Sugar Creek Publishing

We live on a very busy county road. Even twenty years ago, one could pad along relatively undisturbed by passing traffic. Those days are gone. Today, you take your life in your hands if you step off your lawn and begin to take a leisurely walk down the road. I haven’t done that in a long time.

Because our road is both scenic and challenging, we are a hot spot for every teenager with a first car, a friend who wants to scare the pants off a peer, or a cavalcade of all manner of motor clubs.

My favorite parades are those of the Model A Fords that ply down our little road summer after summer. Some of the occupants actually sport attire to match the vintage of their vehicle. Others opt for current dress styles. Nonetheless, all of them have a great time out in the country.

About three Sundays a summer we see motorcycle rallies. In many instances, there may be up to 100 cycles. Bikes may host single riders, couples, or sidecar passengers. I worry when I see so few helmets, but until and unless Indiana elects to impose a helmet law, we will continue to see a high toll of brain injuries and deaths in motorcycle accidents.

Are helmets uncomfortable? Probably, but speaking as a snowmobiler, I know the value of a helmet. They come in all styles and price ranges. The upper end helmets have more protection, but choices are up to the rider and budget.

Indiana has increased motorcycle registrations markedly over the past few years, and nationally statistics tell us they have doubled since 1997. That means we drivers must be more alert than ever. Understandably, in a car- motorcycle accident, the motorcycle ends up on the short end of the stick.

Manners are core here. Oh, there a few cyclists who misbehave will sully the reputations of the majority who ride responsibly — those riders who don’t endanger themselves or drivers they encounter. We see that in snowmobiling, too. A few crazies can make a big impression — a wrong one — on the public and stifle trail expansion for fun-loving riders and families.

I have very few complaints about motorcyclists. It’s the non-motorized rider that can cause me no end of grief. Bicycles are more popular than ever. Specialty stores market high-end bikes, custom apparel, and all manner of accessories. Yet, all those accoutrements don’t guarantee good manners. I’ve seen more road hogs among bicyclists than drivers or “bikers”. Rally cars observe the speed limits, stop at stop signs, and generally behave themselves. Their vehicles are not average conveyances, so they don’t want to take a chance on a ding, dent, or — heaven forbid! — a wreck.

What makes pedalers ride down the middle of the road hugging the dividing line? I know it’s probably a lot more dangerous to ride along the berm, because any loose gravel can cause a cyclist to lose control. Yet, I wonder why they can’t ride in the middle of the traffic lane and ease to the right when a car comes up from behind. After all, most of them have rear view mirrors. (Don’t get me started on bicyclists and snowmobilers who ride without them!)

Just last Monday, we had to stop because a car was trying to pass a slow moving bicycle on the centerline and the rider simply would not pull over. He hugged that centerline as if it he were wired to it.

No matter whether you drive a car, ride a bicycle, a scooter, or a motorcycle, practice good manners. Your taxes didn’t pave that road for you alone. Others traverse that pavement, and at higher speeds if you are on a two wheeled vehicle. Good manners only enhance the public’s respect for your sport. Think about it.

It is delicate, shades of orange and red catching the sunlight. Its outermost parts so soft and nearly transparent that they defy anything man can manufacture. Too often these marvels of the floral world are associated with heroin, but to a generation gone and one rapidly aging, they mean far more.

In 1956 while a sixth grader at Thomas A. Hendricks School, it was a joy to walk down the hall from to the art room. There, Frances Liles always had a project for us. To this day, I use many of the methods she taught. Our civic projects were varied, but the one that sticks in my mind is the poster contest sponsored by the Veterans of Foreign Wars.

My generation, born in the 1940s, heard whispered comments about “The War to End All Wars” (World War I). Later, when adults, we would learn the horrors of mustard gas and the trenches. But, as innocent children, we learned the simple respect for the American soldier that would follow us for the rest of our lives.

In the spring, the blackboard (and it was black at that time!) would remind us of the Poppy Poster Contest and our minds would whirl with ideas. I made my last entry in sixth grade and I can still see it in my mind’s eye.

A white cross centered on the paper, a metal US Army helmet draped on the top and a spray of poppies at its base. I wish I had saved it. Even after 55 years, I feel the power of its message.

The VFW will be selling its poppies this weekend across America in anticipation of Memorial Day. I knew it as Decoration Day and it dates to
5 May 1868, and General John Logan, national commander of the Grand Army of the Republic, and his General Order No. 11. Its beginning was 30 May 1868, when flowers were placed on the graves of Union and Confederate soldiers at Arlington National Cemetery. The name changed in 1971 and is celebrated in almost every State on the last Monday in May
(The Congressional National Holiday Act of 1971).

Watch for flashes of red and smiles from men holding them this coming weekend. They will be there, as devoted and dependable as ever. Veterans will stand in malls, outside big box stores and groceries, on street corners and along thoroughfares. The locales are varied. Sleepy hamlet or large city, the message is the same. Honor our veterans. They fought proudly around the world to safeguard strangers. They won your enduring freedom and put your lives before theirs. Teach the children. We have lost the fervor once felt for the military and that is a sad commentary on the public condition.

The small paper flowers, made by disabled and needy veterans in VA hospital facilities across the nation, help fund worthwhile efforts. Monies from their sale finance the maintenance of state and national veterans’ rehabilitation and service programs as well as partially support the VFW National Home for orphans and widows of our nation’s veterans. It only takes a moment to stop and pay respect to those selling the poppies. Won’t you help them in this time-honored effort?

The tiny flowers reflect a promise began in the 1920s. Here is the precise history taken from the VFW website:

The VFW conducted its first poppy distribution before Memorial Day in 1922, becoming the first veterans’ organization to organize a nationwide distribution. The poppy soon was adopted as the official memorial flower of the Veterans of Foreign Wars of the United States.

It was during the 1923 encampment that the VFW decided that VFW Buddy Poppies be assembled by disabled and needy veterans who would be paid for their work to provide them with some form of financial assistance. The plan was formally adopted during the VFW’s 1923 encampment. The next year, disabled veterans at the Buddy Poppy factory in Pittsburgh assembled VFW Buddy Poppies. The designation “Buddy Poppy” was adopted at that time.

In February 1924, the VFW registered the name “Buddy Poppy” with the U.S. Patent Office. A certificate was issued on May 20, 1924, granting the VFW all trademark rights in the name of Buddy under the classification of artificial flowers. The VFW has made that trademark a guarantee that all poppies bearing that name and the VFW label are genuine products of the work of disabled and needy veterans. No other organization, firm or individual can legally use the name “Buddy” Poppy, and partially supports the VFW National Home for orphans and widows of our nation’s veterans.

Why the poppy? It quickly became associated with war after the publication of a poem written by Col. John McCrae of Canada. The poem, “In Flander’s Field,” describes blowing red fields among the battleground of the fallen. Flanders Fields is the name of World War I battlefields in the medieval County of Flanders, spanning portions of southern Belgium and northwest France.

And so, among all the flowers that evoke the memories and emotions of war we recognize the red poppy. After nearly 90 years, the poppy reminds us of a war that cost millions of lives. Touted to be the last of the wars that man would see, it was not. The VFW has raised millions of dollars to support of veterans’ welfare and the well being of their dependents.

Be a patriot. Buy a poppy. Then, take a little time to read the poem that inspired it all.

In Flander’s Field
by John McCrae
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead.
Short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved and now we lie,
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you, from failing hands, we throw,
The torch, be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us, who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow,
In Flanders Fields.

From time to time over the past eight years, I have dipped into the inkwell of the past and recounted great stories of the men who put their hearts and minds into the founding of this great nation.

Drawn from all professions, they had one thing in common above all others and that was faith in the Almighty. King George and his national church had spewed forth enough venom and exerted enough control to push the colonists over the edge and push them to revolution.

In the midst of all the chaos was the genuine belief in the freedom of man. When debate ground to a crawl in the Constitutional Convention, what did they do? They took three days off to pray.

Our national monuments bear not only images from Scripture, but text. Murals, sculptures, friezes on buildings, great passages from the Bible — all these and more can be found in Washington, D.C.

What amazes me is that of the 535 members of the US Congress, so few publicly avow the sacred principles that wrought the very government that they serve. Don’t they see what is around them on a day-to-day basis? Can’t they take in the not-so-subtle messages underscoring the close relationship between God and Man?

Oh, there are the blowhards. They step to podia and expound colorful rhetoric, but their core message is anything but God-fearing. The few Congressmen and Senators who openly proclaim their faith in public find themselves labeled as belonging to “the Christian right” by detractors — as if faith in God is a weakness.

If any one event has shocked me over the past two years, it is the behavior of many of those in Congress. Despite spirited town hall meetings and inundations of mail and e-mail messages, countless members vote in direct opposition to their constituents’ wishes.

Tyranny is not the American way. You will hear many claim that America is a democracy. It’s not. We are a republic — a representative republic, but a republic nonetheless. In essence, representatives pledge to vote on behalf of their constituencies. Sadly, that seems to have fallen by the wayside.

The operative question here is “Why?” We may never get a single answer, but the response is looming. You see, the answer will come in the results of the November elections.

Your job as a voter is to keep track of how you are represented. This applies equally for all levels of government — municipal, county, state, and national. I know it is difficult to maintain equilibrium between personal life and being a responsible citizen, but it is a precious freedom.

It is interesting to note that among the current 25 top selling books on Amazon.com, 17 of them are on Founding Fathers, Founding Principles (faith among them), and The US Constitution.

Well, it’s about time. As an author, I’m happy to know that more and more people are reading books. Computers are fine, but the relationship between a reader and a book is more personal than a lit screen.

Go get a Copy of the Federalist Papers. Read about the Founding Fathers. I think they would be appalled at what we face today. Think about it.

Well, I knew it would happen. It was just a matter of time. Responding to the encouragement of younger people, I joined Facebook in March. It didn’t take long to understand why I didn’t need another complication on my computer.

I use my computer for my business and to keep in touch with friends, but I don’t want to connect to perfect strangers just because we happen to know person or persons in common. It became perfectly clear that the social network was able to access those who regularly e-mail me and offer them — in my name — an “invitation” to be a friend.

Friends don’t need an invitation. Give me air. I had no idea that so many “special offers” were in the wings for me. The sheer number of inquiries from a glut of companies increased by the day — and it was very apparent that it coincided with the date that I decided to avail myself of the social network’s services.

It’s not that I’m against meeting new people. I am capable of striking up a conversation with just about anyone. What I don’t need is someone else making the decision to do it for me.

The World Wide Web offers users a wide variety of topics for research, news as it happens, and weather radar to aid in our safety during the stormy season so common in a Hoosier spring. Price comparisons are easy and shopping is a breeze, although I must warn you that opening an account with an online vendor can put you at risk. The best strategy is to shop as a New User or Guest. That way, no credit card information is saved.

Speaking from experience, that information can get out. I have spent the better part of two and a half weeks to respond to letters from nearly a score of vendors wanting me to complete a “purchase” after the credit card was declined. Well, it wasn’t declined, folks. It was canceled. Somehow, some little scoundrel managed to get the credit card number, my address and phone number and used it at will.

My first clue came when a company called to inquire about “pet jewelry” to be shipped to me. It seems that the web thief had given the right billing address, but the wrong mailing address. I assumed that it was a gift, since Mother’s day was just around the corner and told the caller to contact the purchaser and tell them to call me to confirm the gift. A call four hours later informed me that I was the purchaser. Wrong! The mental image of my 135-pound Newfoundland wearing jewelry prompted me to laugh out loud. Asking more questions, I found that the items had been charged to me that they amounted to hundreds of dollars. Right. I would outfit a dog in something that expensive….

A subsequent call that evening sent up a big red flag. Someone had my credit card number. I immediately called the company and canceled the card. There are safe ways to shop on line and ways that expose you to risk.

Play it safe. As for me, technology still has a lot of uses. Yes, one element bit the dust, but I consider that a rarity. Use your computer, but be careful. If you are not, you may be sorrier than you can imagine. Think about it.

If you don’t recognize the dangerous tendencies currently permeating the political scene across this nation, you need to wake up and smell the coffee. Complacency is fatal, and I fear that too many of us are patiently waiting the cycle out thinking that everything changes with an election. That may be all too true considering the movement to run major industries, the health care sector and student loans. Now, the banks are on the chopping block. It isn’t a party mindset; it’s a control mechanism. We cannot allow it to grow unbridled. To do so is to risk everything you hold dear.

You need not take my word for it, just talk to someone who fled from a Socialist-run country. Their words are more powerful than mine. When you’ve heard what they have to say, perhaps you will take your responsibility as an American citizen more seriously. You do count, you know. Each of us does.

People who attend non-denominational churches hear more and more strong sermons extolling the exceptionalism of America and the risk of ignoring the Socialist threat on our doorstep. These roundly independent ministers see the dangers posed by those who wish to “redistribute” wealth.

Egad? Do you know what that means? Shades of Karl Marx, folks! It won’t work, and I’d like to share a story that proves that statement.

A high school teacher recently undertook a simple experiment with his class. The first day of the experiment, he informed his students that all grades would be averaged. There would be no more individual grades.

The first week saw students working normally. However, once grades were posted, the scene was set for a marked change. The second week gave a glimpse of what was to come. High achievers didn’t put out their normal effort. After all, they weren’t going to earn the grade anyway. They felt the impact of averaging their grades with all other classmates. Over a period of nine weeks, average grades continued to drop. It wasn’t hard to see what had happened. Taking the grades from the top students by diluting them with the grades of poorer students only fueled a “slacker attitude” by everyone.
Being average has never been attractive. No sports team wants to land an “average” player. No employer wants an “average” worker either!

Targeting the high achievers in our economy in order to “level the playing field” is tantamount to insanity. Yet, that what Socialism has as its core tenet: redistribution of wealth. Lauding socialism as a viable alternative to capitalism is a lie. In the first place, socialism isn’t viable.

Socialism has ever worked for any people. After years of dismal economic conditions, socialist governments are in danger of being gleefully overturned by disenchanted and over-regulated populations.

Freedom is what people want, not government control. There is no replacement for the pride of earning one’s own way.

And just what do Socialists do when they take power? First, they remove the glue: religion. Lenin closed over 100,000 churches in Russia after the 1917 Revolution. Think it couldn’t happen here? That’s a dangerous assumption on your part. I can’t see a valid reason for ignoring this climate, but I guess that the main line churches are so afraid of being political incorrectness that they can’t see the forest for the trees.

Christians are in the cross hairs. Don’t think for a minute they are not.

More and more people are decrying the push for more government control, but too many of us don’t take their warnings seriously. Such commentary is a given when it comes to those who assess the news, but they aren’t alone. Some major clergy have joined the fight. Consider the Coral Ridge Ministries of Fort Myers, Florida. They are taking strong action. They seek to inform Americans of the inherent dangers of a slide toward Socialism. May 16th, the ministry airs a special on the subject. Check your listings for the time.

Don’t cry separation of church and state. If Socialism really takes root in this country, then you won’t have to worry about that. They will separate church, but not how you might think.

Add up the numbers of dead in the wake of Hitler, Lenin, Mussolini, Tito, Pol Pot, Mao and their buddies. It’s in the tens of millions. And do we notice that taking from the “rich” and giving to the “poor” is at the heart of the movement afoot today?

The poor in America exist, but the statistics bear out that — compared to any other impoverished people on the planet — they themselves are rich. I live in a rural area, and within it are people who are perfectly capable of working, yet they receive government money and don’t turn a hand. Terms like “the rich” are used to incite unwarranted envy among many groups without the gumption to get out and work for themselves.

My grandfather’s family came to America with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. What girded them wasn’t a legacy of wealth, but a yearning to achieve and an ingrained work ethic that flies in the face of what I see today. Watch the interviews on the television and you’ll see someone complaining that they are a “victim”. The term is so overused that it is appalling.

I weary of sitting in a pew waiting for a minister to mention the dangers of Socialism. I wait for someone to say that too many seek to remove God from all parts of our lives. They’ve managed to take Him out of schools. Has that worked well? No Christian child can pray in school, yet Muslim children are allowed to pray at regular intervals. Some system, eh?

Look at history. It tells a grim story. When Socialist regimes run countries, they go after the churches. Whether Nazism, Fascism, or Communism, the pattern is the same and it should scare the bejeebies out of you.  America was founded upon freedom of religion — not freedom from religion.  Don’t be eased into deeper complacency by thinking that something like that could not happen here.

We need the standards put forth by our faith.  We need rules.  If everyone obeyed the Ten Commandments, we wouldn’t need law enforcement or armies.  Short of that utopia, we need to protect one another and protect our personal freedoms; and that, friends, begins at home.  If you have children at home, involve them in discussions.  Read the Constitution as a family and encourage your youngsters to defend it at every opportunity.

Take action. Monitor your legislators. Take speakers to task when they claim they know “what’s best for you”. When 47 percent of the population pays no taxes and entitlements are swelling like a bloated possum at the side of the road, (My apologies to the opossum as a species!) we are at risk of losing the America we love.

Pass the word. We need everyone to rise up and speak out. Don’t just think about it. Do it.

Ever heard of James Monroe? Well, he was president early in the 19th century and his words resonate today more than ever. In his 1823 annual message to Congress, he warned European powers not to interfere in the affairs of the Western Hemisphere.
In terms of documentation, this statement is widely known as the focus of the U.S. government’s foreign policy regarding the Western Hemisphere. Known as The Monroe Doctrine, it has been invoked a number of times over the years since James Monroe set it forth before a joint session of Congress.
Why important now? Consider ongoing events and movements within South America. Hugo Chavez is doing much more than comparing former President George W. Bush to Satan. He is working closely with the Russians to strengthen Iran. How so? Recent reports show regular flights from Russia, via Damascus, to Caracas.
Rumor has it that the flights are simply a way of laundering weaponry and missiles and funneling them on return flights. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist (poor pun — sorry) to figure out that smugglers are busy between Syria and Iran. Dare I shout complicity?
By his own words, Chavez is an avowed enemy of the U.S. Another troubling statistic is that mosques are popping up all over Venezuela — and lots of them. Historically, South America was colonized and populated by predominantly Catholic peoples from Western Europe.
How convenient for Hugo. Not only does he work with the Russians, but he also curries favor with Islamic fanatics who would love nothing more than to cross our southern border undetected or launch a short range at our cities with a missile launched from a boat in the Caribbean. Iran may not have developed an ICBM capable of crossing the Atlantic. However, if the Iranians are working toward such a goal, it would be easier to utilize a shorter-range weapon carefully positioned in waters just off shore.
With all the global conflicts, both active and looming, this news only adds to the doldrums of those of us who watch foreign policy with discerning eyes. Add to the current situation the shabby treatment given Israel’s leader in the last few weeks, things don’t look good, folks. They don’t.
The end game here is security, yet this president, as the last two, ignores criticism regarding border problems. Even John McCain is making noises. After the murder of an Arizona rancher and increasing tension in border communities, law enforcement is encouraging citizens to arm themselves.
It’s a sad thing when citizens must defend themselves when it is the primary purpose of their federal government to do just that. As the hordes continue to cross, confident of free medical care, food stamps, and bi-lingual schools for which they pay little or no taxes, the White House hosts expensive dinners and apologizes for America at every opportunity. And what of those unidentified persons who could come across with the same goal as the 19 who wrought such carnage on 9/11?
Had enough yet? A lot of us have….
I worry that blanket amnesty is only fueling the zeal of those who seek our freedom illegitimately. If you are concerned about border security and illegal immigrant, don’t let spring grass grow under your feet. Contact your Congressman and Senators. Hold their feet to the proverbial fire. It’s their job to support, protect and defend the Constitution, and that document mandates that the government protect its people. I say it’s about time they started, and the best places to begin are our borders, north and south. Think about it.

Tick, tock…

The other day I hired a horologist (clock repairman) to come to adjust an old wall clock that dates from the early 1800s. Tall and imposing with carving and classic Roman numerals heralding the hour, it makes an impression on visitors.

As he deftly manipulated the works, I marveled at the timepiece and my thoughts ran to my childhood. I don’t think that today’s children learn the songs of my youth. In truth, many of them would be totally alien in meter and lyrics. When the familiar tick, tock began, lyrics began to run through my mind — all the more clear with the metronome beat of pendulum.

Perhaps you know the lyrics. I recited the first entire stanza from memory and — of course — I remembered the chorus without a problem at all. However, when it came to the other verses, I was stuck. Going to my trusty Apple computer, I downloaded them from the Internet and enjoyed them all the more.

I’d like to share them with you now. Written by Henry Clay Work, the song’s copyright is unknown. And so, it shares its wisdom with the world sans a date.

My grandfather’s clock
Was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half
Than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.
It was bought on the morn
Of the day that he was born,
It was always his treasure and pride;

But it stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
Ninety years without slumbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
His life seconds numbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
It stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.

In watching its pendulum
Swing to and fro,
Many hours had he spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood
The clock seemed to know,
And share both his grief and his joy.
And it struck twenty-four
When he entered at the door,
With a blooming and beautiful bride;

But it stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
Ninety years without slumbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
His life seconds numbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
It stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
His life seconds numbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
It stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.

My grandfather said
That of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found;
For it wasted no time,
And had but one desire,
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place,
Not a frown upon its face,
And its hand never hung by its side.

But it stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
Ninety years without slumbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
His life seconds numbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
It stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.

It rang an alarm
In the dead of the night,
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit
Was pluming his flight,
That his hour of departure had come.
Still the clock kept the time,
With a soft and muffled chime,
As we silently stood by his side.
But it stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
Ninety years without slumbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
His life seconds numbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
It stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.

Are you humming the tune as you read? I hope so. As the year tick tocks its way toward another, remember the wit and wisdom of this little song. It has a lot of merit when it comes to values and work ethic. Think about it.

Years ago, anticipating Christmas, I penned a column about parents and the travails of putting together toys from manufacturers’ directions. Extrapolated to the outdoors, a swing set fits this bill, too. However, a hobbyist can have another “take” on that issue!

I quilt. I have for over 35 years. Over that span, I accumulated a stash of fabric. If you quilt, you know what I mean. Well, after an inordinate amount of time packing fabric in laundry baskets, closets, in the basement, and any place else I could find, I needed some really good storage. I kept a pool table until middle son had a place for it. Once it left the premises, I opted to turn the basement rec room into a sewing area. It would be nice not to crowd myself between the washer/dryer and the bathroom.

I was accustomed to laughing if I happened to go to the sewing room and not have a phone handy. When it rang, I had to crawl out under the open leaves of the cutting table, and wriggle between the ironing board and the doorway hoping to reach the handset before the caller gave up hope of an answer!

At last, I could actually sew and leave the project on the table. Being a woodworker, I looked for about five years until I found a triple section of bookcases that would fit the space available for fabric storage.

With a farming schedule, no project goes on a strict timetable. Buying the al is the material is the first step, but often it reposes in the shop until I get can get a chance to work with it.

The stigma of manufacturers’ directions extends easily to plans printed in woodworking magazines. I have yet to find a plan that goes perfectly. I often need an engineer. Thank goodness, farmer husband fits that bill. If you know a farmer, then you know what I mean. If it’s mechanical or structural, they always seem to know just how to get it in working order.

I studied the book case plans about four times before I cut a piece of wood. Hubby helps me on the 6-foot pieces. I can’t seem to manage them on the table saw without some assistance. All went famously until we came to Step 3. We had cut out the sides and I cut the shelves and set them aside. He drilled the holes for the shelf supports to complete Step 1. Next, I cut the tops and bottoms and assembling each unit before adding the back.

Famous last words. Step 3. It seems that the plans are wrong. Oh, I have plenty of ¼” plywood for the backs, but they won’t be the measurement that the instructions specify. Go figure.

I’ve had this happen so many times before that it is beginning to be a joke around the house. Sadly, it could be an expensive joke if the plans give a critical measurement in error.

So it’s back to the drawing boards with my in-house Purdue grad. As they once said so often on the radio, “Stay tuned for the next episode….”

The future of small business in America…

For far too many Americans the short walk from the front door of a small business to the back counter is an experience only possible via memory. In nearly every way imaginable, the small business is the truly endangered species.

I weary of padding through a warehouse-style retailer only to face a clerk with little knowledge of the stock or a rudimentary acquaintance with how or when to use a particular item. Oh, the prices are low, but so is the comfort level for customers.

With the added pressure of increasing taxes and mandates to fund workers’ health insurance, look for an even further drop in the number of homegrown, home-owned businesses. The incremental growth that exploded into the vibrant American economy of days gone by is in peril. What’s really sad is the root cause — it’s us, a bevy of fickle consumers.

You see, in a myriad of ways, we are to blame. The demand for businesses seven day a week, 24-hours business hours puts tremendous pressure on our small businesses — perhaps to the point of extinction.

If you are over the age of 60, you remember the days when you needed to fill up the family car or truck on Saturday afternoon, because most businesses were closed on Sunday. Pharmacies were small and local, so you could always call the pharmacist on an emergency basis if you were really in a pinch. Chicken soup and Vicks Vapo-Rub kept a lot of us alive. And who could forget Castor Oil? Scanning the over-the-counter remedy racks at a drug store these days is enough to confuse anyone! … enough for nostalgia, let’s move back to the small versus large discussion.

The fewer businesses in a given area the easier it is for government to step in and regulate them. It’s getting to the place where the entire spectrum of retail is narrowing. We find ourselves in a funnel, and the wide variety of small stores morphs into a blur of overhead lighting, sprawling parking lots and bi-lingual signs. My great-grandparents made it item number one to speak English. When did we forget that language is the clue that binds a country’s people?

I digress. The disappearance of storefront should worry us all. A small shoe store anchored a downtown of a Mid-western town for over 100 years. It is gone. Why? The distributor would no longer accept small lot orders. Instead of buying 20-25 pair of a new line, the storeowner was faced with a minimum of order in the 200 range — far more than his customer base could
support. The store closed within two years.

Oh, for the days of the hand-written paper receipt… the handshake equaling a contract… honor in business. I judge businesses one by one, and I urge you to do the same.

Those of us who live in areas not over-run by “big box” stores are luckier than we realize. We know our merchants, the counterman at the local café, the local doctor, dentist and the pharmacist. Price isn’t everything. Travel works into the picture. We may have a smaller choice of items, but the trade-off is far more important. In fact, it is priceless.

Small business helped build this country. I hate to think that our grandchildren will never know the pleasure of dealing with a local retailer on a one-to-one basis. It may happen. If it does, I fear that it bodes ill for the American dream of starting a small business.

Home grown? Home owned? Will we recognize these terms in a few years? I fear we will not. You can forestall that time. How? Patronize your local stores. Do so with zest. Shop for quality. Shop for service as well as sales. To put it more bluntly, shop with a conscience. Pay a smidge more to keep that local guy or gal in business. The salvation of the small business could be in your pocket or purse. Think about it.

You’ve heard it before. “Be careful what you ask for…” While poor grammar, it holds true for a lot of us as we review what happened on March 21st. I, for one, view the whole process as insulting when scheduled for a Sunday. Haven’t government officials done enough to remove God from American life? They’ve banished Him from our schools. The schools are well disciplined and orderly, aren’t they? We don’t have school violence, do we? They mandate that His Commandments be taken down from public view. Maybe they think that we obey so well that we need not be reminded of them in text. Think? Watch them, folks. Their next push may be to take “In God We Trust” off our money.

Pity the nation that turns its face away from God.

Back to this past weekend…. Con men should be flocking to Washington in droves — as if they haven’t taken up residence long ago. If there are 219 men and women who sign off on something they haven’t read, then they are prime marks for scams. Anybody interested in buying arable land in Death Valley, California?

Speaking of California….. In an area devastated when water was held back from farms, the only quarter turn on the spigot came to a Congressman who changed his vote from nay to yea. As the Church Lady used to say, “Isn’t that special?”

It amazes me that the press jumped on Anthem Health Care with a vengeance for raising premiums and didn’t bother to tell Americans that the move came when 30 million Californians were switched to Medi-Cal (California’s answer to Medicare). When providers couldn’t keep up with the costs, they were forced to raise premiums to bridge the difference.

A few years ago, I wrote a column titled “Ghost Riders in the Pie”. I went into detail on the anathema of putting legislative riders on bills of substance
— the practice of adding measures that has nothing to do with the pending legislation in an effort to slip them by the people.

Witness the addition of removing college loans from the public arena and putting them under government purview. Oh, goody! My peers grieve for their children and grandchildren’s and prospect of working hard and not earning what they should. No Congressman or Senator can name a people who have prospered under national health care. The not-so-slow slide into Socialism in which we find ourselves mired is not pretty. Mud never is.

I wish I could find some redeeming element of this legislation, but when a republic fails to heed the will of its people and acts as a dictatorship, the result isn’t pretty.

That this was passed on a Sunday is an insult. There was no reverence for the Sabbath among those who scheduled this vote. It is a slap in the face of every God-fearing American. Fear is afoot now, but it is not fear of God. It is fear of an overreaching government. Think about it.