Wednesday, December 20, 2023
Merry Christmas 2023!
Thursday, December 22, 2022
Merry Christmas 2022
Merry Christmas 2022!
Another year in the can. Only the editing remains. This year, 2022, a fistful of deuces. When I was a kid, 2022 was off in some distant future, when we imagined we'd have already colonized Mars and owned jet cars, like George Jetson. So we thought. Instead, we spend all day staring at our phones and posting pictures of cats on Facebook. Ain't technology grand? In my day, we actually owned real cats for when we needed a laugh.
Been a busy year! I started it by getting sick. I don't remember very much of it. But I sure slept a lot. Debbie once found me sleeping on the bathroom floor at 2 am. I lost ten pounds on the COVID/pneumonia diet. Debbie had to force me to drink water and enticed me to eat by dangling sugary donuts and cookies, stuff that normally I love. My memories of all this are sketchy -- there's about a 10-day period that are only a wispy hint of a memory. A couple of things I do remember. She called an ambulance and the next thing I knew, two burly medics were asking me questions. From my perspective, I answered them quickly, but from Debbie's, there was a fifteen-second lag between questions and answers.
"What's your full name?"
"..............Lee............
"What year were you born?"
"..............Nineteen.......
"Do you know the name of the President of the United States."
"...........I............wish.
When my oxygen levels sank into the low eighties, the hospital admitted me. Once there, my memory started tracking again because now I was on oxygen. And I started eating. Four days in the hospital. My most memorable moments were spent with the Dragon Ladies. Vampires, really. Around 3:30 am, they came for my blood. One of them brandished a corkscrew wine-bottle opener and stabbed my forearm, to let it breathe a little before drinking. One woman, hanging from the ceiling, said, "Relax! I am the blood whisperer!" A few screams later and they left.
Finally, home to rehab. I was very weak and had lost about a third of my lung capacity to something called "pulmonary infiltrate" -- the educated way of saying, too much crap in my lungs. I had to drag an oxygen machine around with me for three weeks. I got tired of blowing into the stupid little spirometer and bought a tuba instead. Now, I could improve my lung capacity and annoy my neighbors at the same time. In March, we drove to a small town outside of Philadelphia to buy the tuba. I actually did a lot of the driving, and we got to see much of the beautiful Pennsylvania landscape, complete with mountains and Amish horse wagons on the road.
In April we drove out to Omaha to attend the burial of a wonderful friend, Dale McHenry. He was dean of the business school at the community college, where Debbie worked as his secretary. They moved nearby to Williamsburg, VA in the late '90s. Debbie and I followed a year later to Virginia Beach, and we maintained our friendship. A good man. While in Omaha, we visited other friends and former colleagues. It is gratifying that so many of my old colleagues came out to have pizza with us twenty-two years after leaving Omaha. I try never to take friendship for granted. On the return trip, we met an old friend, Sam Caccamo, in Indianapolis for dinner. When it comes to stereo equipment, he's the pusher and I'm the junkie. We checked into a motel just east of Columbus, Ohio, and in the middle of night the fire alarm in our room went off. I hadn't completely recuperated yet and thus had no trouble sleeping through the alarm and the intrusion of the firemen who arrived to investigate, leaving Debbie to deal with them. We took the scenic route home through Winchester, Virginia. My high school band marched many a Cherry Blossom parade there, a short fifty years ago. The parade route was about five miles long and usually on the hottest day in May -- they coordinated their schedule with a sadistic weatherman.
Debbie is quite the history buff, so in September, we took a mini-vacation in Gettysburg, PA, to visit the Civil War museum and enjoy some of the local cuisine. There's a restaurant in the town of Westminster, MD, called The Rock Salt Grille. I recommend it, it's worth driving out of your way to get there. We met up there with my old friends from college, Kevin & Ann Schmalz, and I ordered the most expensive sandwich I've ever bought. $22. They call it a Seafood Club, and consists of a huge crab cake, shrimp salad, bacon, and homemade whole wheat bread. Also met up with some old Penn State college chums, Rick and Linda Hoover. Rick was a computer programmer like me, but holds a Ph.D. and has probably forgotten more about software than I ever knew. Rick was the Penn State Music Department's designated hitter -- that is, he's a percussionist. I played countless concerts and gigs with Rick. Linda is a singer. We all know the same people, whose ears were lit on fire that evening. The most interesting exhibit at the Gettysburg museum is the Cyclorama of the Battle of Gettysburg. Think of a cyclorama as a painting in the round. Gettysburg's is longer than a football field and tall as a four-story building. But it told only one story, namely, the great and bloody tragedy of the Civil War.
In October, we rented a house on North Carolina's Outer Banks, near the Kitty Hawk Memorial, where the Wright Brothers flew the world's first airplane in 1903. We entertained several visitors in succession that week. We failed to deplete Kitty Hawk of its beer. Excellent seafood. Met up with an old high school chum, Bruce Loughry, lives down that-a-way. We hadn't seen each other since we were both mugged at Hampton's Buckroe Beach, back in 1971. Bruce is a musician, too, a rocker and plays guitar. Our rental house had a panoramic view of the Albemarle Sound and the mornings were glorious. Odd floor plan, though. Our bedroom doubled as the foyer. Panoramic view was restricted. We went with my brother Jack and his wife Gracey to the Wright Brothers museum, and watched "Leave It to Beaver" with our Pastor, Ken and his wife, Michele, while drinking scotch. Now, I finally understand Eddie Haskell.
Debbie is never one to allow any sort of organizational or leadership vacuum to go unfilled. There were two openings on the condo's board of directors. She and another woman promptly stepped forward as the sacrificial lambs volunteers. Her new title is Director at Large and In Charge. She says that means she has no official duties, but those might rain down upon her at any moment. Best as I can tell, the Board does a good job. We've been here five years and haven't needed a "special assessment" yet -- and we just had to replace our roofs, which is a good sign they've been planning ahead. My own planning abilities are limited to noticing when we are out of beer.
This week, our church has an evening candlelight service on Friday and a Christmas service on Sunday. Debbie is music director and has warned the church that I'm singing a solo. The year started out hard, but is ending more gently. We try to follow P.J. O'Rourke's advice on having fun: "Have it all now, it doesn't keep."
Christmas is both serious and fun. We live in a serious world with serious consequences, but are saved from them because the Lord of all creation paid us a visit, first wearing swaddling clothes and lying in a manger, and finally a crown of thorns. He was born so we can be born again. That's what puts the cheer in Christmas.
Love, from Lee & Debbie
Monday, December 28, 2020
Merry Christmas 2020!
It isn't often that we don't have our Christmas letter finished and sent out by... well, you know, Christmas. No excuse. Just lazy. They say, if you want something done, ask a busy man to do it. I haven't been very busy. Most Decembers, I'm up to my eyebrows in assorted trombone-playing ventures, including performing Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker ballet. On trombone, of course. Without a marketing survey to consult, I'll hazard a guess that me performing a pas de deux in a tutu would have only very limited appeal. Well, who knows, it worked for Red Skelton. But I doubt they could find a dance partner able to lift me. But this year, our Governor has given us glad tidings of great Oy! Musicians are not "essential workers." Musicians won't take my advice. Instead of calling it a concert, call it a "protest" against institutionally-racist silence in the concert halls. That ought to be worth a politically-correct free pass.
When the WuFlu hit us last March, I started working from home. I love the convenience. The commute to work consists of stumbling from the bed to my easy chair. Done! No, I don't miss going to the office at all. I like it here just fine. No dress code, except when Debbie gets tired of seeing me in my PJs at two in the afternoon. The coffee machine is about ten feet away. So is the fridge. So is the stereo. When we all need to talk, we can teleconference, otherwise email works just fine. The programs themselves don't care where I write them -- they're very cooperative in that limited scope. If and when things ever do get back to normal, it'll be hard to readjust to waking at 5:30 AM and driving forty minutes through heavy traffic. I do sometimes miss the piquant environment of our little techie building, which is an old Fifties elementary school minus the aesthetic appeal. It does have a nice waterfront view; unfortunately, it's the kind of waterfront created by poor drainage. Mosquito Beach, Virginia. For the kids, we have a Canadian goose petting zoo; only problem is they're hard to catch, and sometimes they chase you. And they do leave little tokens of appreciation scattered along the sidewalks. My brother used to own a '71 Ford Maverick painted the same color. Watch your step. It isn't easy being green.
But the big news this year is I've retired, so to speak, from trombone playing. We're selling off the herd. I'm keeping my best tenor 'bone just in case I change my mind, but it isn't likely. It has been an amicable parting. I wasn't giving them the love they needed for so many years, and it grieved me to see them pouting in the closet. But when they started talking to divorce lawyers, I knew it was over. I had been playing trombone since Fall of my seventh grade year, which was... lessee... September of '66. That's fifty-four years. A good run, I think. With all that experience, I should play much better than I do. But sometimes you get fifty-four years of experience, while other times you get one year of experience fifty-four times. I might be somewhere in the middle. But, to be honest, I haven't been sounding very good for the past couple of years, and finally realized I should quit while I'm still behind. I've been writing our orchestra's program notes for a couple of years -- I don't know whether that will continue, but I'm hopeful. It's a lot of work, but I find it quite enjoyable. Still have lots of musician friends, so I'll feel like I'm part of the gang even if my tommy gun is no longer firing.
One of my old music colleagues owns a music store and he agreed to sell my trombones on consignment. So we loaded up the herd into the splendiferously comfortable and luxurious '05 Honda Element, and felt every glorious bump in the road between here and Omaha. Along the way, we stopped and visited our pal Sam, who owns a beautiful old house in the little burg of Bloomington, Indiana. We had a wonderful visit with him and some of his church friends. The next day, Google Maps took us to the Illinois home of an old Air Force trombone colleague. Illinois is a corn field with Chicago at the top. He and his wife live near Joliet, which, if you will consult the music historians, is where Jake and Elwood performed "Jailhouse Rock" at the local prison. Great beer, great pizza, even greater conversation. After a couple hours, we scooted off to Omaha. It's always fun to see my old colleagues in Omaha -- musicians and programmers. We had dinner with our friends, Tom and Mary, and Tom arranged a get-together with a lot of my former colleagues from my defense contracting days. It was quite touching, to be honest. More than twenty years have passed, and they still remembered us well enough to enjoy an evening of beer and food with us. I have the best friends one could ever hope for. On the drive back to Virginia, we remembered that Sam had warned us about all the speed traps in rural Indiana and Illinois; he said they'll even ticket for five mph over the speed limit. Rural areas are starved for cash. I made it a point to travel the speed limit and no faster. Sam turned out to be a prophet, which for the cops turned out to be a loss. Coming through southern Indiana, the speed limit on I-64 was 70 mph, so that's where I set the cruise control. Then, suddenly, a truck went screaming past doing well over ninety. He was followed within a couple of minutes by a low-flying German luxury sedan. Then, as we rolled around a curve, we saw that an Indiana state trooper had the truck already pulled over, while another Smokey Bear was attacking the sedan. Debbie and I chuckled all the way to Louisville. A good time was had by some!
Tuesday, December 24, 2019
Merry Christmas, 2019!
Time to party like it's 2019! We're less than ten days away from 2020, but the Year of Hindsight hasn't arrived just yet. There are still a few beers to drink and, as luck would have it, just a few brain cells that need killing. Problem is, it's easy to kill brain cells but hard to kill only the right ones. We should be able to place all of our painful memories in a Hefty bag and toss them off a bridge, and then donate all of those worthless '60s Sitcom themes clanging around in our heads to the Salvation Army. But no. Beer is a general anesthetic, not a specific remedy. The best brain surgeon in the world can't extract the memories of those mistakes you made at work, or those notes you cacked in a symphony performance, or Corporal Agarn smacking the soldiers with his hat again on "F Troop." The purpose of painful memories may be as simple as learning to forgive others by learning to forgive ourselves; the purpose of whimsical memories might be as obvious as learning that not quite all of life is serious business. Our Lord, when in human form, spent a lot of time simply eating and drinking with his disciples, having a good time -- so much so, He was even accused of being a glutton and a drunk. What better time to remember His example than on His birthday, when we gather to eat too much and drink too much with the people we love? The Lord had serious work to do, and so do we, but now is the time to rejoice in His presence and our blessings.
Debbie and I have had 2019 all to ourselves! So, what did we do with it?
Well, last January, we traveled to visit our friends Kurt and Patty Rauscher at their beautiful home in Bokelia, Florida. On our way down, we stopped at Greenwood, South Carolina to visit Ray and Sonja Crenshaw, friends from our Air Force band days. We stayed at a charming hotel in downtown Greenwood that exuded Southern charm like Scarlett O'Hara on the front porch of a plantation house, twiddling her parasol at the Tarleton brothers. On this trip, we eschewed the freeway system, mostly because, in Georgia, all freeways lead to Atlanta, a great place to avoid if you're trying to arrive anywhere else at a decent hour. We crossed the Savannah River into Georgia (I think it was the Savannah) on a road built atop a dam. The setting was gloriously beautiful. Rural Georgia was charming, in a rural, red-clay sort of way. Bokelia is located on one of two islands in Florida named "Pine Island" -- they did that just to confuse us, and Google Maps. This particular Pine Island is a barrier island between Cape Coral and the Gulf of Mexico. It should be named Mangrove Island, but nobody asked my opinion. If you're never seen mangrove trees, they festoon the coastal areas in the tropics and subtropics like tattoos at a Goth convention. Their superpower is the ability to tolerate both fresh and salt water, and also to grow in the sand. They look like they'd be fun to swim around, but the 'gators think the same thing, so, no, don't do that. I've known Kurt since I was in 8th grade. We both played in our high school band and both attended Penn State. Retired now, Kurt was an Air Force pilot instructor, a civil engineer, an A-10 pilot for the Air National Guard, and a pilot of Delta Airlines. Quite a resume! There seemed to be a bit of a frosty cold snap going on, weather-wise, and I remember the wasps nesting outside the house, their metabolisms slowed to a crawl, just barely able to creak their necks and glare at us in impotent rage. Kurt took me out in his boat and we proved again that fishing isn't as much fun as catching. We all had the obligatory lunch at our favorite Cape Coral watering hole, named "Ford's Garage" -- Henry Ford had owned a summer home in this part of Florida.
Probably a lot of terms could apply here. I think "a dignity of trombonists" has a nice ring, but dignity can sound a lot like dullness, and I don't like to dignify that evil slander. We should have a contest. To my surprise, Debbie seemed to enjoy herself. Like me, she gets the most out of hearing the student groups perform. But I do love to hear the pros as well, and the US Army band musicians always acquit themselves quite well. And I love going to the exhibit hall and trying out all the new instruments and mouthpieces, surrounded by the cacophony of other trombonists doing likewise. That's it! A cacophony of trombonists! I think we can all agree on that one. While I was bonding with my fellow cacophonists, Debbie was picking through the trombone music for something I can perform in church.
Meanwhile, Debbie has turned playing flute at the local nursing homes into a ministry. Living in a nursing home looks like a bleak existence from the outside, and Debbie feels it's her duty to try to brighten their lives a bit. She is still the music director at our church, and she runs things very efficiently, like a German bureaucrat who can play flute. Debbie's mom, Audrey, has taken to condo life like a pro, same as us. Debbie and I love our condo. I could see buying a second home somewhere else. uBt unless the Virginia Democrats turn Virginia Beach into a gulag, which may not be outside the realm of possibility, we love it here and are here to stay.
Merry Christmas, from Debbie, Audrey, and me.
Monday, December 24, 2018
Merry Christmas, 2018!
My very first week in Pittsburgh, in an afternoon in January of '77, I discovered what cold really was. I was waiting on a street corner for a bus to take me back into town after a trombone lesson in the suburbs with a symphony trombonist. It was a bright sunny day -- a bit breezy, gusts up to about 35 mph, with temperatures down around 25. That is, 25 below. I was wearing a suede leather coat that was good down to about 25. That is, 25 above. I missed the bus back to town, and the next one was due by in an hour. It was a very educational hour. Though a born complainer, I swore I'd never, ever, complain about how hot it got, never, ever, again.
(But... well, I did. Once. It was about four or five years later, in Phoenix, AZ, in August, and our Air Force band bus' air conditioning broke down. No excuse, but just sayin'...)
All that to say this: we've been in Virginia Beach now for almost twenty years. But we still shiver at the thought of Omaha winters, where the temps can settle in at well below zero for weeks on end. Coming here, we'd laugh when everybody complained about temps in the thirties. Hah! As my dad would say, I can take that on my eyeball! Thirty-five degrees is short-sleeves weather in the Midwest! I kept thinking the locals here were sissies, right up until, after a couple of winters here, I became one. A sissy, that is.
Last New Year's Eve, I was delighted to suffer Nebraska winter yet again. I performed in a New Year's Eve concert with the Plymouth Brass in Lincoln, an hour's drive from my old stomping grounds in Omaha. I got to visit my friends, Tom and Mary Salem. Tom is that rare oddity, or odd rarity: an ex-boss who's still a friend. :) That's a rare commodity, right there! Also got to visit with many other friends, including a couple of my old Warwick High School band buddies, David Newton and his wife, Donna Limburgh Newton. Anyhow, Nebraska spent the entire week reminding me of the biggest reason we left. It was coooooolllllddddd. How cold was it? It was so cold, politicians had their hands in their own pockets. It was so cold, Kim Kardashian was wearing clothes. (Bah-dum-bump! I'll be here all week. Try the veal.) Welcome back to Omaha, Lee! Here's what you've been missing. I rented a little Kia Soul for the few days I spent there, and though it's a nice little car, it's shaped like a storage bin. Having a boxy car means stopping a lot for gasoline, and outside pumping gas was not where anyone wanted to be. On the night of the concert, Tom and Mary rode down with me to the concert in the boxy little gas guzzler. Great concert! Lots of fun! I had to catch the night owl shuttle just a few hours later, so it didn't make sense to go to sleep. When I dropped off the rental car (that's one Soul I didn't mind losing) at the Omaha airport, it was 25 below -- Omaha's way of saying, "So long! Come back, y'hear!" Laid over in Chicago at 7 AM, heck with Starbuck's -- I found a Chili's and drank beer until I boarded the plane for Norfolk. Now, I've been known to drink a beer or two, but -- honest -- never before 8 AM. Until that trip. With no sleep, I absolved myself because it seemed like 34 o'clock, plus it always helps to think of beer as liquid cereal. Breakfast is the most important meal, after all. Sorry, kids, you won't find this on aisle nine next to the Froot Loops.
Debbie had retired from teaching in August of 2017, but one of her old principals moped that she couldn't find a replacement, and, like Al Pacino in "The Godfather", "Just as I was breaking free, they pulled me back in!" It worked out nicely. The money paid for Debbie's new flute, and probably a few of my evening martinis. But we knew last year would be her last year teaching. So we changed a few other things. We'd been eyeballing a nearby over-55 neighborhood for a while, named West Neck, and when opportunity knocked, we took it. Or got taken by it. Our realtor was very efficient and sold our house in just three days, for $5 grand over our asking price. And now we have a new address and everything. We did lose some square footage, and I really do miss our old sun room, where we'd watch the trees and the rabbits, the raccoons and the possums, the robin-eating hawks and the occasional snake, all while drinking mind-altering martinis. But our new digs are nice and warm and cozy, and only about three miles from where our house was. We're even closer now to the great eastern Virginia swamp. The horseflies are so big, they have to use runway lights. During spring and summer, the ponds are crowded with cormorants and turtles; there are snapping turtles in the area, but we haven't seen one yet (one of our neighbors has). Our new community comprises several distinct neighborhoods. We live in one of the two condo neighborhoods, "Codgerville" and "Geezerton." At 6 AM every morning, we all walk out to the street, clasp hands, and chant, "Get off our lawn!" There's a famous retirement community in Florida named The Villages, very much like this place but on a much larger scale. However, in The Villages, they often sell their cars and buy golf carts. Here in Codgerville, we have to keep our cars, though maybe some of us shouldn't. A couple of months ago, one of our neighbors turned the corner and drove into West Neck's decorative brick gate. That's vandalism, senior citizen-style. Graffiti is for punks and whippersnappers.
We've moved a lot, but we're still not used to it. This time, Debbie had the help of the New Life Church Women's Folly Support Group, who together with Debbie did all the packing. The moving company sent over four very strong young men -- our realtor, Karen, had some sway with the moving company and told them, "Send us your A team." Work can be enjoyable when others are doing yours. Boxes piled on boxes piled on boxes. But that's Debbie's strong suit. Very organized and efficient, that woman. My job is to make the martinis and tell her what a great job she's doing. I'm sort of the morale improvement officer. We hired the Geek Squad at Best Buy to install the TV and sound system on the wall -- best money ever spent. We have a dozen or so electronic devices, all connected to this one little easy-to-use remote control. YouTube gives us symphony concerts right here in our living room. They even have some old Homer & Jethro tunes from my humor-deprived childhood -- still love those corny jokes. They were kinda the Weird Al Yankovics of country music back in the day. Beautiful, inspired lyrics such as: "Her teeth are like the stars above, because they come out every night."
Speaking of YouTube, there's an a'capella country group named "Home Free" that has a terrific YouTube presence. Home Free is five guys who just sing, no instrumentalists, but are able to make you think you're listening to a band play. They are very good! The week after Thanksgiving, I took Debbie to hear them perform in Richmond, about two hours up the road. Then we ate the best ribs on the planet at "Buz & Neds BBQ", and on the way home, visited a historical site here in southeastern Virginia named Bacon's Castle. It's an interesting story. Rewind back to the 1670s. Virginia was a British colony. There was a man, named Nathaniel Bacon, who was unhappy with the colonial government, which was corrupt, and -- probably more to the point -- didn't drive away the Native American tribes. Bacon got a few hundred men together and they took matters into their own hands, starting a war against the Indians, and that meant trouble as well for Governor Berkeley. A rebellion ensued. Bacon's Castle actually belonged to a rich farmer named Arthur Allen; Bacon's men had commandeered Allen's house and hunkered down, and drank all of Allen's wine while they were at it. But things didn't end well for Mr. Bacon; he died of dysentery before their dispute with the Governor was settled. Lord Berkeley promised a reprieve for the remaining men if they'd lay down their arms and take a loyalty oath. But anyone who understands government won't be surprised to learn the Governor hanged 29 of the men anyway. Bacon's Castle is billed as the oldest English-built house in America -- built in 1665, remodeled in the 1840s. It's interesting how the architecture had changed during the intervening years. A house built in 1600's Virginia would look a lot like a house built in 1600's England, with low ceilings and small windows -- anything to keep the heat in. However, by the 1840s, Virginians had figured out that Virginians suffer hotter and more humid summers than Englishmen, so the add-on parts of the house sported tall ceilings (about eleven feet) and big windows.
Resuming our drive home, we passed by Smithfield, famous for its hams and pork products. An unusual juxtaposition, that -- driving from where Bacon died right past where bacon is cured.
This Christmas season, Debbie and I wish you the greatest happiness as you come together with family and friends to celebrate the birth of our Deliverer, the One who gave the greatest gift of all. For, greater love has no man than to lay down His life for His friends. Unto us, a child was born; unto us, a Son is given. Keep the Christ in Merry Christmas!
Love,
Lee and Debbie
Monday, September 3, 2018
A Conflict of Moral Visions
The writer, Phil Christensen, says,
Trump Haters, you have a binary problem. Or perhaps, I should say that your problem is a binary way of seeing the current political landscape in general, or President Trump in particular. It’s love or hate. There’s no room for nuance, there’s nothing in between. Not for you.And then he really gets scathing:
The Left Discovers Morals.
Insisting on restraint and respect will get no argument from me. Of course if you gave this one a pass, don’t expect me to buy into your new-found morality....Read the whole thing.
Just one quibble: the Left is very moralistic and always has been. The difference is that they roll their own moral code, rejecting all that came before them as primitive gibbering. Why heed a book containing wisdom that's ages old? and way outdated? That's so silly! Instead, take these silly notions we invented, like, yesterday.
It's a fundamental distinction. While the Good Book says that God is unchanging and that the Word of the Lord shall abide forever, the Left's book needs rewrites on an hourly basis.
To contrast further: Christian theology claims that the Lord has all power and authority over all of Creation. Having established His moral authority, He instructs us on how to adopt His own moral perspective and put it into practice. In the Christian paradigm, morals are about relationships, and specifically about building the same quality of relationships that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit have with each other. Maintain a loving relationship with the Lord ("Love the Lord thy God with all your heart, soul, and mind") and also with our fellow man ("Love thy neighbor as thyself"). This is the Lord's will, and doing the Lord's will is our commandment. If morals were Einsteinian physics, the Lord's will is our constant, and everything else -- our thoughts, behavior, position, circumstances -- are the variables that must bend to accommodate the Word of the Lord. Situations may change, but the basic principles are bedrock: always do that which shows the most love for the Lord and your neighbor. It's an impossible task, and at times it seems thankless, but it's our task nonetheless. Paul says patience is the first attribute of love, but when I'm in my car, I can't even stop myself from being impatient with other drivers. But the Lord forgives, He admonishes, He corrects, He prepares a table for us. He loves us in spite of our rebellion, for reasons known only to Him.
Compare this to the cramped moral world of the Left. What new morals did they invent for us yesterday?
Well, the Left talks a lot about helping the poor, but at the end of the day, they advocate an economic system that seems better designed to create more poor people. The important thing is, before you build anything, you need to ask the Left's permission.
The Left talks about having compassion for Jack when he thinks he's Jill, or vice versa, but we must never bring up the horrible fact that transgender suicide rates are off-the-charts high, nor do they consider we may be dealing with a mental illness. Like the Left's morals, gender is arbitrary, and reality must bend to accommodate this insight. There are 57 genders, like Heinz's sauces, and there will be more tomorrow. The more complicated, the better. The point is, now you have to ask the Left's advice about how to address someone, or suffer their judgment. And if it were simple, why, you could figure things out on your own, and we can't have that.
The Left talks a lot about fairness, but then they reveal their strategic brilliance by never specifying what fairness means -- the better to christen any resultant change as an improvement. Years ago, to be fair meant to accord the same rights and apply the same standards to everyone. Today, it means giving preferred groups a leg up, in order to, you know, make up for past injustices. But somehow, the quest for cosmic fairness always winds up looking just like political favoritism. I can't think of a single terrible thing the white man ever did to Native Americans that justifies giving preferential treatment to a rich white woman like Elizabeth Warren. But that's only because I'm not a leftist, and therefore I lack a leftist's moral authority. The point is, now we have to ask the Left whether there's some microscopic injustice Elizabeth Warren suffered because Andrew Jackson slaughtered Cherokees two hundred years ago. Only the Left can decide these things; you can't.
The Left ardently defends the freedom of the press as long as they think it means them, but brazenly challenges our laughable conceit that freedom of speech applies to the rest of us too. Dissent is the highest civic duty until the Left is in charge, but then once they are, well, hey, you know, hate speech isn't free speech -- and your speech always becomes hate speech when you disagree with the Left. I'm not allowed to offend others with my speech, but they can scold me for holding such outdated, outmoded, and offensive beliefs. Well, that offends me. Do my feelings count? No, of course not. If I want to know what I'm allowed to say, why, I had better ask my betters -- namely, those on the Left.
Even the Constitution itself must bow to the Left's whims and whimsies. Show of hands: who believes Democrats would be whining today about the Electoral College if Hillary had won that but lost the popular vote? Me neither.
The sole certainty in an uncertain world is the Left's moral righteousness. The sole constant of Leftist morality, their tenet of faith, the one thing they'll stick up for 100% of the time, the hill they're willing for the rest of us to die on, is just this: they are our moral superiors, so let them run everything. They'll make a better world for us. They promise.
That's not even a principle. It's too arbitrary to be called a principle. We'll call it a notion: the Left gets to have all the power it wants, and they want all of it, every drop of it. William Buckley used to call liberals "shower adjusters" because they want to reach into your shower and adjust your water for you. He meant that as an ad absurdum, but these days it seems more scary than absurd.
Invoking the physics analogy again, if our only constant is that the Left must own all the power, then everything else -- truth, beauty, reason, evidence, love, honor, even reality itself -- must become variables. We let Bill Clinton's peccadillos slide because it was just about sex and, besides, he's a Democrat; however, the Stormy thing ought to end Trump's presidency! Obama said you can keep your doctor, but Trump tells lies! Hillary okayed selling 20% of our uranium reserves to the Russians and the Russians sent a check to the Clinton Foundation, but Trump! Russia! Collusion! Obama literally herded and corralled newsmen, but Trump is mean to journalists! Obama scolded the Supreme Court in person at his State of the Union address, but Trump attacks our established institutions! The only way to square these circles is to announce solemnly, but seriously, that squares are circular and you deplorables and irredeemables are just not wise enough to see that.
When I was in school, the medieval Christian notion of "the divine right of kings", based on some of Paul's comments about how the Lord puts our rulers in place, was widely ridiculed. Also the notion of God-given rights. How quaint. The Flying Spaghetti Monster loves us! But, funny, when we removed Christ, somehow we didn't forge ahead to the Greater Day, free of want, that was promised to us by leftist eschatology. Instead, we reverted back to the more primitive, pre-Christian divine god-king paradigm. Evan Thomas said the news corps was reluctant to criticize Obama because "he's like a god." They were also reluctant to criticize Hillary because First Woman President! I'm With Her! Right side of history, and all.
In short, moral authoritativeness shifted from Jesus Christ to a bunch of witch doctors, now called "experts." Reality is too complicated for us to grasp, and yet they will continue making things more complicated, by wreaking arbitrary havoc on reality wherever and whenever they deem it necessary to hold onto power.
Our Lord deserves our love and honor because He has earned it. If Leftists have earned the same, they have successfully concealed that fact; yet, the Left still wants it. Every bit of it. And they'll chase you like the hounds of Hell until they get it.
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
Merry Christmas 2017!
Debbie had been teaching orchestral strings at the fifth grade level here in Virginia since 1999. But, with her damaged hearing (we think, due to chemotherapy back in 2001), this year she decided she had to retire. We attended a beautiful retirement dinner hosted by Virginia Beach Schools at the convention center. The food was great! And hey, there were bars! (There was wine at the dinner, but given a choice, I always pick the Scots over the French.) Fast-forward now to late September 2017. Debbie went to one of her schools to pick up her very last VBSCHOOLS pay stub. The principal greeted her and said, "I don't have a replacement for you! Puh- puh-puh-pleeeeze!!!! Will you come back and teach this year?!!!" Any one who knows Debbie knows that she could never turn down an offer like that. So she still has her hand in, teaching two classes a week at one elementary school. It's the one school where she taught that made accommodations for her, due to her hearing issues -- they added sound baffles in the room to deaden the echoes. It seems to be working for her, so far. Fingers crossed!