These are four attributes many claim to have, but, if all were revealed, may not be the case. It is easy to give “lip service” to these and, unless someone sees what you do when no one is looking, many may believe what you say and take you at face value. Action—action gives evidence when words die away. Do we claim honesty, but bend a little on taxes? Do we claim integrity, but work diligently only when the boss is looking? Do we do only what is asked and see no reason to go an extra step because there is nothing in it for us personally? Do we claim generosity and compassion, but turn a blind eye to the plight of others within arm’s reach?
We can say what we want. We can lay claim to all these favorable attributes and toot our own horn, but without actions as proof our words mean nothing—perhaps, if that is the case, our lives means nothing as well. If, by our actions (not our words) others label us with these attributes then it may be we are on the right path.
Do those who truly possess these attributes fall short of the text-book definition of them? Absolutely—we all have good days and bad days. Don’t let a missed opportunity lay waste to your intent. If you miss a chance to display one of these attributes, then try again. The only time we truly fail is when we stop trying.
If we took all of our good deeds and put them on the left side of a scale and put all our bad deeds on the right side of the scale, the scale would not only tip right, but would violently roll off the right side of the table and land on the family pet. Fortunate for us, the Almighty does not grade us by our deeds, but rather sees our heart and from that vantage point, rallied together with a heaping portion of His grace, sees our worth.
Honesty, integrity, generosity and compassion should be what we strive for. Will we always succeed? Most assuredly not, but we should not let a repeated failure defines us or dissuade us from trying as many times as it takes.
Tomorrow (February 27th) I turn 60 years old. I’m told that is a milestone. A milestone tells you where you are in relation to where you want to be or where you have come from. At the age of 20 (just prior to another milestone, which I’m told is age 21) I had already spent 3 years in the military and had no clue what I would do with my life. I never expected, based on how my life was at the time, to reach the next milestone—that being the age of 30.
Obviously I reach the 30 year mark and must say the span of the 30 years between then and now went way too fast. Given the facts I know now I would have to admit I have wasted much of my 60 years on things that were important at the time, but now mean little if anything. It’s a shame we are not born with wisdom.
A few days ago I was at a restaurant and learned our waitress had just turned 18 years old. I complemented her (and envied her) that her adventure was just beginning. Her response was, “yea, that’s what I’ve been told” and her tone led me to believe her attitude toward my comment was dubious at best. I thought of trying to enlighten her with the wisdom I had learned that life as a high school teenager is no comparison to what life will be and what your life will be is based on what you do and how you go about doing it—truly her adventure is just beginning. I decided to keep quiet as I recall as a teenager other super old people telling me the same thing and it did nothing but irritate me—how could they possibly know anything about it. I’m not so sure wisdom can be shared. You can try and share it and perhaps some take root, but I think it depends on the recipient. The vast majority of acquired wisdom comes from experience. What’s that old saying” “Good judgment comes from experience and experience comes from bad judgment” or something like that.
Mistakes, regrets, errors and missed opportunities plague my past. All these infractions are what gives us wisdom—so long as we realize our mistake and learn from them so that the next time the opportunity presents itself you do not add to your list of regrets.
Tomorrow I turn 60. Not sure what that means because it is not like there is a significant change in who I am. However, if, on the day I turn 60 I am able to adequately apply some of the wisdom I have gained over the past 59 years then it will be a good day.
I’ve gained all this wisdom, but too tired to use it.
Not sure I can isolate my first memory of my grandparents. I can say all the memories I have of them bring a warmth to my heart that can only be described as… well, I’m not sure there is a word that can describe it. Any bad memory I have, that is associated with my grandparents, stem from my own actions; certainly not theirs. I am ashamed to admit I lost the opportunity to create memories with them on a regular basis. As I got older (by “older” I refer to the expanse of my teen years) I thought time spent with them was a waste and better spent doing childish things. It did not become clear to me how wrong I was until much later and sadly after they had left this life. There was so very much I could have learned from them had I been mature enough to realize what stood before me.
My Grandparents – Lilly & Dale Butt
As a child my Mother would take us to visit her parents on a regular basis—often times spending the whole weekend with them. Also, during the summer, each of us would stay a week alone with them. During all of those visits I do not remember my grandparents saying anything bad about anyone. My grandmother’s favorite saying (or at least I believe it was her favorite) was, “If you can’t say anything good about someone then don’t say anything at all.” I can remember only one time when my grandmother was angry with me and she had every right to be angry—maybe more on that. Or maybe not as I am still ashamed of what I did.
My grandparents were in constant motion. My grandmother had a small garden in the front yard and if she was not in the kitchen canning fruit or in the living room sewing she was in that garden. My grandfather was the same way. I do not recall how many acres he had, but he worked them all daily and did so with an old tractor. He had cows to milk and pigs to tend to and more chickens than one child could count—I tried a number of times but could never get them to line up properly.
I recall a batch of piglets my grandma had and assume they were a litter from one of the sows in the large pig pen behind the house. I do not recall how many there were but do recall at night they would wake me up as their tiny feet pattered across the wood floor to get closer to the heat stove in the living room—yes, she kept them in the house due to the harsh winter cold of the midwest.
This wood stove heated the majority of the house.
On one particular morning I walked from the living room toward the kitchen and saw grandma carrying one of the piglets out and it was obvious to me the pig had died during the night. I asked her, “Is it dead?” She nodded her head and said “yes.” I recall feeling bad for the little pig but do not recall it making me feel so bad that I cried—not sure how old I was, but I was quite young. The cold hard facts did not become clear to me until much later in life as I recalled that incident. The death of that little pig probably equated to a month’s worth of income. Certainly had that pig lived then life that year would have been at least a bit better. Life on that farm was hard I’m sure.
I think my grandfather tolerated me as I followed him around the farm—watching and wanting to help. I’m sure I was more trouble than I was worth. I recall helping him replace a corner post on the fence that surrounded my grandmother’s garden. I don’t recall who, but someone backed into it then sped off. Actually, I think I do remember, I just don’t want to throw anyone under the bus. I helped him set it up straight and recall pounding in the nails to get the pig fence back in an acceptably secure position. That memory stuck with me for a long time. All the while thinking I had been a big help that day. Many years later, perhaps in the late ‘90s I was driving down Route 121 between Sullivan and Bethany and decided to stop by the old property. Of course the house, shed and barns were long since gone. I walked around a bit and reminisced and envisioned where the shed was, how the house was angled on the property and where the barns were. I tried to find the fresh water spring that seeped from the side of the hill that was a perpetual supply of fresh water for the horse trough—but I never found it. I also plotted where grandma’s garden had been. It was then I spied the remnants of a broken down old pig fence and there, in the corner of that remembered piece of ground, was a post laying on its side. I walked over and picked it up and saw an assortment of old nails half pounded in and all crooked—so much for being a great help that day. With my mind’s eye I envisioned the look on my grandfather’s face as I pounded those nails in. I’m sure he was amused and in fact I was amused with what my mind conjured up as the expression on his face. I dislodged the post from the rusted remnants of the pig fence and threw it in the trunk of my car. That post still holds a prominent space at my house. As a continued to walk around the property I found an old rusted horse shoe—which resides today with that post.
I recall waking up early one morning and seeing my grandfather sitting in his chair—but will hold onto that memory for a bit. Perhaps I will divulge that memory later, but more likely than not if you want to hear this particular memory you’ll have to read my book, “Solitary—Without the Confinement.” I also recall the 6:00am train that woke us up almost every morning with the smell of coal. Even today when I smell coal burning I feel a sense of security and safe haven; as if nothing can harm me.
When privileged enough to spend the week with them during the summer I recall going with my grandmother to the market. Someone would come by and pick us up because grandma didn’t drive. We would hit the grocery store then the meat market and maybe one or two other shops—this was before the days of the Super-Wal-Mart. I knew, before we headed home, we would stop and she would buy me an ice-cream cone. Again, it did not dawn on me until much later that she could not afford to buy me an ice-cream cone, but she did anyway.
I recall two oval pictures hanging in the living room and I believe they were of my grandfather’s parents. I often wonder what happened to those pictures. I do have a picture that I believe is a portrait of either my grandmother’s parents or perhaps my grandfather’s; not sure which. Who we are, at least in part, is molded by those who pass before us. By their actions my grandparents tried to show me the right way to live my life. I thank them for that and one of my regrets is I did not thank them in person when I had the chance.
My grandfather with my oldest sister and not sure who the other baby is.
The more I think on this the more recollections break free of my obscured memory. Memories of my grandparents filter through my mind like a mist. Some memories are very clear and others are faint and hard to discern. I suspect some memories are patched together based on multiple memories mixed together. My grandparent’s farm was a perfect example of a menagerie and included pigs, horses, cows, dogs, cats, chickens and pretty much any other animal that might be associated with a farm.
As children we would go to the pasture and stand on the end of the wagon and wait. After a bit ol’ Red would wonder by and stop at the end of the wagon and let one of us climb on. Red would walk around the pasture once or twice then return to the corner of the wagon to let the next child ride. Red would continue to do this as long as there was a kid waiting on the corner of the wagon.
Anyone who knew my Grandparents knew who Ol’ Red was.
I recall a particularly rainy Saturday afternoon when grandpa led one of his ponies into the enclosed front entry of the house. Of course we kids were ecstatic about having a horse in the house but grandma was not amused. Exasperated or not grandma allowed it because it brought such joy to the grandkids. Grandma may have given grandpa an ear full after we left but I really doubt that happened. I think grandpa enjoyed the fact that he excited the grandkids and I suspect grandma felt the same way.
I tihnk there was a side to my Grandpa I was too young to understand. He apparently enjoyed the little things of life as seen by this picture when grandpa put a dog in the saddle.
As a very small child I was climbing around on an old rusted combine in the pasture. I suspect in my mind I was scaling a large mountain trying to reach the cold rigid peak. Being so enthralled with my adventure I did not see the multitude of cows who decided to congregate around the base of the combine. As a small child I was rather frightened of cows—I saw them as mean animals. Sometime prior to this I saw one of the cows in the barn step back and squash the head of a small feral cat … that head was squashed as flat as a penny. The cow could not have cared less about that poor little cat or the artistic design of a flattened kitty-cat head. If a cow could squash the head of a cat then go about eating as if nothing was wrong it made perfect sense to me that a cow would take great pleasure in squashing my little head. Long story short—I was afraid to come down from the combine. I’m not real sure, but I think I may have conjured up enough courage to pee on one of them from my secure position—I might have made that part up but my memory tells me it happened. I do not recall the exact amount of time but memory tells me I spent three or four days up on that combine waiting for those cows to leave. Perhaps my memory is not all that clear about this particular bit of the story—might have been up there for an hour or so before grandpa saw my predicament and climbed the great mountain to rescue me.
Pigs and chickens were a different story. We would chase the chickens and try to ride the pigs—emphasis on try. We would stand on the fence and wait for a pig to venture into our trap and once they were close enough we would jump off the fence, pounce onto the back of the unfortunate pig, and ride it for as long as we could. I do not think we ever reached the rumored eight second requirement prevalent in rodeos, but we tried many, many times. Grandpa would stand by the fence, gesture with his hand and shout, “you darn fool kids are gonna break your neck” but laugh out loud and pound on the fence as he watched the mayhem.
I recall grandpa hitching up the wagon to the horse and allow us to lead the horse around just like those cowboys on TV. I do not believe we ever got the talent of leading a horse to any level of efficiency. In fact I recall my youngest brother Tim being flipped out the right side of the wagon as the wagon wheel hit a large tractor tire at the edge of the lane. Not sure which one of us got a spanking over that one but I suspect someone did and it would be anyone’s guess if the recipient of the administered punishment was actually the one steering the wagon. I guess, if the truth were told, we all got a quick swat after which we all scurried off to enter into other forms of mischief.
My grandpa’s skill at ringing the neck of a chicken was legendary in the region. He would reach down, snatch up a chicken, and in less than two shakes of his hand the chicken was dancing headless on the ground—that chicken didn’t see it coming. On the flip side of that story we see me chasing a chicken for what seemed like hours and once I had one in my grip I would shake that poor chicken by the head like a mad man putting out a fire. The chicken would always get away and run off never knowing what it had done to deserve such treatment. I’m sure my attempts at imitating Colonel Sanders were an amusement to both grandma and grandpa.
My grandma or my mom would take the headless body of the chicken—the product of my grandfather’s execution—and dip it into boiling water. It was the job of any adolesent in the area to pluck all the feathers and get the convicted chicken ready for dismemberment. Execute a defenseless chicken, watch it dance headless until all the blood spurted out, dunk it in scalding water, pluck the poor thing of its feathers, hack and dismember it into pieces and … well, what better way to get ready for a nice Sunday afternoon family dinner.
A little ways down the road was a creek that winded its way east and west through their farm. I’m sure it has a name but it eludes me. It had on old rickety bridge that announced anyone approaching from the north. I would go there to skip stones and try my hand at cane pole fishing—I don’t think I ever caught anything. Back then a child could wander around the country side and not have to worry about that car approaching. The occupants of the car were likely gracious and wonderful people just like my grandparents.
On farther down the road and west a mile or so was an old cemetery—Mitchell Cemetery I think it was called. I found wonder in looking at the old stones and trying to make out the dates. Many of the stones marked the passing of people over a hundred years prior. I wondered who they were at the time but lacking the ability at that young age I did not ponder who they were. All those people buried there were sons, daughters, parents and probably grandparents as well. Perhaps in a hundred years or so some child will stumble across the Oak Grove Cemetery and wonder who those two were with the stone depicting a white and black horse pulling a plow. I’m here to tell you they were wonderful people who toiled through life to sustain their family. They suffered loss and basked in the joy of God’s grace. They felt the pride as well as the sorrow of sending a son to fight a war in Europe and thanked God for his return—a war hero in the eyes of many. Who raised their children during the depression of the ‘30s and lived the life of a grandparent—a grandparent any grandchild would be honored to love.
My Mom as a young girl stand in the center of her Brothers
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty: Master Sergeant Woodrow W. Keeble distinguished himself by acts of gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty in action with an armed enemy near Sangsan-ni, Korea, on October 20, 1951. On that day, Master Sergeant Keeble was an acting platoon leader for the support platoon in Company G, 19th Infantry, in the attack on Hill 765, a steep and rugged position that was well defended by the enemy. Leading the support platoon, Master Sergeant Keeble saw that the attacking elements had become pinned down on the slope by heavy enemy fire from three well-fortified and strategically placed enemy positions. With complete disregard for his personal safety, Master Sergeant Keeble dashed forward and joined the pinned-down platoon. Then, hugging the ground, Master Sergeant Keeble crawled forward alone until he was in close proximity to one of the hostile machine-gun emplacements. Ignoring the heavy fire that the crew trained on him, Master Sergeant Keeble activated a grenade and threw it with great accuracy, successfully destroying the position. Continuing his one-man assault, he moved to the second enemy position and destroyed it with another grenade. Despite the fact that the enemy troops were now directing their firepower against him and unleashing a shower of grenades in a frantic attempt to stop his advance, he moved forward against the third hostile emplacement, and skillfully neutralized the remaining enemy position. As his comrades moved forward to join him, Master Sergeant Keeble continued to direct accurate fire against nearby trenches, inflicting heavy casualties on the enemy. Inspired by his courage, Company G successfully moved forward and seized its important objective. The extraordinary courage, selfless service, and devotion to duty displayed that day by Master Sergeant Keeble was an inspiration to all around him and reflected great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.
That is how the Medal of Honor Citation read for Woodrow W. Keeble that was presented to his family 26 years after MSG Keeble’s death. During his service during WWII and the Korean War MSG Keeble was awarded two Silver Stars, four purple Hearts and two Bronze Stars (with “V” Device).
There is much that can be written about this man—his honor, his integrity and his selfless service. I think it can all be summed up by three things he said after returning home:
“Before I experienced the horror of that attack, I was quick to call coward or yellow anyone who showed fear under any circumstances. Nevermore. I don’t know these things, but they speak truth to one. I am not a psychologist, nor a statistician, and less of a philosopher; but the depth of emotion, the dreads of fear, the referees of horrors, and the concentration of self that led me to make this observation, the fear impulse, or perhaps, better said, the (impulses caused) by fear, are stronger, more demanding than either that of love or hunger…”
“Fear in my opinion is a state of drunkenness. And when men are in that state when the fear impulse takes a hold…he loses all reason, sense of values, and is not liable, or at least should not be held accountable for acts perpetrated when thus possessed.”
The aftermath of combat operations on Guadalcanal
“During the 13 months (in the) almost continual and sustained combat in which I have ever participated, there were moments, and rare ones, I am sure; but they lose none of their terror or horror for which fear laid a relentless and a powerful hold on me, that the pull of cowardice was almost more than I could ward off. There were terrible moments that encompassed a lifetime, an endlessness, when terror was so strong in me, that I could feel idiocy replace reason. (Yet,) I have never left my position, nor have I shirked hazardous duty. Fear did not make a coward out of me.”
Keeble returned to North Dakota after the Korean War and worked at the Wahpeton Indian School (later named Circle of Nations Wahpeton Indian School) located in Wahpeton, ND. Soon after, he was afflicted with tuberculosis, which required that he undergo long-term treatment in Minnesota. Surgeons ultimately removed one of his lungs, which triggered a series of strokes that rendered him speechless, partially paralyzed and unable to work for the remainder of his life.
Keeble fell on hard times and is said to have pawned his service medals. Nevertheless, and despite his disabilities, Keeble persevered. Those that knew him and members of his family proclaim he never lost the level of integrity, honor and selfless service that sustained him during vicious combat operations in WWII and Korea.
The Medal of Honor, well deserved on the day of the incident, was not given until 26 years after his death. Since then there have been many other honors bestowed on MSG Keeble—but not near enough. What can we, as individuals, do to honor his life—and for that matter—the lives of every other honorable person we know? The answer is easy. Imitate them. Live your life firmly grounded in honor, integrity, compassion and wisdom.
Woodrow W. Keeble died January 28th, 1982 and is buried in Sisseton, South Dakota. This short blog is but a small portion outlining the life led by MSG Keeble. His accomplishments and his demons are many.
One hundred and twenty four years ago today (DEC 29th 1890) 150 Native Americans were shot dead at Wounded Knee. Some historians estimate the number killed at twice that amount. There is little debate over the fact that regardless of the number of dead, over half were women and children. The event was originally referred to as a battle but in reality, it was a tragic and avoidable massacre. Two weeks prior to this an arrest of Sitting Bull ended in his death leading many Native Americans to believe it was an execution rather than an arrest.
During the late 1880s and into the 1890s the Native Americans believed they had been defeated and confined to the reservations because they had angered the gods—this due to an abandonment of their traditional ways. It was believed a return to their traditional ways would create a new world where all non-believers (as well as non-Indians) would be destroyed. Many Sioux believed the Ghost Dance would bring about this new world. The Ghost Dance worried the US Government which lead to the “arrest” of Sitting Bull, the Sioux Chief who they mistakenly believed was the main instigator of the Ghost Dance.
On December 29th, 1890 the US 7th Cavalry surrounded the weak and predominantly unarmed Sioux. An order was given for all Indians to turn over their weapons. It is unclear who fired the first shot, but the discharge of the first round was quickly followed by a barrage of rifle-fire from the soldiers of the 7th Cavalry.
The now iconic photograph of the frozen body of Chief Spotted Elk at Wounded Knee.
It is prudent to believe that the 1st shot was not fired by a Native American. A number of assumptions can be called upon to sustain this belief. The Indians were mostly unarmed and they had to know any adverse action would result in what transpired. It can also be surmised the Native Americans were all too weak to put up much of a fight since they had been living with no shelter or food for a number days in the very cold harshness of winter in South Dakota. It is hard to believe that this band of Indians—under Chief Big Foot after Sitting Bull’s death—would have intentionally started a fight. Many speculate the 7th Cavalry’s action was deliberate—retaliation and revenge for the regiment’s defeat at the Little Bighorn.
History is written by the victors and regardless of which version you believe it is worth noting the plight of the Native American continues today. If we fail to acknowledge this present day fact we are doomed to relive it and guilty of this continued atrocity.
This is a very short and only slightly detailed bit of history. I highly recommend you read the book, “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee” written by Dee Brown.
I was reading a lesson plan on blogging today. I think I like blogging (not sure why) so if I plan to do this right I decided I needed to learn from the pros. I must admit I have lived my life with the philosophy of, “reading the manual is a sign of weakness” and more often than not the un-instructed result showed me the errors of that mind-set.
Anyway, one of the exercises outlined in this training guide directed that I write for 20 minutes with no focus, just write. The rules outlined were:
1 – Write with no focus
2 – Don’t cross out anything you wrote
3 – Don’t worry about grammar, spelling or punctuation
4 – Lose control
5 – Don’t think
6 – Don’t get logical
7 – Don’t worry if something may be offense
I reviewed these seven basic rules and came to the conclusion, “This is how I write now; I don’t need to practice writing this way.” I was told to do this every day for a week—seriously? Who has 20 minutes to spare during the day? I may have some spare time on occasion, but everyday… probably not. I guess that is kind of a lie. I could make time, but if I did that I would miss out on watching re-runs of Justified and NCIS.
I was then told to post the gibberish I wrote. Like that’s going to happen. If I immediately posted what I wrote the few followers I do have would drop my like an Ebola invested hamburger. As a rule I will write, then re-write 5 or 6 times before it gets posted and even then I’ll get a quick post from my wife pointing out a mistake; usually a misspelled or ill-used word.
The learning pamphlet provided some generic topics to write about. Ideas ranged from cooking to programming or things that happened today. My expertise in cooking does not go far beyond that which requires a toaster. If I want to get exotic with my cooking I pull out the Hot-Pockets and put them in the oven. Programming? We won’t go there. My days are, for the most part, boring. I would not want to read the boring details of someone’s life, so feel it only kind that I not bore others with mine.
I write because it relieves stress. There are other methods to deal with stress but apparently shooting at people is against the law. I guess there is another reason. It is not like I want to go public with my thoughts. I consider myself a private person. But, if a person wanted to know who Steve Briscoe is they can get a good idea by reading what goes through my mind. Consider yourself fortunate that I do not write everything that goes through my mind—it gets kinda weird in there sometimes.
For whatever the reason, I think most guys want to rebuild a classic car. Whether that project results in a hotrod or a refurbishment into an original rendition is irrelevant. I’m no different. I have always wanted to rebuild a classic. Obvious obstacles to this desire are the cost and to a lesser degree the time involved. I say lesser because if you are going to do it right then the time needed is not the burden. The cost can be metered over time so that too can be controlled.
My 1970 El Camino
Sadly I’ve had classic cars in the past but did not know they were classic when I had them. I had a 1972 GTO as well as a 1970 El Camino. I would love to have either of these cars again; especially the El Camino. I purchased it for $1,000 and sold it three years later for $1,200 so, at the time, I thought I did well. Almost every day I think of that El Camino and regret my decision to sell it.
About a year ago I was speaking to one of my cousins and he asked if I knew of anyone who wanted to buy a Dodge truck. I’m not a Dodge fan so knew I was not interested but asked a few questions about the truck in the event I came across someone who might be in need of it. When he told me what year it was he got my full attention; it was a 1946. And, after he told me this was the truck my Grandfather purchased in 1947 my interest peaked and before he even mentioned a price I told him I would take it off his hands.
The ’46 Dodge when we pulled it from my cousin’s garage.
I remembered riding in this truck with my uncle when I was a child; my Grandfather did not drive anything other than a tractor. I sat in the middle with my uncle to the left and my Grandfather to my right.
My 1946 Dodge – Picture taken, we think, in 1948. Left to right: My Uncle Ed, My Mom and My Dad.
The truck has a colorful past spending the vast majority of its life as a farm truck and more often than not did not have a valid license plate. From the day my Grandfather purchased it the truck was bought and sold a number of times, but always stayed within the immediate family. For the past 20+ years it sat in my cousin’s garage waiting on his intent to rebuild it. The truck is 100% complete (and original) and considering its age and the life it led in very good condition. The price was better than right. After curiosity got the best of me I did some looking and found a number of ’46 Dodge trucks for sale. The cheapest I found on line had a price tag twice the amount I paid and had no engine or transmission and the frame was from a Chevy S10 variant.
OK, so thus far life is good. I have a classic in hand, paid very little for it and it is 100% complete and original. And to top that, this truck was my Grandfather’s truck. So, other than the fact that I sold the perfect classic car for $1,200, where does the dejection come in?
Well, you’ll have to wait for part 2 get that information.
Not sure where I’m going with this so I guess you’ll have to read along while I write and see; we’ll both discover the end of this journey together.
Slavery and the results thereof are a continual topic of discussion. The tension it causes is often times best measured as off the charts and I must wonder sometimes what the value is. It’s not like we can change history. The race most associated with slavery is the African American. It is inadvertently suggested that the Africans were the only ones sold into slavery and there can be nothing farther from the truth. History states otherwise. And by history I mean true history, not the re-written version. Africans sold Africans into slavery, the English sold the Irish into slavery, Greeks sold the Turks, Turks sold the Greeks, Europeans sold the Africans, Africans sold Arabs, Arabs sold Africans, Africans sold Asians, Asians sold Asians, Vikings sold anyone they could get their hands on—the list can go on and on. You can start the phrase with any race or nationality and end the phrase with any race or nationality. If you have the courage to drill down you will discover it seldom had anything to do with race or nationality but everything to do with who was weak and who was strong. The real truth here is that human trafficking is still prevalent today but more emphasis is placed on ancient history than the plight of present day atrocities—how sad is that?
Short side note here: Little is mentioned about the slavery, herding and extermination of the Native American. In a very real sense that practice—or at least a portion thereof—is still practiced today. If you don’t believe that then go visit Pine Ridge.
Virtually every race has sold others into slavery and virtually every race has purchased and used slaves. This fact is irrefutable but not the topic of discussion. I believe the topic goes deeper.
It is good to know and understand history—both good and bad. If we ignore it, or as others attempt to do, re-write it, then we are doomed to relive it. What I see as a problem is when we let history, especially the bad history, define who we are. Our own personal history will define who we are but perhaps should not, unless we let it, define who we can be. If you had a horrible childhood then that history can make you an angry person but there is no requirement that states you must remain angry. Lingering anger is a personal choice. History that happened generations ago should have no quarter in defining who we are. If you fail at everything you do and you claim the fact that your ancestors 150 years ago were slaves then I would submit you would fail at everything regardless of what happened 150 years ago. You have failed yourself.
If we read the history of slavery and grow angry over it then I do not see that as a bad thing. If we read the history of slavery and feel that knowledge should empower us to be indigent then we are wrong and are perpetrating our own status in society—again, you failed yourself.
Some will take history and use it as a crutch. Others will acknowledge history and use that insight to make things better.
You are solely responsible for who you are and what you do. Whether you accept that fact or not is irrelevant. It’s still a fact.
I’ll let the reader decide if I made a point here.
Short note here: Every paragraph above can be elaborated on and go from a 100 word paragraph to a 5000 word article; but I didn’t go there. Why, because very few will read a 5000 word article that challenges them and requires a through process. See “Bumper Sticker Epidemic”
Ask any youth who their role model is and more often than not they will name a prominent sports figure. I’ll not delve into the world of steroids or doping or cheating. We can name hundreds of sports figures who were caught and convicted of these and other crimes. Sadly, even after the conviction many still hold these people in high regard-not sure why.
The question is why are even the honest sports figures claimed as a role model? They do not play this sport because of personal convictions nor do they participate to empower others. They do it for the money.
Let’s make a comparison to prove a point. For the past many years the media has focused on the 0.1 percent of police officers who do not “serve and protect.” They will even go so far as to generate a media lynching of police officers who are given no choice but to initiate lethal force in a confrontation. Seldom will you hear of a police officer held up as a role model. But I submit they are the perfect example. I will also submit, unless you have looked at death in the face, you have no business crucifying a police officer who was forced to make a split-second decision. Granted, there are times when, using hind-sight, lethal force was not required. However, there are more cases where a police officer, or innocent by-stander, lost their life because lethal force was not used. If a perpetrator places themselves, by their own actions, into a position where there is a potential for lethal force then they are the ones who must lay claim to the results. As a needed side comment, a gun in the hands of a bad-guy is not needed to constitute a need for deadly force.
A police officers do not patrol the streets or rush toward danger for the money. They do it because they have an inner desire to serve the public. When shots are fired everyone will run the other direction; everyone except a police officer. They will run towards the shooter and put their lives on the line to calm the hostilities. If lethal force is required to calm the hostilities then they have done their duty.
Would a prominent football player run a ball to the goal if there were even the slightest possibility they might get shot? Of course they wouldn’t. Why would they? Getting the ball to the goal is not a life or death situation. A police officer putting themselves in harm’s way is a life or death situation. You can replace the word police officer with solider, fireman, and these days you can add teacher to the list.
The police officer, the soldier, the fireman, and yes the teacher do their jobs not because of the money, but rather because of who they are.
So, I ask you again. Why are sports figures held up as role models while these others are not?
The United States of America is continually (and incorrectly) referred to as a Democracy. Even our politicians refer to us as a Democracy. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Well, sadly, I think maybe we have become a Democracy through years of corruption and greed. The Founding Fathers fought for and assembled the foundation and framework for a Republic. This is fact and cannot be disputed. If you think this in error then take some time to read The Federalist Papers. Yea, I know, most of you have no clue what The Federalist Papers are. I don’t think I will waste my time explaining what they are here; if curious you can look them up. It’s not hard. Very few have taken the time to actually read the Constitution let alone any of the Federalist Papers.
What is the difference between a Democracy and a Republic? Well I’m glad you asked. A democracy can be boiled down to a single statement, “majority rules.” Meaning, the attitude toward law is that the will of the majority shall regulate, whether it is based on deliberation or governed by passion, prejudice or impulse, without restraint or regard to consequences. The majority rule of democracy is destructive of liberty because there is no law to prevent the majority from trampling on the rights of the individual. Whatever the majority says is law and there is no recourse. A perfect example of majority rule is a lynch mob, pure democracy in action. There is only one dissenting vote, and that is cast by the person at the end of the rope. A democracy leads to mobocracy and the communistic negating of property and individual rights. It leads to demagoguism, agitation, discontent and anarchy. Before you ask… “Yes” I had to look up the word demagoguism to ensure I was using the word correctly.
A Republic is derived through the election by the people of public servants best suited to represent the voting body. The attitude toward property and individual rights is based on respect for laws and a sensible economic procedure. Law is administered through justice in accordance with fixed principles and established evidence with a strict regard to consequences. The establishment of a Republic avoids the dangerous extremes of tyranny and/or mob rule. It results in statesmanship, liberty, reason, justice, contentment and progress.
A Republic is a form of government under a constitution which provides for the election of: 1) an executive and a 2) legislative body, working together with 3) a judiciary that, when combined, acts on and enforces recognition of 4) certain inherent individual rights. Take away any one of these four requirements of a Republic and you will start to drift in an autocracy; add more to this and you will drift into a democracy. The thing to take from this is, “A republic is a government of law under a Constitution.” The application here is it is the Constitution that holds the government in check and prevents the majority from violating the rights of the individual. With a republic a lynch mob is illegal and the criminal cannot be denied the right to a fair trial even if the majority of the citizenry demands otherwise; can you say Ferguson?
I’ve seen the following attributed to several people from history, so much so that I will assume whoever I indicate as the author there are those who will dispute it. So, I will just say that someone smarter than most of us said it a long time ago and I will go out on a limb here and say this individual probably lived through this transformation prior to assisting with the creation of our republic. “A Democracy cannot exist as a permanent form of Government. It can only exist until the voters discover they can vote themselves largess out of public treasury. From that moment on the majority always votes for the candidate promising the most benefits from the public treasury with the result that Democracy always collapses over a loose fiscal policy, always to be followed by a dictatorship.” Does this scenario sound familiar? We portray this trend with every election. Meaning, if you have one hundred people with 10% paying out 50% of their income in taxes and the other 90% paying 20% of their income in taxes any vote to raise taxes on the high earners will win and the 10% already footing most of the bill will pay more.
This great nation started as a Republic. Those that formed it were well aware of the destruction a democracy is capable of. They fought hard to build it and for 200+ years others have fought hard (and died) to preserve it. Sadly, it is safe to say we are now more of a democracy than a republic. Individual rights are trampled on repeatedly under the veil of progressive advancement.
We are losing our Republic and we cannot blame the politicians. We, the people, are to blame due to ignorance, blind apathy, laziness and selfish greed. Shame on us.
In case you are curious: demagoguism (dem-a-gog-ism) – the art and practice of gaining power and popularity by arousing the emotions, passions, and prejudices of the people. Now if that does not sound familiar than you paid no attention during that last election.
Give credit where credit is due – much of the information here came from Google searches I gathered together for my own edification of the difference between a democracy and a republic.
Edification (ed-i-fi-ca-tion) –instruction or enlightenment, especially when it is morally or spiritually uplifting.
OK, now let’s see how many tolerant, non-hating liberals call me an intolerant hater and a racist because I had the audacity to do the research and gather the facts on my own thereby setting aside the accepted method of taking someone’s undocumented understanding of it.
Very few who even started reading this little snippet made it to the end. If you are reading this last sentence then I thank you and you can be proud of yourself because you want more than can be said on a bumper sticker.
PS: Democracy vs. Republic has nothing to do with being Democrat or Republican.
