SCOTUS RULING

For all the times I have argued with people (and, yes, I have done some of that) about … issues, I don’t recall a single time when somebody with an opposing viewpoint stopped and said “Yes. I see what you mean. Now that you’ve explained it, I agree.” This means either that I’m a total failure at making my point, or that people are simply too hard-headed to admit that they’re wrong. Maybe it’s a little of both.

And yet, I am compelled to persevere with this futile endeavor.

My extreme displeasure with the recent Hobby Lobby ruling by the Supreme Court may be the hardest point I’ve tried to make in a long time. Everybody’s arguing about it – but from where I sit, they’re all arguing over the wrong points. The “right” frames their argument by saying “Why should I have to pay for objectionable types of reproductive care for women I don’t even know?” Sure, I have answers for that; but, to me, that has very little to do with the implications of the Court’s decision, and I’m not going to let somebody opening with that line drag me off into what I consider is a completely different argument.

Similarly, the “left” says, “Well, I support women’s reproductive rights!” Cool. Good for you. Now you can go fight with that guy who doesn’t want to pay for what you support, if you want; but, again, your point is only germane to this ruling if you want to look at it in a vacuum.

Laws don’t stay in vacuums. And, given the opportunity, SCOTUS could have made the same ruling about pretty much anything being paid for within the Affordable Care Act that had nothing at all to do with reproduction, or sex, or any of those other nasty things that people get all riled up about. Like…say... X-rays. I don’t know whether or not X-rays are covered, so, please, don’t call me out on that. It’s just an example.

Let’s say, somewhere, there’s a religion that doesn’t believe in them, and your employer subscribes to that religion. Does he have to pay the employer share of your healthcare insurance premium that pays for X-rays? To go further, let’s say your employer is a Christian Scientist. Does he/she have to pay for any part of your insurance premium, which was mandated by law, prior to this Court decision?

To go further still, let’s just take ObamaCare out of the equation completely. Everybody on both sides of the issue knows that this was nothing more than a political slap in the face delivered to Obama by the right-leaning court. Good for them. They have more guys on their team, so it’s only right that they should win some of these fights. But it’s just politics. Let’s not get all tied up in the façade put up by both political parties. It’s not about women’s rights, or healthcare, or even religion. It’s about winning one for the team. So, in essence, it’s not real. But the decision is real; and binding.

So what could go wrong?

Well, a law has been circumvented under the guise of religion. This is of no benefit to law or religion; and it’s going to open up a Pandora’s Box that we won’t likely see shut in our lifetimes. In the words of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, “The court, I fear, has ventured into a minefield.”

It may come as a surprise to some that Christianity isn’t the only religion represented in the United States. There are many. It may come as even more of a surprise to some that anybody can claim to be of any religion they can dream up, and there is no litmus test to prove whether or not they actually believe what they say they believe; or even whether or not such a religion even exists. If a “believer” can opt out of all, or any part of, a law concerning healthcare regulations, why then can’t that same person opt out of any other law that is found objectionable by their religion? Speeding. Paying taxes. Sex with children.

Here may be the reason that I don’t win these disagreements with people. I have enough faith left in humanity to believe that this is all self-explanatory; and fully understanding it myself, I sometimes fail to dig down deep to make all the little points that make up the big picture. If you don’t understand by now, I don’t know what I can do or say to help bring you to the light. But, again, I keep trying.

If you are sitting back saying “Nobody would ever attempt to make such a ridiculous argument; and if they did, they would be laughed out of court,” then I have two questions for you:

Did you hear about the Hobby Lobby Supreme Court ruling?

Have you ever met a lawyer?


©2014 Rick Baber

Destination - Batesville

We decided to go for a drive last Friday. Ended up in Vicksburg, Mississippi, after a one night layover at Tunica. We thought we might motor on down to Biloxi, but reality kept hinting that we’re not up those long drives like we used to be. Things on our bodies were hurting and making noises. So, after another losing casino night in Vicksburg, we decided to just head back up to Batesville (Arkansas – not that other one down there).

During the obligatory drive down Main Street, upon our arrival, we noticed the changes that have been mentioned on social media. Sort of an obstacle course. At first we weren’t too crazy about the thing, but then, thinking about it, and having the concept explained by Chief Gleghorn, it did all seem to make sense. Count me ‘n momma as supporters of the street changes (for whatever that’s worth), and anything else that can be done that might bring downtown Batesville back to life. I just hope it’s not too late.

Before leaving, Tuesday, we did have the pleasure of having lunch at “Big’s,” on Main Street. Great food, reasonable prices, and what may be the most friendly and conscientious staff of anyplace I have eaten in a long time. Even the cook came out to ask us if everything was to our satisfaction – and, of course, it was. This, I thought, is exactly the kind of place that could help bring downtown Batesville back from the abyss. When added to the likes of the Landers Theater renovation, Elizabeth’s, and the Simply Southern Playhouse (based on reports from friends, as I still haven’t had the opportunity to get there during our all-too-short visits) it’s a very good start. But the lack of growth problem with a town like Batesville can’t be solved by simply making it a cool place for the people who live there. Growth depends on money coming in from outside the community, itself. Commerce. Tourism. Either one can attract the other.

Batesville is certainly one of the most beautiful towns in Arkansas. I fell in love with the place the first time my dad drug us, kicking and screaming, there with him for work, around 1965. I think we stayed there two weeks, in the Powell Motel, and I didn’t want to leave when he was done. Even being a young kid, with friends in school, I was thrilled when he told us a couple of years later we were moving there. But even scenic beauty, it seems, isn’t enough to keep a city alive in this tough economy. Batesville isn’t on the way to anywhere. It’s not like people are going to stop off for a day or two during their vacations and spend money in hotels and restaurants and shops. It has to become a destination.

The new sports complex could surely help – hosting tournaments, etc. – but, again, not enough. Main Street needs to be totally renovated, and I do believe that has begun. But, allow me to offer up some suggestions regarding what I think could be major “selling points” that most other cities don’t have to start with.

Number One is, of course, the White River. The park there is great, and getting better. Josie’s was one of the best things to come along in decades. Why can’t other businesses build along the river? Think Little Rock’s “River Walk.” San Antonio. People dig water. If you build it, they will come.

Speaking of water, you may think Number Two (especially if you’re a resident) is a little crazy – but what about the bayou? There it sits, right behind Main Street, surrounded by thick woods and decaying buildings, breeding mosquitos. Bear with me.
WHAT IF the bayou was cleaned up? By that, I mean taking out all that brush and making a nice park all along both sides behind lower Main Street. Line each side with blocks, making it look more like a canal. Put some fountains out there in the water, ala Siloam Springs, Arkansas. Then, those old buildings across the tracks could add back patios and decks overlooking this beautiful park, and suddenly, they are desirable real estate again. Further, this could spark a rebirth in West Side – where a rebirth is desperately needed.

Third – and I’ll shut up after this one – this “dry county” thing has got to come to an end. I know many, including some of my own family, will disagree. The tax from alcohol sales, they’ll say, won’t be enough to make any difference. That is probably true, but it misses the point. You could tax the population of Batesville at 100 percent and never obtain the money needed to bring the city back to the status it deserves. It’s the money and taxes that could come in from other places that matters; the jobs created by new people, with new money, putting new businesses in this tourist attraction. Sure, it would probably hinder the meth business around town, but somebody has to suffer for the greater good.

Forget the Newport comparison. That’s just lame. Newport has nowhere near the scenic beauty of Batesville. It’s just a bad argument. Apples and turnips. Think about the places you take your families on vacations and getaways: Branson, Eureka Springs, Orlando, Florida. Bars, clubs, liquor stores everywhere. If you don’t drink, you don’t go in those places. But it is those places that help make possible the places you do go. There may be some, but I can’t think of a single tourist destination that is “dry.”

Once the tourist industry is healthy, other business will follow: services businesses to keep the hotels and restaurants running, and so on. More people. More jobs. A larger tax base.

Now, you’re going to ask “Where does the city get the money to do all this?”

I dunno. I’m just an idea man. A foundation, perhaps? Ask the Waltons?

But, thinking back on it, I’d say reverse the order of the three things I listed. Start with getting rid of the alcohol prohibition; then clean up the bayou and see what blooms.

©2014 Rick Baber

Meet the Flintstones, Part Deaux

 

    “Jesus wept,” came the dramatic response from the right reverend Mike Huckabee: swiftly, decisively…almost as if it had been rehearsed. Or pre-written.  Or pre-ordained.

    Surely, something horrible had happened in the world.What was it?  Another slaughtering of innocent school children?  Genocide in Rwanda?  Could it have been that Huckabee finally realized that there are almost 50 million Americans living in poverty?  Kids going to bed hungry every night…people choosing between food and healthcare?  Did the prayers of half a million homeless people reach him in a dream? Did somebody slip him the information that there are 218,171 people in prison in the U.S., with 47.1% of those being for “drug offenses”?  Maybe it hit him that the divorce rate in America (because, let’s face it, Jesus, being the blue-eyed, fair-haired Anglo-Saxon we’ve all seen actual photographs of, cares only about what happens in the US of A) is at 50 percent.  That’s half of all the blessed unions between one man and one woman – right down the old porcelain throne.  Surely, some of those things might cause Jesus to be a little sad.  Maybe shed a tear or two…

    Seems not.  Here’s the Huckster’s entire quote: “My thought on the SCOTUS ruling that determined that same sex marriage is okay: ‘Jesus wept.’”

    Oh.

    So, according to Huck, the Prince of Peace; the Lamb of God; that blue-eyed, fair-haired prophet who said “Do unto others whatever you would like them to do to you,” is sobbing now because my nephew is one step closer to being able share the same rights under the law as I have.  What a travesty.  What a horrible thing to happen.

    What’s next? Black folk and women being allowed to vote?

    Can somebody ‘splain to me in simple terms (because I am a simple man) exactly why there are so many heterosexuals so remarkably outraged about this?  How does it affect those of us who have a more “traditional” marriage?  Because, truthfully, I don’t see how it has any bearing on me – not in the least.  Now, it would be easy to understand the outrage if I had been born more partial to boys; lived my whole life pretending I liked girls; married one, just to be accepted as “normal.”  I might then feel some jealousy for being cheated out of the life I wanted – the life that others of the same persuasion will soon get to have.  But, again, speaking for myself, I’ve always been completely comfortable with the boy/girl thing.  So…no outrage.

    Some might cite the tax and insurance implications as a problem.  But, “Jesus?” Really?  If He is going to weep, does anybody really think it’s going to be over some same-sex couples in the United States of America getting the same tax benefits and insurance coverage as the rest of us?  Do we really want to take the stroll down the very long list of things this country does with its money, just to see how many of those things might give him better reason to cry?  No. I didn’t think so.

    Now, for mocking Governor Huckabee for his frivolous tweet (Doesn’t that sound like an insult? “You frivolous tweet!”), I have been accused by some of mocking Jesus.  Anybody who knows me knows I’m not easily offended – but I find that accusation repulsive.  For that to be true, Huckabee would have to actually be speaking FOR Jesus.- and I don’t think that’s the case.  So…

    Thanks for the two words, Mike.  I’ve got two words for you, but, unfortunately, they would only let me print one of them here.   

Meet the Flintstones

Can we get serious here for a minute?


I really didn’t want to get into this whole “gay marriage”
thing, because, frankly, it doesn’t have any direct effect on
me. But everybody else is expressing their viewpoint on
it, so, why not? My position on the subject isn’t going to
win me any friends here in the sunny south, but, when has
that shut me up? And I’ve learned over the years that if you
see an injustice occurring, whether or not it has any direct
impact on you, and you don’t speak out against it, then you’re as guilty as the people who are committing the injustice. In the 60s, during the Civil Rights Movement, I never said much, and I regret that. Of course, I was just a kid who didn’t have to sit in the balcony, or wait outside for one of my white friends to bring me a burger.

The most prolific argument against same-sex marriage is on principle, primarily from people who loudly proclaim that they are “Christians.”

Stop there.

Before you go hollering that I’m saying all Christians are against “gay marriage,” re-read it. I’m just saying that most of the people who are against it call themselves Christians, and insist that God is the one who defined marriage: One Man, One Woman. Cool. And it’s short and sweet and it fits well on a bumper sticker, or a Facebook post.

But it ain’t exactly true, is it? I mean, at least there’s a point of contention. Lots of those guys in the instruction book (aka The Bible) had more than one wife – even though each of them was only one man. Abraham, David, Solomon, Jacob, Abijah.

Deuteronomy 21 gives instructions regarding how a man should disperse his inheritance in the event that he dies and has sons by both a beloved wife and a hated wife. Of course, that same chapter goes on to say that if one of those sons is rebellious, mom and daddy should take him into town and have him stoned to death by the elders, so…

Anyway, I’m no Bible scholar, but I think that shoots down the “one woman” part of the bumper sticker equation.

All that aside, The Bible is full of all kinds of stuff we’re not supposed to do, much of which is not included in legislation regarding how the country works. The country, for those who don’t understand, is something different from religion, and it really creates problems when those two things are confused. The Bible and The Constitution are two entirely separate documents; and a marriage contract is another thing altogether.

From Wikipedia: “Marriage (also called matrimony or wedlock) is a social union or legal contract between people called spouses that establishes rights and obligations between spouses…” Also, this: “A marriage is a contract. You can write that contract yourself (in which case it’s called a ‘premarital agreement’), or you can accept the default contract written by your state legislators.”

So, what we’re dealing with here really has nothing to do with your religious beliefs, unless it is you that is contemplating gay marriage. As far as the government is concerned, it’s not that different from buying a house or a car or going to work for some corporation that requires a contract spelling out obligations between you and your employer. Sure, there are things in other contracts between people that you might consider unethical or immoral – but since those contracts don’t have your name on them, you generally don’t go ‘round protesting them, do you? That’s because the terms of that contract, unless it’s the “special” kind with some guy name Guido, taking out a “hit” on you, aren’t really any of your business. Why then, should a marriage contract between two consenting adults be any of your business?

Perhaps the misunderstanding exists that if same-sex marriage contracts are codified, or accepted as legal and binding by the government, dudes will have to divorce their wives and marry other dudes; and the same for women. Let me assure you, to the best of my knowledge, that is not the case. It simply allows people of the same sex to enter into marriage contracts, if they so desire. So rest easy. Joe and Marge are safe, unless one of them decides to take off with the pool boy or the maid – and that could happen anyway.

It seems that many folks are only concerned about the word, “marriage,” being used to identify unions between same-sex couples. But we don’t get to own words. You can call me a “queer-lover,” and I can call you a “bigot,” but that doesn’t stop everybody else from using those same words as they see fit. Let those two ladies call their union a marriage. You can call it what you want.

Newsflash: homosexuality exists, and there are no (enforceable) laws against being a homosexual. It has been around since way before any books were written, and unless some bright do-gooder invents a “cure” and slips it into the world’s water supply, gaydom will continue to exist. People are people, and people should be able to enter into contracts with each other. If a marriage contract between two homosexuals is not considered valid, then why should we consider an installment loan contract between those same two to be valid? Highlight that last sentence, will you? Because I think it’s profound.

© 2013, Rick Baber

http://www.rickbaber.com

Yonder Are the Hessians; Chapter 1 (unedited)

(Note: This blog entry doesn't incorporate the book's format.)

A well regulated Militia,
being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

That’s it – all the words and punctuation used in the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, adopted on December 15, 1791, along with the rest of what is known as The Bill of Rights.

Now, I haven’t asked her, but I assume my editor would have some problems with the placement of those commas. There really are too many of them for that sentence to make any sense, as structured. If you use the standard rule to read and understand the sentence, removing the parts between the commas, you can make that mean all kinds of things.

“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, shall not be infringed.” That makes sense. That would mean that nobody should infringe or prohibit the formation of a well regulated Militia.

“A well regulated Militia, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.” This is a little different. As read, it would mean a well regulated Militia is “the right of the people to keep and bear arms,” with the commas being there for emphasis.

But if we are to leave all the words in there, and arrive at the meaning that most people understand this thing to carry (apologies to Mr. Madison), it should probably go more like this:

A well- regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.

Just one comma. See? That means because a well-regulated militia is necessary to keep your country free, nobody should jack with the people’s right to keep and carry weapons. That’s what we think the amendment was trying to say. But now that we understand that, we have to consider the broader implications.

Forgive me. I know this is taking more time than you wanted it to, but it’s vitally important. So important, as a matter of fact, that there are people willing to kill and die over it. So the least you can do is read a little more in an effort to understand it - especially if you are one of those people. Let’s dissect the sentence, shall we? We’ll also do that without all the improper caps.

A well-regulated militia... Should we consider what “well regulated” means? It’s not spelled out anywhere in the Bill of Rights. We pretty much know what it means to regulate something; and we therefore pretty much know what it would mean to do that well. But in order for somebody to regulate something, there really has to be a regulator, doesn’t there? So, who, or what, is to be the regulator of the militia?

Because the document is designed to enumerate some rights of United States citizens and limit the government’s power in judicial and other proceedings (That’s what most people understand the purpose to be.); and because of the previous language in the Constitution to which it is an addendum, stating in Article. I. Section. 1. (more unnecessary punctuation and improper caps, but get used to it): “All legislative Powers herein granted shall be vested in a Congress of the United States, which shall consist of a Senate and House of Representatives,” we have to assume the Congress is the regulator. No?

So, it is Congress that regulates the militia. It isn’t the members or the officers or the Board of Directors of the militia that regulate it. It is Congress. And we all know what Congress is. No, I mean we all know what Congress was, as referenced in the Constitution.

Given that, the next thing to do is to define “militia,” because as simple as it seems, there is a great deal of contention on this point.

Per the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the definition:

1. a: a part of the organized armed forces of
a country liable to call only in an emergency.

b: a body of citizens organized for military service.

2: the whole body of able-bodied male citizens declared by law as being subject to call to military service.

Isn’t it quite interesting that, even in 2013, that definition is specific to males? But, so be it.

We have to recognize, however, that when James Madison wrote this in 1789 there wasn’t a Merriam – Webster online dictionary. Even if there would have been one, nobody could have found it, because Al Gore had not yet invented the internet. So, we have to take a look back to see if we can determine what might have been the definition of “militia” in those days.

During Virginia’s ratification convention in 1788, George Mason, who we consider to be one of the founders of this country and along with Madison, “the father of the Bill of Rights,” said this:

“I ask, sir, what is the militia? It is the whole
people except for a few public officials. To
disarm the people is the best and most
effectual way to enslave them.”

Given his credentials, I’d say that definition would be pretty accurate for the day. But, just to be clear, here’s another one – from the “Initiator of the Declaration of Independence,” Richard Henry Lee:

“A militia when properly formed are
in fact the people themselves…
and include all men capable of bearing
arms…To preserve liberty it is essential
that the whole body of people always
possess arms and be taught alike,
especially when young, how to use them…”

Even Madison, who penned the amendment, had more to say about it:

“…A well regulated militia, composed of the
body of the people, trained to arms, is the best
and most natural defense of a free country…”

That’s enough. Pull the plug. A militia, as defined
by the guys who should know, is pretty much all able bodied citizens, armed and ready to defend their country. But from what?

The first hint, although even harder to read than some of my own scribblings, is this (my favorite) from Alexander Hamilton’s Federalist Papers:

“There is something so far-fetched and so
extravagant in the idea of danger to liberty
from the militia that one is at a loss whether
to treat it with gravity or with raillery;
whether to consider it as a mere trial of
skill, like the paradoxes of rhetoricians;
as a disingenuous artifice to instill prejudices
at any price; or as the serious offspring of
political fanaticism. Where in the name of
common sense are our fears to end if we may
not trust our sons, our brothers, our neighbors,
our fellow citizens? What shadow of danger
can there be from men who are daily mingling
with the rest of their countrymen and who
participate with them in the same feelings,
sentiments, habits, and interests?”

Gawd, I wish I could write like that. I mean, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? Even if you don’t know what the hell it means, it’s just beautiful. But, in case you don’t (know what it means), it means there’s no reason for any of us to be afraid of the militia, because the militia is us – our sons, brothers, and neighbors. Of course that was written quite a while before our Civil War, which literally pitted brother against brother, but it’s a sweet thought, just the same. Still, who is the militia protecting us from?

Well, here it comes, from Noah Webster in An Examination into the Leading Principles of the Federal Constitution, 1787:

“Before a standing army can rule, the people
must be disarmed; as they are in almost every
kingdom of Europe. The supreme power in
America cannot enforce unjust laws by sword;
because the whole body of the people are armed,
and constitute a force superior to any bands
of regular troops that can be, on any pretense,
raised in the United States.”

We might recognize Webster as the guy whose name appears on the dictionary referenced earlier in this chapter. He obviously knew a lot about words and their meanings, and we would have to consider that he was pretty well-versed in the concepts of the day as well. And what he is saying here is that this militia everybody thought was so important – made up of the people – should not only be armed, but better armed than the army! This, just in case the leaders of the country tried to impose their will on the people when the people didn’t want that.

Now, this gets a little trickier. If the leaders of the country are the elected representatives (Congress), and Congress is charged with regulating the militia (made up of the people), and the militia feels the need to use their arms against the leaders (Congress), then would it be…prudent…for Congress to regulate the militia so extremely that it would not be possible for them to prevail? Just asking. Surely, those guys don’t want to lose their jobs. Or their heads.

Thus far, it is pretty easy to understand the mindset of the gun-toting pseudo Rambos who swear that the government can take their weapons when they pry them from their cold dead hands. No matter why your average run-of-the-mill citizen thinks the 2nd Amendment was penned, a brief study of history makes it pretty clear that it wasn’t for hunting, or even protecting family, home or property from bad guys. It was so that the citizenry would be more powerful than the government and capable of fighting and defeating them if the need to do so ever came up. It was, just as the “gun nuts” say: to defend us from tyrants.

But, who is to decide who is a tyrant? The people. And who are the elected representatives of the people? Congress. And who, again, regulates the militia? Congress. And who also regulates the enforcement agency of the United States of America, aka the military? Congress. So, who would the militia be fighting should they take up arms against the government? The military. And who makes up the military? The people. And who are the people? The sons and brothers and neighbors and fellow citizens of the other people, the militia. So, who’s on third base? What’s that spell? What’s that spell? What’s that spell? Civil War!

Shot at Redemption

The consensus among 2nd Amendment screamers seems to be, in their rampaging defense of so-called “assault rifles,” that the framers didn’t put that amendment in there so good ol’ boy Americans could protect their homes and property from the occasional bad guy, breaking in to steal a TV or some Sudafed. It’s there so they can protect their homes and property from Uncle Sam – should he decide to become tyrannical and oppressive. I mean, even more than usual. After all, it did happen once before, and lots of folk in the south are still pretty ticked off about their “property” just being set free like that. The gub’ment had ‘em some nerve back then.

Things were a little different back in 1787, when those long-haired founders penned the Constitution, and then a couple of years later when they added The Bill of Rights – which includes the “right to bear arms,” only after what they must have considered the most important amendment, the first one, which says this: Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Then came what I suppose was the next most important thing on their minds: A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

Note, that doesn’t say anything about what kind of arms the people should have the right to keep. Muskets were a pretty big deal back then. And since then, there has been some difference in opinion regarding the meaning of this document between Joe Bumpersticker and Uncle Sam. The language of the amendment seems to indicate that such a right is there so the people can band together into a “militia,” if necessary, to hold off foreign invaders. But Joe Sixpack seems to think it’s there in case our own government gets a little too big for its britches and needs to be booted out. Like, for example, when their guy isn’t elected president. Enter the long clip semi-automatic rifle.

They’re not really necessary for scaring some meth head away from your door – or even shooting one if he doesn’t take the hint. Any pistol is good enough for that job. No, these beauties are just in case “Red Dawn” comes from our own military and we’ve got to mount up on our trusty nags and four-wheelers and head for the hills where we can hide out and make nightly raids on the United States Military (an organization that everybody seems to be pretty fond of, for now) and take our country back! Because the movie, you see, makes us believe that is possible. But since they’ve already made it very difficult for us to own truly automatic weapons, and tanks and stuff like that, this is the next best thing. It’ll just have to do.

Of course, these things also make it remarkably convenient for nutbags to stroll into a theater or a school and gun down a bunch of people if they take such a notion. But that real threat sure shouldn’t influence anybody on how we choose to deal with our fantasy threat. These things look cool. They make our gun cabinets and our jeans look fuller. And, by God, we want to keep them.

So, we’ve got us a gun culture, and there ought to be a way for folks other than the weapons manufacturers and the NRA to profit from it. I’m envisioning a day, very soon, when there will be a big 2nd Amendment Rally, like Woodstock…only, not… probably in the middle of Texas. Maybe they’ll call it “Gunstock.” All the bullet-belted, trigger-happy Rambos will load up in their pickup trucks and head out there, proudly displaying their armament and their rebel flags. There’ll be some whiskey drinkin’ and performances from a handful of real cowboy recording artists who support the cause; and campfire dancing by many wobbly-legged and heavily tattooed women. They’ll break up into smaller groups and have philosophical discussions about the Bible supporting their cause and what kind of weapon Jesus would carry, assuming he’s not actually in attendance. Maybe they’ll burn some effigies of Barack Obama and Piers Morgan and discuss the resurrection of the Confederacy, and fiery speakers will get them all worked up into a frothy mixture of patriotism and inebriation. A swell time will be had by all.

Then, on the last night of the festival, somebody’s big ol’ mudder pickup will backfire when they start into town to get some more ice and set off the biggest massacre in American history. Some bright entrepreneur will make a fortune gathering up and selling all those spent cartridges – and I plan to be that guy.

Meantime, I’m gonna jaunt off to the local armory and pick me up a couple of these little beauties, just in case the Decepticons decide to take over Northwest Arkansas. You think I’m joking? This ain’t no cartoon. It could happen! I don’t want to end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard.

© 2013, Rick Baber
http://www.rickbaber.com

The End?

    For whatever it’s worth to you folks, I am 92.4% certain
that the world will not end on December 21. This, in contrast to the 96.8% certainty it won’t happen today. These beliefs are based upon the fact that I have not won the lottery to this point, and the numbers will go way down if and when that ever occurs.
    This being stated, I’d like to take this opportunity to squeeze in one last column before the solstice, just in case.
    First of all, I’d like to say that it has been a pleasure knowing most of you. Others, not so much. And it has been a pleasure being allowed by this fine newspaper to share my aimless ramblings with you for all these years. I was looking back through some of the archives I have managed to hang onto, and I believe that the first Into Focus column I wrote was a piece about the Cuban Missile Crisis, entitled “Armageddon on Hold.” With it being at least one of my first column pieces, I cut it out, framed it, and hung it on my wall. Thing is, I didn’t save the part of the paper that had the date on it, so I’m not sure when it was written. Best guess is around 2002. I’m thinking, if this is the end, wouldn’t it be sort of ironic that I’m looking at that dust-covered thing on the wall as I write this one?
    Next, let me make a pleading to you all that, sometime between now and the 21st, you don’t go all ape-crazy and decide to jump out your windows like those “War of the Worlds” people did in 1938. Remember that you live in Arkansas, and most of the houses here are no higher than two stories. If you jump, chances are you’ll just break your legs or something and you’ll be all gimped up if and when the big day gets here. If you do it sooner than later, you’ll have a bunch of extra medical bills and you might not be in any shape to get yourself over close to the window to watch.
    That’s what I’ll be doing – watching. I’ve got a cooler and a bunch of folding canvas chairs out there in the garage, just waiting for the shindig. There’ll be a few of us sitting out in the yard, probably at my brother’s house, trying (not too hard) to stay sober…and awake. An event like this doesn’t happen every day. My only dilemma at this juncture is whether or not to bother with bringing my camera. I mean, the possibility of some awesome photo opportunities is something to consider; but I don’t know if I’ll have time to look at them before…you know. At least we’ve reached the age of digital photography and I don’t have to drop the film off somewhere and wait an hour to see what I shot. So, I’ve got that going for me…which is nice.
    Regrets? I’ve had a few. But, then again, too few to mention. One thing I can think of is never taking the time to look up a little toad who once set me up to fire me from a job that wasn’t so great to begin with…to properly “thank” him. On the other hand, had I done that, I would probably be in jail and they wouldn’t let me have internet service so I could ask all you nice people to not use whatever time you may have left to enact revenge on somebody, like some idiot mall shooter. If we’re going out, let’s go out with some dignity, shall we?
    If there is a December 22, that day will be longer than the one before it. The next day, longer than that one; and so on until the next solstice. That will be June 21, as I recall. It should be warm then; t-shirt weather. And my hope is that millions of people will drag their coolers and lawn chairs back out into their yards on that longest day of the year to gaze once again into the sky – and that every one of them are wearing the shirts I manufactured, saying “I survived the Apocalypse and all I got was this lousy t-shirt!” They’ll be reasonably priced. Get your orders in before it’s too late.
    In the next installment of Into Focus, I’ll reveal to you all how to turn lead into gold and run your cars on a mixture of water and Johnson grass. Maybe. That’s scheduled for December 31. Stick around.

© 2012, Rick Baber
http://www.rickbaber.com

The Eye of a Needle

You know me, I don’t like to get political, but once every
blue moon something comes up that I find hard to ignore.
This presidential election thing seems to have sparked a
whole conversation having to do with whether it’s better for
us, as a society, to cater to the rich people or to the poor
people…and it’s got to be one or the other. Half of us
contend that the rich guy’s in pretty good shape to take care
of himself, and the other half has come up with this mantra:

“Did you ever get a job from a poor man?”

The thought process behind that profound question is, I guess, that if government (which they say we don’t really need at all, but since it exists…) would protect the financial interests of those folks who have money, then they will, in turn, unselfishly provide for the needs of the rest of us. It’s a beautiful concept, really, that incorporates some basic principles of capitalism: Treat your workers well; pay them enough to survive and remain healthy, and reproduce so they can manufacture children to work for your children – but not so much that they can become independent from you. That way the cycle continues and everybody is happy.

One problem with that, as I see it, is that there are so few really rich folk, and so many people in the “working class” that the rich have lost interest in the well-being of the workers. They can always get more. I mean, that’s a problem for the lower end of the equation. Not so much for the other. When this is combined with the other problem – greed – the whole principle appears to collapse under its own weight, and we start seeing something more akin to serfdom than capitalism.

The question, “Did you ever get a job from a poor man?” carries the subtle implication that rich people are more important to our existence than working people…better than working people. I disagree.

Whenever I’m pondering one of these questions, I take things to their extremes, just to make it easier for my little brain to figure it out. So, imagine two new worlds, born from this one. The first one has only rich people, who acquired their fortunes paying others to farm their fields, produce their goods and build their spectacular homes. The second has only the working folk who were previously hired to do all those things for the rich. Which of these worlds would survive? I have an opinion on that. Of course, it’s just theory.

Ironically, while writing this, being a terrible speller, I Googled “subtle implication.” Here’s the very first hit: “Do not be overawed when others grow rich, when the splendor of their houses increases; for they will take nothing with them when they die, their splendor will not descend with them.” – Psalms 49:16,7.

Now, I’m not a particularly religious person, in the classical sense, but I find the operative word in that scripture to be “descend,” rather than “ascend.” Just an observation.

Invariably, the debate over the rich/poor issue leads to discussion of “unions.” The folks who support the rich (oddly, most of them are not rich, themselves) demonize unions to the point that they should be abolished completely; that they are the primary reason for the state of our near-crippled economy. What makes those have-nots think they own any right to assemble against our beloved corporate moguls and hold them hostage to their silly desires for more money and better working conditions? If they want nice things, they should be rich, themselves, right? Everybody knows that as wages and employee expense go up, the price of the fruits of their labor goes up accordingly. After all, the businesses paying these workers aren’t going to take that increased cost out of their pockets. They’re not going to sacrifice their yachts and their summer homes just to make lives better for a bunch of ungrateful employees. If they did that, then what would be the point of wealth? Besides, it’s just not fair to gang up on somebody like that. It’s cheating. It’s “gang mentality” and it shouldn’t be tolerated in a decent, God-fearing society like the US of A. Again, one of the two major political parties agrees with and advances this philosophy while the other supports the concept of collective bargaining. Who’s right?

Back up and take a look from the outside. “Political party.” What is that, if not an assemblage of people, brought together to use their collective power to advance their common agenda? A union? A union that expends a great deal of effort trying to convince the people that unions are a terrible idea? Interesting.

I don’t really have a dog in this fight. I’m not poor, and certainly not rich. I don’t have any particular skills that would enable me to contribute to either of the two fictional worlds. Just an observer, a simple writer, outside, looking in, pondering things that most people probably never give a second thought. Trying to figure people out is tough. Like trying to pass through the eye of a needle.

NEW WORLD FORGOTTEN

Monday, October 8, 2012. I got up at the regular time
(no need for you to know what that is); stumbled across
the hall to my office, and opened up the computer to begin
another fun-filled exciting day of dealing with crashed cars,
mangled people, and all that entails.

About 2:30 the phone quit ringing for a while, so I
thought I’d take the opportunity to run (no, not literally)
over to the post office, mail some correspondence, and pay
that box rent fee that I neglected to pay at the end of last month – ending up with me getting evicted. Happens every time. They give me the notice at the first of the month for rent due at the end. By the time the end of the month gets here, I’ve forgotten about it completely. Thankfully, they always lock me out of the box within a couple of days, and that reminds me that I need to pay the rent. They’re helpful like that.

But, today, the windows are closed off with that sliding barricade, like they have in the mall. Nobody’s there, save a nice Hispanic lady who’s coming in as I’m standing in the air lock, looking for some sign, or something, explaining why they’re shut down. At first, I thought maybe it was still Sunday and I’d just lost track of time. I do that a lot. Then, I wondered if maybe they’d closed up in celebration of my daughter-in-law’s birthday. The lady could tell that I was confused. She said to me, in broken English, “I think it is Columbus Day.”

“Well…yes,” I replied, “That’s important! Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Imagine, if you will, my total shame and humiliation. Here am I – a natural-born, 100% red-blooded American man, and I had forgotten this most holy of holidays! Worse yet, I had to be reminded by an immigrant. It must be true what they say about them having a better grasp of our blessings than we do ourselves. Oh, the shame!

Now, with only a small portion of the day remaining, what was I to do about celebrating it? My Italian sailor suit had never been picked up from the cleaners after last year’s blow-out celebration. There were no ingredients in the house to prepare our traditional Columbus Day meal of pepperoni lasagna and that dark oily sauce that nobody knows the name of, to dip the bread in. Not a single bottle of Limoncello to be found. And the giant blow-up Santa Maria yard ornament was still buried up there in the attic, under all the Canadian Boxing Day stuff. I’d never get to it in time. I could rush off to Wal-Mart to buy the Nina and Pinta to complete the set (about time!), but what would be the use? This late, I was sure, they would be completely sold out.

In my mind’s eye, I could see those post office employees – the ones who weren’t there to unlock my box – gathered with their families, wearing their funny hats, drinking Amaretto and eating pizza, singing “Albachiara” (I guess), giving thanks that the world didn’t turn out to be flat, and telling tales of the sea. Pinching each other’s bottoms – all in good fun. But, not me. No! I am a pagan whose only thoughts on this special day involved getting my work done. My precious work.

I can see it all clearly now. At the end of our lives, none of us look back and say “I wish I would have spent more time at work.” But there will be those of us who do look back, regretfully, and proclaim that, if we had it all to do over again, we would have spent more Columbus Days in joyous celebration, like our brothers and sisters in the US Postal Service. I know that now. I won’t be caught off guard this time next year.

Sail on, my friends. Sail on!

© 2012, Rick Baber
http://www.rickbaber.com

Moralitical Dilemma

My wife has been wrestling tonight with whether or not it is morally…and … American-ly… correct to oppose Mitt Romney on the grounds that he is of a religion with some pretty “unusual” beliefs and practices.

I tell her “If that doesn’t feel right to you, then don’t oppose him on those grounds. There are plenty of other
grounds on which you can oppose Mitt Romney.”

For one, he is a gazillionaire who has never in his life had to struggle for financial security. This, it would seem, would put him out of touch with about 99% of the population who have had to face financial difficulties in their lives. Further, much of that money he made, since leaving his wealthy parents’ nest, was from off-shoring and outsourcing jobs and putting Americans out of work – in the name of profit for the few at the top of those companies…and, of course, for Romney. Seems like kind of an Anti-American thing to do.

Then, there’s the concept that he refuses to release his tax returns, so that prospective voters can see for themselves how much money he actually made and how he made it, and what kind of “write offs” he used to protect it…how much of it was invested outside the United States, thereby contributing to the economy of those other countries, instead of the one he says he wants to lead.

One could conceivably oppose him on the grounds that he is the ultimate flip-flopper. He rails against so-called “Obamacare,” which was modeled after the plan he pioneered as the governor of Massachusetts. A plan, which by the way, has been enormously successful, boasting a 98% success rate in the number of Massachusetts citizens who are now insured. Contrast that to about 84% of Americans, in general.

Romney seems to embrace whichever of his successes that are beneficial to him at a given time; and then ignore them when they’re not helpful to his immediate agenda. Right now, his agenda is getting himself elected President, within a party whose platform is pretty much built on tearing down President Obama’s crowning achievement – watered down as it was by the Republican congress. He doesn’t like being reminded what a success the “trial” program for Obamacare was…when and where he was governor.

He could be opposed on his selection of a man for his VP who, if one didn’t know better, might be confused for one of his sons. Or, perhaps, a younger clone. There’s not even a veiled attempt there at diversity in any sense of the word; sort of shouting to the American voter “Here I am. Take me or leave me.”

It would be understandable if somebody opposed Romney on the basis that even his own party, who made no bones about disliking him during the primary, just felt compelled to place him as a candidate because he was “next in line” – excluding, of course, John McCain, who proved last time that senility has no respect for even those seeking the top job.

Then, of course, I tell her that she could oppose him on that feeling she has deep down in her gut that Romney will live up to his look and be simply a lackey for the other CEOs of corporations, and one more step toward the eventual oligarchy that science fiction writers have been warning us about for years. Followed by his number two, who was voted “Biggest Suckup” by his high school classmates – and not that long ago.

But, I tell her, if you can’t oppose The Mitt on any of those grounds, and feel “clean” doing it…well, then, you should vote for him.

© 2012, Rick Baber

Hype & Circumstance

The Great Poultry Revolution.


Lawdy, lawdy! Have we got us a bunch of worked up folk around here or what? Today, as I write this, it’s
Wednesday, and there’s boatloads of folk hittin’ the couch, right about now, bellies full of yummy chicken
sammiches. May they rest in peace.

It all started when Mr. Chicken makes the announcement that he’s all against folks of the same gender being allowed to get married to each other, because that’s what it says in the Good Book, and, by golly, if it says it in the Good Book, he’s all for it. Or, uh, against it. Well, that angered some of those selfish folks who would like to live with their life partners and enjoy the same rights and privileges under the law as Mr. Chicken. And because they were angered, the folks who were of like mind with Mr. Chicken were angered too. So everybody, being on one side or another of the issue was pretty much, you know, angered.

Some mayors said if Mr. Chicken is gonna be talking like that, then they don’t really want his stores in their towns. Like they could do anything about it.

Then, our own resident preacheritician, Mr. Huckabee, comes up with this big idea that everybody who doesn’t want to have to marry somebody who uses the same restroom they use oughtta go out on Wednesday (today) and eat a chicken sammich in the name of truth, Jesus, and the American way. So, out they went, lining up in the hot sun to buy something they could get pretty much anywhere else by just driving through a short line in their air-conditioned cars. But, because dudes didn’t want to be forced to marry dudes; and dudettes didn’t…well, you know, they spent their money to help this poor fellow out, and pretty much secure themselves a place in Heaven. It was kind of rapturesque, in a way, but nobody floated up into the sky, best I could tell. Not yet, anyway. But, the way I understand it, a chicken sammich bought today was pretty much the same thing as a ticket for later on.

Now, a cynical person, such as I have been accused of being, on occasion, might start to thinkin’ about all that money that went through those registers today. A man couldn’t come up with a better publicity stunt if he tried. It’s like if the Beatles played a free concert from a New York City rooftop, or something. And an even cynical-er person might wonder if the right reverend Mr. Huckabee could be getting, say, 2 percent of the take from today’s traffic. I even asked Mr. Huckabee that question on his Facebook page, but it was only a few minutes before my comment/question was deleted – so I guess that question was not supposed to be part of the conversation.

Seems to me that Mr. Chicken oughtta have a right to believe as he sees fit, even if he does seem to be confused on which issue of the Good Book his stance comes from. And he ought not to be threatened with being run out of town by those mayors. And, by the same token, those folks who ain’t allowed to get married, it would seem, have a right to be upset about the guy’s position, and his actions regarding keeping them from getting married. People are people, after all, and there’s nothing a person enjoys more than being able to get upset about something. Following, I guess if other folk want to show their support for Mr. Chicken’s anti-support of those disenfranchised single people by all showing up in the hot sun to make him a little bit richer today, then that should be OK, too. I wonder how many of those folk are divorced from somebody who uses the other restroom.

Far as I can tell, there’s no rules in the Good Book – even that older version that most folk figure obsolete – against eating a bird as long as it’s clean. Of course, if you live where I do, you wonder how clean those birds are. But that’s all up to our individual interpretations, I guess, the same as it is on which of those older version Good Book rules folks are going to line up in the hot sun to show their support for. But, as the cynical one who likes to find the humor in every situation, I am just saddened that the fellow who started all this didn’t own a chain of BBQ pork restaurants.

Maybe he and the Huckster will buy one with today’s profits.


© 2012, Rick Baber

http://www.rickbaber.com

Multi-Author Book Signing Event, Batesville, AR

If the Lord’s willin’, and the creeks don’t rise (as my grandpa used to say), TigerEye Publications is going to be presenting a special event at Elizabeth’s Restaurant on Main Street in Batesville – 11am ‘til 2pm, Saturday, June 23. It’s a big ol’ book signing that will feature seven (count ‘em, 7) Arkansas authors, plus pre-signed books from two more; and we’d like to see as many of your friendly faces there as possible. All-in-all, there should be something like 17 different books available – from children’s books to tweens to poetry to historical fiction. Something for everybody.


Of course, you’re not required to buy any of the books; and there’s no admission charge. If you’d just like to drop by and say hello; meet the authors; talk with us about publishing your own book; or just have yourself a great Elizabeth’s lunch and watch the goings on, please, come on down!

Appearing will be the prolific Ila Clements, author of “Mist Over the Marshlands,” “Love & Deception in Carolina,” “Living Well in Carolina,” and “Return to Carolina.” Ila’s got a thing for Carolina, in case you couldn’t tell, and she’s passionate about her novels. She’ll have all four of them there to sign if you want to pick one up.

Kenton Adler, the infamous guitar-pickin’ mad piper from Lyon College, will have his first young adult novel, “The Silver Pipes of Tir nan Og.” plus his excellent illustrated (by Jody Hughes) children’s book “An Alligator in Your Yard.” For those with young children, an autographed copy of this book would be a wonderful keepsake.

Lena Ogilvie Byler has penned a beautiful book of inspirational poetry, with illustrations by Jamie Kelley, called “Fireflies in a Jar.” This one will bring smiles and tears to even old cynical coots, such as myself. Great gifts for your loved ones. She’ll be there to sign them.

Camille Nesler, one of our newer authors, is coming up from Benton with her book, “No Vaccine for Stupid,” which chronicles her experiences as a school nurse. You’ll be entertained by the creativity of some of these kids when coming up with ideas to go home “sick,.” as well as the complicity of some of their teachers and parents.

From Melbourne comes our very own high school novelist, Hannah Qualls. No, not a novelist who writes about high school – a novelist who is IN high school. About the time most of us were becoming fascinated with things like pogo sticks, Hannah was publishing her second novel. Hannah was chosen for 2012 as one of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette’s “20 to Watch.” We’re thrilled to have her attending with her first two books: “Jack or Hyde?” and “The Ghost of Hyde.”

I just found out that our most recent author, Cat Bounds, from Cabot, spent about 14 years in Batesville, where she was known as Cathy Finley. She taught English at BJHS. My wife is currently reading Cat’s first novel, “Going Over Jordan,” and giving me a bit of a complex with all her raving comments about the book – as did Vaughanda Bowie, my editor, when we were publishing it. I fear we may be losing Cat pretty soon to one of the big publishing houses, so come see her while you have the chance!

I’ll have four of my own books there as well: “Dinner With WT – 10th Anniversary Edition;” “Purity;” “Darker Tales;” and the latest one - “unrighteous god.”

Twyla Gill Wright has a conflicting engagement on this Saturday, but she has graciously agreed to have a friend appear with pre-signed copies of of her first book, “The Scarlet Glass.”

Also, Teresa Burns Murphy, who lives way out yonder in Virginia, has sent some signed copies of her popular novel “The Secret to Flying” to me to make available at the event.

We know that there are talented, undiscovered writers still out there, and TigerEye Publications would like to find them before somebody else does. So, if you’ve got a manuscript of your own that you’d like to have considered for publication, come on down and tell us about it. Vaughanda Bowie and I are anxious to discover the next best seller.

I suppose, with the excellent reputation Elizabeth’s Restaurant has, there’s no need to list the address for the locals, but I’m going to do that anyway for the folks who’ll be coming in from out of town: 231 E. Main, Batesville, Arkansas. We are so thankful to them for hosting this event, and would love to see their lunch business on Saturday June 23 go through the roof. I mean, have you eaten there? Lawd, them’s some good vittles!

Come see us, will ya?

The Bottom Line on Gay Rights

Here it comes – the end of the world.

The President of the United States has come out of the closet and admitted that he is gay. His marriage to the lovely Michelle was a sham. Now, before we can blink an eye, he’ll be issuing a presidential decree that all of us who are married to people of the opposite sex will have to get divorced and marry somebody who uses the same restroom in gas stations. Practical, in a way, if you think about it. Maybe we should demand to see his marriage certificate.
I blame Abraham Lincoln. If he had not come up with that silly Emancipation Proclamation back in 1863, we’d still be a happy nation of white men voting – just like God and Rick Santorum intended. Our women folk would be home in the kitchen, doing the things that women folk should do. Ironing, and stuff. Our “domestic help” would simply do as they’re told…or else. And there would be no radical black man in the White House, coming up with these crazy ideas like giving equal rights to dudes who don’t dig chicks; or chicks who do.
History will judge Obama harshly, just as it did with Lincoln.
It was only a scant seven years or so after that bearded radical pulled his little stunt that black men were lining up to vote, all over the country. Of course, Jim Crow took care of that problem for a long time until LBJ went crazy in 1964. And, in the meantime, 1920, even women got the right to vote. Women! You know it had to go badly after that!
Now, sure there were plenty of right-minded people back then speaking out against these horrific changes in America but, like today, their voices were quashed by the radicals on the left. Those are the people we need to look to now, in this desperate hour, to find strength; and a way to stop this terrible event before it’s too late.
Look at it this way: we’ve been more than leanient with who we allow to get married. Serial killers and rapists and molesters of children can get married. Meth cookers and dope smugglers and speeders and people who park their shopping carts in parking spaces can get married – as long as it’s to the opposite gender. They can enjoy the tax benefits and insurance benefits and all the other benefits of a legal union between two consenting adults. Are we asking so much?
The bottom line (if you’ll pardon the pun) is this: It’s going to happen sooner or later. But do we want our childrens’ children to look back at us and see us as the generation that lost the battle to deny equal rights under the law to one of the last oppressed factions of our civilization? To see us as losers?
Then again, given the nature of how this procreation thing works, and that we’ll all, by law, have to be paired with people of the same gender, it is entirely likely that there won’t be any more generations to look back upon us with scorn and disdain.
I just hope my dude doesn’t snore.


© 2012, Rick Baber
http://www.rickbaber.com
http://www.TigerEyePubs.com

Update From the Hill

In case anyone is interested (and I’m beginning to doubt that anyone is), the sequel to “Purity” is completed and on the market. The plan was to finish the book before my granddaughters’ first birthday so, right on schedule, I got ‘er done a matter of weeks before their second.

Apparently, I had no concept of what it was going to be like finishing a novel while simultaneously working a day job as an insurance adjuster and a night job as a publisher of books for other people.

Another complication, albeit a happy one, is that “Purity” is currently in the hands of a Hollywood executive producer who is interested in turning it into a pilot movie for a 13-episode TV series. He asked me if I could convert it to a screenplay and, of course, I said “sure!”

Now, understand, before that telephone conversation I had never even seen a TV or movie script. So I got online and downloaded scripts from movies I had seen and went to work on it – thinking that it needed to be done quickly to impress the producer. I got the whole thing completed in a week or so, and emailed it back to him. He called and told me it was “the best adaptation I have seen in a long time.” So, I had that going for me, which was nice. It seemed then that I was going to be watching my story on a big screen in no time flat.

It doesn’t work that way.

The wheels of Hollywood turn very slowly, I’ve learned. Friday, four or five months after I started packing up my flip-flops and shorts, the dude (a fantastically friendly “regular guy” by the way) called me with his verbal “notes.” There’s work to be done, particularly, cutting the script down by about 12 pages to make it the optimum length. He told me to not get in a hurry, and do it right. Time now to actually read those scripts I downloaded, it appears.

Meanwhile, I finished this sequel and put it up on the market and am wondering if I made a poor choice in naming it “unrighteous god.” Some people I’ve spoken with about it seem reluctant to read the book, perhaps fearing that as a result of doing so they’ll be cast into the fires of Hell or, at the very least, struck by lightning. I have to explain to them that the title is not an editorial, but rather a quote from the antagonist in the book. That doesn’t seem to make them feel any more at ease. They still step back a few feet while we’re talking and I catch them, every once-in-a-while, glancing up toward the clear blue sky…nervously.

In short, the story isn’t an indoctrination into some unholy cult, as some have apparently gleaned from the title. It’s about a northwest Arkansas private investigator, trying to catch a serial killer who is, like most serial killers, just a little on the whacky side.


If it’s any comfort, there have been a few people who have already read the book and, as far as I know, none of them have burst into flames. For those not afraid to live on the edge, the paperback is available at Amazon.com, and other links are provided on my website: TigerEyePubs.com.

Next up: We’re gonna try our hand at stage plays. Got an idea after seeing “Book of Days” at the Arts Center of the Ozarks, and anxious to get started on it. So, if you’re a community theater director, gimme a call!

Meantime, Fan, keep those beach clothes handy.

The Class of '71 Reunion

High School, I’m told, is a traumatic time for some people. For others, the glory days. For me, not so much of either – if only because, back then, I just didn’t pay much attention. My goal at the time was to simply survive the ride, get out as soon as possible, and then go on about the business of becoming a rock star. How hard could that be?
Watching movies and TV over the years, I have come to understand that things like class reunions can be events filled with anxiety for many. Maybe that guy was some kind of stud in school and the rest of his life didn’t turn out like he and everyone else imagined. Maybe this other guy was not so popular in school and he was picked on by the other kids – so he holds no real affection for them now that he’s all grown up. Maybe that hot cheerleader has put on some pounds and would rather not show up so the old classmates will continue to remember her as she was. You didn’t get rich? The ones who did will flaunt it? Afraid the old cliques will re-connect at the reunion and leave you outside looking in…again? All kinds of stuff like that can go through the minds of people contemplating returning to their alma mater after so many years in the real world. Or, so I’m told.
Admittedly, I wasn’t a member of the Class of ’71, so, even if I had been the type to worry about such trivia, it was no skin off my nose. That was Becky’s class. I still had two more years to become a rock star. It could happen.
About the time we rolled across Greenbrier Bottoms we discovered a fantastic local radio station, playing “She’s a Rainbow,” by the Stones. Nothing could have been more appropriate. They followed that with Creedence Clearwater’s “Born on the Bayou,” as we crossed the bridge. We were home.
The gang was setting up the tailgate party for the Pioneers’ total destruction of the Wynne Yellowjackets when we got to town around 3 o’clock Friday. So, naturally, I took a wrong turn and got stuck behind traffic backed up at the Jr. High. (Hi Myra!) That place looked a little different than it did 40 years ago.
Once we found the spot, up next to the high school building, we unloaded our designated goodies and started to re-connect. Ironically, the first guy I saw there was the first kid I met when I moved to Batesville in 1967, James Milam. We got to do a little catching up before he had to bug out to officiate some other football game. Becky was already up there, hugging and kissing her own classmates, and the aroma of Don McSpadden’s fantastic BBQ was filling the air. It already felt “right.”
After those three years of longing to get out of that place, after the long ride, I found myself needing (if you know what I mean) to get inside. A few of us did. So we finally located an unlocked door – which didn’t even appear to have a latch on it – and immediately split up to locate our old lockers. When I left in 1973, there was still some stuff in there I’d like to get out, but I had forgotten the combination my sophomore year and never asked anybody to open it for me. The lockers had been changed out over the years, but we all found the spots where they used to be. We pointed out the classrooms of Mrs. Seibert, Mrs. Moore, Ms. Felts, and Mrs. Newton, and then decided we better get out before we were arrested for breaking and entering.
Coming back out, I was drawn to a framed picture of John Lennon on the wall, with the quote: “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” In MY old school! How cool is that?
That first evening was more than pleasant, and the relatively few that made it on Friday broke down the tailgate and carried off a bunch of great leftovers. I was supposed to take Donnie’s stuff back to his house, but didn’t have a truck, so Duane “Gorilla” Pearson, graciously volunteered to do that for me.
Bec and I returned to Chateau de Price to rest up for the big night on Saturday. First though, she was to attend a breakfast out at one of the hotels where some of the girls were staying, and Nick Fudge said I could come hang out at Ben Treat’s shop where The Reunion Band was practicing for the gig that night. So, Saturday morning, she dropped me off there and me ‘n ol’ Rick Satterwhite got treated to an advance screening of the sets. That was a blast. Brought back lots of memories of the years I’d spent playing music with Andy Buschmann in “Orion” while Nick was elsewhere on the road with “St. Peter’s Road Show.” Both of those guys are even more talented now than they were then, as are Rick Buford and Ben Treat. Mike Foster didn’t make practice, but anybody who’s ever heard him play the keys knows he doesn’t have to. He’s a wizard. These guys are all old pros – the best in the business. If you haven’t heard them, you should make plans to do so. And if you’re ever out Albuquerque way, catch Mike Jordan’s stand-up comedy act.
After spending the rest of the fantastic fall day driving around Batesville, checking out the old neighborhoods, the time for the dinner and dance at Elizabeth’s arrived. And guess what: it may have been the best reunion ever. No anxiety. No pretentiousness. Only a lot of happy old friends genuinely enjoying the company of each other; and it went by almost as fast as the words I get to use here… and the previous 40 years.

The Great Ice Capades of 1971

From Dinner with WT; Posted here in honor of the Batesville High School Class of 1971 40 year reunion.

It’s hard to remember whose idea it was. Or even the exact date that it happened. All I know for sure is that it was the very cold winter of the first year I was in high school.
Jr. High had been pretty much a breeze. To be honest, I never had much of a problem with my grades, so I didn’t see the point of wasting valuable teenage time doing foolish things like studying. This was a time for having fun. The
only thing was, in our small town of about 7000, there wasn’t much fun to be had if we didn’t make it ourselves. That usually consisted of something that could get us in trouble. So those of us with extra time on our hands would create new and innovative ways of getting into trouble. It didn’t matter, much, if it was not exactly legal. All that mattered was that it was fun – and that nobody had done it before. Sure, we were thugs – but we were creative thugs.
The plots in Jr. High had been limited to Jr. High minds: Stealing and dumping into the river every fire extinguisher in the school district; Putting Fred in a 55 gallon barrel and rolling him down the hall – mowing the principal over as he
inadvertently walked out his door; Releasing the hand brakes on the school busses so they would roll backwards into the bayou behind the bus parking lot; Running our motorcycles gang’s flag up the flagpole, padlocking it on, and then setting the tall grass around the pole on fire when the principal climbed up there to cut the lock. Mischief. But nothing that was ever intended to hurt anybody.
With 1970 came high school. We weren’t prepared to change our lifestyles just because we had to change schools. If anything, we should be more cunning than ever now. We had the wisdom of three years of experience at our disposal. And now we could drive.
Man, the (open) halls of the High School were cold. Upperclassmen walked up and down them, carrying books and looking as if they had some sort of educational agenda in mind. It was frightening. What were they doing to these people up here on this hill? How could they have forgotten that spirit of hell raising so deeply instilled in all of us? Some things would have to change up here if we were going to be able to tolerate it. It was obvious though, that it was going to take some time. This was the age of causes. What we needed was a cause.
As autumn gave way to winter the expression on nearly every student’s face changed from “I’m an adult now, and I’m here to get a quality education” to “Man! It’s cold outside. I wish it would snow so we could get a day off from this rat hole and sleep in where it’s warm.” Complacency had given way to discontent. The basic elements leading to an insurrection were there, but the spark was missing.
Then it snowed. Every kid in the school was glued to the 10 o’clock TV news that night, with a transistor radio stuck up to one ear anticipating the inevitable announcement that all Batesville schools would be closed the following day. The
announcement did not come. It was business as usual – which was unusual in itself because, in past years, it would only take a light dusting of snow to get us out of school. This was nearly a blizzard by Arkansas standards. There must’ve been one or two inches of the stuff on the ground. There are places in the world that are equipped to deal with the hazard of the frozen white on streets and highways, but Arkansas isn’t, and never has been, one of those places. Counties and cities have better things to do with their money than to blow it on snow plows that would only be used once every blue moon. So, when it snowed even a little bit our Pavlovian conditioning had us blowing off the homework and staying up for the midnight movie on TV. It didn’t’ work this time. We were … well … unhappy.
An informal student inquisition commenced immediately. Who was the Bozo in charge, and what would it take for him to declare a snow day? Just getting out of school wasn’t all that important now. Tradition was at stake. Our cause was
born.
After a few days of tedious investigation, it was determined how the process of declaring a “snow day” worked. School Superintendent Coats had recently purchased a four-wheel drive vehicle. On any morning that there was a question as to whether the condition of the roads was so hazardous as to create a dangerous situation for the busses, he would get up very early and drive the county roads, as well as the hill to the high school. His reasoning was simple: if he could make it, the busses could make it. If the busses could make it, school was on. Therefore: if he could make it, we had to get out of bed.
This was war. In 1970 very few high school students had four wheel drives. We had ’67 Mustangs, and Camaros, and VW bugs. What made that madman think our lives were any less important than those kids on the busses? At least that was the propaganda we used to rally people around our cause.
Sometime in the next few weeks, a plan was conceived amid the smell of French fries and pizza burgers with mustard, slaw, and hot sauce, in the dining room of Tommy’s Kingburger. Some of the greatest radical minds in town, left over from the
60s, decided that what we had to do was make sure that nobody could make it up that hill. Not even Coats. It would require a great deal of effort. Much more than that used to get out of bed in the morning and drive to school. It would involve enormous risk and the requisitioning of some very expensive mechanical equipment – namely, some of our parents’ vehicles – at a particular time of the evening when we were supposed to be in bed seeing visions of sugarplums. But it would be worth it. It would be fun. It was tradition.
With 1971, winter came on strong, and there wasn’t another snow cloud in sight. It was just very, very cold. The daytime temperature hadn’t climbed above twenty degrees in over a week. What we had to do was ice the road over. And we had to do it so well that nothing could get up the hill to the high school. There was only one road, excluding the rocky trail up the back way we called the “baja.” Nobody would expect us to bring our cars up that way. The busses sure couldn’t get up there. The original plan was to release the fireplugs on top of the hill so the water would run down and freeze on the road. There were minor obstacles that presented themselves in association with this scheme – specifically, how to distribute the water over the road in such a manner as to cover it totally and completely. The guy we put in charge of stealing a fire hose failed miserably. If we had just opened the hydrants, the water would simply freeze up there as it came out and we’d have an ice sculpture as a memorial to our failure instead of our long-anticipated triumph over nazi authority. No, it had to be done better than that. We’d have to do it manually. And we’d have to do it soon. Nobody knew how long this cold snap was going to last.
Row Lake was more like a big pond. It sat on the edge of the cemetery property down where the road forked to go up to the school. The water there was relatively warm and had frozen only in a thin layer around the banks. From this junction there was little traffic up toward the school – as it was the only thing up there – on any weeknight. We would have to use the lake as our water supply, and transport it about a half mile up to the hill in barrels by way of pickup trucks. Timing was of the essence. There had been a history of school vandalisms in our town (no, it wasn’t us) so the police had begun to make regular nightly tours around to all the schools. The trucks would have to fill up quickly at the lake because there was occasional traffic down there. While the trucks were away from the lake, distributing their
loads, there would have to be a guard hidden behind one of the tombstones down by the intersection with a walkie-talkie. Another guard up on the hill to warn the rest of us if anybody was coming. With four pickups, each carrying four 55 gallon barrels, we figured the whole mission could be accomplished in an hour. This allowed for each truck to make two trips. That was a total of 1760 gallons of water, which should freeze quickly, creating a sufficient slick.
There was a bus out that night. It seems like it was the basketball team, but my memory fails me on that. This was instrumental in our plan. The bus was due back in around midnight. We would have the road impassable by the time it returned. The bus driver would, in turn, report the road condition to someone of authority within the school system, who would report it to Superintendent Coats – who would have no choice but to call school off the following day.

We did have friends and relatives on that bus, and we didn’t want anybody to get hurt. Two guys were commissioned to paint a large sign to place just up the road from the intersection, which was to read “BUS BEWARE. SLICK ROADS!”
There were maybe 15 people directly involved in this conspiracy. All of us had taken an oath of secrecy. Not in the literal sense. It was simply understood that if word got out and our plan was foiled that the bigmouth would be exposed and relieved of some part of his anatomy that he had not demonstrated the right to own. Of course, we had to tell our girlfriends so they wouldn’t think we were out running around on them all night. That was OK for me, but for some of the guys I think it might have been a mistake.
As always, we were at Tommy’s on that fateful night. Around nine o’clock, when everybody usually left on weeknights, we hung around. Already the plan was beginning to unravel. Nobody had seen the sign guys. Only two of the four trucks we were supposed to use showed up. I think the same excuse applied to both of the no-shows: “My dad wouldn’t let me use it.” But our school motto was “A Pioneer Never Quits” and by-God we weren’t about to now. About 12 of us piled into the two pickups and embarked upon our expedition to the lake. Others, not so bold as to
brave the 12-degree weather, followed in cars. Probably a total of 20 guys by now. So there was a minor security leak. These things happen. But these guys were all cool. Nothing to worry about.

I’ve always been told that water froze at 32 degrees. The water we hand dipped from Row Lake that night could not have been over five. Short bucket brigades were formed between the trucks and the water. We’d dip in wastepaper baskets and then hand the full one to the next guy to pass up to the barrel man while accepting an empty one coming the other way. It was the epitome of teamwork, dedication, and sacrifice for the cause that, if it had only been used for good instead of mischief, was the kind of thing that produced greatness.
Four of the eight barrels that were supposed to have been on the two missing trucks were split between these two. We had to work faster than we had originally planned. In doing so, nearly every one of the guys on the ground got spilled upon. When the water splashed on our green army jackets it would freeze instantly. The working conditions were lacking, at best. But we were sure our plan would succeed.
We worked our way up the hill, meticulously spilling the water from the barrels as the drivers slowly took the trucks upwards – carefully avoiding the narrow grass shoulders on each side of the road, as we were saving these for our escape routes. It was amazing. The water froze the instant it hit the street. From out of nowhere, guys appeared on foot with sleds. They would actually follow the trucks on them.
This was working better than we could have imagined, despite the fact that our walkie-talkie man had forgotten to bring them.
After the first load was applied, one of the drivers made the announcement that he had to get his dad’s pickup home. Everybody was cold and tired and wet. Most of us thought the job was done well enough to accomplish our goal, and agreed that we should call it a night. It was about 10 o’clock. Big D and Larry Jack did not agree. They felt that we should apply some more water to the road and then come down to finish off the job by slicking the shoulders as well. They convinced one of the other guys that his dad would be sound asleep, and that we could “borrow” his truck without even having to disturb him. Big D and Larry Jack weren’t the kind of guys with whom any of us risked confrontation, so we, basically, stole the guy’s dad’s truck. In about 30 minutes we were back at the lake, shivering, loading up the pickups just one more time.
By the time we loaded the last barrels most everybody (the sledders and spectators) had gone home. I got to ride back up the hill inside Big D’s truck. Little me in the middle with D driving and Larry on the other side. As we rounded the first curve through the woods approaching the hill we could see the headlights of a car spinning around in the low place just before you start up the big curve. John and Fred (brothers), Jim, and Frankie were just behind us in the other vehicle. As we approached the car on the ice, about two hundred yards away, its headlights went out. We laughed. Obviously somebody down there having fun who thought we were the cops. The car had slid a little off the road into the woods just at the foot of the icy hill. D steered over into the grass and we began our ascent. About 50 yards beyond that a blue light appeared in Big D’s rear view mirror – behind the other pickup.
“Shit!” I heard Danny say it, and I got this terrible feeling that something had gone horribly wrong.
The car we had laughed about, spinning around on the ice, was a cop car. When I turned around to look there were two of them behind the second truck. D goosed ours in an attempt to speed up the hill on the shoulder, then escape down the baja. The shoulder was rough and water was splashing from the barrels in the back. I looked ahead and saw the flashing of two more sets of blue lights coming over the hill above us. The truck started spinning out. We were caught in our own trap!
In a moment two of the police cars slid sideways in front, and behind each pickup. The doors flew open and cops appeared with pistols extended over the hoods of the cars. I think one guy had a shotgun. What did they think we were
going to do? Freeze them to death? We weren’t going anywhere. The pickups were stuck. The cops had chains on their tires. They were prepared.
“Come out of the vehicles with your hands up!” commanded a voice over one of those bullhorns.
Larry looked at me calmly, and quietly spoke in his slow southern drawl. “Do ya reckon we oughta run?”

I knew I was going to be in jail in a few minutes – if these guys didn’t just start shooting and kill us – but something about the way he said that just struck me as incredibly funny. I was laughing uncontrollably when one of the cops jerked
Danny’s door open and started dragging us out of the truck. He was the one who had been driving the car that was spinning on the ice. He obviously failed to see the humor of the situation. He grabbed me by the hair and nearly broke my nose on the steering wheel as he yanked me out. I heard Fred back there yelling “Don’t push me you ….” (Well, use your imagination.), and looked back in time to see him literally picked up and thrown into the back seat of another car.
They loaded us all up in just two cars and we headed for the police station. Our driver didn’t have anything to say to us. We could see that he was still weak-kneed from the ordeal on the ice. As we neared the cemetery, Larry leaned over to
me and said, “Tell him to turn the radio up.”
“Sir,” I said, all to happy to comply, “Could you turn the radio up a little?”
It was ten or fifteen seconds before he answered. “Shuttup!”
Danny was laughing under his breath. Larry leaned over to me again and whispered, “Tell him.”
Although I really didn’t think it was a good idea, I was more afraid of D and Larry than I was this cop. I mean, he had to live by some kind of rules.

“Sir,” I repeated, “We can’t hear the radio back here.”
You know how, when you were a little kid, you would fight with your sister in the back seat on the way to grandma’s house? Your dad would yell at you and you would continue until he lost all control? That’s what this cop did. With a crushing backblow from his right hand he violently, and blindly, swung back to hit me in the mouth. Which is, I imagine, what I would have wanted to do if I were him. I guess he was a rookie or something because he totally forgot about that wire cage between the front and back seats. A deluge of obscenities poured from his mouth almost as fast as the blood squirted from his busted knuckles. Danny buried his face between my shoulder and the back of the seat to conceal his laughter. Larry went ahead and laughed out loud.
Soon we arrived at the police station and were herded inside where the chief of police was waiting. The chief of police! Almost midnight and we got the Chief! We were big time criminals. Nobody ever got the chief this late at night. The fire chief was there too. To this day I don’t know why he was there. Our cop came in behind us, wrapping a handkerchief around his bloody hand.
“Boys,” began the chief, “I want each one of you to call your parents and have them come down here”.
He was the only one of the policemen who didn’t appear to be angry. As a matter of fact, it looked to me like he was trying very hard to fight back a smile. Maybe even laughter.
One by one we took our turns on the phone. Most of the calls were short and spoken in the low, muffled voices guys use to tell their girlfriends “I love you too Honey” when there are other guys in the room. When Frankie was on the phone he turned to the chief. “My mom’s in her housecoat. She wants to know if she can just drive up and honk and somebody’ll come out to the car.”
It was a small town. “Yeah, Frankie,” the chief replied,
“That’ll be fine.”
My turn rolled around. My sister answered the phone.
“Robin, let me talk to dad.”
“He’s asleep,” she said, “He’s really mad ‘cause it’s after midnight and you’re not home yet.”
“Okay. Let me talk to him.”
“I’m not gonna wake him up.” She answered. “You better just come on home or you’re gonna be in big trouble.”
Everybody seemed to gather around the phone to hear my conversation.
“Robin!” I was getting a little upset with her. “I’m kind of in some trouble anyway. Now wake him up!” Already I could hear snickering from the guys. She laid down the phone and I waited for what seemed like an eternity.
He didn’t sound too mad when he picked up the phone. “Hello.”
“Dad,” I began. (I thought that was a good place to begin) “Do you think you could come pick me up?”
“You got car trouble?” I always had car trouble.
“No. I’m down here at the city jail.”
It got quiet. I thought he might have fallen back to sleep.
“Dad?”
“Come on home.” He said sharply.
“No, really, I’m in jail.”
“Goddammit!” he was getting miffed, “Quit fuckin’ around and get your ass home!”
Everybody, including some of the cops, was laughing now. I handed the phone to Mr. Collins, the fire chief, and asked him to try his luck. He explained the situation to my dad and hung up.
In just a few minutes parents started showing up. Frankie’s mom pulled up and honked, and he was allowed to go home with her. Somehow, Jim got out of there too, leaving only five of us to face the music. My dad came in and talked to the chief, and it was determined that we would be charged with “malicious mischief”. (Although we later discovered a loophole in the definition that would have rendered that an inappropriate charge.) My dad cut a deal with them. If we could make the road passable by morning, and then spend the next Saturday picking up trash along the highway, they would drop the charges. An hour or so later we were riding atop two Independence County trucks filled with sawdust back out to the scene of the crime. And it was cold up there.

With square-ended shovels we emptied those two trucks while my dad walked alongside them pointing to places that we needed to cover. We finished sometime in the wee hours of the morning, when my dad told me that I’d better catch a few winks because I was going to school at 8 o’clock.
When we walked in the door at home my mother was sitting there on the steps, weeping because her firstborn had turned out to be a criminal. She’d been on the phone to my girlfriend around 10, trying to find out where I was. Becky kept the secret and, basically, lied, and told her that she didn’t know. Then mom called her back to inform her that I’d called from the jail, and a discussion ensued as to how I ever became a juvenile delinquent. The old man didn’t say anything else. He just went to bed. After I shook my mother I did the same.
School didn’t actually start until around 10 o’clock that next morning. The sawdust had melted the ice, then it froze back over with the sawdust inside it. Cars were stuck all over the hill and half of the guys volunteered to miss the first two periods to push the ones they could up to the dry pavement. A few people with 4-wheel-drives were shuttling back & forth to get the stranded students to class. It was a nice community effort. I was told to report directly to the principal’s office when I arrived. The other six guys were already there, smiling as I walked through the door.
Mr. Cross was not in a good mood that morning. He didn’t offer me any friendly greeting. No coffee. No “How’z the family?” No Pop Tarts. Nothing. I took my seat and he began his presentation, slowly and deliberately.
“I don’t believe that just the seven of you planned and pulled off this entire caper. I, therefore, don’t believe it would be fair of me to expel just the seven of you and allow the other culprits to go unpunished. Tell ya what I’m gonna do…” He stood up and wiped his hand across his face, like he always did when he was frustrated. “…I’m going to give you until 2 o’clock. At that time I want everybody who had anything to do with the planning or execution of this incident assembled in the library. You guys should not have to take the rap for everybody responsible. Now, get out of here.”
As soon as the door shut behind us we all knew what we had to do. We went about spreading the word.
When the 2 o’clock bell rang, Mr. Cross pushed his way into the library. Assembled there was a good eighty percent of the student population. Girls, nerds, boy scout types. Even the typing and bookkeeping teachers. It was heartwarming.
Shoving people aside, he made his way to the center of the big room and looked around with his hands on his hips. A disgusted look on his face. Sort of nodding his head “yes” as he looked sternly around the room into the huge crowd. He began to scream. “I WANT EVERYBODY NOT DIRECTLY INVOLVED WITH THIS ICING INCIDENT OUT OF HERE NOW!”
Everybody started to leave, save the seven of us around the table in the middle.
“COME BACK HERE!” he screamed.
Everybody came back.
Cross calmed his voice a little. “If you knew about this plan, or were actively involved in it, then stay. If you didn’t know anything about it, then leave.”
Nobody moved.
He took another long look around the room, doing that nodding thing again. Then he wiped that hand across his face and stormed out the door. It slammed so hard against the outside wall as he threw it open that the glass broke.
“Well,” Larry Jack said, “I guess we can go now”.
We still had to pick up the trash, per the deal my dad had made with the cops, but we didn’t get kicked out of school. For our efforts we made the front page of The Batesville Guard under the title of “Ice Capades.” They didn’t mention our names, because we were minors. But we knew who we were.
Maybe high school wasn’t going to be so bad after all.