Kaid Finds a Rattlesnake

Three-year-old Kaid Fuhrman was out tooling around the yard in his battery-operated automobile the other day when he happened upon a snake. And not just any snake. It was a rattlesnake, or to the aficionado of such stuff, an Eastern Timber Rattlesnake. Three feet long and in a foul mood was the way it was described to me.

What makes the story charming (can a story about a venomous snake be charming?) is that little Kaid, who's still working on developing a broad vocabulary, jumped off his ride and came running into the house (my son lives up in Roanoke County) screaming, "Rattlesnake! There's a rattlesnake in the yard!"

My son, as it turns out, had warned Kaid and Kaid's twin sister about bad snakes, one of which - the biggest, baddest of which - is the rattlesnake and warned them to never go near them. Nobody's sure how Kaid was able to recognize the breed but, sure enough, when my son and daughter-in-law went out to inspect Kaid's find, there lay, at the side of their house, a chubby little rattlesnake.

After the initial shock wore off, my son retrieved a garbage can, scooped the surly monster inside, drove down the road, and released it into a creekbed.

Before you ask, "Why didn't he shoot the snake?" understand that that is not how we do things in modern America. We love all God's creatures; even those that choose to kill us and eat us.

Anyway, we're all proud of little Kaid. Most adults wouldn't be able to recognize a rattlesnake when they came upon one. But then most people don't live in Rattlesnake Central either.

Today's Wisdom

Stress Management

A lecturer, when explaining stress management to an audience, raised a glass of water and asked, "how heavy is this glass of water?" Answers called out ranged from 20 grams to 500 grams.

The lecturer replied, "The absolute weight doesn't matter. It depends on how long you try to hold it. If I hold it for a minute, that's not a problem. If I hold it for an hour, I'll have an ache in my right arm. If I hold it for a day, you'll have to call an ambulance. In each case, it's the same weight, but the longer I hold it, the heavier it becomes."

He continued, "And that's the way it is with stress management. If we carry our burdens all the time, sooner or later, as the burden becomes increasingly heavy, we won't be able to carry on. As with the glass of water, you have to put it down for a while and rest before holding it again. When we're refreshed, we can carry on with the burden."

So, before you return home tonight, put the burden of work down. Don't carry it home. You can pick it up tomorrow. Whatever burdens you're carrying now, let them down for a moment if you can. Relax; pick them up later after you've rested. Life is short Enjoy it!

I was forced to terminate an employee years ago for having reported to work drunk. It was not his worst offense, but it was his last. When I sat him down to break the news to him, I said:

"John, I swore when I took this job that I'd never take a problem to bed with me at night. It was, and is, my intention to deal with problems swiftly and to move on. John, you and I have been to bed together too many times. You're fired."

The company I worked for profited from my having pulled the trigger.

Stress is often caused by allowing problems to fester and problem employees to accumulate.

Want to control work-related stress? Deal with your problems. Once. Swiftly. Move on.

Men Walk On The Moon

For you history buffs out there, I thought I'd let you take a look at this. It is a copy (the entire newspaper; not just the front page) of the Saigon Post dated Tuesday, July 22, 1969. My brother, Steve, was serving in Vietnam at the time and bought it on the streets of Saigon because it chronicled the historical significance of the day. He sent it home and it has been in my possession ever since.

To me, it has enormous historical value because:

(1) It was printed the day the first human being in history (Neil Armstrong) ever set foot on the moon.

(2) The Saigon Post no longer exists.

(3) Saigon no longer exists.

(4) South Vietnam no longer exists.

It is very cool. 

Marketing 101

Now I enjoy staring at women's breasts as much as anyone. And Pamela Anderson Lee has her share (I count at least three in this photo). But I want to know who the genius was who paid good money to put up a billboard showing Pamela's boobs (oxymoron alert) in the wilds of Northern West Virginia.

I was on my way toward Pennsylvania yesterday morning on I-77 when I passed this PETA billboard (denouncing cruelty toward chickens) somewhere around Burnsville, West Virginia. I can only assume, since the traffic count there is rather meager, that the marketing gurus at PETA were targeting some poultry processing plant workers in the area. Like Pamela Anderson Lee's mammaries are going to influence their career decision-making.

Now I have more marketing training than a grown man should ever have. But sometimes it comes in handy. As in this case.

Memo to PETA and its marketing firm: Know your target audience. West, by God, Virginians still believe in the literal Bible. You won't find many citizens there showing up at work with their (fake) boobs exploding from their tight-fitting knit tops. Truth be known, most God-fearing women in the area find photos like that plastered on your billboard to be pornographic.

Whether you find their attitudes toward nakedness to be quaint, outlandish, silly, or disgustingly Christian, they are the people you are trying to sway, you morons. Where on earth were your brains when you devised this marketing gem? What were you thinking?

Oh. Wait a minute. I took another look at the billboard. I know exactly what you were thinking about. You devils.

Family, The Anti-drug

Today's lesson: Want to teach your children right from wrong? Good from evil? Want to keep them away from drugs? To lead a good life? To stay out of prison? To raise a loving family of their own?

Start early. Take 'em fishin'.

Meet the love of my life. Jayla, 37 months but preparing for her doctoral dissertation, went fishing with me Sunday. For the first time in her life.

My daughter captured the rare moment with her camera when the line was actually in the water. Jayla was obsessed with the thought that a fish had stolen our worm and chose to frequently reel in the line. And I could tell there wasn't nearly as much excitement for her sitting motionless, waiting for a fish to bite, as there was in playing with the slimy, wiggly, fascinating ... worm.

She would cast the line out, and everyone would duck or take cover, sit on my lap for - on average - fifteen seconds, and turn to me and say, "I think a fish got the worm, Gramps." So she'd reel the confused worm in for the umpteenth time, give it a quick inspection, and fling him out into the lake again.

Pictured are Princess Jayla, Kaid, and Chase, being coached by my son, son-in law, and me. A family's bond being passed down from one generation to the next. And the next.

Rate of success? It's never failed.

Click on image to enlarge.

Come Buy Our Pots

When I was young, one of the vacation excursions that seemed to be in the plans of all European-American adults was to travel out west. There they would stay in flea-infested hotels with broken air conditioning, take a picture of a cactus, pretend to enjoy the frijoles, and sweat profusely in the hot sun. And they would make the obligatory journey to Window Rock, Arizona to buy a genuine Navajo rug from an honest-to-God Navajo princess.

As a young and relatively stupid youth, the thought never crossed my mind that it might have been a good idea for one of the thousands of visitors who stopped by the dingy, dilapidated shack the princess was working out of to offer her valuable advice: Move to Phoenix. Get a decent job cleaning rooms at the Holiday Inn. They have a healthcare plan. And you can get away from this hellhole.

Fast-forward to 2005. No, wait. Step back in time to Southwest Virginia.

Here we are developing plans to lure elderly European-Americans with disposable income to come here to buy our pots. Beads. For all I know, genuine Navajo rugs.

Southwest Virginia sets sights on arts
Towns hope to draw artists to the area and in turn boost tourism 

BY Rex Bowman, Richmond Times-Dispatch Staff Writer

FLOYD -- Already making big strides in promoting eco-tourism and music-based tourism, communities in Southwest Virginia are now turning their sights on "heritage tourism," looking to find ways to bolster Appalachian craftspeople and their products.

Specifically, officials hope to emulate the success of North Carolina's Hand Made in America, a coalition of artists, craftspeople and civic leaders that in the past decade has turned the making of hand-crafted products into a booming sector of the economy and lured tourists into the western part of the Tar Heel State.

In Virginia this month, a group called the Southwest Virginia Artisans Network formed to help craftspeople learn business and marketing skills and to showcase their works. The group, funded by $195,000 from the General Assembly, plans to pattern its approach after Virginia's Crooked Road -- a year-old 250-mile trail linking and promoting musical landmarks and venues from Clintwood to Floyd and Ferrum. The road immediately boosted tourism in Southwest Virginia, according to local tourism officials. 

A lesson I learned in graduate school (and from the woman selling rugs in Window Rock) is that when you have nothing else going for you, try selling crap to tourists. 

This week in Floyd County, already known for its vibrant arts and crafts community [as well as average annual income per wage earner of $17,023, average home values $45000 below the state average, and with 11.7% of the population living below the poverty line], local officials played host to HandMade in America's Craft Advisory Council, which brought craftspeople from Kentucky, North Carolina, Tennessee and Virginia together at the Chateau Morrisette winery.

But did they spend any money in Floyd while they were there? Probably not. How could they? There aren't any real businesses there anymore. Unless you include the pottery shops run by the dope-smoking artsy craftsy ménage that have migrated there to sell their worthless trash to those seven unsuspecting tourists that pass through the area each day.

Participants discussed ways of encouraging the crafts as a tourism attraction and economic engine.

They also discussed ways of making genuine Navajo rugs out of the polyester / acrylic blended ones imported from Singapore that you can buy over at the Wal-Mart.

Look. If you enjoy sipping the latest fruit of the vine and listening to transplants from Buffalo strumming their mandolins, more power to you. Floyd County should be your vacation destination.

But for all the folks in Southwest Virginia who are seeking gainful employment, and a better future for their children, selling beads on the side of the road isn't going to work. They need employers who will pay a decent wage for a day's work. They need healthcare benefits for their family. And a dental plan, if I'm making a wishlist. Here's the problem:

The numerous Appalachian residents [sure they are] who sculpt, paint, turn pottery and make baskets, brooms, fiddles, quilts, leatherworks and sundry other products constitute an "invisible factory," helping to replace disappearing manufacturing and textile jobs, according to proponents of the crafts movement.

Making "baskets, brooms, fiddles, quilts, leatherworks and sundry other products" is going to replace manufacturing jobs.

We're doomed. For those who have stuck it out this long, call U-haul first thing Monday morning. I hear they're hiring up in Duluth.

For those of you who plan on sticking it out, do what I'm doing. I've gotten myself a wig from the Wal-Mart, bought some mocassins and this fashionable leather dress (that accentuates my fake bust) from a hippy over in Floyd County, and I'm learning to weave genuine Navajo rugs.

You can call me Princess Havpityonme, genuine Navajo native, from now on. I'm riding the wave to success, baby.

A Southern Lament

Sometimes you can drift far enough off the main highways of America to suddenly find yourself in a different time, confronting a different reality. This morning I was driving near enough to Mt. Airy, North Carolina (made famous by the Andy Griffith Show) that I was able to pick up a classic country music station on the radio.

Now in the big city, where country music is enjoying broad popularity, classic country - the old stuff - includes the likes of Garth Brooks and Charley Daniels. To most country music fans today, anyone older than Kenny Chesney is from the distant past.

But the past around these parts has a much longer memory. This particular radio station was playing rural music in its classical sense. Ballads. Gospel. Folk music. Classical bluegrass as only mountain musicians can perform it. The kind of music that takes your mind off of the day's trials and tribulations.

There was one recording in particular that captured my attention this morning. It was a ballad originally sung in the 1940's by someone whose name I didn't catch. It was a song about a young native southerner lost in a war fought many decades before. It was of interest to me because, even though the Civil War ended 140 years ago, the playing of this particular recording reminded me that the war's toll and aftermath are still being dealt with by the people in Carroll County, Patrick County, and Smyth County, Virginia, Goldsboro, High Point, and Pilot Mountain, North Carolina. And Mt. Airy.

The disappearance of so many young men from every town and village across the south is still a wound that hasn't completely healed.

People in the mountains, even today, take time out - a brief moment - to mourn the loss of a generation of kinfolk. Some think of grandfathers and great grandfathers they never knew. Others their great-uncles who went off to war and were last seen moving forward, face toward the enemy, weapon in hand, on the field of Shiloh, Tennessee on a beautiful Spring day in 1862 ... and were never heard from or seen again. Vanished, like so many thousands of other young southerners in the day. At Fredericksburg and Manassas. Gettysburg and Cold Harbor. Petersburg and Slaughter Mountain. Not a word ever made its way back to let relatives know of their fate. They simply, cruelly, vanished from the face of the earth. Forever.

Even today, tens of thousands of the south's finest and most promising young men who disappeared in the years 1861 to 1865 are unaccounted for. No gravestone marks their last resting place, save for plaques in cemeteries in such faraway places as Perryville, Kentucky and Pittsburgh Landing, Tennessee that read, "Here lie the mortal remains of 300 Confederate dead." Nothing more.

If there is the occasional feeling of remorse coming out of the mountains of Virginia and North Carolina after these many years, imagine what the all-consuming sense of loss must have been in those years when the war was still raging, as well as in the many years that followed. It didn't simply involve individual families who were touched by tragedy. Entire communities were devastated by the tragic losses. So many young men.

I was able to find the lyrics to the ballad I heard on the radio. Here they are, for your edification.

Rebel Soldier

In a dreary Yankee prison

Where a Rebel soldier lay

By his side there stood a preacher

Ere his soul should pass away

And he faintly whispered Parson

As he clutched him by the hand

Oh parson tell me quickly

Will my soul pass through the southland?

Will my soul pass through the southland?
To my old Virginia Grand
Will I see the hills of Georgia?
And the green fields of Alabam'
Will I see that little church house
Where I placed my heart in hand?
Oh parson tell me quickly
Will my soul pass through the southland?

Was for lovin' dear ol' Dixie
In this dreary cell I lie
Was for lovin' dear ol' Dixie
In this northern state I'll die
Will you see my little daughter?
Will you make her understand?
Oh parson tell me quickly
Will my soul pass through the southland?

Every Muscle In My Body Aches

Well, the plan for yesterday was a good one. It's spring and my intention was to kick back and soak up the sun.

Something I've never been able to do.

Instead, because of the great weather and the fact that there is so much that needs to be done around the estate, I now have cuts and scratches on both hands, aching muscles, and sunburned ears (I forgot to wear my wide-brimmed straw hat).

I spread 240 pounds of lime on my (rather expansive) lawn, repaired some wooden furniture, harrowed (look it up), rolled out the chipper/shredder and got it ready for use next weekend, spread manure, spread grass seed, mounted a bird feeder and a bird house, and took the cages off a number of pine seedlings (If I don't protect them, the deer eat them in the wintertime.)

The only saving grace was in my having time yesterday evening to smoke a cigar, drink a bottle of Zinfandel, and barbecue some delectable chicken breasts (I'd give you my wife's secret marinade recipe but I'd then have to kill you.).

Though I feel the need to stick my head in the toilet this morning and get it over with, all in all, it was a glorious day.

The Teacher's Dilemma

My sister, Suellen, sent me this. I enjoyed it. And there is a point being made.

After being interviewed by the school administration, the eager teaching prospect said:  

"Let me see if I've got this right . . You want me to go into that room with all those kids, and fill their every waking moment with a love for learning. And I'm supposed to instill a sense of pride in their ethnicity, modify their disruptive behavior, observe them for signs of abuse and even censor their T-shirt messages and dress habits. 

You want me to wage a war on drugs and sexually transmitted diseases, check their backpacks for weapons of mass destruction, and raise their self esteem. You want me to teach them patriotism, good citizenship, sportsmanship, fair play, how to register to vote, how to balance a checkbook, and how to apply for a job. 

I am to check their heads for lice, maintain a safe environment, recognize signs of anti-social behavior, make sure all students pass the mandatory state exams, even those who don't come to school regularly or complete any of their assignments.
Plus, I am to make sure that all of the students with handicaps get an equal education regardless of the extent of their mental or physical handicap. And I am to communicate regularly with the parents by letter, telephone, newsletter and report card.  

All of this I am to do with just a piece of chalk, a computer, a few books, a bulletin board, a big smile AND on a starting salary that qualifies my family for food stamps! 

You want me to do all of this and yet you expect me not to PRAY??"

Our thought for the day.

Caution! Eat At Your Own Risk!

This story in the Detroit News reminded me of my first experience with Thai cuisine.

Restaurant spices up downtown Mount Clemens with top-notch Thai 

By Molly Abraham, Detroit News Restaurant Critic

When Thai restaurants began springing up around town during the late 1980s, our collective palates were so happy to try the cuisine that tested our tolerance for spices, that we weren't very selective.

If the sign read "Thai," we'd rush in for chile-dotted noodles and chicken satay with peanut sauce, and usually leave satisfied.

Things are quite different now. The audience for Thai food has become more discerning. There are many more choices of restaurants, and we now know the difference between a hastily thrown together pad Thai and the real deal.  

A good friend, Nhagabushanam Jasti, and I traveled, on various occasions, to a number of Detroit area restaurants for lunch several years ago, one of which was a Thai restaurant in Troy. "Jasti," having grown up in India and being used to spicy Indian food, would, when asked by the waitress how "flavorful" he wanted his meal, tell her he wanted it hot. In my case, having been raised on pork chops and green beans and this being my first experience with Thai, I knew better. I asked for mine to be mild.

I remember when my meal was brought out, (it was called Royal Chicken as I recall), I took the first bite and began to gasp for air. My nostrils immediately opened and my nose began to run. I broke into a sweat. My insides, from tongue to throat to stomach, were struggling to escape. I went into an uncontrollable - and very embarassing - cough.

And all that before my second bite. Of "mild" Thai chicken.

From that day on, whenever I went to a Thai restaurant and was asked how spicy I wanted my food, I'd reply, "No spice." "No Spice!"

I may be a wienie but I like to keep from looking at my lunch twice ... if you know what I mean.

Hey You! This Is God With a Message.

I think God spoke to me yesterday. Calm down. It wasn't in the Biblical sense. It was more like, "You are about to die. Slow down, fool."

I'm traveling northbound on I-77. I'm maybe twenty miles north of Charleston, WV and ten miles south of Ripley. I had been driving through a heavy snow shower for over an hour. The pavement was by now wet; the atmospheric temperature somewhere around 25, with a rather stiff wind to add to the mix. It was shaping up to be a really crappy journey.

I'm doing about 75 miles per hour.

Now I know what you're thinking. You're shouting at your monitor, "You blamed fool! You're driving in blizzard conditions and you're doing 75?" Yes (says your monitor back to you). And I was talking on my cellphone (I know; I know). But before you think I'm a complete idiot, undertand that I have spent my life driving in all sorts of weather conditions, including winter weather much worse than this.

Okay. Maybe I was still an idiot. But I was carefully watching the pavement conditions as I sped recklessly northbound and I felt safe enough to proceed at breakneck speed.

Until I came over a rise and saw flashing hazard lights in the median ahead. That was an indication that something was not right. Sure enough, as I approached, I noticed a nice black Ford pickup truck up against the guardrail on the southbound side (with his flashers going). He had lost control as he passed over an ice-covered overpass and put his full-size pickup into the median.

My foot came off the gas.

Just as I was coming up to the scene of the accident, my attention turned to a full-size car (I don't know what make or model; it happened too quickly) lose control on the same overpass, spin out, and slam into the pickup. Mud, sod, and debris flew across the median and into the northbound lanes. The car's grill and what must have been part of the front bumper went bounding across the road in front of me and I slammed on the brakes. I dodged the debris but my car was showered with gravel, dirt, and who knows what-all.

I told the person I was talking to I'd have to call them back (and I may have shouted some expletive; I don't remember).

It was at this point that my years of driving experience paid off. Instinct told me that maybe I should slow down.

And to call 911.

Southbound lanes of the interstate were coming to a halt at the scene of the accident and travelers were getting out of their vehicles to assist the drivers (and passengers?). I thought of doing the same but I was on the wrong side of the highway and thought it best - rather than cause another accident - to move on.

So I called 911, gave the dispatcher a brief explanation for my call and told her where the accident had occurred. She asked if the vehicles involved were in the road and I told her that they were in the median but there was debris in the road - at least on the northbound side. As we talked, she was relaying the information to county units for their response. She thanked me for calling and I drove on - a bit more slowly.

By the time I was six or seven miles further up the road, I passed two sheriff's deputies' cars and two ambulances heading toward the accident. I hope the people involved were okay.

Yesterday I was lucky. I made it home at the end of the day. What to take from all this? Something Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote comes to mind. It seems appropriate.

O friend, never strike sail to a fear! Come into

port greatly, or sail with God the seas.

Essays, 1841

I'll be back at it again on Monday.

This comes to mind as well.

Slow down and pay attention to what you're doing, you idiot!

And get off the phone!

Paula, Friday, February 18, 2005

Eracism

I came to a stop light yesterday in Cumberland Gap and noticed a bumper sticker on the car in front of me. It had one word with large multi-colored letters. The "word" was "ERACISM." Eracism. One of those twists that gives you pause. You think, eracism. Eracism. Hmm. Oh, I get it. Erase racism. OK. 

Then the light above turned green and the silver-haired woman in the Toyota drove on.
But I kept thinking about the experience I had just had. Not about ending racism. To me, that is taking care of itself - over time. It's that I have no idea what her intention was in slapping that sticker on her car. I believe the tiny words underneath said, "Universalist Unitarian Church," which says something in itself. It is to this church that all the 60's hippies migrated in subsequent years. Upon what do they base their church beliefs? Peace. Love. Humanity. Togetherness. Inclusion. "If it feels good, and there is love in your heart, do it - no matter if the person you're doing it to is adult, male, female, consenting, or even a human being for that matter. I don't remember God - or Jesus - playing a part in their foundational beliefs but I could have overlooked Him in my extensive readings on the subject.

But I digress.

What was the old lady's intention? To get the rest of us to change our ways? Probably. And she is probably one of the elitists on the left who think a bumper sticker will do it. "Eracism? Oh, I never heard it put that way. From this point on, I'm going to love my fellow black man, Latino woman, ..."

But I was made aware of another bumper sticker the other day the motivation behind which runs in a different direction. My daughter called me in semi-amusement and startled amazement at something she had just read on the back of a pickup truck right here in Bland, Virginia. Beneath a confederate flag sticker was another that read, "WORK: It's The White Thing To Do." 

Now I know you can find this sort of sentiment up in Brooklyn or out in Los Angeles. Shoot, we know it is the prevailing attitude in certain Democratic circles in Washington D.C. But around these parts, there is an ugliness that accompanies the hatred. These people have not given up. To them, the civil rights battles that took place in the 60's are still underway. And they soldier on. 

Reality - and the turn of a new century - be damned.

So I have a thought. What would happen if I got the old silver-haired hippie who is still living in the sixties together with the Bland County racist who is still living in the sixties and locked them in a room over at the Motel 6? What would come of it?

I already know. If I could lock them both in, and throw away the room key, America would be better off for it. And the demise of racism would accelerate. 

Without the need for another bumper sticker.

Email Buddy Day

I am declaring today "email buddy day." This is the day I am setting aside to respond to my email buddies - or at least those that don't use the "f" word in their messages to me. I give them a special - more personal - response.

The first email today comes from Robert in Portland (Maine? Oregon?). I mentioned the other day that I'm a proud member of the National Rifle Association. He has a problem with that.

You and your gun-toting buddies are all alike. Rednecks all. The NRA and the Republicans - is there a difference? oppose every progress this country attempts while there are people out in the streets of our cities armed with ak47's killing women and children. Doesn't that bother you?

Answer: No.

What bothers me is the fact that people like you are allowed to watch reruns of old Clint Eastwood movies and to fantasize about mayhem in the streets. I have some familiarity with the AK-47. It is a fully automatic weapon that is fully illegal in this country for a citizen to own - or to fire at women and children (without a special federal permit; to own that is, not to shoot women and children with). You probably meant one of the civilian versions of the weapon. I sometimes make the same mistake. You are forgiven. 

What I won't forgive you for is being a coward and for buying in to this kind of bullshit. Show me one instance of an individual (adult/child, male/female) who was killed by someone armed with an AK-47 in 2004 (in the USA) and I'll kiss your hairy, wrinkled, pimpled butt.

Now to more serious matters.

Why am I a member of the NRA? I am not a fanatic. I don't even hunt any more. I did years ago but drifted away from it for whatever reason (I don't drink much anymore either. The two are surely related.). I own a sizeable arsenal of weapons but don't flaunt them. Truth be known, I don't often fire any of them. My daughter will occasionally drop by to hone her skills at dropping an intruder with her Ruger 9mm semi-automatic badass handgun, but with that exception when we go back the turnpike and blow the hell out of a dead tree, I don't "sling much hot lead."

I am, however, a member of the National Rifle Association for what I consider to be the most important reason on earth. 

They protect me. 

I have a passion for liberty. For the freedoms that a bunch of dead white guys passed down to us. For those precious rights outlined in the Bill of Rights (as well as others that are delineated in natural law) that many of our ancestors fought for - and in the case of heroes like my father at Normandy, shed blood to protect.

I know how insecure our freedoms are. There are politicians in Washington who find it cumbersome to have to work around these rights relating to freedoms of speech, religion, assembly - to bear arms in defense of one's home and country- and would, if given the chance, legislate them out of existence.

John McCain comes to mind.

The NRA is focused on one of these issues - with passion and unrelenting fortitude. They - we - accept no less than that our elected representatives (our employees!) adhere to the principles upon which these United States rest, whether they like it or not. We - the people - have a right to keep and bear arms. We make this demand - that the government not interfere with this most precious of rights - for the most fundamental of reasons. One that has been driven home by Charlton Heston, a man of towering integrity - and another of my heroes.

The original amendments we refer to as the Bill of Rights contain ten of what the constitutional framers termed unalienable rights. These rights are ranked in random order and are linked by their essential equality. The Bill of Rights came to us with blinders on. It doesn't recognize color, or class, or wealth. It protects not just the rights of actors, or editors, or reporters, but extends even to those we love to hate.
I say the Second Amendment is. in order of importance, the first amendment. It is America's First Freedom, the one right that protects all of the others. Among freedom of speech, of the press, of religion, of assembly, of redress of grievances, it is the first among equals. It alone offers the absolute capacity to live without fear. The right to keep and bear arms is the one right that allows "rights" to exist at all.

Either you believe that, or you don't, and you must decide. 

I do. I have. I proudly send the NRA $35 each year having made that decision.

 

And I sleep well at night.

Now aren't you glad you brought this up, Robert?

Computers Are Our Friends, Usually

This article in the New York Times this morning struck a cord: 

Does Not Compute  

By Nicholas G. Carr

Carlisle, Mass. — The Federal Bureau of Investigation has officially entered what computer professionals call "software hell." After spending $170 million to create a program that would give agents ready access to information on suspected terrorists, the bureau admitted last week that it's not even close to having a working system. In fact, it may have to start from scratch. 

Shocking? Not at all. A look at the private sector reveals that software debacles are routine. And the more ambitious the project, the higher the odds of disappointment. It may not be much consolation to taxpayers, but the F.B.I. has a lot of company. Software hell is a very crowded place.

Consider Ford Motor Company's ambitious effort to write new software for buying supplies. Begun in 2000, the goal of the project, code-named Everest, was to replace Ford's patchwork of internal purchasing systems with a uniform system that would run over the Internet. The new software was supposed to reduce paperwork, speed orders and slash costs. But the effort sank under its own complexity. When it was rolled out for testing in North America, suppliers rebelled; according to Automotive News, many found the new software to be slower and more cumbersome than the programs it was intended to replace. Last August, Ford abandoned Everest amid reports that the project was as much as $200 million over budget.

A McDonald's program called Innovate was even more ambitious - and expensive. Started in 1999 with a budget of $1 billion, the network sought to automate pretty much the entire fast-food empire. Software systems would collect information from every restaurant - the number of burgers sold, the speed of customer service, even the temperature of the oil in the French fry vats - and deliver it in a neat bundle to the company's executives, who would be able to adjust operations moment by moment.

Or so it was promised. Despite the grand goals, the project went nowhere. In late 2002, McDonald's killed it, writing off the $170 million that had already been spent. 

I had the good fortune of working for a company several years ago the corporate leadership of which decided that it needed to keep up with the competition and in so doing, allocated $1 billion to a computer system transformation. What the company ended up with several years later can best be described as a complete mess. An impressive mess but a mess just the same. The new system was slower, more complex, and less user-friendly. It required that the company maintain 700 programmers on their employ. The mainframe people within the headquarters building couldn't
communicate with the PC people. In some cases, mainframe people couldn't communicate with each other. As time went on, upgrades and patches were added, brought in by different providers, some of whose consultants didn't speak English. And we all prayed that, when we had need of a programming change, that someone was still with the company that knew something about the original code. 

And we talked in terms of "man-months" to get a change made. "You want me to alter a field in this report? I can do it. It will take nine man-months." The most frustrating moment I remember in this regard was on a day when I asked a senior programming department head for some rather major changes. I laid out for her what I needed, in great detail. She took it all in, asked a few questions, took lots of notes and told me, without expression , it will take five years to accomplish. What?!!!

"Never mind. We'll make do."

Believe it or not, developing our corporate computer system was not our core business. We actually sold stuff to customers. 

Research by the Standish Group, a software research and consulting firm, illustrates the troubled fates of most big software initiatives. In 1994, researchers found, only 16 percent were completed on time, on budget and fulfilling the original specifications. Nearly a third were canceled outright, and the remainder fell short of their objectives. More than half of the cost overruns amounted to at least 50 percent of the original budget. Of the projects that went off schedule, almost half took more than twice as long as originally planned. A follow-up survey in 2003, however, showed that corporate software projects were doing better; researchers found that the percentage of successful projects had risen to 34 percent.

We learned it the hard way. Such wasted effort. And scarce resources.

But I learned from that experience. A few years later, I was working for a different company and was asked by senior management to take over a troubled department. Morale was poor. Training was substandard. We had your standard personnel issues relating to productivity, discipline, absenteeism, and motivation - or lack thereof. 

And the computer program in use was unsatisfactory. It was purchased from a development firm that came in and designed it for us, at great expense. The company provided consultants and a help desk should we have need, and the software was sophisticated enough to put a man on Mars. I remember too that the company allowed as many users to log onto the system, after we paid - for each one of our employees - $10,000 per year in the way of a license fee.

The problem was, the software was so complex that only one person in the department could run reports from this monster. We had apparently sent her off at great expense to learn its intricacies. Everyone else would input data (it was a multi-user networked system) but only one woman, who would close her office door and work her magic in secret, could actually get this elaborate system to provide us with any meaningful information. Naturally, we had to accept this woman's peculiarities and workplace demands. Without her, we were doomed.

Worse yet, I realized, having sat down with one of these consultants for several precious days, that we were only utilizing about 5% of this software's capabilities. It had functionality that we had absolutely no need of.

So I scrapped it. 

I went out and bought a new program. Off the shelf. Actually manufactured by Microsoft. No consultants. Inexpensive to use. Easy to operate. It integrated perfectly with Excel, Word, and PowerPoint. It allowed for multiple users to input data simultaneously. We generated meaningful and sophisticated reports with it. And anyone could learn to configure the software to spit out whatever data we felt we needed. It worked. It was sufficient. Not being our core business, it allowed us to free up funds for our core business - selling stuff.

What happened between 1994 and 2003? The Internet boom went bust. Stung by wasted investments in complicated software systems, business executives began taking a more skeptical view of such projects. They scaled back their expectations, pursuing more modest software enhancements with narrower goals - and far higher chances of success.  

Equally important, they stopped trying to be creative. Rather than try to customize their software, they began looking for cheaper, off-the-shelf programs that would get the job done with a minimum of fuss. When necessary, they changed their own procedures to fit the available software. Old, generic technology may not be glamorous, but it has an important advantage: it works. 

It may well turn out that the F.B.I.'s biggest problem was its desire to be innovative - to build a new wheel rather than use an old one within easy reach. When it comes to developing software today, innovation should be a last resort, not a first instinct.

I prefer to think of it as graduating from "the school of hard knocks."

Treasures In The Attic

If I could choose my career all over again (and didn't have to worry about making a living), I'd be an attic explorer. Barrymore Laurence Scherer (in the Wall Street Journal) got to experience the excitement recently:

Waxing Nostalgic About Early Recordings
In an old attic, I find a treasure trove for a music lover.

Recently, while looking through an old house for sale in our neighborhood, I came upon a pile of 78s in the attic. (Note to those who regard even vinyl LPs as antiques: 78 rpm shellac discs were the recording-industry standard before 1950.) I mentioned my interest to the owner, who was delighted that the records would have a good home. They had been her grandmother's, and when I came by to remove them, I discovered that the single pile was only the tip of the iceberg. There were several hundred in all. Bliss! 

Paula had two great-aunts a number of years ago who lived all their lives in a small home overlooking the Ohio River in southern Indiana. They were, in their final years, wheelchair bound and, as it happened, died at about the same point in time. In their will, they had decided to leave their home to a neighbor and their belongings to be divided among the closest relatives, including my mother-in-law. 

Paula and I were asked to travel with her mother to the old home to collect those items of value that had been designated for her to have; the remainder of the belongings - clothing, appliances, etc., were to be given to charity. So we made the journey to Aunt Corrine's house, and when we entered, stepped back in time.

The old home was in great need of repair. The two old ladies had lived alone for many years and were unable, both physically and financially, to keep the home in reasonable condition; the roof needed replacing, the siding hadn't had a new coat of paint in years, and all the windows needed to be recaulked. But the interior of the small frame house was of great value; a treasure trove of antiques. Upon entering I was immediately drawn to an old ice box. For those of you too young to know what an ice box is - or was - it was used in the days before electricity was available in the home to keep food cold. One literally put blocks of ice in it on a regular basis, thus the name ice box. You may still hear some old folks refer to their refrigerator as an icebox.

The source for water in the house was a well standard - or hand pump. Someone at some point in time in the past had installed a sink in the kitchen area but water lines had never been run to it so a small hand pump was mounted next to the sink and the old ladies pumped water whenever they wanted to do dishes or make coffee or simply to get a drink of well water.

Facing the well standard in the kitchen was an old pie safe. Those of you who have some understanding of antiques will recognize the name as being an upright cupboard, this one having the classic tin door panels with the pinhole scrollwork on each. I had this pie safe dated by an expert some time later (this was the only piece that Paula and I took) and he estimated it was from the 1880's.

The other furniture in the home was as old. Most of it was, in that early American sort of way, simple, functional, and built to last forever. Unlike the particleboard or veneer furniture you so often find today.

While there I came across the drawers of letters and memorabilia that the two old ladies had accumulated over the years. Being the amateur historian, I took time out to inspect some of it. Aunt Corrine had kept everything, including old newspapers and magazines. I remember she had a small box half the size of a shoe box that contained tiny remnants of thread; the purpose for which I haven't a clue. But there were also a number of items a museum would probably love to have. I saw maps of Indiana from the days before there were interstate highways (dated as far back as 1920). The old ladies had kept their ration stamps from the World War II era. They were still (this would have been about 1988) entitled to purchase - by U.S. government authority - a set of tires and a ration of sugar. And a pair of shoes. Thier ration book still contained stamps for each. From a time long forgotten when all of this country's resources were devoted to fighting a war on the Nazis and Japanese.

They had filed receipts for the sale of tobacco in the 50's. And for the purchase of a battery for a tractor long gone. And there were the flyers from their local church going back decades. They seemed to love their church. They even kept newspaper clippings of weddings of people who are, in their own right, probably elderly today. And who hopefully have fond memories of these two women who are already forgotten by all but a relatively few old souls.

And of course there were the personal letters. That strangers like me should never be allowed to see. They were to be destroyed, whether right or wrong.

Such memories.

Blue vs Gray Ground Zero

For those of you who enjoy researching - or reliving - the Civil War, you will be envious when I tell you I am at ground zero tonight - Fredericksburg, Virginia. In fact I drove through (or near) most of the famous sites of the 1861 to 1864 conflict - names the rest of you should know if you were paying attention in US history class. Appomattox, Petersburg, Spotsylvania. And Richmond. And I went past several battlefield sites the names of which only the aficionado will recognize - High Bridge, Saylor's Creek, Five Forks, Drewry's Bluff.

Unfortunately if you exalt the past, you'll hate the present. I rolled into Fredericksburg at about 6:30 and was rather surprised to find traffic on southbound I-95 crawling along. Believe it or not, it is from the evening rush of commuters trying to get home - from Washington D.C. This is how far they drive these days in order to escape the big city. I'm not sure but D.C. must be 50 miles up the highway. 

What that means for this area is that there is tremendous growth. Which puts considerable pressure on battlefield preservationists to save what they can of a vanishing topography. There is, I'm told, a large tract of land just west of my hotel that was a key part of the landscape in Stonewall Jackson's legendary march around the Union army in May, 1862 that resulted in the destruction of one wing of that army and provided Robert E Lee with what proved to be his most spectacular victory of the war. Today it is a large residential development. With high-end homes.

I guess the moral of this story is this: If you intend to travel to Fredericksburg, Virginia in order to take in those legendary sites like the "muleshoe" at Spotsylvania, or the stone wall or Marye's Heights at Fredericksburg, or Todd's Tavern at the Wilderness, or the Chancellor House at Chancellorsville, you'd better hurry. Either that or anticipate seeing a Denny's where the Irish Brigade met its fate.

Come Visit The Inner Harbor

I spent a relaxing evening down in the Inner Harbor of Baltimore last night. Even though we are in the dead of winter, it was a wonderful Spring-like evening, allowing me to stroll down and see the old navy ship, "USS Constellation" and to partake of the most delicious cajun crab cakes at Phillips' (you have to order crab cakes when you go to Baltimore; it's the law.) For those of you looking for a spectacular place to visit on vacation, come on up to Baltimore. It provides for great entertainment and lasting memories.

The Language Barrier

I rolled into Manassas, Virginia this evening and decided the first thing I needed to do was satisfy my addiction to Chinese food. I'm not overly familiar with the area but I knew where all the retail stores were and I also knew that in one of the strip centers here there would be a Chinese resaurant. There always is. I prefer the small carryout shop as opposed to the big Chinese buffets because I have this strange inability to stop eating the stuff. If a buffet table has twelve kinds of chicken (General Tsao's, Honey, Barbecue, Sesame, etc.), I will go for all twelve. It is an awful thing to watch.

Well, this evening I ran into a dilemma. It had to do with the language barrier. I pulled up to this small restaurant that had the name "Rho Nguyen" on the facade of the building. Hmm. I looked closely at the door and windows to see the familiar "Chinese Carryout," or "Chinese Quisine," or something. Nothing. So is Rho Nguyen Chinese?

The thought went through my mind of an incident several years ago in Chicago. I walked into a restaurant thinking that it was Chinese. It was Philipino. I accepted my error and asked for a menu. Twenty minutes later, I'm still trying to figure out what phanduong pot is. My creative mind was racing. I ended up ordering something that looked like beef and hoped for the best.

I had a similar incident in El Paso about five years ago. I was travelling there regularly and, because I was focused on a business project, I had made no attempt to get out at night and take part in the local quisine. A friend was shocked when I told him I had never tasted the Mexican food the whole time I was there in El Paso. It was suggested that what I needed to do was to walk across the Rio Grande into Juarez and try the food there. I had no burning desire to get my head handed to me over there so I made the decision to go out one night and find some honest-to-God Mexican food - on the El Paso side of the river.

I drove around for a while, looking at several restaurants but each one made me feel like, when I entered, I'd be the only gringo in the place and that nobody would be able to speak English. So I ended up at Taco Bell. Excellent Mexican by the way.

So this evening I had to decide if I was going to try "Rho Nguyen." As I was starting to enter, something came to mind - the name of the last president of South Vietnam before it surrendered to the North Vietnamese in 1975 (I know. I'm the only remaining person on earth who knows who that was. I was always great at Jeopardy.) His name was Nguyen Van Thieu.

Nguyen.

This was a Vietnamese restaurant. And Vietnamese would not satisfy my craving -- at least I don't think it would. Besides I hear they eat dogs over there. So I got back in my car and found the "Chinese Palace." Yes. Oh, yes.

I sit here now, two hours later, completely bloated and uncomfortable. But at least I don't have to worry about some dog having bought the farm at my expense. As it turned out, it was only a chicken. A very tasty one to be sure.

Paula. Paradise.

The Passing of a Generation

Samuel Roseberry died December 21st after a long illness. You don't know the name but his passing is worth noting. Mr. Roseberry was one of a relative handful of remaining World War I veterans alive in the USA today. It is estimated that there are less than 500 veterans of that war still with us.  

Whatever story they had to tell, it is fair to say that it had better have been told by now. For the hundreds of thousands of soldiers who marched off to war in Europe in 1914-1917, their story has gone to the grave with them. Or they remain in the memories of their grandchildren - people like me. My grandfather was a lumberjack in northern Wisconsin when the call to arms came. Despite the fact that neither he nor others from the area around Tigerton spoke good English - German was their first language - they answered the call. And served admirably. An American of German ancestry warring against the Germans.

What a story that in itself must have been. Cousins fighting cousins. Fuhrmans killing Fuhrmanns. His was an American story. Heinrich, son of Gustav, ein auswanderer von der alten land sein, willing to risk his life for ... the United States of America. Like his fellow veterans, my grandfather never talked about his experiences in France. He chopped down trees for a living, then went off to war and fought the Germans, returned to Wisconsin, married my grandmother, Ida, provided for and raised a large family. A family that included my father, Harold Fuhrman, a man who was destined to answer a similar call and to go off to fight the Germans himself many years later in a place called Normandy.

End of story. Unfortunately. 

My grandfather died a quarter-century ago. Son, husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, now great-great-grandfather to Chase, Kaid, and Jayla, lumberjack, hero. American. A marker in a cemetery. Dwindling memories.

A generation of our collective family passing into history.