Reading's Gift To Me

One of my earliest memories is of reading, or at least beginning to. My father had wired a small light under the dashboard of his old pickup, and I sat in the floor between he and my mother reading comic books. I was just a little boy, but I remember how proud I was the first time I read to my dad, and how proud he was of me.

As a teenager, I went through the same coming of age issues as everyone else, and my relationship with my father was difficult at times. Even though it seemed we had nothing in common, we sometimes found a glimmer of our old closeness discussing a book one or the other had read.


Reading was always a favored pastime for me, but in the months following a serious accident in which I suffered a broken neck, it became my saving grace. Lying in bed wracked with pain from the spinal fusion surgeries I'd undergone, worrying about moving the wrong way and causing the paralysis I'd secretly feared all my life, and too proud to admit it to anyone, I found my escape in books.


As I read I could become part of the story. I could forget my pain for just a moment and ride with Lee at Gettysburg, or fight desperately to get off the beach at Iwo Jima under heavy fire. Books gave me the opportunity to do what my broken body could not do. I could immerse myself in the magic of the written word to the point of making the temporary harshness of my reality disappear.


Through reading, I revived my spirit and refreshed my soul. I have never been a quitter, I've been a fighter for as long as I've lived, but even fighters tire. Even the strongest of men have moments when they need lifted up by a friend. During my long days of struggle and pain, the great writers spoke to me, and raised me up. Through their words, I could enjoy the beauty of the world outside my walls, far beyond the confines of the bed I lay in, and I knew that as long as I didn't give up it would be waiting for me at the end of this trial.

(This article was written as a contribution to the online book fair beginning October 3, 2006 at love of reading.com.
Selected as an Editor's Pick of the Week for September 27 - October 3, 2006 on Blogcritics.org.

Sago Suicides and Mine Safety

The Mine Safety and Health Administration (MSHA) is a joke. I don't say that as someone on the outside. I've spent eighteen years in the mining industry and countless hours in MSHA sanctioned and conducted safety classes. MSHA holds an eight hour refresher course in mine safety each year. It's a mind numbing series of short, boring, films and bland speeches given by people with the personality of an eraser. It serves little purpose, other than giving MSHA the opportunity to say 'we did something' when someone dies working in the industry.
The company I worked for would routinely schedule you to attend 'safety' class after you'd worked several shifts in a few days and were so tired you couldn't see straight. My personal favorite was their habit of forcing a man to stay over after working night shift to sit in a classroom all day. It didn't occur to anyone that it might be a bit silly for them to schedule a man to work all night, attend MSHA training until 3:30 in the afternoon, and then expect that man to come in the next night, exhausted, and work safely? That's MSHA in a nutshell. They don't care, as long as the paperwork is in order.
Two men associated with the Sago mine tragedy have committed suicide within the last month. They both indicated they felt the authorities were blaming them for the deaths of their friends and co-workers. As someone who doesn't doubt MSHA would gladly put the blame on an individual to cover their own ass, this isn't hard to believe.
I read the comments from MSHA officials stating they'd talked to the men, but had no plans to talk to them again. Why would they? Firstly, the guys in the mine did their jobs, they reported any fluctuation in parameters to their supervisors. That's what they were supposed to do. If there was any blame on individuals, it shouldn't have fallen on these guys. It should have fallen on the bosses that told them to get to work and not to worry about it.
I feel for the guys that committed suicide and their families. The Spanish Inquisition has nothing on a government agency trying to protect itself. I have no idea what MSHA said to those guys, but whatever it was, it haunted them and drove them to early graves.
The sad part for me, is that they don't care that their playing of the blame game killed two men just as surely as the fire killed the others. The paperwork is in order. That's the only thing MSHA gives a damn about. They can hold themselves up as blameless and pretend they do everything they can to protect miners. This is more than a misrepresentation. It's a blatant lie.

Take It Like A Man!

My sons couldn't have been more different. Todd, the eldest, was a quiet, studious kid who played trombone in several bands in high school. I was very proud of his talents as a musician, and when work permitted, I loved listening to him play with the symphonic, jazz, or marching bands. He was a committed student and I never worried about him getting good grades and staying out of trouble.
If Todd was a calm sea, Adam was a tidal wave.
A big, strong, rambunctious kid, Adam thought just about any problem could be solved with the appropriate application of brute force. He played varsity football, starting as the left offensive tackle, and seemed to take it as a personal insult that any opposing player would dare attempt sacking his quarterback. In class, he was everything Todd wasn't. If Adam needed a 75 to pass, I think he stayed up late figuring out how to get 75.1. He drove me crazy, and I loved him to death.
When the boys were in their early teens they began to settle their differences the hard way. I called it knuckle and skull diplomacy. Their mother had little patience for such negotiations, but I knew they didn't really want to hurt each other. They were just two little bulls in the same pasture.
Pulling into the drive one afternoon after a miserably hot day at work, I was met by my wife on the deck. She told me not to sit down, but to go upstairs and see what my two little angels had done to my wall. I found a large hole in Adam's bedroom wall and after looking it over, I went downstairs to discuss it with the boys. I let them know that fighting inside the house wasn't going to happen, and to drive the lesson home they were going to pay for the repairs, and my wages for fixing the damage. Since I love them, I gave them the cut rate of ten dollars an hour, and planned on taking my time repairing the wall. Their faces fell as they mentally calculated what this would do to their meager cash reserves. Warning them not to take it any further, I sent them upstairs to sit on their beds and reflect on a better way to settle their differences.
When I got back from the lumber yard, I found Vickie chuckling as she fixed supper. I asked what was so funny? She told me when the boys had walked past her on the way upstairs, they were talking about how much money this might cost? She said Adam looked at Todd and, sounding disappointed, said, this wouldn't have happened, if you'd stood there and took it like a man.
My sons are gone now. Todd is a federal corrections officer, Adam is a United States Marine, they're both good men, and I'm very proud of both of them. Sometimes, when the house is quiet I can almost hear their voices from those long ago days, and it makes me sad that they're grown.

The News Story I'd Like To Read

Muslim leaders gathered this week in a historic summit to address the future of their faith, and released this stunning statement at it's conclusion.
"In the name of Allah, we have searched our souls, faced hard truths about ourselves and the world we live in, and declare full unity in the findings of this review."
Among the more startling statements were found under the section titled 'We Cannot', in which the leaders declared:

We cannot claim the right to be offended at the remarks of Pope Benedict XVI quoting a long dead emporor even as Imams and Mullahs call for the murder of non-Muslims from the pulpit and call it Jihad.

We cannot lament the deaths of innocents to collateral damage even as followers of Islam use children as bait for ambushes.

We cannot declare mosques holy ground when they are used to store weapons for terrorists and hate is preached from the pulpit. We declare any such use is not the offices of God, and any mosque engaging in such practices does so at it's own peril.

We cannot live in nations where we are not willing to accept the rule of law, and further, that failure to follow those laws will bring a justified reaction from the government of the affected country.

We cannot call for understanding between religions until we halt the preaching of the faith spread by the sword. The Koran states unequivocably as a sin, the act of forced conversion.

We cannot protest the treatment of captured terrorists and insurgents calling themselves Muslims even as non-Muslims are kidnapped, tortured, and beheaded as heretics by animals hiding behind the veil of religion.

We cannot accept acts done in the name of God that are repulsive to God and man. We state the term 'martyr' is inaccurate for anyone who commits the sins of suicide and murder. They are in fact mindless killers, and whosoever perpetrates such a crime will not enter the gates of Heaven, but shall be confined to the sufferings of eternal damnation.

We cannot continue to deny those calling themselves Muslims are the source of many terrorist attacks, without provocation except to further their own worldly agenda. We pledge to cease all support, financial and spiritual, for any follower of the Islamic faith engaging in terrorism.

We cannot continue to make excuses for those who bring shame upon Islam, and cause the citizens of the world to turn against us. We accept we have been culpable in allowing blood to be shed, and pledge to be so no longer.

We cannot continue to play the victim of aggression. We admit and lament that we have been the aggressors far too often, and often against innocents.

We cannot continue to protect the animals among us. We issue this fatwa, all Muslims are to lay hands upon anyone known to participate in terrorist activities and hand them over to the proper authorities without mercy.

We cannot continue to demand or expect the world to change to suit our views. We pledge to learn to exist peacefully in the community of nations.

We cannot rise up in righteous indignation at every perceived slur upon ourselves or our faith until we learn to give the same respect we demand.

World leaders praised the findings of the conference, and at long last a real chance for peace exists.

We're Still Here

Five years ago today America was attacked by terrorists with the intent of destroying us as a nation. They failed.
Our great City of New York took a horrific blow and thousands of our fellow citizens died in the senseless and brutal attack, but we're still here.
Even as the Towers fell, America rose up. Do you remember how your town looked the day after? How the streets and houses were draped with our flag? If the terrorists thought this nation would go quietly into the night they were sadly mistaken.
America is not a skyscraper, not something that can be knocked down. America is a spirit within each of us, undefinable, unbreakable, unbeatable.
American's didn't react the way the terrorists thought we would. We didn't wring our hands and surrender. We lined up to give blood to the injured, we went to Church and asked God to stand by us as we defended our land. We cried for the people in the Towers. Many of us knew none of them, that didn't matter at all, they were American's and American's are a strange breed.
We can fight between ourselves and do so quite regularly, but if you're not one of us, stay out of the way. It's a family fight and you may want to take notice if you're our enemy, what the fight is about. It's about the best way to rid the Earth of you.
I've seen much of America. I've stood in the mountains of Tennessee, the thick Ozark forests of Missouri, alongside the ocean in the Carolina's, and in the heartland of Oklahoma. I've seen more than enough of this land and her citizens to convince me that we cannot be defeated.
The American Spirit is too strong. Love of Country too deep for words. We may disagree on all manner of things, but take note of the one thing we do not disagree on. This is our land and we will defend it to the death against anyone or anything.
You bloodied us, you hurt us badly, but you made a mistake. You underestimated the heart of the American people themselves. On September 11, 2001 you should have noticed one more thing. Americans didn't stop to ask the political views or ethnicity of our neighbors before we gave everything we had to help.
Democrats and Republicans, liberal or conservative, black, white, red or yellow, we stood shoulder to shoulder because the ties that bind are far stronger than the philosophies that divide. We are Americans before all else.
It's been five long years since that terrible day, but we're still here. We will always be here, whether you like it or not.

Death of A Hero

Our community said goodbye to US Army Staff Sergeant Michael Deason today. Deason was killed in action in Iraq on August 31, less than a week from the end of his tour and his return home to his wife and two children.
Deason's father had requested the procession wind it's way through our city so 'Mike can see home one more time.' The family asked the community to turn out, to line the route for SSgt Deason, to let him know his sacrifice was appreciated and his loss mourned. He wouldn't have been disappointed. Hundreds of his hometown folks stood silently as he passed, carried to his final resting place in a glass sided, gloss black travois hearse, pulled by a motorcycle.
I hope his family found some comfort in the presence of their neighbors and their show of respect for SSgt Deason. May he rest in peace.

Four Old Chairs

They're four very old chairs, well made, sturdy, seats worn smooth from the use of many years. They sit in my dining room now, surrounding an equally old table bought long ago for five dollars at a yard sale. We always thought we'd replace it someday, but never did. The little nicks and cuts in it's surface were put there by my children long ago. When I'm lonely or sad, our table has the power to take me back to soft talks with my kids, to pictures proudly colored and presented for display on the refrigerator door, to tired little heads napping gently as I watch.
The chairs belonged to Vickie's grandmother, a lady long since passed from this world. Vickie spent many happy days in her grandmother's house as a young girl, and the old chairs in our dining room are a connection. A physical reminder of a love that endures. To her they are ice cream sundaes on hot Summer days, gentle touches when she was crying, warm hugs, pies and cakes from her grandmother's oven, and memories of a gentle time when she was loved as only a grandmother can love.
Vickie's mother died when she was fifteen, and she became both sister and mother to her two little sisters. When she was at her grandmothers house, she could just be the kid she was and for a time, put aside the responsibility that she was far too young to bear. Her grandmother tried to help Vickie all she could, and she knew how very afraid her little granddaughter was, and how much she missed her mother. In her, Vickie had someone to turn to, to cry to, to admit her fear of failing her father as she tried to help raise her sisters.
The old womans love and tenderness was a gift to my wife, and because of that, a gift to me as well. She helped make Vickie what she is, loving and gentle, kind and wise, strong but tender. A woman I thank God for every day of my life.
We could get another table, a newer table, a larger table, but it would mean nothing to us. It would not bear the scars of our lives together. It would not remind us of those we've loved and lost in our youth. Our old table and chairs are hand me downs, but we will never part with them. They remind us too much of how lucky we've been.
They're just four old chairs, a scarred table, and a thousand loving memories.

'The Crocodile Hunter' Dies

I was saddened to learn of the death of Steve Irwin, the irrepressible Aussie with the childish grin who never lost his wonder at the power and creatures of nature.
Mr. Irwin was a conservationist, naturalist, television host, zoo curator, and teacher. He entertained millions of people with his signature line when things went awry. 'Cricky! She's a beaut!' I laughed every time he said this while he was rolling around in the mud on top of a captured crocodile.
His death from a stingray was sudden, unexpected, and tragic. I for one will miss this man, his zest for life, his love and devotion to his vocation. Rest in peace Steve.
G'day

I Love You Son, But!

Would you please stop messing with my computer! Poor kid doesn't mean to, but everytime he gets on this thing weird stuff happens. My background pics of the grandkids disappeared, replaced by Johnny Cash, I was getting a million pop ups a minute but I took care of that, and as he put it "hey Pop, I don't know what I did but you have a different homepage now?" Sigh, that's ok babe, I'll fix it.
I know he doesn't do it intentionally but the Marine is a cyber klutz. An accident looking for a place to happen and since I'm his Daddy it happens on my computer! I've tried to reason with him to no avail, he's convinced he "know's what he's doing". Oh' really?
For whatever reason he seems to run into the most problems trying to find backgrounds and whatnot for his myspace.com profile. I can count on spending at least half an hour on maintenance after he's updated that profile. I think the problem is the Jarhead just clicks on everything without looking at it closely. God only knows how many tracking cookies I found after his last foray into myspace add-ons. More than 20 if I recall.
I'm not really complaining, although it does get frustrating to have to restore my settings twice a week when he's home. It's a small price to pay for having him here. We expect him to head back to Camp Pendleton and beyond shortly so I'm just thankful for this time together. Now son, you know I love you, do Pop a favor? Buy your own computer. You're killing me.