Can you believe how those socialist liberals want to take away my Constitutional right to own a hammer?

 

A hammer is so incredibly useful! It can solve nearly any construction problem that might arise. If a screw gets stripped and pops out of line, I can just WHAM it back into place. Bingo! No more problem. A board gets out of line, WHAM ... there ya go!

 

They won't let me take my hammer on an airplane. Why is that? Just think: if one of those overhead compartments won't close, I could just WHAM ... and it's back in place! You know those wussy flight attendants aren't packing a hammer. If every competent traveler was packing, there would be zero more problems with overhead compartments.

 

Can't take it into most bars either. Bunch o' sissies. If one of those barstools won't spin proper, WHAMMO ... When I'm finished with it, it will spin, or it won't be a barstool anymore, one or the other.

 

People say there are dangers. Maybe I'll hit my own thumb. Maybe someone will take it from me and use it for bad things. Maybe I'll miss and damage something. Not me. I know how to use my hammer.

 

Don't get me wrong. Not everyone should carry a hammer. If you don't know how to use it right, don't carry it! But on the other hand, if we let the government decide who can and can't carry one, they will make it so none of us can carry one. You can't trust the government with power. They want all the power for themselves. Just look what they spend my tax money on!

 

People say there are other tools ... other techniques to make the repairs I make with my hammer. Screwdrivers, tape, glue. Hah! Maybe for them. They're afraid to use a hammer. Me, I'm not afraid of the power my hammer has. In fact I do have other tools ... like my sledgehammer ... and for those really tough tasks, my jackhammer! On full-auto my jackhammer can get rid of any problem on the face of the planet!

 

You'll get my hammer when you pry it from my cold, dead, work gloves!

 

By the way, I've been thinking about buying a handgun, too.

 

 

 

As I watched, at first I thought it must be an unusual event. But then I saw it again ... and a third time. This week as I was walking around campus during lunch I repeatedly saw the scene of an adult robin going about the business of hunting bugs, a fledgling robin following it squawking for food, and the adult totally ignoring the fledgling.

 

I need to learn that trick!

 

What the bird parents do instinctively it seems we human parents have to learn. My daughter is capable of doing things for herself that I impulsively do for her. Maybe it's because I'm afraid she'll make a mess pouring that drink. Or maybe I think she can't reach that cabinet to get out a plate. Or maybe I'm afraid she'll punch in too much time on the microwave.

 

Or maybe it's just because she squawks, and I do for her, out of habit.

 

But she needs to learn these things sometime. Why not now?

 

Not that I'm considering teaching her how to hunt bugs. (Though that would certainly reduce the grocery bill.) No, I'm talking about her picking out her own clothes, and preparing her own afternoon snack, and cleaning up her dishes, and just generally being more self-sufficient.

 

So, dear daughter, watch me, and learn how to do for yourself, and stop squawking. I'll do my part and ignore you. Welcome to your tween years!

 

 

 

I've always been a tree-climber. I still do it on occasion. It hasn't been that long since I climbed 30 feet up in a pecan tree, out into the limbs to shake down the nuts. But no matter how long I've been doing it, there is eventually that scary moment ...

 

I climb safely. I keep at least two points of support in tested positions before moving on. When moving to a new limb that proves too weak to support me, I still have the tested support in at least two other places.

 

But of course trees are often not built for climbers. Inevitably there comes a time and place where I have to take a risk, where the reach is too far for me to test. I have to judge the strength of my destination before I move there.

 

The penalty for being wrong is likely to be a broken appendage. I judged badly once. The price I paid was a sprained ankle that plagued me for two years.

 

Recent tree-climbing has me staring at another far reach. The previous injury is still fresh in my mind. It scares me. I don't trust my judgment like I used to.

 

It would be nice if I could just ask that limb how strong it is. In some ways it reminds me of the one that I fell from before.

 

Some of the other limbs look pretty good. Some have fewer branches. That might be easier. Why not?

 

No, that would be wimping out. This is the right way to go. "Fear is the mind-killer."

 

Ready ... Set ...

 

 

 

What is strength?

 

My 10 year old daughter told me yesterday, quite authoritatively, that there is a place between heaven and hell, that people go, and have to prove that they are worthy of heaven.

 

I think she's right.

 

It's not a fun place to be. Not for the weak. Not for the weary.

 

In hell you know you're doomed. It's easy to accept.

 

In heaven ... well, it's heaven. Again, no mean feat to stay there.

 

But in between, it's a constant upstream swim. Is it the River Styx? I'm lucky if I can keep even with the current, which repeatedly threatens to bash me into something cold and hard. I'm tired.

 

I'm weak.

 

There are pools of calm that tempt me to come in and stay. I've tried a few of them. They've turned into eddies that dizzy me and send me off in the wrong direction.

 

Is a salmon weak if it can't swim against a strong current?

 

Is a heart weak if it can't stand up to a mountain of loneliness?

 

Is a liver weak if it can't stand up to a strong drink?

 

Are these analogies weak if they can't stand up to intense scrutiny?

 

Ah, well, at least I have a strong sense of humor.

 

 

 

It was one of those whimsical conversations that we sometimes have.

 

My daughter started out by asking how old a person has to be to get a driver's license. One thing led to another, and she said, "I heard about the magic numbers: age 10, because that's when you reach double digits; 12, because then you're a pre-teen; 13, because then you're a teenager; 15, because you can get a learner's permit; 16, because you can get a full license; 18, because then you can vote; and 21, because you can drink."

 

I said, "Here are a couple more magic numbers to add: 25, because your insurance rates go down; and age 65, because then you can retire."

 

She gasped in shock at the staggering number, "Age 65! That's like how old God is!"

 

 

 

The setting is a humble hut in a small village in the Fertile Crescent. The date is 1400 BC. The time is late one spring evening. Our hero, Prophet, sits at a table, bleary-eyed, struggling to see by the firelight, pondering his existence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don't you wonder what they're thinking? ... other drivers ... when they do the things they do. After years of driving experience, observing drivers for miles at a time on interstate highways, I like to think that I've come to understand a few of the personalities operating in the drivers' seats.

 

Lefty: For Lefty, the left lane is not just his entitlement, it's his destiny, and his reason for being on the road. It doesn't matter if he's not the "fastest" driver, because in his mind he's driving "fast," and it's the "fast lane" isn't it? Well then he should be there! If you need to go past him then you should use the passing lane ... you know, the one on the right.

 

Righty: Passing is for speed demons, not Righty. If he has to slow to a crawl to avoid using the left lane, then so be it. Passing is risky; it requires changing lanes; changing lanes is like changing one's mind, being fickle. Fickle is bad. Besides, he's pretty sure he has to take an exit ramp about 10 miles down the road. What if he doesn't have enough time to finish passing before he has to take that exit? No ... it's just not worth the risk. Righty annoys me sometimes ... but only when I'm sitting in his passenger's seat.

 

Dragster: Dragster likes to drag race. When he meets up with another Dragster on the highway, he squares his car up with the driver in the adjacent lane. His sweaty palms steady the wheel with a grip of iron. He grits his teeth in anticipation of the burst of blinding speed. The brim of his fedora shields his forehead and ears from the harmful UV rays that penetrate the windshield of his 1976 Behemoth sedan. And the drag race begins ... to see who can drag his butt the slowest. Funny how it turns out to be a dead heat ... for miles.

 

Random-Foot: A good driver drives by feel. It's the only way to go. Random-Foot appreciates that. Sometimes it feels right to drive 90 miles per hour, which dramatically reduces his risk of being rear-ended. Sometimes it feels right to drive down the center line, which dramatically increases his interaction with other drivers ... most will feel compelled to make eye contact with him as they go by ... and some will even be inspired to give him that special single-finger wave.

 

Vampire: You might mistake him for Lefty. But Vampire is not hanging out in the left lane because he thinks he should be there, nor is he taking his sweet time passing that truck because he has no respect for you who are stuck behind him. Indeed, you must pity this poor soulless creature, as Vampire is deathly afraid to look in the mirror. And don't bother flashing your lights at him; you will simply confuse him as to why his headliner is suddenly lighting up.

 

Leader: His job is to set the pace for all other traffic. Don't go getting uppity and try to pass Leader; he will increase his speed to match yours ... until he begins passing the next car ... then he will return to The Right Speed, which he can enforce now that he has the passing lane blocked. If you ever do succeed in passing him, don't try to make eye contact, as he has a withering glare that will surely embarrass you, you speed demon.

 

Follower: You'll only see Follower as you're passing him, or in your rearview mirror (unless you're a Vampire). Once he's behind you, he'll hug your bumper so tightly you'll think he got caught on your trailer hitch. There's no point in slowing down to let him pass, because he doesn't want to. Your only prayer is that someone faster than you will come by and be more attractive to him.

 

Flasher: No, Flasher doesn't drive naked. But you know who he is ... you've seen him ... there, in the right lane ... with his left turn signal on ... for three miles now, and counting. Every once in a while a considerate driver in the left lane will pause to let him in, but he doesn't go. Obviously he doesn't realize his turn signal is on. Why not? Well, he can't hear it clicking because his window is rolled down or his music is cranked up, and he can't see it flashing because he hasn't looked at his gauges ... for three years now, and counting.

 

Frogger: He's the one trying to predict the behavior of the drivers in front of him and behind him. You'll easily spot him because he's switching lanes often, as if playing an IRL version of Frogger. Rumor has it that around town he times different routes to find the optimum one. But that's just a rumor. Really. I wouldn't know anything about that.

 

 

 

I don't look very good in black. It makes me appear even more pale than I already am.

 

But some insist on dressing me in a black fedora just the same.

 

Why do you suppose they do that? I don't know. Maybe it's because we naturally assume that when there is conflict, someone has to be the good guy and someone the bad guy.

 

So how do people decide who's the bad guy? Maybe some actions that a person takes will always show us. For example, if I shoot a dog, I'm definitely a bad guy, right? ... or am I? ... What if the dog is Old Yeller?

 

If I escape from a burning home, and run to safety, leaving a victim to an unknown fate inside, surely I'm a bad guy ... and a coward. Does it matter that I emerge limping, gasping, and covered in second-degree burns?

 

I've been wearing that hat for a year now, and I grow weary of it. It doesn't suit me.

 

However, I'm not the one who gets to decide how others dress me. Maybe someday I'll do something that will inspire others to give me a new color scheme. But quite frankly, if they don't trust my judgment that the dog was too sick to save, other things I do probably won't make much sense to them either. And if they don't trust that I nearly killed myself trying to save the other fire victim, they'll always be suspicious of my motives.

 

On the other hand, black is supposed to be slimming, isn't it? And is anybody still making movies in the Film Noir genre? Maybe I can get a role in one of those!

 

 

World's Greatest Prez

 

She has pretty, big, blue eyes,

   but she doesn't read my stuff.

 

4000 readers, on the rise,

   yet this one would be enough.

 

Now I post and risk demise,

   hope she doesn't call my bluff.

 

If you see her passing by,

   tell her this site's full of fluff.