For Mindy Sue

It seems when I was younger, I didn’t have nearly as many conflicting thoughts as I do now.  I remember a time in my life, well into my thirties, where things seemed nearly perfect.  I had a nice house and a steady, decent paying job.  That’s not to say it was worry-free, because it wasn’t.  It just seemed that the path to the future was pretty clear, albeit frighteningly boring.  Things are different these days, but if nothing else, I know I saved myself from working in a factory for 40 years, and I’m good with that.  But I didn’t write this to talk about my problems.  I wrote it to make the point that it’s funny how things work out.

I won’t go through the entire timeline, but I started out worrying about money and ended up waxing nostalgic all the way back to grade school.  I can’t say it was the best time of my life, but it sure was fun.  We lived in a small town and I went to school with the same kids from kindergarten through the seventh grade.  I had friends, good friends that I’d known for years.  We had a lot of laughs.  Out of the blue, I absurdly remembered a pep rally from the seventh grade where every kid in the school was laughing at the same time. 

I remembered a girl who had to speak at the pep rally, but she wasn’t just any girl.  She was that one girl in the school who was developed far beyond her years.  Unlike most of the girls there, she had far outgrown her trainer bra.  She had boobs that jiggled and swayed when she walked.  When she walked, her ass was poetry in motion.  She was every 12 year old’s dream.  Anyway, she had to read something from behind a lectern to the entire student body, and as she started, she shifted her weight from one foot to another.  Then she did it again.  And again and again, almost every 10 seconds or so.  I don’t think she knew why everyone was laughing because she kept doing it.  She almost looked like she was dancing.  I laughed too, but only because I was deeply in lust with her.  I’m not sure I knew what lust was then, but she did make me feel real funny whenever she got close…like in the same room. 

I didn’t mention the girl’s name, but if you went to Parkside Jr. High in Normal, you know who I’m talking about.  I got to thinking of people’s names, of the kids I went to school with, and was surprised I could remember so many of them.  We all do that, don’t we?  Think about people we knew as kids, and wonder what happened to them?  I suppose I could probably find them on Facebook, but that was so long ago.  Would they remember me, and what would I say after hello?  Anyway, one name in particular came to mind, and for just a few minutes, nothing else mattered except the memory of Mindy Sue Lenning. 

She was my first girlfriend.  She was my first hand-hold, my first kiss.  She was also my twin sister’s best friend, so she was always near, even if in gossip.  Everybody in grade school knew it was me and Mindy.  She was short.  She had moved from Birmingham Alabama; I can still hear exactly the way she enunciated “Birmingham”.  Her father’s name (which I knew from looking them up in the phone book) was Gerhard, which, at the time, was just hilarious.  She had an exotic look, like a pacific islander, and imperfect teeth that were perfect.  She was happy and fun and laughed at everything I said.  It didn’t matter what we were doing, because whatever it was, we would have a good time doing it.  We moved away from Illinois after I finished the 7^th grade to a Detroit suburb.  Things there were far different there, but that’s another story. 

The point is (and I hate that I sound like an old person when I say it) that those were good and much simpler times.  When I get down on the way things are now, it’s good to remember that things were good before and with any luck, they’ll get good again sometime.  Of course, they’ll never be as good as childhood; that time has come and gone and it can never be recaptured.  I don’t think of those times often, but when I do, it’s always good.  I did some digging on Mindy, though, and found that while it is good to remember the past, it’s also good to leave it right there.

After some digging, my sister and I finally found Mindy.  Well, her obituary anyway.  She died September 8, 2008 at 12:35am in her home.  It didn’t say what kind, but it was cancer that killed her.  I had to stop and sit down for a minute.  All of our childhood plans came back:  Her family lived in an apartment, and I can remember going there and knocking on the door and sweating bullets asking her mom or dad if she were home and could she come out?  We’d walk down to Normal Park and there was never enough time to make our plans before she had to go back in.  When her dad whistled, she had to go NOW.  We had time to plan our marriage; there was no question about that happening.  We didn’t have a profession planned, we didn’t think of college, because none of that mattered yet.  The only important thing was that we were going to be together forever, holding hands (kissing sometimes), and playing and daydreaming in the park. 

Mindy was married and divorced (to a guy named Jeff, oddly enough).  She had two kids and died at the age of 46.  From what little I’ve been able to find, she had a normal life, and I’m happy for her to have had it.  I felt badly, though, because she had been dead for four years before I knew it.  I wish I had a different picture of her; the one posted is the only one I could find.  Her smile was magical. 

I’m sure things would have been different had I not moved.  The Detroit area, and shortly thereafter, Flint, MI, was much, much different than the small farming town I spent the first 13 years of my life.  There’s no changing the way things are, but every now and then, because I’m old, I remember the old days and old friends…and it’s good.  In my digging I found a lot of names that I recognized.  I remember some names that I couldn’t find at all.  I’m torn between seeing how they are now and remembering them as they were.  Such is my fate as an old person.

Let’s talk about killers!

 

Confessed Killer Released From Jail After Two Days

When I first read this I knew I wanted to say something about it.  I ran into some trouble, though, because I couldn’t decide how to start.  I don’t want this to sound sappy, because it’s something every single one of us potentially faces:  That you’ll kill the person you love the most. 

Here are the facts:  George Sanders, in Sun City, AZ, shot his wife last Friday, November 9^th.  She survived for a couple days, but died in the hospital Sunday.  After his arraignment, he was released from jail on his own recognizance.  How can this be?

Here’s the story:  George and Virginia Sanders had been married for over forty years.  Virginia, 81, suffered from multiple sclerosis; she had been in a wheelchair since 1971.  George had been an avid golfer, but gave it up to take better care of his wife.  Neighbors said they would see them strolling together, he pushing her wheelchair around the block.  He would play the piano or guitar and sing to her.  By all accounts, he was the perfect loving husband. 

George says Virginia asked him to kill her.  He says she was tired of the pain.  She had recently been told that she needed to be hospitalized for her condition.  George shot his wife in the head.  Once he had done it, he called 911 and told police what he’d done.  He was arrested.  At his arraignment, wearing a prison jumpsuit and facing a charge of premeditated murder, he interrupted the judge to tell him that he wanted a blanket.  He said, “I’m so cold, and I’ve been so cold.  My back is spasming.  Could I be given a blanket or two?”  He was released.

There are so many things to say about this story; as I wrote the facts (or as much as I could find from news reports) I hoped I would latch onto that one hook that would make this easier to write about, but it never happened.  You should also have several unanswered (or unanswerable) questions, the most pressing being this:  He admitted to murdering his wife.  We generally lock people up for that sort of activity don’t we?  Why then, do I feel like this guy should be immediately be surrounded by his family and given a hot meal and a warm bed and an endless ear in which to pour what must surely be a heavier burden than can be imagined?

The sixth commandment (you knew I’d work the bible in here somewhere), according to KJV says “Thou shalt not kill”.  I have an acquaintance very well versed in the Talmud who holds that the literal translation of the sixth commandment isn’t “kill”, it’s “murder”.  Thou shalt not murder, and there’s a big difference between killing and murder, isn’t there?  We kill enemies, but we murder innocents, and who is more innocent than a wheelchair-bound victim of MS?

I could go on and on about this story.  There are so many things about this that could be argued from different religious or philosophical viewpoints, but the bottom line, the one thing I took away was this:  I have the utmost respect for George Sanders.  I’ll bet as he left jail, there were only two sounds those around him could hear:  His muffled weeping, and the clanging of his giant brass balls as he shuffled off.

Here’s the most complete story of George I could find:  http://www.myfoxphoenix.com/story/20088368/2012/11/13/man-shoots-elderly-wife-in-alleged-mercy-killing

 

 

Every year, on November 11, we celebrate Veterans Day.  It was originally known as “Armistice Day” to commemorate the end of WWI, but was amended in 1954 by President Eisenhower to be “veterans” day.  Sometimes it’s confused with Memorial Day, but in a nutshell, Memorial Day is for those who died, and Veterans Day is for those who served.  As a US Army veteran, I must confess to spending last Sunday having a few self-congratulatory drinks.  They were very good, but I also spent some time thinking about the recent vets, the ones who actually stood in harm’s way, and to tell you the truth, I felt guilty.  I felt guilty because even though I served, no one ever shot at me.

I’m not sure I can fully explain why it is that I felt that way.  It is the height of folly to wish to be in a combat situation, but I must confess that I remember doing just that.  I spent 15 months at the DMZ in Korea, and it seemed like not a week went by when we weren’t jarred awake by someone screaming that the North Koreans were on their way over the border and by God it was time to grab your shit and get ready to fight.  It always turned out to be a drill, but for that 3 or 4 hours, it was an adrenaline rush like I’ve never experienced since.  And I feel guilty for being a veteran but never having fought.

This has been bugging me for some time, but I got to thinking about it, and I have (tentatively) found a panacea for my “lack of combat” guilt.  First, I retrospectively have to thank my lucky stars that during the time of my enlistment (83-86), there were no major conflicts in the world that we were involved in.  Second, as I remember, when we had to go through those constant alerts, it wasn’t just those of us whose role was a combat engineer standing in the cold waiting to get our rifles.  The cooks were there.  The supply guys were there.  The commo guys were there.  The goddam mail clerk was there.  Everyone was facing the same scenario:  Time to kill or be killed.  We all fulfilled our obligation to be ready if needed.  There’s no shame in that.

Napoleon Bonaparte is quoted as saying “An army marches on its stomach”, and anyone who’s ever been out where there is nothing knows that you might be able to forage for a while, but sooner or later, you’ll be looking for the mess tent.  Bullets are also very important.  The enemy doesn’t wait for you to reload.  Someone has to bring them to you.  Someone has to be operating a radio; you can’t combat if you’re not in contact.  The obvious point is, they guys on the front can’t do their job unless the rear is there.  Everyone who knows me knows I mean no disrespect to the green berets when I say that in the big picture, all those deployed are in fact, Special Forces.

 

 

We make heroes of those who kill the enemy, and make no mistake:  I fully endorse that label.  If you stand and fight when the bullets are flying, and you are lucky enough to return home, you are a hero in my book.  There are those who say that our forces fighting in Afghanistan or Iraq are fighting meaningless wars for oil or profit, and there’s probably a good deal of truth in that, but the bottom line is, they’re facing real bullets from real guns and they’re not running away.  The war in Iraq is derided as a “war for oil”, but Saddam Hussein killed innocent people by the hundreds of thousands for the accident of their birth.  (Look up Kurdish massacres.)  Should we just allow that to continue?  The Taliban shoots 12 year old girls in the head for the crime of going to school.  Should we turn our backs away from that?

Some say we stick our noses in where we don’t belong, so as long as I’m ranting, I’m going to just say it:  Yes, we are the world’s police.  Call me a xenophobe, but remember this:  There is any number of groups in the world that would, if given the chance, march into your town and show you how shitty your short life could be.  If we don’t stop them there, they’ll be on our doorstep before you know it.

And that’s my military rant.  I have a lot more to say about killing and murder and death.  Just ask me.

Just Like Living In Paradise

I live in a tropical paradise.  When I go out my front door and walk due south, I can only walk for about a minute before my feet are wet up to my ankles in the Gulf of Mexico.  The azure gulf yawns before me, and the white sugar sand beach stretches in either direction as far as I can see.  A constant breeze breeds constant waves, blowing and crashing to the tune of seagulls whining and wheeling overhead while pelicans looking too big to fly cruise the surf, suddenly plummeting into the water to surface with a fish, which they swallow with a snap of their necks and a flap of their pouches. 

It is the very definition of idyllic.  It’s so captivating that as I stand and marvel, the surf washes in and then hisses back, taking the sand from beneath my feet so that if I stand too long, I lurch like a drunk, almost falling down while standing still.  (It’s the surf…really.)  Almost every day the sun shines from a cloudless sky, and every day I stand in awe, not only at how beautiful it is, but how easily my worries fade into the sun and surf and wind.  It never gets old. 

And then some idiot always wakes me up.

The trouble with living in a tropical paradise is that everyone, naturally, wants to be here.  Far be it from me to begrudge any person the joy of sandy toes and surf, but because I live here, I also reign here, if only in my imagination, and there are visitors to my kingdom whom I would, if I had the power to do so, quickly and forcibly remove, to wit:

In March there were some vacationers from Wisconsin here, staying for a week in the building next to mine.  I saw them as they arrived:  A mom, a dad, two young boys, maybe 8 and 10, and a person I’m pretty sure was a brother in law.  I knew they were from Wisconsin long before I saw their license plate, because the entire clan was decked out in Packers gear.  Every article of clothing, from hats to shoes screamed “GREEN BAY PACKERS!”  Their car, as you might imagine, was also festooned with cheese head paraphernalia.  They were from Wisconsin.

When it’s not blazing hot, I keep the windows open, and in doing so, am treated to the sound of the surf crashing on the shore.  Sometimes it’s almost loud, but it’s always there and always soothing.  I catch snatches of voices from the beach as well.  They’re faint, but I can hear them:  Children squealing with delight or drunk people “woo-hooing”.  And then there were the Wisconsinites. 

I think it was the second night they were here.  I was sitting in my apartment and I could hear people in the street.  At first it was just background noise, and it fit in, because it’s warm and playing outside is the thing to do.  Then, closer, just outside, I heard words of encouragement, like “Catch it,” and “Go deep,” which were inevitably followed by the sound of tennis shoes frantically flapping on the asphalt.  Sometimes, the ball was caught, and sometimes not; I could hear it bouncing sporadically, as loose footballs do.  It was completely normal, except that after every sound of the ball not being caught, the result was the adult male voice saying, “Really?  REALLY?”   It must have been after three or four times that I’d heard it when I realized that my pleasant background symphony had gone from pleasant to obnoxious.  “REALLY?” must have been the only word/expression this guy knew, and he couldn’t have sounded more ignorant.  It seems to me that only dullards use that phrase that way, as if repeating one rhetorical word with increasing volume somehow imparts an air of unique respectability to the speaker.  I think it made him sound like an idiot.   

Anyway, as the sequence began yet again, there came the sound of the flapping tennis shoes, a scuffle, and then a fall; the unmistakable wet smack of skin on pavement.  Anyone who has ever witnessed a child falling down on the street knows there are about 5 seconds before the wailing starts and of course, start it did.  I couldn’t see, but I knew there were tears and blood.  The male voice admonished the crying child to not be so thin-skinned.  Far be it from me to tell anyone how to raise their children, but that lummox didn’t seem very sympathetic.   

Right here is where this story should end.  But it doesn’t. 

I stepped out on my porch out of sheer disbelief to see what would (or wouldn’t) happen next.    Within three minutes, they were back at their street football game.  It wasn’t fifteen minutes before the entire scene was played out AGAIN, complete with skinned knees and tears, with dad yelling “REALLY??”  like a skipping record.  I felt like this:

I stood, smoking and smirking; I didn’t say a word to them then, nor the entire week they were here.  They didn’t speak to or even acknowledge me either.  Probably best that way. 

I think what bugs me the most is that it never occurred to these morons to walk not 20 steps to the sand on the shore of the goddam ocean to throw their football.  In the sand, if you miss a throw, it won’t bounce very far.  It’s good exercise to run in it, but most importantly, when you fall, you rarely bleed and almost never cry. 

The stupid street football show went on ALL WEEK, and this thick dolt never thought to play in the sand that he obviously drove his family a LONG WAY to be beside.  What a great way to spend your vacation:  forcing your kids to play next to the beach but not on it, spending a fortune on tissues for tears, bandages for blood, and seven solid days of crushing your child’s self-esteem because they cry when they fall down trying to catch a football thrown in the street NEXT TO THE SANDY BEACH.  I’m all for tough love, but everything in moderation.  And keeping him from playing in or next to the sea is just wrong.  As the southerners might say, that’s just “yankee” wrong.   

It’s not all bad here, though.  In fact, I have met some extraordinarily nice people.  I can’t tell you how much I’ve saved in groceries; when the weekenders find out I’m always here, they invariably give me a cornucopia of foodstuffs, from eggs to half rib eye tenderloins.  I’ve gotten furniture, food, bait, and sometimes, when I’m paying attention, advice.  I’ve been lucky enough to make new friends, have good conversation, and most importantly, I’ve got a revolving set of drinking buddies that I see every couple weeks for a couple days, and then they go away for a while.  Let me tell you, it’s impossible to put a price on that.  That’s a slice of fried gold right there.

The Wages of Sin

Christian religious scholars have poured over “scripture” for over two millennia.  Why, you might ask, do I have quotation marks around the word “scripture”?  I mean, doesn’t everybody know that the word is used to describe the writings of both the old and new testaments, and further, that for the faithful, they’re considered sacred, the word of God Himself, in all his forms?  Well, I have the quote marks because to me, they’re not sacred.  Call me a blasphemer, but until they’ve been proven to be of divine origin, they’re words, like any other set of words, and carry no more weight than any other writing.  In fact, a case could easily be made to show that they are anything BUT sacred or divine, but I’ll leave that argument for another time.  For the purposes of this essay, let’s assume they are in fact direct quotes.

God speaks for the first time in Genesis.  Since there were no people, there is no way to know what He said, which makes the whole “Let there be light” thing unbelievable, but remember, we’re pretending. So anyway, the Bible tells us what God says in many places throughout the Old Testament, but in Exodus, He writes it down.  No wait.  He carves it into stone.  Twice.  I find this very significant because now we’re not working with hearsay, but text written “with the finger of God.”

You would think that, as the infallible word of God, it wouldn’t matter which translation of the Bible you use, because they would all be the same, but again, we’re pretending.  So let’s use the King James Version (from 1769, not the original 1611 version of the version…see a pattern here?)  Exodus 20:4-5 says:

“Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.  Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the LORD thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.” 

If you’ve done any kind of bible study (and I don’t mean reading it and hoping for a personal revelation) you know that many of the stories related therein are allegorical in nature.  For instance, the story of David and Goliath is far more than a fable about a little boy killing a giant and becoming a king, but in the case of the quote we’re dealing with, it seems pretty clear that we are to take the words literally; there are no hidden meanings here.  God is telling us what He wants us to do.  In writing.  It is highly unlikely that He used medieval vernacular, so let me try a translation: 

“Do not make statues of me.  Do not portray me as a bird, an animal or a fish.  Nothing.  Do not hold idols as holy; I don’t like it.  If you do, I will punish your children, grandchildren, great and great-great grandchildren.”

That seems pretty plain to me.  St. John of Damascus, who was most definitely not divine, argues that there are occasions where idols can be used, which has been very helpful to the Catholics, but it seems to me that taking the word of a mortal man, which stands as a stark and utter contradiction to what God himself plainly said is beyond presumptuous.  It is as if he (St. John) is saying, “I know what God said, but what he really meant was…”

As it has been since antiquity, that attitude is still prevalent today.  Almost everywhere, there are examples of people who, under the guise of religion, peddle as authentic and sanctioned things which are blatantly un-biblical.  I picked this particular line of reasoning to rail against the Solid Rock church in Monroe, OH, just north of Cincinnati. 

Dubbed a “mega church”, they are a non-denominational organization that until last year had a six-story high statue of Jesus that looked for all the world like it was made of butter.  It was actually made of fiberglass and foam; it was the gaudiest thing I’ve ever seen.  I remember the first time I saw it.  It scared me. 

I came around a curve on I-75, heading south from Dayton to Cincy, when I saw two massive yellow arms stretching into the sky.  As I passed it, I saw that it was a statue of Jesus from the chest up with his arms outstretched; there was a pool in front of it and it looked like he was drowning and clutching for a life preserver.  I know I’m not the only person to think it was odd.  I’ve since seen it described as “butter Jesus”, “drowning Jesus”, “Subway five dollar foot long Jesus”, and the most popular moniker, “touchdown Jesus”. Here it is:

 

In the Old Testament, Yahweh often meted out terrible punishments to those who transgressed against him.  Evidently, he still does that.  On June 15^th of last year, a thunderstorm passed over the skyward- reaching Jesus, and a bolt of lightning shot down from the sky striking the statue.  In what can only be described as a spectacular blaze, the entire thing burned to the ground in short order, causing $700,000 worth of damage, and killing all the fish that lived in the pond it protruded from.  The next morning, all that remained was a creepy, smoldering skeletal frame.

You just can’t come away from this incident wondering if there was a supernatural hand at work.  If ever there was an example of a commandment being outright flouted, this was it, and as much as I hate to admit it, I take a good deal of glee in thinking that for once, God did something about those who use Him to prey on the gullible.  Still, the Solid Rock church is undaunted, and plans are underway to build a new, better, not as idolatrous replacement.

 

In a USA Today story the day after the fire, it was reported that the original statue cost $400,000; the new one is estimated at up to $750,000.  In what I consider a shockingly arrogant move, the Solid Rock church feels it’s better to spend almost three quarters of a million dollars on an idol that God EXPRESSLY FORBIDS IN WRITING instead of, oh, I don’t know, using that same money to help the needy people of the area, and by needy, I mean those who really NEED a hand.  If you’ve ever been to Dayton or Cincinnati, you know there are plenty of them. 

Anyone who reads my dreck knows my feelings on Christianity.  For those who don’t, I’ll say it again:  Beware the person who claims to know the mind of God.  

PS:  I've heard Heywood Banks' song.