RULE OF LAW; LIFE OF VIRTUE

St. Martin of Tours

 I have been mulling this over in my mind for a long time.  I know what I want to say.  I was blocked for a while, until I thought of this fellow who lived some 1,700 years ago.  He is one of the famous people who gave up a life of luxury and comfort for a life of shared love and compassion for his fellow humans.
We tend to go through life wondering if there are any of these people left.  We go through life hearing that the "redistribution of wealth" is not right.  We live with the legality of abortion;  we live with the legality of alcohol and the unlawful use of marijuana; we live with the "blind eye" towards employers who hire the people for whom it is illegal to be here and therefore illegal to be hired.  We hear of usurious practices that enslave the borrowers, enrich the lenders but nevertheless are legal.  So many times we also hear "I am going to abide by the law.  My religion is one thing, the law of the land is another."  That's the rub.
I am not talking religion here.  I am talking morality.  There is morality outside of religion.  There is a morality that belongs to all of us as human beings.  We do not need a law to tell us that it is wrong to kill another person.  We do not need a law to tell us that it is wrong to steal the widow's last dollar.  We do not need laws to tell us a lot of things.  We have conscience and virtue to guide us through life.  We do need law to help us resist the temptation to be nasty now and then.  We need law to support and guide our conscience and our virtue.  Law is the external force that is meant to make us all abide by the common expectations of the community in which we live.  
In a democracy we give the people whom we elect the delegated authority to underpin morality and virtue with "obeyable" and enforceable laws.  The people we elect are expected to know how to do this.  They are expected to legislate in such a way that morality and virtue will be sustained, not demolished.  They are expected to legislate in such a way that the common good will be assured.  They are not expected to legislate in such a way that their personal comfort will be assured before that of the community.  They are not expected to compromise the morality of the community by their legislation.  They are not expected to be so venal in their life style that their personal morality will be so weak that their moral authority will be demolished.  When that happens, they abdicate the trust of the electorate and therefore the right to continue governing.  So, yes, morality and law do go together.  No matter what anyone says, that is the truth.  
When morality and law part ways, humans degenerate into a lower species.  When morality and law part ways, democracies fail.  Not only democracies, I might add, Empires, Kingdoms, Dictatorships, you name it.  
So, yes, that is my thought for the day.  
I will therefore leave you to your devices, since I have been burdened with some remunerative work that has to be done in the next three hours.


Peace and joy to you all.

SELF DEPORTATION -- IT'S ALL IN YOUR MIND

I have been thinking of the self-deportation idea that we have been hearing about for a while.  After all the history of the human race, there are still those who have the inane idea that it is possible to eliminate a given class of people from a given territory.  I shake my head at the thought that there are some people on the face of the planet who really think that they can sweep their floor so clean that there will be no one left but those that they like.  So you make life hard for them all and they'll leave.  Now if there ever was a trainful of stercus taurorum flowing though the airwaves of this country, this one has to be the winner.  I guess we could start by making the argument that if Moses and his people could walk across the desert for 40 years to get to the Promised Land, human resolve must have been proven.  Oh, I forgot, they were escaping from Egypt.  How true.  Where were they going?  Back to where they lived before going to Egypt.  Once they got there, they asserted themselves and militarily took the place over.  Then of course they were conquered and brought to Persia as slaves.  They gave the Persians such fits that King Cyrus decided he didn't want them any more and sent them back home.  BUT... Never did 100% of them leave.  They never do.  Some stayed in Egypt because they knew how to circumvent the system.  Some of the Philistines stayed in the Promised land because the Israelites couldn't get rid of all of them.  Nobody self deports - except those who want to. Yes, friends, even white people from this dear land of ours self-deport.  Come to think of it, it might not be a bad idea if we white people left and all decided to go to the warm southern climes of Mexico and gave this hulk of ice and snow to the Mexicans.  That would be a fair swap...we give them all the cold and we take all the warm.  
You think I'm laughing?  Look what we did to the natives who were here long before us.  As bad as we were to them, we couldn't get them to self deport, could we?  They couldn't get us to leave either, right?  In the end we gave them all the arable rocks that they wanted and kept the miserably terrible watershed of the major waterways in the middle.  Aren't we sweethearts, though?  I don't want to make any disobliging comparisons here, but we all know that despite the waves of self-deportation from Europe in the mid thirties, and the megalomanic efforts to get rid of the Jews, that didn't work either.  They though that they had it bad in Egypt and Persia!
Our minds are full of examples that there is always someone left standing.  To those who would like to cleanse this country of those who do not belong here, I say, do your best.  The rest of us will enjoy telling the story of your insanity.  The illegal entrants into this country aren't going anywhere.  They're too smart for us.  There are millions of them who are still here because they overstayed a legal visa.  They didn't even have to get their feet wet crossing the Rio Grande.  Remember the 28 students who came to this country from the Middle East some ten years ago.  They were here two days and we lost track of them.  We're so stupid that we can't keep track of 28 students from a part of the world where we were engaged in a war.  And we're talking about having millions self-deport?  This is so totally insane that it makes me think that we ought to re-legalize frontal lobotomies.
My final argument as to why self-deportation will not work.  The people who want it to happen will cheat the system and get rich giving and taking bribes from the very people who are supposed to make it work.  You don't believe me, consider this.
In 1986 Senators Simpson and Mazzoli crafted a law that granted amnesty to millions of illegal aliens.  In the same law there was tough language prohibiting the employers of the United States from hiring those who had no documents.  A system was put in place.  Screening was the name of the game.  If an employer was caught employing illegal aliens it would be cause to be fined $10,000.00 per day per illegal employee on the payroll.  It didn't work then, and it won't work now.  Reason?  There's no easier way for our elected officials to get rich than to protect the rich employers from being punished for breaking the law.  If the government of this country was honest and enforced the immigration laws that have already been passed, we would not have some of the problems that we have.  Don't blame the illegals.  Blame the avaricious government officials who protect their friends rather than to do their job.
I know whereof I speak.  I sent many an illegal packing during my working years.  I was a Human Resources Director for many, many years.  I had opportunities to be treated very well by government contractors and others if only I would hire the next Einstein that they were presenting me.  If only I would not "clean house."    I followed the law.  If I could do it, the guys who passed the law should be able to do it.  But they don't, and they won't.  
So politicians, do the impossible.  When it comes to immigration, shut your trap, unless you want to confess.

SORE WINNER! WINNING BY 1 IS NOT WINNING

It's easy to be a sore loser.
To be a sore winner is an
acquired art form.  
To be a sore loser you have to learn how to to avoid the truth in the post game handshake ceremony.  [When I was playing,we did not indulge in these niceties.] I am addressing myself here to the "winner" who has squeaked out 7 to 6 "win."  In my mind, that is not a win.  It is a non-loss.  The only kinds of wins that really count are the 10 to 0 kinds.  When I was playing there was nothing that would send me over the edge more that the umpire or the referee giving a close call to the athlete on the short side ot the score.  I remember getting thrown out of at least two games because I called the umpire a "charitable Catholic idiot" for calling someone safe when he was clearly out.  I knew, because I was the one who had tagged him out.  When I complained the umpire said, "look at the scoreboard."  Oh Boy!  He had Hiroshima on his hands there.  It turns out that it was only the 4th inning and I was already trying to explain to my father why I was home so soon.  When I told him, he smiled, tried to give me some advice, saw the "lights-out" sign in my eyes and went back to his newspaper.  
I am the type person who doesn't accept "close;' wins very easily.  I never take credit for them.  I don't consider it a win unless you are calamitously devastated.  Anything less is poor performace on my part.  Believe it, that is me.
Does that mean that I am a poor loser?  No.  Oh, I hate losing.  But I have a more difficult time winning by luck than I do with losing graciously.  If and when I lose to a more proficient element, I have learned that it is a sign that I have met life face to face.  I was about 18 years old when I came to the absolutely true conclusion that no matter how good you are, somewhere there is someone who can make you wish you had stayed home.  That's where I come from.  When I win, I want you to know that when I come here the next time, it would be better for you to stay home.
Yes, I am a poor winner.  If I vaporize you, I can be gracious.  If I win by one, I'll shake your hand, but I will not have any congratulatory words in store.  Count on it.
My thought for the day.  Not very pretty in this day and age of political correctness.  
Come back tomorrow, I'll be in a better mood, you hope X[:-)-[--<

REVENGE AND SCHADENFREUDE TOGETHER, SO SWEEET BECAUSE SO RARE

http://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/mlb-big-league-stew/joel-peralta-caught-pine-tar-nationals-rays-crying-130611107--mlb.html

This is why I stopped being a fan of "professional" sports.
Is it because they cheat?  No.  Is it because they are so much better at what they do than I could ever have become?  No.
It's because when they get called out about their cheating ways by another cheater who knows they the are cheating because he knows that the cheater used to cheat for him when he was the cheater's boss before he traded him away to the cheateer in the other dugout, they cry "FOUL" instead of just sitting in the bushes and waiting for an opportunity to bite back.  It's the "cry-baby" syndrome of shedding tears over seeing one of the myriad of "unwritten rules" broken.  Even though I am now an old man, I cannot get used to the reciprocal righteousness of "hypocrite vs hypocrite" one-up-manship."  I have come to a point where the humor of the situation has grown into disgust.  I humbly admit that men grow old way before they ever grow up, but professional athletes and their "mystique" has become more than what I can stomach.  The story of this episode is made humorous by the fact that the whining, offended cheater who ratted out the cheater who used to cheat for him LOST anyway.  So the cheater who ratted out the cheat by "Wiki-leaking" his propensity for cheating to the officials, got beat anyway.  Now that, I like.  
Then, the cheating boss of the cheater who got "Wiki-leaked" whines and cries about the lack of loyalty of the "Wiki-leaking" opposing cheater to the "unwritten rules" of the game.  This type of behavior, says the winning cheater,  will cause cheaters all over the league to have to change their ways in order to protect their cheating ways from other cheaters who would know that they cheat and how they cheat because they used to share cheating tactics when they were on the same team.  How horrendously traitorous of you!  You have contributed to denigrating and despoiling the legion of professionals of the cheating tricks that they have developed to a here-to-fore unheard of level of perfection.
Now that is A+ stupidity on top of political ignorance.
The winning manager should have said [could have said if he too were not a cheater] is: "I have taken my pitcher aside and had a Dutch Uncle talk with him about the evil of cheating.  The pitcher who substituted for him and won the game proved to the august and honorable cheater in the other dugout that the cheating ways that he espouses and the disregard of the unwritten rules that he practiced tonight could not protect him from the ignominy of defeat at the hands of an honest and straighforward, clean and righteous mano a mano fighter who has been spared of having to work in the cheating shadows of my opponent's salacious locker room.  That's all I have to say."
It reminds me of the Country and Western song, "Ladies, Don't Let Your Sons Grow to be Cowboys." [read: Professional Athletes]
So, last night one cheater beat another.  It happens all the time, because in life, there is always a winner and a loser.  Like it or not.  Take it or leave it.  Honest or crooked.   It has always been so and will ever remain so.  
Amen.

IS THIS AMERICAN ENGLISH? OR ARE WE ON THE MOON?

Yeah, below, not above.  This is a real sign, not a staged one.  It can be found at an exit from a conference hall where I have teaching sessions at least twice per week. Every time I use the doorway where this sign reigns supreme, I check the ceiling to see if it offers safer passage.  Truth to tell, it is always a lot less congested than the floor level pathway and it doesn't have the obtrusive raised sliding door channel that presents the danger of tripping.  The channel above is recessed and therefore is a whole lot easier to negotiate.  I speak for us humans, not really knowing from first hand experience how the flies think about the situation.  
It should be clear to you by now that I have carefully studied this situation.  After all, I worked for many years providing safety for employees as the Workers Compensation Administrator for large companies.  It was very common practice for us to warn our employees and visitors of all impending dangers, both below and above.  We were so clairvoyant as to warn people of dangers from the right and the left too.  We were thorough.  I must say that in all my years of cautionary sign making, it never occurred to me that we ran the risk of having anyone making a misstep above.  The major reason for that was that our ceilings were always flat and we did not have the above pathways endangered by running extension cords, deteriorated thresholds  and quick, unexpected drop-ons.  We actually had very few objects in the building that could injure the unsuspecting or inattentive employee by flying up and splitting them in half.
In order to make life easier for myself, I have decided to avoid the dangers of a doorway in a building that assures me that the safer way to step would be above rather than below.  
For your sake, I hope that you don't have too many of these in your life.  They sure are weird.

GRANTED WISHES = DESTROYED DREAMS

If anyone reads Manson's autobiography, he states that the lyric "When all of your wishes are granted, many of your dreams will be destroyed" was found on a fortune cookie.


Before blogs were invented, I wrote an article for the school paper about bumper strickers.  This quote from an unknown but used by Charles Manson brought me back to my bumper sticker days.  I don't remember a bumper sticker that said, "Be careful what you ask for."  Nevertheless, it is such an ingrained element of our popular wisdom that one would like to think that it did come from a bumper sticker.  At least bumper stickers did, or so it seemed, try to be somewhat droll.  They did not seem to have germinated in warped, dark, damp, mushroom incubating minds like this seems to have done.  But one has to admit that bumper stickers really are quite dark.  That was the tone of my article.  


Those of you who have followed this blog know that I have addressed the power of muslim women to communicate their sexual reactions to the handsome guy who just walked into their area of perception.  I searched for it,to no avail.  Let me just make a simple statement.  I know from personal experience that when a gorgeous pair of female eyes communicate to a willing male, fifty pounds of clothes will not prevent Mother nature from taking over.  Do they ever wish that they would have the religious freedom to allow them to just cover the "essentials" and feel the air and the sun massage their bodies in blissful comfort?  I'll bet that they do.
I therefore do not regret putting up the picture at the top.  The Egyptians have had centuries of beach nudity in their existence. I don't think that the fear mongers have anything to wring their hands about in 2012.  Like China, Egypt has a lot of life experience in the bag.  I can't get worked up about their having to live with a little Western Nudity.  Not as long as that nudity has a deep pocket in a hotel room somewhere within the reach of the we'll wrapped religious/civil leaders.


I do wonder though about where we as a very young country are headed.  We are coming up to our first 300 year cycle.  I'm wondering if I should encourage my son to practice his dictatorship skills.  Maybe not.  Down deep, he's too kind and loving.  I know that the saying at the top is not new or even recent, but it did catch my eye, so I went with it in the hope of giving you all something to think about.  
Sweet dreams, y'all!

ANOTHER PAPA COMIC -- UNDATED, AS USUAL

I was fishing around my stuff today because I am looking for some important property that has found a way of disappearing.  There are many things that have a way of doing that when you get to be a certain age.  Sooner or later, according to my experience, you find what it was that you thought you had lost.  As a matter of fact IT wasn't lost because IT knew all along where IT was.  It was YOU who were lost because YOU didn't know where YOU were in relation to IT.  
One of the treasured objects that I had not seen in many moons is pictured here.  It is a Fathers Day card that I received from #2 son.  No one knows when I received this and Jo-El has no recollection of when it could have been.  As usual, these marvels of creative inspiration are never dated.  So, just enjoy the picture and realize that it does bear a certain resemblance to the human behind the thought.
I have to admit that the search for the major item that I consider to be the most important has yet to show up.  I have one absolute conviction about it.  It can be nowhere but in the house.  
#1 son came the 60 miles from where he lives to have lunch and to be with his mother and father for a couple hours.  It was a happy moment.  Mama cooked a wonderfully juicy chicken breast and smothered it in our favorite vegetables with curry enough to make the whole thing interesting.  Topped off with apple pie and ice cream this was a banquet for three that will be remembered for some time.  
I will now turn to restoring some semblance of order to my work station.  

FATHERS, DON'T LET YOUR SONS GROW UP

CAN YOUR SON DO THIS TO YOU?
MINE DID!

I'm serious.  Don't let it happen.  If you do, you will not have any fun.  If you're too serious they'll never razz you over the peccadillos that they knew should be kept away from their mother, i.e. your wife.  If they don't like you they'll never let you take them to the top floor of the Bazzillionaires' Hotel for their first legal alcoholic drink.  If you're too tough on them for no reason, they'll never go to college for fear that you'll hound them to death to graduate Summa Cum Laude.  If you lord it over them, the first time you accidentally get drunk in front of them, they will laugh at you instead of with you and you will have lost one of the richest memories that any father could ever want.  You have to learn to give them some space when they are young.  Like my two guys.  They went to high school and they had to take a foreign language.  There were three choices, French, Spanish and German.  I told Belle, their mother, He is going to choose German because he knows that I don't know one single syllable in the German language.  He comes home from registration and she asks to see the schedule.  Sure as God made little rain drops, he chose German for the foreign language.  When she asked why, he gave some cockamamie answer like, "Ya kin never tell, I could work for a European company some day."  I came home from work and she tells me that #1 Son had chosen German for his foreign language.  I say, "Of course.  That way he won't have to put up with me forcing him to speak French or Spanish here in the house."  He laughed.  I laughed.  Belle couldn't figure out the Father-Son humor of the moment.  His younger brother did the same thing.

Fathers have to understand that boys don't really like to grow up.  It's not enough fun.  Fathers themselves, if they are true to their male nature, have really never grown up.  Why then put the burden on the sons?  We know that the sons are going to want a "Harley."  We know that they're going to want their 30-06 for moose hunting.  We know better than to choose ash grey when we buy them their first auto.  Two doors, or course.  Five speed, "natch!"  

Look at the picture of the door in the right side margin.  That is their legacy to our house.  The cartoons on their bedroom door.  Had I and they grown up, we would not have this treasure.

My boys were in the 7th and 6th grade respectively one Summer.  They wanted monthly bus passes so that they could cruise the city with their friends.  We knew their friends.  We said "yes" with no further ado.  We gave them some rules of the road, and off they went.  About six weeks into the Summer break the elder of the two asked me why we allowed them to do what they asked.  He said that it was puzzling to him to see us enjoying their reports when they got back home every day.  I told him that it was because we trusted them and that we were enjoying the fact that they were learning something that many other young children would not.

He just shook his head, said, "Thanks, Pa." and that was it for the rest of the summer.

So, it's fathers' day.  I don't believe in these special days.  Everyone knows it.  But they treat me nicely anyway and I let them think that I like it.  What I really like about it is the freedom that we have in our father-son-friend relationship.  I'm glad that I never grew up.  I'm also glad that I did not lay the expectation on my boys to do something that I did not really want to do, and therefore did not do.  Because of that, I can tell them ANYTHING, and they trust that it is true and straight from the heart.

DRINKS ARE ON MR. MARTELL FOR FATHERS' DAY

THAT COMES TO $205.00 PER SHOT
Martell Gold Cognac
Ooops, I should have said $204.99

Ok, be honest. What is the most that you have paid for a shot of hard liquor in your entire life?  It can be anywhere in the world.  It can be any kind of hard liquor with at least 70 proof rating. [about 36% alcohol]
You can tell by the picture that we found this bargain at COSTCO  in San Diego, CA.  Just for a little comparison shopping, they also had a nice big four door Hyundai parked outside the main door selling for $28,000.00, a mere 8.5 times more than the Cognac.  I figured that the Martell cost so much because it had to come all the way from across the Atlantic to California.  The Hyundai, after all, only had to swim the Pacific and its travel was finished. It did not have to suffer the indignity of freight train travel across 3,000 miles of North American terrain at 45 miles per hour.  But then again, now that I think of it, the Cognac cost so much because they had it in first class with a captain's club pass.
That's what makes it so dear.  It was able to take a shower before taking its place in the triple locked, laser protected jewelry case in the friendly Costco warehouse in sunny San Diego.
To get back to the first question.  To be fair I have to tell you what the most expensive shot of hard liquor I ever had, cost.  It was $25.00 dollars and the beauty of it was that my dear Scottish friend is the one who paid!  If anyone can top that, I'll tip my hat and spare you the whack of my cane on your tush.  There is a story to this, of course.
Andrew [the patron saint of Scotland, as you all know] and I had this fun habit of spending one day per summer at the Del Mar Fair Grounds Hourse Racing Track in San Diego, California..."Where the turf meets the surf."  This one day was so good that we thought that we had died and gone to heaven.  So,we decided to test the theory and after the last race we slipped into the high class pub across the street.  We figured that if Jesus could permit Himself a sip or two with His friends, we might take the priviledge too.  I turns out that this watering hole is a wee bit more than a thin cut above what the sailors might visit on shore leave just off the San Diego pier.  Yes, laddies and lassies, this is a Real Watering Hole.  Well, right there before our very eyes was this bottle of heavenly, super special Jack Daniels, for a mere $25.00 per 1.5 OZ share. Well, yours truly had rarely, if ever had such a great day at the track and was sitting there wondering what a tear that had dropped from the Heavenly Jockey's eye would taste like. After a short, prayerful consultation, we decided that this was the moment to dare it.  So we did.  Aye, we did.  It took us about 30 minutes to do it justice.  I remember it well.  Andrew is reading this and he is laughing and he is going to pick up the telephone right about now and say, "Now that certainly was a great time, wasn't it?  And by the way, should we give it a try one day again this year?"  Now you all know what the answer is going to be, don't you.  
Andrew being the great guy that he is will be inviting you all to come along as well.  I mean, wouldn't you travel 12,000 miles for a $40.00 [inflation, you know] shot of Jack Daniels after a wonderful day of keeping your eyes on the fillies?  


This is a better story than the dragon fly, right ?

SEWING NEEDLE?

I went to Google and looked at 200 pictures of sewing needles.  I was told that Google had found 7,300,000 results for my "sewing needle" search in .035 of a second.  All the results were a variation of this.  Now, let your mind run free for a moment and see if you can generate 7,300,000 variations on the theme that you see on the right.  Ha!  Good luck.

Actually I wasn't looking for that at all.  I wanted to give you an idea of what I and my friends called a "sewing needle" as we were growing up.  We thought that they were dangeous and that they could sew our ears back to our head.  Some kids even said that they could sew your lips shut if you sassed your parents.  That didn't worry me because I did not sass my parents.  If I had, I would not be alive to tell you that I did not do it.  Also, I know that the people I played with did not do that.  I didn't meet any young boy who did have that kind of personality until I was about 15.  I witnessed it on the baseball field.  I was sure that we would have blood all over the field, but the father of the boy just walked away.  WOW!  Was I ever shocked.  When I got home and told the story to my parents, all they said was that someday I would be glad that I did not hang around with people like that on a regular basis.  As usual, they were right.  But, back to the sewing needles.

Oh, look!  Here's one

You knew that this is what you were going to see.  If you are of a certain age and you grew up in a more or less suburban area with some open space, you grew if with these.  If you did any amount of pond or lake fishing, you would see many of them hovering just over the surface of the water not too far from the shore.  If you ever called them "sewing needles", you probably haven't given it too much thought these days.  You have no doubt graduated to the more sophisticated indentifier, "dragonfly."  The one pictured above is scientifically called Libellula vulgatissima. 

This is Latin for "Very popular little book."  Where did they get that one?

Anyway, you got a little peep into some of my boyhood fantasies and fairie tales.  You also get the message that though I have grown older, I really haven't grown up.  I like it that way.  I can have fun any time I want to just by remembering.  Try it some time, you'll like it.  Remember that I suggested it.  It will make you so happy that you will not be tempted to cry at my funeral.  
  .

LOOK WHAT I FOUND. AIN'T THIS NEAT?

newsletter design made with Smilebox

This is really silly stuff.

I hope you get a kick out of this.

I do.

I HAVE FORGOTTEN MORE THAN YOU'LL EVER KNOW...

LAVENDER SOUVENIR, FRENCH ALPS

...and every day I forget more than I'll ever know about anything, never mind about myself.  I never learn.  Every day I tell myself that I am going to carry around something to take notes with so that I can remember what it is that I want to laugh and joke about in the evening.  I never do that.  I can't remember how many times I tell myself during the day, "That's a good one, do it tonight."  Tonight?  Are you kidding?  It's only ten minutes later and I can't remember what it was that I was supposed to remember for tonight.  If you count the times that I have suffered that indignity, it has to be astronomical.  Imagine, I started doing this "365 Thoughts..." on November 24, 2010.  In that amount of time I have forgotten enough to sink the Queen Mary.  Not only that, I started to write the "No Crying at My Funeral" in June of 2007. It would be vaingloriously foolish for me to try to remember all that I have forgotten that I was supposed to remember for that wonderful piece of periodic literature. 
For this blog post, I made three resolutions to "do that one tonight" and I can't remember a single one of them.  What did happen was that I was putting a photo album away and when the back page fell open, I saw the dried souvenir of a French Lavender twig that Belle had plucked from the French Alps in La SaLette France.
Actually what caught my eye was the pose of the outline if the twig.  Trust me, I have nothing to do with the positioning of this 50+ year old sprig of lavender. It looks like a a stick figure because it is one.  But it does look contrived.  But it is not.  So here you have it.  Fifty years of history making it into the "365 Thoughts..."
Stick with me here so that I can remind you of what it eas that I was supposed to remember tomorrow.  Should prove to be rather interesting.

HORSES IN OIL, NURSING MAMA IN WATER

THERESA VILLAIRE

Thanks to Theresa for the wonderfully uplifting scene on the right.  After I invited you all to become famous by allowing us to reflect and meditate on the results of your artistic efforts, she is the second one of our generation to enhance our lives with an emotional expression of motherly love. It is so impressive to look upon the picture and to be immediately drawn into the soul of the artist.  It is especially true when there is a personal connection with the work and the person.  It is fairly rare that I can walk among a collection of paintings and be attracted to any of them on a meaningful level. You have all had the experience of coming up on a lawn exhibit of paintings.  There they stand all of them begging for attention.  If the exhibitor is the lone producer of the work, it becomes clear after a short perusal of the inventory.  All of the pieces have a certain resemblance.  All of them join in a nearly monotone chorus of mediocrity.  True that there are some high notes, but it is also true that the creator will more than likely not graduate from the front lawn exhibit level.  Why?  Because it takes a lot of inner energy to create an artistic expression of such quality that it can reach out and embrace a stranger's soul.  It takes an abundance of personal "spirituality" in the artist to cause the transference of emotion from him to a stranger through an artistic expression.
We all know someone who has a "ton" of talent but who could never quit his "day job."  The product draws oh's and ah's but no connection. No one has the slightest temptation to have it hanging in the living room. We all know someone who has produced a house full of admirably creative things that no one else wants.  In my case, the people I know who fall into this category are not related to me.  Thank goodness!


The two first artists who reached out to us did succeed in embracing at least one soul...mine.  So, reach out and touch me.  I dare you.  


Thank you to Emelie and Theresa  

MY POMAPOO IS MORE INTELLIGENT THAN YOUR HONOR STUDENT

I have not gone to Google to learn what a pomapoo is.  Whatever it is, and I presume that it is an "it," it is said to be more intelligent than my honor student.  That is what was announced to me by a sticker on the back window of a gas guzzling three ton behemoth stopped in front of me thanks to a red light just in front of us both.
I have to say that I myself am my own honor student.  I don't own one.  Never have, never will.  So whatever a pomapoo is, it had better be pretty intelligent, because I personally know that I am super intelligent.  I am so intelligent that I was able to be an honor student before the "A+" was invented.  I am so intelligent that I know that the end of the year of my kidergarten course was the end of the year of my first  full time year at school, not my graduation.  I am so intelligent that when I played "war" with my grandmother, I either won or I lost.  I either got the treat that she had promised or she did.  When I won, then I got the treat and she did not.  Pretty smart eh?  I was so intelligent that I knew that I could not win all the time because the cards didn't always come out in my favor.  Bummer!  But I knew that.  I also learned that it was not such a big deal that at age seven I could read in French and English because there was a kid who lived near my grandmother who could read in English and Polish.  
Now, maybe because I was an honor student at the end of eighth grade did not mean that I was the head of the class.  Nope.  There were two people ahead of me.  Like I said earlier, since the "A+" [110% ?] had not yet been invented, they had to settle for stuff like 98 and 96 or some such failing grade like that.  
Furthermore, I was so smart that I knew that the nuns had not been paid off to fix the grades.  If they had been, I would have been first...if my grandather had been the "bribin' kind."  After all, he worked for the head priest in charge of the whole thing.  But nope, I was an honor student, but not first.
Twenty long years later I graduated from the university with honors.  Yep.  But you know what?  One of my closest friends got to be "Summa" while I had to pick my nose with a simple "Honoris Causa."  I didn't weep or cry or stamp my feet and pound my heels.  Let's face it, he's smarter than I am.  Who knows, maybe he's a "pomapoo."  Oh, by the way, neither he nor I, nor anyone else got an "A+."
So, I am my own honor student.  I am not a pomapoo, so I guess I have to settle for coming in second once again.  So if the driver of the "eco-friendly" gas guzzler is the owner of a pomapoo who is brighter than I am because of an"A+" and because the pomapoo can talk 10 languages instead of 8, I am not impressed.  Know why?
Because I don't have to have anybody walk me out to the fire hydrant three times a day.  That's why.

BLANKETS, A TRUE STORY

This is a true story about blankets and some of the people who use them.
The other day when I mentioned those who sleep under the freeway overpasses and wrap themselves up in blankets one of you in this community mentioned that it wasn't a pleasant experience.  Thanks to the grace of God this individual found the way to get out from under the difficulties that had caused him to live that way.  
He readily admits that much of it was his fault.  Much like the prodigal son in the Bible story, he was able to slowly but surely bring himself out of the misery.
His rehabilition is moral and physical.  His body is not as sound as it could be for his age, but he doesn't let that prevent him from helping others.  He doesn't let it prevent him from holding a small job that he can do and which keeps him in gasoline.  He has a decent place to stay and is able to offer his talents to others who need the same type of rehabilitative help that he does on an on-going basis.  He has become a reliable help to us in our church ministry as well.  He has a way of touching people who need to be reassured.  He also has a way with a pen [well, these days it's a keyboard] and is published on a fairly regular basis on one of the blogs maintained by the online Catholic magazine, www.Parishworld.net. called "Voices from the Parish."
It is easy to fall into a cynical mood when we encounter "success" stories of this nature.  It is no doubt because they shine the light on the one in a thousand.  Even when we live the story first hand as we have been doing with our new found friend, we wonder how he can be so clean and capable now and have a story like that in his soul.  We are happy to be around him.  Those with whom he relates are glad that he is a part of the ministerial team.  Most do not know just how far he has travelled and how much of it was a steep uphill battle.  But somehow, although they do not know chapter and verse, they can feel the sincerity of the emanations of his spirit.  
I have had many experiences with human beings over the years.  I have many stories that I carry around in my mind and my heart.  I have good ones and bad ones.  Funny ones and sad ones.  I have to say though that most of them are neither really sad nor really glad...they are simply what I call,"Head Shakers."  They just make you wonder!
Bottom line here is:  I know that it is now Summer [northern hemispshere Summer] so whatever you do, do not throw your old blanket away.  For all you know it could be the warmth of your love that will put someone back on the right path.

IRISH HORSES, EATING IRISH GRASS, HAND-PICKED GRASS, OF COURSE

Émélie Moriarty, née Dion

This has to be green.  It is quasi miraculous that the mane of the creature in the foreground is tinted with the filtered sunlight with a hint of green touching it. You can tell that these horses are Irish by the looks in their eyes.  Those are devilish Leprechaun eyes checking out the mares in the field off to their right.  Could be that they were checking out the artist too.  I know her to be a rather nice looking, devilishly eyed human being. Come to think of it, those eyes came from her.  Aha, mystery solved.
You can also tell that the grass that they are eating is Irish because it's green.  Now, now, hold off a bit.  I mean deeep emerald greeen.  You know, the Irish kind of green.
When I first laid eyes on this painting, I was deeply moved.  Not so much by the animals but by the meticulously defined details.  It seems to me to be a challenge that I personally could never sucessfully meet.  Look at the barbed wire fence.  I could never do that.  I was afraid to touch it for fear of being stabbed.  The artist was standing behind me armed and ready to protect her opus if I dared to reach out my grubby digit.  So, yeah, the fear was real.
I was also awed by the detail of the flowers and the grass mixed in between them.  I asked her how she did that.  The answer was typical artist talk.  "That wasn't too bad.  I just did it, I guess."  But I am sure that it was done with any number of deep sighs, followed by slow counts to ten before the redip of the brush.
I must say that this painting means a lot to me, even though it is not mine.  I know, love and respect the artist and the lovely guy to whom she has been married since God was a little boy. I cannot help but admire the talent that it takes to do these things.  I can't even paint the side of a barn, never mind make a horse look like a horse.  Not just a horse, but a horse with a personality.  How does she do that?
So, enjoy the picture.  If you have something that you have produced, send it over so that we can all admire it and the world will have a crack at judging just how good you really are.
ATTENTION:
The "Irish Horses" painting is priceless.  So don't even think what you might be thinking.  Don't even be tempted into thinking it.  Now just be good boys and girls and go raid your attic for your priceless treasure and I'll put the same warning on it too! [:-)

PAPIER DE TOILETTE -- Heee !

http://tracywall.wordpress.com/2009/01/12/on-a-roll/

If you'd like to have some fun, click on this link.
I'm going to stick with the green, just for kicks.  I just got done finishing a post on the Crusty Kurmujjin and I realized that I had some rather nasty stuff there.  Nothing like "4 Adults Only" or anything like that, but still kind of acrid.  If you're in the mood, you might want to go there and have a smile or two.  
When I saw what I had there, I decided that I was on a roll.  I have been quiet for some time now, but I think that I can feel a manic season coming on.  I hope so.  I feel so guilty about myself when I can't do all the things that I promised myself to do.  Sometimes I get sooo LAZY...I mean LAZEEEE! 
So I figured that I was on a roll, so I went to Google and you can see the results.  I hope you go to the web site by clicking on the link beneath the picture.  It might bring a smile to your face.  Imagine, Ol' Tracy did this oil painting just because she was in the mood.  I am kind of like the same way.  I get in a mood and I let 'er fly.  
So, I hope that I am back.  

UNFORGETTABLE PICTURE, DEEP SENTIMENTS

http://www.goforbroke.org/history/history_historical_photo_misc.asp
Photo displayed at the Japanese American Museum, San Jose, CA
Thanks to Stephen Fugita and Joe Yasutake

The first thing that comes to mind is, "War sure is Hell."  The last time that I turned my mind and my fingers to "365 Thoughts..." it was Memorial Day and I remembered my visit to the Japanese American Museum in San Jose. I remembered Kris Asakawa, a young friend from San Diego and at the same time, on the same day I received a blog post from a long time friend, fellow blogger, Rio Imamura. 
On that day I mentioned to you that I had been very late coming to the historical knowledge of the internment of the Japanese people living in the United States at the start of the War.  I also mentioned the forced migration of the Cherokee Indians.  
Once I had finished the article on that day I set out on the search for a photo that I had seen in the museum in San Jose.  The two gentlemen mentioned above are instrumental in locating this photo for me and for you.  It shows two Japanese Americans "interrogating" a Japanese soldier at a POW camp in New Caledonia. I offer you this link too so that you can locate the island as being just off the east coast of Australia.
There is always a lingering doubt in our minds about the fundamental goodness of human beings.  We hear so much negative sentiment expressed all around us.   We hear the wish that the killer should die; we hear the desire that the business man should fail; we agree with the sports fan who wishes a season-ending injury on a member of the opposing team; we hear the expressed desire to see  Business "X", Inc. go "Belly-up;" we are comfortable in a "What have you done for me lately?" world?  
I often wonder what people think when they are confronted by pictures like the one above.  I wonder what people think when they are confronted with the reality of the Tuskogee Airmen?  I wonder what people think when they see fellow humans sleeping in blankets under bridges.  I wonder what people think when they see old people [and some young ones] scavenging for recyclable materials.  I know what I think; I know what I hear.  
I will leave you with the truth within me about my attitude concerning people who have survived the cruelty visited upon them by their fellow humans.  I admire them.  I don't condemn their persecutors, but I shake my head in wonderment.  I would like to be able to understand.
Maybe someday I will.  Better still, maybe someday I will not have to because it won't happen any more.