December on Topsail Island.
Surprisingly, it's not all that different from December in Illinois. At least, not temperature-wise.
"Do you realize it's warmer in Galva than here in North Carolina?"
Her tone at this not-uncommon revelation during our recent November/December Carolina swing might best be described as aggrieved, because, hey, we're in the South, below the Mason-Dixon Line and smack dab in the middle of the land of cotton, collards and lard-based biscuits. But thanks to a sustained mild-weather pattern in the middle of America that now sees parts of the midwest setting all-time no-snow records, hometown friends report summery conditions that include top-down convertible rides and heroic holes-in-one. Meanwhile the Weather Channel now names Winter Storms because, I guess, they're becoming as rare as hurricanes.
There is one difference, though.
Kind of a big one.
Bigger, in fact, than Mill Creek, the Edwards River, Fitch Creek, the lake at Johnson-Sauk Park and even the Windmont Lagoon.
It's called the Atlantic Ocean.
While I'm fairly sure she probably wouldn't have let me perch part-time in these beachside digs of ours without the added attraction of nearby grandkids, ocean access for a pair of landlocked midwesterners like us is quite an amazing thing. It's mostly quiet on the beach these days, with falling water temperatures chasing all but the most determined surfers out of the waves. But the restless waters of late fall and early winter now provide new bounty for those of us who still walk the shore in search of treasure.
There's a lot to find. A lot to see, too.
Just a couple of miles up the shore, there's a beach renourishment plan underway to replace some of the sand lost when Hurricane Irene bounced off our beach last summer. It's actually a win-win process, whereby a floating dredge sucks sand out the the New River Inlet, which helps keep that important waterway navigable for the shrimpers and other fishermen who work our waters. The massive dredging vessel has the power to transfer an amazing 25,000 cubic yards of sand back onto the shore every day, where it will naturally widen the beach, help rebuild protective dunes and form offshore sandbars that provide an added barrier when storms come a' calling.
Though the Superstorm called Sandy mostly missed the southern North Carolina coast, its winds were enough to stir up water and waves and uncover a unique piece of island history, when a chunk of the sailing ship William H. Sumner was uncovered on the beach a few miles south of us. A section of the three-masted schooner, whose young captain died under suspicious circumstances after running the ship aground in 1919, was discovered protruding from the sand earlier this fall, the first sighting of the artifact in over a decade.
We've enjoyed offshore sightings of dolphins, seabirds and stout-hearted sailors, while folks further down the shore were treated to a rare view of a migrating humpback whale in November. One of my all-time favorite finds occurred a couple of weeks ago when we encountered a visiting family down the beach a piece who were excitedly digging away at an unexpected treasure--an entire car door, probably circa 1950s based on its large size and vintage pushbutton handle. The treasure hunters were startled to learn that the stretch of beach they were digging on was once a well-traveled main beach road before the double-whammy of Hurricanes Fran and Bertha in 1996 changed the entire shape and infrastructure of our sandy barrier island.
But the best of all waited for a sunny day, when it was just me and my grandsons on the beach. We were playing a game that could be called "grandpa, the gas truck." For those of you who think this sounds remarkably apt, let me explain that the rules state that the little boys run ahead of me on the beach, then wait for me to catch up so that I can "gas them up." I'm especially good at this game, as it gives me an opportunity to show off my slow-walking skills, which are of olympic caliber. I was meandering along when I saw something half buried in the sand under the gently lapping waves.. It took me a second to compute just what I was seeing, whereupon I bent and gently scooped it from the water.
It was a sand dollar, the skeleton of a sea creature related to sea stars and urchins.
Whole, round and perfectly intact.
It's pretty darned unusual to find one that hasn't been cracked or broken apart by waves and water on its long trip to the shore. It is, I think, a nice reminder of how complex and fragile, yet tough and enduring that life can be. It's also a special symbol of these December days.
According to tradition, the five holes on the outer edge of the sand dollar commemorate the five wounds of Christ, while at the center on one side blooms the Easter lily, and at the lily's heart the star of Bethlehem. The Christmas poinsettia is etched on the other side, making another reminder of Christ's birth. The sand dollar contains five small v-shaped jaws that the animal used to feed with when it was alive. According to legend, if you break the center, those five white "doves" will be released to spread good will and peace.
I looked at the small, beautiful, delicate thing in my hand and thought for a minute. I thought about this Christmas season and our custom of sending and giving special messages and gifts to those that we love.
I had to smile.
Maybe, just maybe, someone had just sent one to me.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Learning and growing
Now it's December.
It's an interesting time of the year.
A time when the world seems to kind of collectively catch its breath and wait for something else to happen.
Elections are over, harvests are in, and even the school year is well on its way to being half over already. Even with the crazy-warm weather that's bounced its way across parts of the U.S. recently, it is still, from time to time, beginning to look and feel like it should at this time of the year, with bare trees, cold nights and little-boy dreams of snowstorms just in time for Christmas.
But there's something else going on, as well. Something even more important than Black Friday and Cyber Monday and the unending rush to shop and buy.
It is the season of Advent, a four-week period of preparation and anticipation that is filled with rich traditions of its own. For many, those four weeks pass by virtually unnoticed, shoved aside by the hyper-commercial December days leading up to Christmas. But the time of Advent can offer us an opportunity for thinking, hoping, watching, waiting, wondering and praying about the real reason for the season. It is a time to learn and grow, as Father Ernie Ruede, our local parish priest noted in his first Advent homily this year.
Because really, it's not Christmastime yet.
Sometimes, though, that's a tough one to remember.
First off, it is, most definitely beginning to look a lot like Christmas around here. While Church tradition says that Christmas decor, music and other red, green and white trappings of that glorious season are really supposed to wait until Christmas Eve, we caved in quick to our own desire to share the fun of the upcoming season with our youngest grandsons, who are, after all, the key reasons we decided to stay in North Carolina through December this year. So, we've got a tree already, along with some wreaths and a long garland of lighted evergreen trailing down our outside staircase. Letters to Santa Claus have been written, and both grandsons are well aware of the need to be extra good lest their tiny transgressions reach the ears of Saint Nick. In fact, it occurs to me that the tradition of Advent as a time for prayer, fasting and repentance, followed by anticipation, hope and joy has had some strong influences on the concept of "good for goodness sake" that drives the behavior of many young souls this time of year.
We've tried to blend a bit of Advent wisdom into the season we're sharing with our grandboys, while working on our own behavior, as well. For me, its been my first-time-in-a-long-time participation in a church folk choir, where I've struggled, at times, with the need to play well with others, rather than just doing my own thing.
"Learn and grow," she reminded me as I grumbled about a piece of music I felt we were performing at too slow a pace. "Learn and grow."
She learned a lesson in patience and humility when she whipped up the batter for some bread she planned to share with her knitting class buddies, only to discover that the special pan she dragged out from Illinois because it holds a dozen mini-loaves was much too big for the tiny oven at our beach house, which is more akin, size-wise, to the Kenner Easy-Bake Oven she played with as a girl. I attempted to save the day with a mindless set of suggestions involving our outdoor gas grill and approximately 150 yards of aluminum foil. The results, no kidding, were less than stellar--undone on top and coal-burnt black on the bottoms.
"Learn and grow," she repeated in a surprisingly perky and philosophic manner. "This would have made a good episode on my reality cooking show."
But it was the little boys who surprised us with their capacity for learning and growing in the midst of the busy season. Six-year-old Cyrus, who, I swear, never seems to really hear me unless I'm mentioning ice cream, checkers, basketball or bouncy-houses, showed he was listening when his dad--quite by chance--tuned in some Christmas music on the car radio a couple of days before Thanksgiving was even over. Paddy suggested they join in on a chorus of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," when Cyrus startled him with his reply.
"Grandpa says it's too early for Christmas music," he said.
Paddy laughed and said that I probably wouldn't mind.
"No," said Cyrus. "We'd better wait for Christmas."
Even four-year-old John got into the act when, after a long discussion on elves, toys, sleighs and reindeers, he fielded a question with exactly the right answer.
Me: So who's coming on Christmas?
He: Jesus.
And so, we do our best to appreciate a season of both reflection and anticipation.
We try to remember to look deep into our own hearts. To listen. To wait. To wonder.
To learn and to grow.
To rejoice.
It's an interesting time of the year.
A time when the world seems to kind of collectively catch its breath and wait for something else to happen.
Elections are over, harvests are in, and even the school year is well on its way to being half over already. Even with the crazy-warm weather that's bounced its way across parts of the U.S. recently, it is still, from time to time, beginning to look and feel like it should at this time of the year, with bare trees, cold nights and little-boy dreams of snowstorms just in time for Christmas.
But there's something else going on, as well. Something even more important than Black Friday and Cyber Monday and the unending rush to shop and buy.
It is the season of Advent, a four-week period of preparation and anticipation that is filled with rich traditions of its own. For many, those four weeks pass by virtually unnoticed, shoved aside by the hyper-commercial December days leading up to Christmas. But the time of Advent can offer us an opportunity for thinking, hoping, watching, waiting, wondering and praying about the real reason for the season. It is a time to learn and grow, as Father Ernie Ruede, our local parish priest noted in his first Advent homily this year.
Because really, it's not Christmastime yet.
Sometimes, though, that's a tough one to remember.
First off, it is, most definitely beginning to look a lot like Christmas around here. While Church tradition says that Christmas decor, music and other red, green and white trappings of that glorious season are really supposed to wait until Christmas Eve, we caved in quick to our own desire to share the fun of the upcoming season with our youngest grandsons, who are, after all, the key reasons we decided to stay in North Carolina through December this year. So, we've got a tree already, along with some wreaths and a long garland of lighted evergreen trailing down our outside staircase. Letters to Santa Claus have been written, and both grandsons are well aware of the need to be extra good lest their tiny transgressions reach the ears of Saint Nick. In fact, it occurs to me that the tradition of Advent as a time for prayer, fasting and repentance, followed by anticipation, hope and joy has had some strong influences on the concept of "good for goodness sake" that drives the behavior of many young souls this time of year.
We've tried to blend a bit of Advent wisdom into the season we're sharing with our grandboys, while working on our own behavior, as well. For me, its been my first-time-in-a-long-time participation in a church folk choir, where I've struggled, at times, with the need to play well with others, rather than just doing my own thing.
"Learn and grow," she reminded me as I grumbled about a piece of music I felt we were performing at too slow a pace. "Learn and grow."
She learned a lesson in patience and humility when she whipped up the batter for some bread she planned to share with her knitting class buddies, only to discover that the special pan she dragged out from Illinois because it holds a dozen mini-loaves was much too big for the tiny oven at our beach house, which is more akin, size-wise, to the Kenner Easy-Bake Oven she played with as a girl. I attempted to save the day with a mindless set of suggestions involving our outdoor gas grill and approximately 150 yards of aluminum foil. The results, no kidding, were less than stellar--undone on top and coal-burnt black on the bottoms.
"Learn and grow," she repeated in a surprisingly perky and philosophic manner. "This would have made a good episode on my reality cooking show."
But it was the little boys who surprised us with their capacity for learning and growing in the midst of the busy season. Six-year-old Cyrus, who, I swear, never seems to really hear me unless I'm mentioning ice cream, checkers, basketball or bouncy-houses, showed he was listening when his dad--quite by chance--tuned in some Christmas music on the car radio a couple of days before Thanksgiving was even over. Paddy suggested they join in on a chorus of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," when Cyrus startled him with his reply.
"Grandpa says it's too early for Christmas music," he said.
Paddy laughed and said that I probably wouldn't mind.
"No," said Cyrus. "We'd better wait for Christmas."
Even four-year-old John got into the act when, after a long discussion on elves, toys, sleighs and reindeers, he fielded a question with exactly the right answer.
Me: So who's coming on Christmas?
He: Jesus.
And so, we do our best to appreciate a season of both reflection and anticipation.
We try to remember to look deep into our own hearts. To listen. To wait. To wonder.
To learn and to grow.
To rejoice.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
How lovely are thy branches
Back in the good old days, when our kids were young and I had not yet become old enough to know better, a favorite holiday tradition of ours was the yearly hunt for our family Christmas tree.
That sounds harmless enough, I know. But looking back at it, I wonder how close we came to permanently scarring those young lads as we pursued an annual quest that easily managed to make the hunts for Excalibur, Moby Dick and The Holy Grail seem as simple as a visit to the grocery store in search of something as rare as canned peaches.
We would spend hours trudging through the deep, cold, snowy woods, endlessly bickering over life-and-death details like height, fullness, color and species. The boys and I would start the day filled with Christmas spirit and boundless enthusiasm, only to be driven into the kind of chilly exhaustion more often experienced by those hardy folks who climb Mount Everest without oxygen or compete in dog sled races near the Arctic Circle.
She, on the other hand, never gave up until she found the perfect tree. It had to be big--massive, in fact--in order to just brush the eleven-and-a-half-foot ceilings in the front room of our big old house. The color had to be just right, and at least one side needed to be without bare spots, holes and other obvious flaws. Once it was finally chosen, I would be dispatched underneath the tree where, saw in hand, I would wriggle through the snowy slush and do my best to cut it down without incident.
That's where things always got tough.
Biology, botany, ecology, dendrology and a whole host of other sciences I know nothing about all dictate that a big tree requires a big trunk to keep entire forests from toppling over at the first light breeze.
(sawing sounds)
She: How's it going under there?
(more sawing sounds)
Me: I can't feel my fingers.
Once it was finally felled, it was then my job to drag the prickly leviathan out of the forest, pay for it, precariously lash it to the top of the car or jam it into the cargo space of our much-maligned baby-blue mini-van, and head for home. Mom and the boys would sing carols and chat excitedly about how good the tree was going to look.
I, on the other hand, would already be pondering the words that have haunted dads ever since Joseph dragged a palm tree into the manger.
"How am I ever going to fit this big sucker into a stand?"
You see, that's the ultimate question for those of us who are married or otherwise attached to ardent big-tree fans. And even if you managed to jam a huge, peculiarly shaped trunk into a poorly engineered, way-too-flimsy, four-legged contraption, what absolute miracle of physics would enable an oversized evergreen to actually stand upright without resorting to a sensible, but forbidden, solution like leaning it against a wall or wiring it to a doorknob? Every year, I would anxiously wander the aisles of hardware stores and Christmas shops, desperately seeking the monolithic, extra-heavy-duty stand I dreamed of. At holiday gatherings, when wives and girlfriends would ooh and aah over each other's tree-decorating skills, guys in the know would look low and close, and ask the essential question:
"Where'd you get that stand?"
As expected, once we got our tree home, I would discover, right off, that the base of the thing was about twice as big as it needed to be to fit into my latest red-and-green support system.
Vroom-vroom.
Warming to the task, I would fire up my trusty chainsaw and start whittling away at the poor pine as it rested on our front porch. Caught up in an extreme level of noise and sap-lust, I'd soon forget I had an audience until I'd look up and see my wife and our sons looking through the window at me and the object of my Christmastime fury, shocked, wide-eyed and worried as if they'd unexpectedly come home early from school and caught me dismembering the neighbors' cat in my basement workshop.
Vroom-vroom.
Eventually, I'd get the darn thing into the stand, whereupon phase two would begin. Guys in the know already know the drill:
She: Move it to the right.
No, MY right.
Now back.
No, not that far.
You're tipping it!
Don't tip it!
Now back.
Now forward.
Does that look straight?
Me: How would I know? I'm lying under the tree.
Our sons finally aged out of the tree-getting process, and when our last live-cut tree dropped all its needles in the week before Christmas, we became confirmed fake-tree fanciers.
At least for a while.
We're spending Christmas in North Carolina this year, and she decided maybe we should let our youngest grandsons share in that old tradition. It was small-business Saturday when we all went to the Justice Tree Farm, a multi-generational, family-owned-and-operated place that is a fine example of the very best things about small businesses. The Justice family has, I discovered, upgraded things quite a bit since the last time I visited a cut-your-own place and was sent staggering into the deep, dark woods to fend for myself.
First off, you don't have to. Cut your own, that is.
While I was welcome to borrow one of their hand saws once we had made our selection, they indicated they'd be happy to cut it for me.
"I think grandpa should cut it down," said grandma, thinking, I guess, that seeing the old man crawling through the brush like a wounded gopher would somehow enhance the holiday experience for the little guys. My rescue came in the form of a winding little train-like contraption, pulled behind a small tractor, with just enough room left in the trailing cars for grandma and her two little elves.
"All aboard the Christmas tree express," cried the driver merrily.
"Yeah, whatever," I muttered. "Quick, where's that kid with the chainsaw?"
Not only did the helpful tree guys cut, bale and securely attach the tree to the roof of our car, but I was happy in the knowledge that the smallish, beach-house-size tree was in no way too big for the sleek, sturdy, modern-day tree stand I had discovered and purchased at a local big-box store the day before.
When we got the tree home to our beach place, I found I was right. The tree was not too big.
Instead, it was too small.
I searched high and low for the shims and other small hunks of wood needed to jam the skinny, crooked trunk of the tree into the massive, too-big stand. Once I did, grandma was ready with her phase two instructions, while two little boys stood poised with armloads of shiny balls and glittering pine cones, plus a precious collection of just-right shells, sand dollars and sea stars.
"Move it to the right. No, MY right. Now back. No, not that far. You're tipping it! Don't tip it! Now back. Now forward."
I looked up at her from where I lay, under the tree.
"Does that look straight?" she asked.
I smiled. She smiled back. We had been there before.
"Close enough," I said.
Close enough for Christmas.
That sounds harmless enough, I know. But looking back at it, I wonder how close we came to permanently scarring those young lads as we pursued an annual quest that easily managed to make the hunts for Excalibur, Moby Dick and The Holy Grail seem as simple as a visit to the grocery store in search of something as rare as canned peaches.
We would spend hours trudging through the deep, cold, snowy woods, endlessly bickering over life-and-death details like height, fullness, color and species. The boys and I would start the day filled with Christmas spirit and boundless enthusiasm, only to be driven into the kind of chilly exhaustion more often experienced by those hardy folks who climb Mount Everest without oxygen or compete in dog sled races near the Arctic Circle.
She, on the other hand, never gave up until she found the perfect tree. It had to be big--massive, in fact--in order to just brush the eleven-and-a-half-foot ceilings in the front room of our big old house. The color had to be just right, and at least one side needed to be without bare spots, holes and other obvious flaws. Once it was finally chosen, I would be dispatched underneath the tree where, saw in hand, I would wriggle through the snowy slush and do my best to cut it down without incident.
That's where things always got tough.
Biology, botany, ecology, dendrology and a whole host of other sciences I know nothing about all dictate that a big tree requires a big trunk to keep entire forests from toppling over at the first light breeze.
(sawing sounds)
She: How's it going under there?
(more sawing sounds)
Me: I can't feel my fingers.
Once it was finally felled, it was then my job to drag the prickly leviathan out of the forest, pay for it, precariously lash it to the top of the car or jam it into the cargo space of our much-maligned baby-blue mini-van, and head for home. Mom and the boys would sing carols and chat excitedly about how good the tree was going to look.
I, on the other hand, would already be pondering the words that have haunted dads ever since Joseph dragged a palm tree into the manger.
"How am I ever going to fit this big sucker into a stand?"
You see, that's the ultimate question for those of us who are married or otherwise attached to ardent big-tree fans. And even if you managed to jam a huge, peculiarly shaped trunk into a poorly engineered, way-too-flimsy, four-legged contraption, what absolute miracle of physics would enable an oversized evergreen to actually stand upright without resorting to a sensible, but forbidden, solution like leaning it against a wall or wiring it to a doorknob? Every year, I would anxiously wander the aisles of hardware stores and Christmas shops, desperately seeking the monolithic, extra-heavy-duty stand I dreamed of. At holiday gatherings, when wives and girlfriends would ooh and aah over each other's tree-decorating skills, guys in the know would look low and close, and ask the essential question:
"Where'd you get that stand?"
As expected, once we got our tree home, I would discover, right off, that the base of the thing was about twice as big as it needed to be to fit into my latest red-and-green support system.
Vroom-vroom.
Warming to the task, I would fire up my trusty chainsaw and start whittling away at the poor pine as it rested on our front porch. Caught up in an extreme level of noise and sap-lust, I'd soon forget I had an audience until I'd look up and see my wife and our sons looking through the window at me and the object of my Christmastime fury, shocked, wide-eyed and worried as if they'd unexpectedly come home early from school and caught me dismembering the neighbors' cat in my basement workshop.
Vroom-vroom.
Eventually, I'd get the darn thing into the stand, whereupon phase two would begin. Guys in the know already know the drill:
She: Move it to the right.
No, MY right.
Now back.
No, not that far.
You're tipping it!
Don't tip it!
Now back.
Now forward.
Does that look straight?
Me: How would I know? I'm lying under the tree.
Our sons finally aged out of the tree-getting process, and when our last live-cut tree dropped all its needles in the week before Christmas, we became confirmed fake-tree fanciers.
At least for a while.
We're spending Christmas in North Carolina this year, and she decided maybe we should let our youngest grandsons share in that old tradition. It was small-business Saturday when we all went to the Justice Tree Farm, a multi-generational, family-owned-and-operated place that is a fine example of the very best things about small businesses. The Justice family has, I discovered, upgraded things quite a bit since the last time I visited a cut-your-own place and was sent staggering into the deep, dark woods to fend for myself.
First off, you don't have to. Cut your own, that is.
While I was welcome to borrow one of their hand saws once we had made our selection, they indicated they'd be happy to cut it for me.
"I think grandpa should cut it down," said grandma, thinking, I guess, that seeing the old man crawling through the brush like a wounded gopher would somehow enhance the holiday experience for the little guys. My rescue came in the form of a winding little train-like contraption, pulled behind a small tractor, with just enough room left in the trailing cars for grandma and her two little elves.
"All aboard the Christmas tree express," cried the driver merrily.
"Yeah, whatever," I muttered. "Quick, where's that kid with the chainsaw?"
Not only did the helpful tree guys cut, bale and securely attach the tree to the roof of our car, but I was happy in the knowledge that the smallish, beach-house-size tree was in no way too big for the sleek, sturdy, modern-day tree stand I had discovered and purchased at a local big-box store the day before.
When we got the tree home to our beach place, I found I was right. The tree was not too big.
Instead, it was too small.
I searched high and low for the shims and other small hunks of wood needed to jam the skinny, crooked trunk of the tree into the massive, too-big stand. Once I did, grandma was ready with her phase two instructions, while two little boys stood poised with armloads of shiny balls and glittering pine cones, plus a precious collection of just-right shells, sand dollars and sea stars.
"Move it to the right. No, MY right. Now back. No, not that far. You're tipping it! Don't tip it! Now back. Now forward."
I looked up at her from where I lay, under the tree.
"Does that look straight?" she asked.
I smiled. She smiled back. We had been there before.
"Close enough," I said.
Close enough for Christmas.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Something else to be thankful for
As I've mentioned about a zillion times before, television is not a major part of our existence when we're residing on a narrow island off the North Carolina coast. While there is a tiny, 13-inch model down in the bedroom occupied by my wife's bachelor brother when he visits, we generally forego watching it ourselves, preferring the glorious sights provided by the Atlantic Ocean just across the winding, two-lane blacktop that fronts our place, or the equally interesting views in and around the intracoastal waterway that borders our backyard.
But since we arrived back here a few days ago, a nor'easter just up the coast has kept skies steely gray, while buffeting us with chilly, gusty winds and cold rain. We've read, cooked, cleaned and restlessly walked from window to window, hoping for a break in the relentless weather.
Finally, we decided we'd try watching a little TV.
Cheapskate that I am, I've steadfastly refused to install cable or a satellite dish, so the options are fairly limited. On a good day, the rabbit ears we hooked up can be turned and twisted--just like in the good old days--to pick up a meager handful of semi-local stations, though the only one that seems to come in on a dependable basis is the feed from UNC-TV, the university sponsored public television system that operates all but one of the PBS stations in the state.
Not all bad, since we tend to like a lot of the programming they offer, though I do wish they'd consider carrying Chicago Bears games (when they win) and the NCIS re-runs I watch incessantly when I'm at home in Illinois.
We just happened to be downstairs trying to catch a strong signal the other night when we stumbled upon a two-part documentary that caught our attention.
It was called, "The Dust Bowl."
It's by Ken Burns, who also produced historic epics like "The Civil War," "Baseball," "Jazz," "The War," "The National Parks: America's Best Idea," and "Prohibition."
"The Dust Bowl" tells the story of the environmental catastrophe that, throughout the 1930s, destroyed the farmlands of the Great Plains, turned prairies into deserts, and unleashed a pattern of massive, deadly dust storms that--to many--seemed to announce the end of the world. It was, in fact, the worst manmade ecological disaster in American history, happening, as fate would have it, in the midst of another now-famous people-problem, the Great Depression.
But here's the thing:
Hardly anyone remembers it.
In a day and age when Hurricane Katrina, The Deepwater Horizon oil spill and SuperStorm Sandy fill nearly everyone's consciousness, we have all but forgotten an agonizing, drawn-out, cataclysmic event that left over half a million Americans homeless, with over 2.5 million residents of the southwestern plains states eventually leaving for homes and work in other parts of the country. Some statistics indicate that over 7,000 people died during the dust bowl, quite a few from "dust pneumonia" caused by the overwhelming, pervasive dust storms that raged through the region, while malnutrition was a factor in other deaths.
Economic depression coupled with extended drought, extremely high temperatures, poor agricultural practices and the resulting wind erosion all contributed to making the Dust Bowl. With wheat prices falling due to poor economic conditions, farmers planted even more in an effort to survive. They covered the prairie with wheat in place of the natural drought-resistant grasses and left any unused fields bare.
Then it got hot. It got dry. It got windy.
The resulting dust storms--called "black blizzards"--killed what remained of the crop and made the land nearly uninhabitable. Eventually, the government enacted aid programs to help, with President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his New Deal providing jobs and other kinds of aid, plus helping farmers learn better ways of growing crops while protecting the soil.
And then, in 1939, God got involved, too.
It rained.
There's no doubt that the story of The Dust Bowl should make us think about our response to troubling economic conditions, our effect on the natural world around us, and our responsibility to it, as well as the place of government in regulating what we do. Most of us worry--a lot--about the economy, and the disasters--manmade and otherwise--that sometimes strike. In addition, we often disagree as to whether our government is the right choice to help us through it all. But the value of history is that it teaches us, and, hopefully, helps us remember important lessons from our shared past.
So remember.
It could be worse. It has been worse.
I, for one, am most thankful that it's not.
But since we arrived back here a few days ago, a nor'easter just up the coast has kept skies steely gray, while buffeting us with chilly, gusty winds and cold rain. We've read, cooked, cleaned and restlessly walked from window to window, hoping for a break in the relentless weather.
Finally, we decided we'd try watching a little TV.
Cheapskate that I am, I've steadfastly refused to install cable or a satellite dish, so the options are fairly limited. On a good day, the rabbit ears we hooked up can be turned and twisted--just like in the good old days--to pick up a meager handful of semi-local stations, though the only one that seems to come in on a dependable basis is the feed from UNC-TV, the university sponsored public television system that operates all but one of the PBS stations in the state.
Not all bad, since we tend to like a lot of the programming they offer, though I do wish they'd consider carrying Chicago Bears games (when they win) and the NCIS re-runs I watch incessantly when I'm at home in Illinois.
We just happened to be downstairs trying to catch a strong signal the other night when we stumbled upon a two-part documentary that caught our attention.
It was called, "The Dust Bowl."
It's by Ken Burns, who also produced historic epics like "The Civil War," "Baseball," "Jazz," "The War," "The National Parks: America's Best Idea," and "Prohibition."
"The Dust Bowl" tells the story of the environmental catastrophe that, throughout the 1930s, destroyed the farmlands of the Great Plains, turned prairies into deserts, and unleashed a pattern of massive, deadly dust storms that--to many--seemed to announce the end of the world. It was, in fact, the worst manmade ecological disaster in American history, happening, as fate would have it, in the midst of another now-famous people-problem, the Great Depression.
But here's the thing:
Hardly anyone remembers it.
In a day and age when Hurricane Katrina, The Deepwater Horizon oil spill and SuperStorm Sandy fill nearly everyone's consciousness, we have all but forgotten an agonizing, drawn-out, cataclysmic event that left over half a million Americans homeless, with over 2.5 million residents of the southwestern plains states eventually leaving for homes and work in other parts of the country. Some statistics indicate that over 7,000 people died during the dust bowl, quite a few from "dust pneumonia" caused by the overwhelming, pervasive dust storms that raged through the region, while malnutrition was a factor in other deaths.
Economic depression coupled with extended drought, extremely high temperatures, poor agricultural practices and the resulting wind erosion all contributed to making the Dust Bowl. With wheat prices falling due to poor economic conditions, farmers planted even more in an effort to survive. They covered the prairie with wheat in place of the natural drought-resistant grasses and left any unused fields bare.
Then it got hot. It got dry. It got windy.
The resulting dust storms--called "black blizzards"--killed what remained of the crop and made the land nearly uninhabitable. Eventually, the government enacted aid programs to help, with President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his New Deal providing jobs and other kinds of aid, plus helping farmers learn better ways of growing crops while protecting the soil.
And then, in 1939, God got involved, too.
It rained.
There's no doubt that the story of The Dust Bowl should make us think about our response to troubling economic conditions, our effect on the natural world around us, and our responsibility to it, as well as the place of government in regulating what we do. Most of us worry--a lot--about the economy, and the disasters--manmade and otherwise--that sometimes strike. In addition, we often disagree as to whether our government is the right choice to help us through it all. But the value of history is that it teaches us, and, hopefully, helps us remember important lessons from our shared past.
So remember.
It could be worse. It has been worse.
I, for one, am most thankful that it's not.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Farewell, old friend
It was a tough decision.
I knew she felt kind of sorry about it, because I overheard her talking to a friend on the phone one day.
"You hate to say goodbye to a part of your family," she said. "But with the mess and everything, it's just time to pull the plug."
Yep, she felt bad.
I did, too. But mostly I was just glad she wasn't talking about me.
What she was referring to was the giant 60-foot evergreen tree that has grown near our big old house for as long as I can remember. It was a behemoth when we moved in nearly 25 years ago, and has grown and grown and grown ever since.
It was one of the first things I liked about the house when we first looked at it.
"Look, the place even comes with a Christmas tree," I said.
Of course, this house means a lot more to me than high ceilings, square footage and a big tree in the front yard. It is, in fact, the house where my mother grew up. it became a part of my family’s history when my immigrant grandfather came to town in 1909, looking for a chance to open his own business and start a new life for his growing family. He rented a room in this house, then eventually bought the place and set about turning it into a home. It was originally built in the 1860s by Peter Larson, whose wife was the daughter of Olof Johnson, the Bishop Hill trustee who named Galva. When gramps bought it, he thought it it was already in need of a facelift and some improvements, so he added a garage topped with an upstairs addition, expanded the kitchen, and changed the appearance of the front from Victorian to something a little more modern-looking for the time, with a wrap-around porch, columns and a gently sloping overhanging roof.
My mother and her two brothers grew up in the house as part of an extended family that included her parents and various aunts and uncles. My grandfather’s business thrived, the family became a solid, well-liked part of the community, and life was good.
The stock market crash of 1929 created a ripple effect that had severe consequences throughout the county, even in small towns like Galva. Chief among them was a lack of what would now be called "cash flow." Very quickly, my grandfather's successful business was deeply in debt. My mother would later tell me that he was unable to bring himself to press the neighbors and friends who owed him money, as he knew they were unable to pay him. The end result was that his business failed and my grandparents were eventually forced to leave their home and adopted hometown.
For over fifty years, the house was occupied by other families until, in the mid-80’s, it went on the market just about the time we were looking for a larger, better-located home for our young family. I thought, at first, that it might remind me too much of what became a sad chapter in my family’s life. But, we chose to make it our own, thinking, correctly, that it could also become a symbol for the wonderful way life sometimes works out. It was a great place to raise our two sons, and a place our grandchildren always seem glad to visit.
But then there was the tree.
Members of the pine and spruce families grow pretty quickly, so it was probably planted after mom's family left the place. But as long as I can remember, it's been a part of the look of the property when seen from the street that divides our yard from beautiful Wiley Park. We cut and gather fronds and branches at Christmastime and used it as a landmark when we gave directions to where we lived.
"It's the big tan house with the white columns and the giant tree in front."
Problem was, it grew too much.
From what was probably just a pretty little tree that served to add some interest to the northwest corner of the house, it grew both up and out until its middle branches overhung the porch roof and the entire thing loomed over our home, leaving us to wonder and worry about what would happen it it ever fell. It kept our lawn, roof and gutters clogged with needles, while serving no real useful purpose other than as a veritable interstate highway for the neighborhood squirrels.
Finally, we decided it had to go.
It was, of course, way too much of a job for me, but It was a pretty slick project for Galva's Ron Modesto, "the tree guy," who spent the morning and part of the afternoon trimming off all its branches before efficiently sectioning off and felling a towering trunk that finally measured over thirty inches across at its base...a pretty big Christmas tree, indeed.
I confess, I had some mixed feelings while he did his work, wondering if maybe we had been too hasty in deciding to cut the tree down. I know neither of my sons were entirely happy when they heard the news, remembering the tree as an often-interesting element in their front yard ballgames and an everpresent part of the home they grew up in.
But mostly, I wondered if I was going to miss it.
It has, after all, always been there. For as long as we've lived in this house, that tree was there to greet me, whether I was coming home after a long day and drive back when I commuted to Peoria, or now, when we arrive at the place we love after time spent traveling and visiting friends, family, kids and grandkids.
Yes, I think I will miss the sight of that big tree. But I know I'll get over it.
After all, we're still here.
And so are the memories.
I knew she felt kind of sorry about it, because I overheard her talking to a friend on the phone one day.
"You hate to say goodbye to a part of your family," she said. "But with the mess and everything, it's just time to pull the plug."
Yep, she felt bad.
I did, too. But mostly I was just glad she wasn't talking about me.
What she was referring to was the giant 60-foot evergreen tree that has grown near our big old house for as long as I can remember. It was a behemoth when we moved in nearly 25 years ago, and has grown and grown and grown ever since.
It was one of the first things I liked about the house when we first looked at it.
"Look, the place even comes with a Christmas tree," I said.
Of course, this house means a lot more to me than high ceilings, square footage and a big tree in the front yard. It is, in fact, the house where my mother grew up. it became a part of my family’s history when my immigrant grandfather came to town in 1909, looking for a chance to open his own business and start a new life for his growing family. He rented a room in this house, then eventually bought the place and set about turning it into a home. It was originally built in the 1860s by Peter Larson, whose wife was the daughter of Olof Johnson, the Bishop Hill trustee who named Galva. When gramps bought it, he thought it it was already in need of a facelift and some improvements, so he added a garage topped with an upstairs addition, expanded the kitchen, and changed the appearance of the front from Victorian to something a little more modern-looking for the time, with a wrap-around porch, columns and a gently sloping overhanging roof.
My mother and her two brothers grew up in the house as part of an extended family that included her parents and various aunts and uncles. My grandfather’s business thrived, the family became a solid, well-liked part of the community, and life was good.
The stock market crash of 1929 created a ripple effect that had severe consequences throughout the county, even in small towns like Galva. Chief among them was a lack of what would now be called "cash flow." Very quickly, my grandfather's successful business was deeply in debt. My mother would later tell me that he was unable to bring himself to press the neighbors and friends who owed him money, as he knew they were unable to pay him. The end result was that his business failed and my grandparents were eventually forced to leave their home and adopted hometown.
For over fifty years, the house was occupied by other families until, in the mid-80’s, it went on the market just about the time we were looking for a larger, better-located home for our young family. I thought, at first, that it might remind me too much of what became a sad chapter in my family’s life. But, we chose to make it our own, thinking, correctly, that it could also become a symbol for the wonderful way life sometimes works out. It was a great place to raise our two sons, and a place our grandchildren always seem glad to visit.
But then there was the tree.
Members of the pine and spruce families grow pretty quickly, so it was probably planted after mom's family left the place. But as long as I can remember, it's been a part of the look of the property when seen from the street that divides our yard from beautiful Wiley Park. We cut and gather fronds and branches at Christmastime and used it as a landmark when we gave directions to where we lived.
"It's the big tan house with the white columns and the giant tree in front."
Problem was, it grew too much.
From what was probably just a pretty little tree that served to add some interest to the northwest corner of the house, it grew both up and out until its middle branches overhung the porch roof and the entire thing loomed over our home, leaving us to wonder and worry about what would happen it it ever fell. It kept our lawn, roof and gutters clogged with needles, while serving no real useful purpose other than as a veritable interstate highway for the neighborhood squirrels.
Finally, we decided it had to go.
It was, of course, way too much of a job for me, but It was a pretty slick project for Galva's Ron Modesto, "the tree guy," who spent the morning and part of the afternoon trimming off all its branches before efficiently sectioning off and felling a towering trunk that finally measured over thirty inches across at its base...a pretty big Christmas tree, indeed.
I confess, I had some mixed feelings while he did his work, wondering if maybe we had been too hasty in deciding to cut the tree down. I know neither of my sons were entirely happy when they heard the news, remembering the tree as an often-interesting element in their front yard ballgames and an everpresent part of the home they grew up in.
But mostly, I wondered if I was going to miss it.
It has, after all, always been there. For as long as we've lived in this house, that tree was there to greet me, whether I was coming home after a long day and drive back when I commuted to Peoria, or now, when we arrive at the place we love after time spent traveling and visiting friends, family, kids and grandkids.
Yes, I think I will miss the sight of that big tree. But I know I'll get over it.
After all, we're still here.
And so are the memories.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
The six billion dollar man
Good morning, America.
By now, we've elected a president.
At least, I hope so.
I'm writing this on Tuesday morning--election day--with the radio news recounting complicated voting processes in the blacked-out Northeast and all-too-familar irregularities reported elsewhere. But I'm hoping we got it done. I'm hoping we got it done right.
I'm glad it's over.
It's been a remarkably unpleasant election cycle, with an unceasing barrage of criticism, allegations, innuendo and outright nonsense. It seems a shame that in a time and place when advanced communications can allow us to share information, ideas, hopes and beliefs, we, instead, choose to use those wondrous capabilities to spread negative thoughts, ill-founded slander and intentional disinformation. The result? Instead of being better informed, we are often more thoroughly confused, and generally less convinced either way.
That's a shame.
But, to me, the bigger shame is the way all that stuff is delivered and the cost of that delivery.
I'm talking about election reform.
Mostly, I'm talking about the money.
I find certain aspects of our election process, like the outmoded electoral college, the continuing threat of vote fraud, and the inexplicable ongoing struggle for universal voting rights outrageous, repugnant and downright demeaning to each and every citizen. But it is the amount of money that's been spent by each party and many candidates that truly amazes and frustrates me this year.
In an election year where the economy is a key issue for many, how can anyone possibly rally around a system that saw our two major-party candidates spend more than six billion dollars on their campaigns?
Six billion dollars.
That's $6,000,000,000, folks.
Nine zeros.
Wow.
What for?
Across the country, Americans suffered through more than one million presidential TV spots, most of them negative, and many of them intentionally untrue and/or misleading. Even some of our local candidates got into the big-money action, with a reported 9.2 million dollars spent on the 17th congressional district race between Bobby Schilling and Cheri Bustos.
Here's what I think:
We're intelligent enough to figure things out on our own.
I continue to believe we're good and smart enough to make our decisions without being subjected to billions of dollars worth of bunk from people who often seem more interested in bullying us or frightening us into voting their way rather than simply telling the truth about who they are and what they believe in. I think it's time for a new era of civility and frank discussion. I think there's got to be a better way to find out what our candidates and their parties truly believe in, instead of only hearing--over and over again--about what, and who, they're against.
But instead, the growing trend in this record-setting year has been to relentlessly try to pound us into some kind of submission via the airwaves, the internet and every other possible communications venue.
Six billion dollars. Can you imagine the good, valuable, important things that kind of money could be spent on?
According to data from the Federal Election Commission, that translates to over $30 spent every second during the election cycle by the Romney and Obama campaigns.
I think they oughta know better.
We should, too.
By now, we've elected a president.
At least, I hope so.
I'm writing this on Tuesday morning--election day--with the radio news recounting complicated voting processes in the blacked-out Northeast and all-too-familar irregularities reported elsewhere. But I'm hoping we got it done. I'm hoping we got it done right.
I'm glad it's over.
It's been a remarkably unpleasant election cycle, with an unceasing barrage of criticism, allegations, innuendo and outright nonsense. It seems a shame that in a time and place when advanced communications can allow us to share information, ideas, hopes and beliefs, we, instead, choose to use those wondrous capabilities to spread negative thoughts, ill-founded slander and intentional disinformation. The result? Instead of being better informed, we are often more thoroughly confused, and generally less convinced either way.
That's a shame.
But, to me, the bigger shame is the way all that stuff is delivered and the cost of that delivery.
I'm talking about election reform.
Mostly, I'm talking about the money.
I find certain aspects of our election process, like the outmoded electoral college, the continuing threat of vote fraud, and the inexplicable ongoing struggle for universal voting rights outrageous, repugnant and downright demeaning to each and every citizen. But it is the amount of money that's been spent by each party and many candidates that truly amazes and frustrates me this year.
In an election year where the economy is a key issue for many, how can anyone possibly rally around a system that saw our two major-party candidates spend more than six billion dollars on their campaigns?
Six billion dollars.
That's $6,000,000,000, folks.
Nine zeros.
Wow.
What for?
Across the country, Americans suffered through more than one million presidential TV spots, most of them negative, and many of them intentionally untrue and/or misleading. Even some of our local candidates got into the big-money action, with a reported 9.2 million dollars spent on the 17th congressional district race between Bobby Schilling and Cheri Bustos.
Here's what I think:
We're intelligent enough to figure things out on our own.
I continue to believe we're good and smart enough to make our decisions without being subjected to billions of dollars worth of bunk from people who often seem more interested in bullying us or frightening us into voting their way rather than simply telling the truth about who they are and what they believe in. I think it's time for a new era of civility and frank discussion. I think there's got to be a better way to find out what our candidates and their parties truly believe in, instead of only hearing--over and over again--about what, and who, they're against.
But instead, the growing trend in this record-setting year has been to relentlessly try to pound us into some kind of submission via the airwaves, the internet and every other possible communications venue.
Six billion dollars. Can you imagine the good, valuable, important things that kind of money could be spent on?
According to data from the Federal Election Commission, that translates to over $30 spent every second during the election cycle by the Romney and Obama campaigns.
I think they oughta know better.
We should, too.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
You don't know what I know
Actually, I don't know much.
Or, at least, the things I do know are things most everybody else knows, too. This lamentable fact has been made clear to me over the years by a whole host of friends and acquaintances, co-workers, my kids and, from time to time, even my beloved spouse. Even my youngest grandsons have started to catch on, occasionally responding to some of my more outlandish utterances with puzzled, doubting looks that seem to say,
"Gee, grandpa, really?"
But I'm learning.
It all started when I saw a Facebook post awhile back that referred to someone as a "bboy."
Bboy?
After deciding it wasn't just an accidental bit of miss-typing, I did an internet search that reveled that bboy is urban slang for someone who knows how to break dance.
Wow. Who knew? Not me, that's for sure.
But it made me wonder just how much other valuable information there was waiting for me via the wonderful world of cyberspace.
So I looked.
Right off, I discovered a veritable treasure trove of all-important instructions and facts that will, I think, make my life richer and more productive in the years to come. Like how to trick people into thinking I'm sexy, how to open a coconut, and how to feed a snake frozen food.
But there's more. The World Wide Web also offers instructions on how to remove a tick, how to make a giraffe out of plastic bags, and how to survive a party where you don’t know anyone (Step 3: find the bathroom.)
It was an enormous relief to discover there was a way to wiggle my small toe separately from the rest of my toes and how to communicate with my cat (Hi, Max.)
And thanks to the information superhighway, I now know how remove the steering wheel from a tractor, how to make LEGO blocks out of vegetables, how to improve my sense of smell, and how to begin a happy career as a people watcher. Moreover, I now have the knowledge I need to start my own country (I'm thinking about it), make people think I'm immortal (not immoral), manage hay fever as a Buddhist (?), and meet new people without being creepy (at last!).
Great stuff, huh? And along with the above-mentioned "how to's," I discovered a rich world of just-plain facts that had somehow eluded me until now.
For instance, I learned there are 18 different animal shapes in the Animal Crackers cookie zoo, and that slugs have four noses.
Did you realize that the Mona Lisa has no eyebrows?
And did you know that over 2,500 left-handed people a year are killed from using products made for right-handers, or that the longest recorded flight of a chicken is 13 seconds? My online search also informed me that feet have 500,000 sweat glands and can produce more than a pint of sweat a day, that the first toilet ever seen on television was on “Leave It to Beaver,” and that the dot over the letter “i” is called a tittle.
A tittle?
Some of my new-found know-how includes interesting details on certain laws that are, apparently, still on the books in different parts of the country, information which should prove invaluable to an ardent traveler like me.
For instance, it's illegal to drink beer out of a bucket while you're sitting on a curb in St. Louis, and it is forbidden to imitate an animal in Miami. Alaska law says that you can't look at a moose from an airplane, while in my adopted part-time state of North Carolina, it is illegal for a rabbit to race down the street. As a confirmed road warrior, I was glad to learn that birds have the right of way on public highways in Utah, and Illinois drivers are required to use the steering wheel while piloting a car Additionally, it is against the law to drive a car while sleeping in Tennessee, and New York forbids blind people to drive at all. My spouse will be interested to learn that California law prohibits a woman from driving a car in a housecoat, while In Memphis, Tennessee, a woman is not to drive a car unless a man warns approaching motorists or pedestrians by walking in front of the car that is being driven.
Sorry, honey. Please don't run me over.
But there was one law I discovered that seems entirely applicable in these final days of the divisive 2012 general election season we've all endured:
In Virginia, the Code of 1930 has a statute which prohibits corrupt practices or bribery by any person other than political candidates.
Ah-hah.
------------------
It's Tuesday morning as I write this column, with news about the hybrid superstorm called Sandy still ongoing. It is barely enough to say that those affected by this massive natural disaster deserve our thoughts, our assistance and our prayers.
That's a fact.
Or, at least, the things I do know are things most everybody else knows, too. This lamentable fact has been made clear to me over the years by a whole host of friends and acquaintances, co-workers, my kids and, from time to time, even my beloved spouse. Even my youngest grandsons have started to catch on, occasionally responding to some of my more outlandish utterances with puzzled, doubting looks that seem to say,
"Gee, grandpa, really?"
But I'm learning.
It all started when I saw a Facebook post awhile back that referred to someone as a "bboy."
Bboy?
After deciding it wasn't just an accidental bit of miss-typing, I did an internet search that reveled that bboy is urban slang for someone who knows how to break dance.
Wow. Who knew? Not me, that's for sure.
But it made me wonder just how much other valuable information there was waiting for me via the wonderful world of cyberspace.
So I looked.
Right off, I discovered a veritable treasure trove of all-important instructions and facts that will, I think, make my life richer and more productive in the years to come. Like how to trick people into thinking I'm sexy, how to open a coconut, and how to feed a snake frozen food.
But there's more. The World Wide Web also offers instructions on how to remove a tick, how to make a giraffe out of plastic bags, and how to survive a party where you don’t know anyone (Step 3: find the bathroom.)
It was an enormous relief to discover there was a way to wiggle my small toe separately from the rest of my toes and how to communicate with my cat (Hi, Max.)
And thanks to the information superhighway, I now know how remove the steering wheel from a tractor, how to make LEGO blocks out of vegetables, how to improve my sense of smell, and how to begin a happy career as a people watcher. Moreover, I now have the knowledge I need to start my own country (I'm thinking about it), make people think I'm immortal (not immoral), manage hay fever as a Buddhist (?), and meet new people without being creepy (at last!).
Great stuff, huh? And along with the above-mentioned "how to's," I discovered a rich world of just-plain facts that had somehow eluded me until now.
For instance, I learned there are 18 different animal shapes in the Animal Crackers cookie zoo, and that slugs have four noses.
Did you realize that the Mona Lisa has no eyebrows?
And did you know that over 2,500 left-handed people a year are killed from using products made for right-handers, or that the longest recorded flight of a chicken is 13 seconds? My online search also informed me that feet have 500,000 sweat glands and can produce more than a pint of sweat a day, that the first toilet ever seen on television was on “Leave It to Beaver,” and that the dot over the letter “i” is called a tittle.
A tittle?
Some of my new-found know-how includes interesting details on certain laws that are, apparently, still on the books in different parts of the country, information which should prove invaluable to an ardent traveler like me.
For instance, it's illegal to drink beer out of a bucket while you're sitting on a curb in St. Louis, and it is forbidden to imitate an animal in Miami. Alaska law says that you can't look at a moose from an airplane, while in my adopted part-time state of North Carolina, it is illegal for a rabbit to race down the street. As a confirmed road warrior, I was glad to learn that birds have the right of way on public highways in Utah, and Illinois drivers are required to use the steering wheel while piloting a car Additionally, it is against the law to drive a car while sleeping in Tennessee, and New York forbids blind people to drive at all. My spouse will be interested to learn that California law prohibits a woman from driving a car in a housecoat, while In Memphis, Tennessee, a woman is not to drive a car unless a man warns approaching motorists or pedestrians by walking in front of the car that is being driven.
Sorry, honey. Please don't run me over.
But there was one law I discovered that seems entirely applicable in these final days of the divisive 2012 general election season we've all endured:
In Virginia, the Code of 1930 has a statute which prohibits corrupt practices or bribery by any person other than political candidates.
Ah-hah.
------------------
It's Tuesday morning as I write this column, with news about the hybrid superstorm called Sandy still ongoing. It is barely enough to say that those affected by this massive natural disaster deserve our thoughts, our assistance and our prayers.
That's a fact.
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