Politics and Poker

I try to be non-political on Facebook because I have so many friends from different walks of life. In most cases our friendship has nothing to do with politics so I tend to stay neutral. I believe the time has come to speak.

One of my favorite writers and directors in Hollywood is Aaron Sorkin. I doubt we could be anymore different in our beliefs but I can recognize good writing. In the movie “The American President” President Andrew Shepherd confronts an adversary with this speech. “America isn't easy. America is advanced citizenship. You gotta want it bad, 'cause it's gonna put up a fight. It's gonna say "You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours. You want to claim this land as the land of the free? Then the symbol of your country can't just be a flag; the symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest. Show me that, defend that, celebrate that in your classrooms. Then, you can stand up and sing about the "land of the free".

I am disappointed that we have reached a point where “Free Speech” (or abridging the freedom of speech) seems to only go one way. I see this on both sides. I am a very conservative Christian. I’m a Bible reader not a Bible thumper. I hear people screaming that religion has no place in government; well I would say that government has no place in religion. Remember this little phrase?

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof;”

If I freely exercise the tenets of my faith I’m called a bigot, a homophobic, a racist etc. If I believe in traditional marriage, if I believe life begins at conception and if I believe bathrooms should be for girls only or boys only I’m intolerant. Why is it that the other side doesn’t feel the need to respect my opinions? If I don’t want to make a cake for a gay marriage why should I be forced to? But even more than this, why would a gay couple WANT a cake made by someone that didn’t want to make it? I certainly wouldn’t want a service provided to me by someone that was against my life choices. The only reason I can think of for one group to force another group is to bully or to impose their opinion on me. It would be different if my service was the only one available, but it’s not. Why not just go to someone who wants to serve you. Because that would be tolerance, instead we must make someone right and therefore someone wrong.

Regardless of what some say I don’t equate gay rights with the Civil Rights of the 1960’s.  I’m sorry I just don’t. I don’t know if one’s sexuality is a result of nature or nurture. I know that those who are open-minded will find science on both sides. The color of ones skin however is an immutable fact; thus making their situation different from other ‘so called rights’. If we are to consider the Declaration and the Constitution we really have very few “rights”. “We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal.” & “among these rights are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”. The original text said property instead of happiness but the founders were afraid the slave owners would use the slaves as a means of growing their property.

It reminds be of a child who has lost the absolute difference between needs and wants. I remember my daughter as a young girl coming and complaining about how she desperately needs something i.e. new jeans… At this point I would again explain to her the difference between need and want, “you need air, you need food, you need water, you may even need a home but surely you recognize that you don’t ‘need’ new jeans, you just want them.” This is when I became an expert on eye rolling and stomping feet.

Of course I want all American’s to have a nice middle class life or more, but raising the minimum wage to $15 an hour is not how you do it. It’s not done by handing out things it’s done by providing opportunities. It’s just that many people don’t want to work for it they want it given to them.

As an example, I would love few things more than to play the piano; I just don’t want to learn to play. I want God to wave his hand and make it happen. I have a feeling I may be waiting for a long time.

Isn’t it time that we can a least agree to disagree. Why must someone be wrong in order for someone to be right? The people who yell the loudest about tolerance seem to be the least tolerant. Until we can respect each other as humans we will never be able to join together and move forward as Americans.

 

My Father's Hands

As a middle aged adult, (assuming I live to be 130) I have the honor of still having both my parents with me. Mother is 87 and Dad will be 93 this fall. In fact they live with me and it is an honor to be able to serve their needs at this time in their lives.

One of the interesting facts about not only my Father but all the men in my paternal line are their hands. All of the men have the same hands, large, strong and masculine. If a dozen men’s hands were lined up in a row one would be able to pick out my family, that’s how much all of their hands look alike.

The only difference in the hands is the size, my Father at his peak was about 5’10”, my brother the tallest standing at 6’1” and my son is 5’8”.  My grandson (my son’s boy), although he’s only 8, I can already see the family hands.

My Father’s hands represent everything good about the ‘greatest generation’. He served in the Navy during WWII. While in the Navy he learned to become a Turbine Engineer, operating the steam that controlled the engines of the ships. Getting out of the Navy at the height of the industrial revolution, he was able to transfer his skills to work in a steel mill. So for the next 34 years, his hands made sure that just the right amount of steam pressure was released throughout the mill.

For those not familiar with this type of work, it can be very stressful. Not enough pressure could shut down production. This could not happen; the mill ran 24 hours a day, 7 days a week 365 days a year. However, too much pressure could cause an explosion. 

One thing that all of my men have in common is the ability to use their hands to fix or build just about anything. When I was a child, my Father designed and built our family home. The only workmen hired were the electrician, the plasterer and the brick layers. My Father, my Mother, my brother, who was ten at the time and even I at seven worked on the house until it was completed. It was just what we did.

As time passed, I grew up, had my own family, who have their own families and memories faded. Now on the other side, having my folks with me some of the memories come wafting into my head when least expected. It is the feeling of a soft breeze that comes out of nowhere to caress my face with the tenderness of a babies touch.

My folk’s bedroom is just off our living room. In the living room adjacent to the bedroom I have a recliner and table and here is where I start my day. I generally rise before anyone else and I sit there and read, listen to music or just pray. This is my quiet time. My Dad gets up next and as him leaves the bedroom he enters the living room behind my chair. As soon as I hear him open the door, I reach my hand up behind me and as he enters he takes my hand and squeezes and pats it and says ‘good morning’.  This has become our routine.

One of the memories that came floating on the breeze is really more of hearing than remembering. The story as I’ve been told happens at about the time I started to crawl. We lived in a big old farm house and we had a coal furnace. Every morning my Father would go to the basement and stoke the fire. From the time I could make my way to the basement door I would push my fingers under the door and wait for my Daddy to come up the stairs and tickle my fingers. That was our game. When I was about 9 months old my Grandfather became very ill. He lived several states away and my Dad took off to be with him. At nine months old I had no idea what this meant. All I knew is that I would crawl over to the basement door and put my fingers under the door waiting for Daddy to come upstairs.

Of course he didn’t. According to my Mother, I’d lay there all day waiting. Soon I started to cry and before long I had stopped eating and only cried. Within a day or two I was hospitalized due to dehydration and my Father was called home; merely because he wasn’t there to tickle my fingers.

So here we are, all these years later, and we’ve come full circle. I reach up and Daddy pats my hand. But even more important I think of my heavenly Father. The only difference; when I reach for my heavenly Father’s hand, He is always there. He never leave’s me and even when I cry, He is still there to tickle my fingers and pat my hand.