were more cynical.

06. June 2011 · Comments Off on I Swear… · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, Politics, Rant, Stupidity

If I see one more politico or blogger who I used to respect stand up and tell me that Paul Revere actually WAS warning the British on his midnight ride, I’m going to vote for Obama just out of sheer spiteful frustration with the WingNuttery of it all.

No, it’s NOT worse than 57 states, but come ON people.  We learned this in 8th Grade.  And it wasn’t a “reasoned” response, she was spewing word salad.

I don’t care if it’s a Dem or a Rep, if you goofed, just say so.

05. June 2011 · Comments Off on Entourage · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, Good God, That's Entertainment!

Only once in my life have I ever had first-hand acquaintance with the necessity of a body-guard. Not for myself, mind you – but for a fellow military broadcaster during my year at Yongsan AIG, Republic of Seoul, South Korea. Being – in a relatively minor way – something of a local celebrity is a thing that the younger broadcasters doing an on-air job as a radio or TV voice would rather glory in, at first. Ohh! You’re on radio, or television, everybody knows your name, your voice and your face, all over the ROK! After a good few years in the career field though, the older and career broadcasters would wise up and sober up – it was just a job; talking on the radio, playing records for folks and saying things to amuse them. Nothing special, just a job, albeit a little more public than most; after a while, one perfects the ability to keep the on-air personality a completely different and separate thing from the every-day-at-work NCO. Divas and their male equivalent do not last very long in military broadcasting.

Having thousands of fans, though – is nice. What’s not so nice is to become the focus for a deranged one – and it will. That’s a guarantee for anyone in the public eye, even a military broadcaster. That kind of irrationality is deeply frightening, even if it never goes any farther than disturbing phone calls. And that’s what happened to one of the young female broadcasters during my year in Seoul. She was the dee-jay for the mid-night rock and roll show: she was funny and earthy . . . and within a short time, she had a big circle of fans, both military and among the young English-speaking Korean audience. (American military radio usually does develop a local-national shadow audience.) And one of those local national fans began making increasingly disturbing phone calls to her, when she was on the air, which escalated to the point where he had vowed that he was going to get on post somehow and kill her for rejecting him. She had fortunately been taping his calls, since we had the capability to patch in a studio line to a recorder, but as it turned out, the local police were disinterested in taking any action against the deranged fan. Their attitude seemed to be that – eh, she had led him on, boys will be boys, and he hadn’t done anything but talk . . . but still – she was frightened very badly, all of her friends, and the rest of the AFKN staff – and the Air Force Security police contingent at Yongsan were furious. There was a small, but real possibility that he could manage to sneak on post, and figure out who she was, among the uniformed female staff at AFKN. Most of us walked between the AFKN building and the dormitory where we lived, a distance of about four blocks – and she would be doing this after dark. The handful of AF Security Police who lived in the dorm took it in turns to walk with her, back and forth for most of the rest of her tour. They were organized by an NCO who had just come off of the Presidential protection security team – who had beau-coups of experience being a bodyguard.

Anyway – yeah, quite often people who work in a capacity where they are out in front of the public eye do attract a lunatic fringe, and do need the services of a body guard . . . but I really have to wonder about Patti Labelle. Yep, that Patti Labelle – who passed through Houston’s airport in March, with no less than three body-guards, a raft of luggage and an even larger raft of self-importance. Apparently, a guy talking on his cell phone in the pick-up area while he waited for a ride from his family, failed to appreciate the splendor and importance of Miss Labelle, or more precisely her luggage. And Miss Labelle’s body-guards’ manner of making sure that such lesser mortals did know their proper place – with regard to the luggage of a super-star – involved leaving him bruised, bloody and with a concussion. Oh, and the airport security officers who came to investigate took the time to pose for pictures with Miss Labelle, knowing they were in the presence of a star, and knowing the properly graceful way to acknowledge celebrity.

The young man with the cell phone and lack of proper appreciation for the presence of a celebrity turns out to be a senior year cadet at West Point. And he has just filed suit – story here, from the Houston Chronicle. And just for fun – the airport security cameras caught the whole beatdown and aftermath.

03. June 2011 · Comments Off on Friday Follies: Absolutely the Last Word From Me on Wienergate · Categories: Ain't That America?, Domestic, Fun and Games, General, Politics

Ok then, it looks like absolutely, positively every middle-school snark that can be made about Congressman Anthony Wiener’s unfortunately risible last name has been made. Every blogger, commentator and internet wit has gotten in touch with our inner sixth-grader . . . it kind of makes a refreshing change from the depressing national news, the really depressing international news, and the suicidally depressing news from the Middle East. Really, the only way that more juvenile humor might of have been milked out of this is for the Congressman in question to have been christened Richard Head. God bless his heart, for someone represented to be so adept with the media, new and old, Congressman Wiener has misstepped so badly and so frequently he almost looks as if he clog-dancing. If he’s so good at it, I’d hate to see who’s the most inept of the current Congressional crop when it comes to dealing with the media. Oh, and one last slam at the cocktail-wiener Congressman? He looks like he was deliberately designed to be someone named Wiener. Central Casting couldn’t have come up with anyone so physiognomically appropriate.

Speaking of other misapplications of the male principle, it looks like John Edwards – he of another wandering wiener – has been indicted on several counts for conspiracy and receiving illegal campaign contributions during the 2008 campaign, all in frantic attempts to cover up the existence of a seriously flaky mistress and what the old-line tabs used to call a love child. Ironical in the extreme that it actually was a tabloid which first brought this sidebar to our attention . . . I guess Agent K (Tommy Lee Jones) was correct: “Best investigative reporting on the planet. But go ahead, read the New York Times if you want. They get lucky sometimes.”
And will Arnold Schwarzenegger pay some kind of penalty for his wandering wiener? Aside from his wife departing – rightfully PO’d – but you’d have thought that since she was a Kennedy, she might have been accustomed to the concept of hubby playing hide-the-salami with anything female and willing. What is it with male politicians these days – are they’re letting the little head do all the serious thinking?

30. May 2011 · Comments Off on The Order That Started It All · Categories: Ain't That America?, General, History, War

Headquarters, Grand Army of the Republic

General Orders No.11, Washington, D.C., May 5, 1868

The 30th day of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village and hamlet church-yard in the land. In this observance no form of ceremony is prescribed, but posts and comrades will in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances may permit.

We are organized, comrades, as our regulations tell us, for the purpose among other things, “of preserving and strengthening those kind and fraternal feelings which have bound together the soldiers, sailors, and marines who united to suppress the late rebellion.” What can aid more to assure this result than cherishing tenderly the memory of our heroic dead, who made their breasts a barricade between our country and its foes? Their soldier lives were the reveille of freedom to a race in chains, and their deaths the tattoo of rebellious tyranny in arms. We should guard their graves with sacred vigilance.

All that the consecrated wealth and taste of the nation can add to their adornment and security is but a fitting tribute to the memory of her slain defenders. Let no wanton foot tread rudely on such hallowed grounds. Let pleasant paths invite the coming and going of reverent visitors and fond mourners. Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic.

If other eyes grow dull, other hands slack, and other hearts cold in the solemn trust, ours shall keep it well as long as the light and warmth of life remain to us.

Let us, then, at the time appointed gather around their sacred remains and garland the passionless mounds above them with the choicest flowers of spring-time; let us raise above them the dear old flag they saved from dishonor; let us in this solemn presence renew our pledges to aid and assist those whom they have left among us a sacred charge upon a nation’s gratitude, the soldier’s and sailor’s widow and orphan.

It is the purpose of the Commander-in-Chief to inaugurate this observance with the hope that it will be kept up from year to year, while a survivor of the war remains to honor the memory of his departed comrades. He earnestly desires the public press to lend its friendly aid in bringing [it] to the notice of comrades in all parts of the country in time for simultaneous compliance therewith.

Department commanders will use efforts to make this order effective.

By order of
JOHN A. LOGAN,

Commander-in-Chief

30. May 2011 · Comments Off on Remember the Fallen · Categories: General

Mostly Cajun has a good post with a couple political cartoons that are spot on for today.

More than fifty years after he came home from Korea, my dad finally told me how he got injured. Someone parked a tank in front of the foxhole sheltering his 2 buddies and him. When the tank was destroyed, shrapnel ripped through the foxhole. One Marine was decapitated, the other severely wounded. Dad had a “minor” injury that took a year of rehab.

We know that all gave some. Today, we remember those who gave all.

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

28. May 2011 · Comments Off on Downhill Racer · Categories: General, Technology, That's Entertainment!, World

Or what they do for fun in South America … and look out for the dog!

Never mind “Got Milk?” Got testicles of steel?