They're Not Listening

“Here in America we are descended in blood and in spirit from revolutionists and rebels -- men and women who dare to dissent from accepted doctrine. As their heirs, we may never confuse honest dissent with disloyal subversion.” President Dwight D. Eisenhower

While home for a few days recently, I attended a city council meeting. After writing and encouraging people to stand up and get involved in securing their own freedom against the encroachments of the leviathan state, it seemed the right thing to do. I received further encouragement to get involved at the bottom of last month’s water bill, where the small print indicated that the city intended to raise the water rate by 20 percent beginning in October. Nothing like a quantum leap in the bills to get one motivated I guess.

At the meeting, we were provided with an itinerary of items to be discussed and presented to the council. The item that concerned the water rate increase was worded in legalese that was utterly undecipherable. Some discussion ensued regarding the wording. Evidently, there was fear among some in attendance that the proposition would permit future rate hikes without any warning being given to the public, thereby denying citizens the right to voice their concerns. As luck would have it, the city’s lawyer was in attendance and by the time he and others finished explaining the semantics of the proposition, we were even more confused than when they began. Shakespeare had the right idea when he wrote, “First we kill all the lawyers…”

The public was invited to address the council and I made my way to the podium. I explained that I do not speak legalese, to my eternal credit, but I do understand phrases like “20 percent increase.” “That is a whale of an increase,” I said, and then asked if anyone could enlighten me as to the reason for such a huge jump in rates. The answer, explained the mayor, was that an auditor had gone over the city’s books and determined that there was a substantial shortfall. If the rates did not go up by 20%, the city would be unable to pay it’s bills. I reminded the council that government, at all levels, is reaching further and further into our pockets and that at some point it has got to stop. I explained that, “When I have a problem with my own personal budget, I cut back on expenses. I don’t have the luxury of voting myself more money.” The response from the council was dead silence. They just sat there with the same blank stare I had years ago in algebra class. It was if I had spoken to them in Swahili and they didn’t understand and didn’t care.

Over the past few weeks I’ve watched as Americans from one end of the country to the other attended town hall meetings. People who have never been politically active in their lives stood up to express their concern with a government that is spinning out of control. Veterans who have laid their lives on the line to defend the Constitution are reminding congressman and senators that they too took an oath to support and defend the Constitution. I watched as elected representatives belittled their constituents, refused to take questions in some cases, and in one case even took a phone call in the middle of a constituent’s question. Watching those meetings, and then standing there looking at the vacuous faces of the city council, the same thought kept occurring: They’re not listening.

Last weekend over 75,000 people left their jobs, their home towns, their states, and traveled to Washington DC to make their voices heard. In the past, if a quarter of that number of people marched in support of abortion rights, or in protest of the war in Iraq, or in support of free false teeth for that matter, it would have been all over the major networks and page one news in the major papers. But when a huge number of people march in support of the same ideas that this nation was founded on (limited government, enumerated powers, individual freedom), the major media gives scant attention to it or ignores it completely. And what of our Community Organizer in Chief? He of the grass roots? He flew to Minneapolis, and didn’t deign to address these people even in his big speech to Congress a few nights later. They’re not listening. Those who remind government officials that it is the government that works for the people, not the other way around, are labeled as mobs, Nazis, racists, etc. Our elected representatives are making Marie Antoinette look like a populist!

Bill Buckley told the story years ago of a young man that was infatuated with a certain young lady. To woo her, he invited her to his uncle’s farm for dinner. Before the meal he gave her a tour of the property, insisting all the while that everything there actually belonged to him! “And that’s my barn over there,” he would say. “These are my chickens too.” And on it went until she had heard quite enough. In time they came upon a bull servicing a cow. “I think I’d like to do that,” said the young man. The young lady replied, “Well go ahead. It’s your cow.” Through interactions at all levels, we keep trying to tell our elected officials that America is our cow, but to no avail, they keep servicing us!

I have a feeling, however, that the adherents of big government are going to get a big surprise in the congressional elections of 2010. They’re not listening now, but they will then. After all, King George didn’t listen either.

They Started It. We Must Finish It.

"Yet, after each of our wars, there has always been a great hue and cry to the effect that there will be no more wars, that disarmament is the sure road to health, happiness, and peace; and that by removing the fire department, we will remove fires. These ideas spring from wishful thinking and from the erroneous belief that wars result from logical processes. There is no logic in wars. They are produced by madmen. No man can say when future madmen will reappear. I do not say that there will be no more wars; I devoutly hope that there will not, but I do say that the chances of avoiding future wars will be greatly enhanced if we are ready." General George S. Patton

I remember walking into the office that day in a very good mood. I had returned from a deployment to the Mid East only a few months earlier. It was a good deployment in which I had volunteered to fly on combat missions over hostile airspace because I‘m just weird like that. Having logged the time and put away the gas mask, I was happy to be stateside again. Plus, September 11^th is my son’s birthday. I was eager to meet him after work that night at Ruby Tuesdays.

I poured myself a fresh cup of Starbucks that I had brewed in the office and sat down at the computer when my best friend Bob Lee emailed me. Bob had retired from active duty while I was deployed, and it’s always good to hear from him, but this email was different. It was short and said that a plane had hit the world trade center and that I should watch the news. Reaching for the remote, I hit the power button and looked on while news anchors speculated that perhaps a small private plane had hit one of the towers. I was thinking that for a small plane, it had left an awfully big hole in the building when I saw something behind the new anchor’s head cross the screen. It was another plane and it went right into the second tower. In that terrible instant, I knew we were at war and that things would never be the same again.

As coverage unfolded, I began getting emails from military friends and family members across the country. There were reports of a bomb going exploding at the State Department. An explosion at the Pentagon. Planes unaccounted for after they had been ordered to land. Fighter jets were being scrambled in response. Some family members who lived in Virginia and had previously lived in the Washington DC area were emailing me news updates as they got them. One of their emails which became seared in my memory contained the simple words, “We are so scared!” With those words, my horror turned to anger. I had spent a great deal of time deployed in any number of unpleasant places, within missile range of Saddam Hussein as well as that weird little gargoyle in North Korea, and any number of bad actors in other places precisely so that my family and friends wouldn’t have to worry about such an attack on our own soil. The hours spent “sucking rubber” in gas masks, sweating like Tim Gheitner during a tax audit, looking to the sky to make sure it was a friendly jet approaching and not one that had a bead on my general location was done to protect the homeland, and yet the terrorists were here anyway.

After receiving an email containing roughly the same sentiment from Bob, I sent a message to my headquarters that they could consider me a volunteer to deploy and get back in the fight, and that furthermore, Bob was willing to return to active duty. Our chief wrote back a one-word reply. “Warmongers,” he wrote, meaning of course that he appreciated our volunteering. They didn’t bring Bob back on active duty, but I did get a six-month deployment out of the deal, which I’ll probably never be able to say too much about. But I like to think I might have helped in some small way.

This morning, I was on the road by 4:30AM, from Columbus, OH on the way to Battle Creek, Michigan. On Sirius Satellite Radio, I was able to listen to cable news coverage of the day’s commemoration of the attacks. It’s surprising how raw and vivid the memories are eight years later. The images of people jumping to the their deaths rather than being burned alive in those towers. The terror the passengers went through as their planes were flown into buildings in horrific explosions. Surely there were children on those planes. How unspeakable the fear that gripped them before their deaths! There was a major that I worked with while deployed whose brother was a fire fighter who died that day when the towers collapsed. I’ve seen some great officers, but I never saw one work so hard as that major. I remember hearing one of the calls to 911 operators that day. It was from a lady inside the towers. “I’m going to die, aren’t I,” she said to the operator. The operator said no, and tried to calm the lady. But few seconds later, the lady screamed, “Oh my God, I’m burning!” The line went dead.

In the days immediately after the attack, we expected follow on attacks. Our defense posture on base was beefed up to an all time high. It wasn’t a question of if, but when the next wave of attacks would come. When called, our forces dealt decisively with the threat, removing the Taliban and Saddam Hussein from power. Stung by its inability to “connect the dots,” our intelligence service worked in earnest to expose the enemy’s plans for further attacks and disrupt them. We didn’t ever want to see our own citizens slaughtered again. We gained intelligence from wiretaps and other sources. We killed the enemy with manned and unmanned aircraft, with heavy weapons, small arms, and the overwhelming determination of free people defending their liberty. And we were successful. Not one attack has been unleashed on American soil since that awful day.

Our success has apparently also been our undoing. Just as wealth can breed laziness and sloth, success can breed complacence. Our enemies have not taken a holiday. They already hit us once when we were complacent, and they will do it again at the first opportunity. We have pledged to close the terrorist detention center at Guantanamo Bay even as our Justice Department prepares to prosecute CIA employees who gained information about pending attacks and saved thousands of lives. Our commanders in Afghanistan prepare to request more troops to secure victory in that region even as Speaker of the House Pelosi indicates her unwillingness to support the generals’ requests. Iran and North Korea build nuclear missile threats, and so we cut back our missile defense. Illogic is called logic, weakness is called strength, vulnerability is called virtuous, and appeasement is called security. This crew would make Neville Chamberlain blush.

Meanwhile, the CIA reports that 9/11 mastermind Khalid Sheikh Mohammed gave unreliable information when normal methods of interrogation were used. It was only after he was subjected to water boarding that he began to tell everything he could think of. In fact, reports are that after the water boarding, they couldn’t shut him up. He eventually gave lectures to CIA personnel on terrorist strategy, methods, and attack plans. This information has allowed us to prevent another wholesale slaughter of Americans on American soil and THIS, we are told by our new president, is immoral.

We are told that the interrogators tortured Mohammed and that we are better than that. Well, in the first place, it isn’t torture. Being trapped high up in the World Trade Center having to decide if you want to die by fire or jump to your death,…THAT is torture. Boarding a plane on a crisp Fall day and watching in helpless terror as you are flown to a fiery death,…THAT is torture. Having water poured up your nose because you orchestrated those deaths and know of plans to murder more people is not torture. In fact, it’s patty-cake compared to what I would do. But our new president’s refined sensibilities will not permit such muscular self defense. Left to my own devices, this Cajun would just as soon shove a spear up Khalid Sheikh Mohammed’s ass and feed his corpse to a Louisiana alligator. But no, we must do little more than threaten to withhold room service in order to gain life saving information. And when it doesn’t work and an entire city goes up in flames, we can put a sign over the rubble that says, “At least we didn’t water board them,” and sign it Barak Obama.

Today, the President spoke at a 9/11 observance at the Pentagon. “Mindful that the work of protecting America is never finished, we will do everything in our power to keep America safe,” the President said. Really? As usual, his words say one thing, but his actions show the opposite. A country music singer asks the question, “Have you forgotten?” Given the latest election results, I’d say a lot of us have. And I fear the next reminder could be worse than the last one. Some of us are waking up. Remember the major I wrote about whose brother was killed on 9/11? I recently saw him on national television, speaking out against our current policy of weakness and timidity. We are dismissed as mobs and idiots at tea parties and town meetings. Perhaps the ruling class in Washington should remember that it was just normal folks from “fly-over” country that commandeered that plane over Pennsylvania and prevented it from flying directly into the Capital Building in Washington DC. Those folks from the heartland who our president says, “…cling bitterly to their religion and their guns…“ saved the lives of the same Congress that now looks down its collective nose at us. Ordinary people, free people, met the challenge at the cost of their own lives. We the People can do extraordinary things. We should never forget this. We owe it to those we lost on 9/11 as well as our children and grandchildren who are depending on us.

WHEN INJUSTICE BECOMES LAW, REBELLION BECOMES DUTY

“The main political problem is how to prevent the police power from becoming tyrannical. This is the meaning of all the struggles for liberty.”
Ludwig Von Mises

I will preface my remarks by establishing my own law enforcement credentials. After joining the Air Force, I trained as a Law Enforcement Specialist in Security Forces. While serving in that capacity, I worked as a patrolman, a desk sergeant, and a supervisor. I well understand the demands and risks a police officer faces each day. On New Years Eve of 1985, I was dispatched to a residence in base housing knowing only that the master sergeant who lived in the house was holding his family at gunpoint and threatening to kill them and everyone else in the vicinity. My son was only a few months old at the time and I remember wondering if I would get to see him again. There were other similar experiences. The point being that I know what the work entails and I have nothing but the highest regard for the good officers who live their credo, To Protect and To Serve.

The problem is that lately it seems 90 percent of the cops out there are giving the remaining 5 percent a bad name. Here are just a few examples, all of which have been documented on videotape:

Dallas, TX: An NFL player runs a red light while driving to the hospital where his mother in law lay dying. His wife is with him. A Dallas police officer sees him run the red light and follows him to the hospital. The officer ignores the man’s desperate pleas and requests to get to his dying mother in law. In fact, the officer insists on issuing a ticket, a lecture, and even draws his service weapon on the gentleman, threatening to arrest him. A nurse comes out to verify to the officer that the man’s mom is dying. Unfazed, the officer continues detaining the man and his mom dies before he can get to her.

King County, WA: Sheriff Deputy Paul Schene, beats a 15 year old girl, kicking her in the mid section, slaming her head-first into the concrete wall of her holding cell, pinning her to the ground while beating her again, all because she kicked her shoe toward him. King County policy allows the use of force only when, "necessary to effect an arrest, to defend themselves or others from violence, or to otherwise accomplish police duties according to law." The girl presented no threat and was already in custody.

Chicago, IL: Police Officer Anthony Abate is sentenced to two years probation for beating a female bartender because she refused to serve him drinks after he became intoxicated. He continued beating her as she lay helpless on the ground.

Independence, MO: An undercover investigator asks for a police complaint form. The supervisor insists on hearing the complaint in the lobby, in violation of department policy, then refuses to give the investigator a complaint form (also in violation of department policy), and when the investigator asks again the supervisor arrests him, slamming his head against the plexi-glass partition and cutting him.

Shreveport, LA: A police officer deals with a handcuffed but mouthy drunk female by turning off the camera. When the camera is turned back on, she is lying in a pool of her own blood, beaten to a pulp. She suffers two black eyes, multiple lacerations, broken teeth, and bruises. The officer is fired but maintains through his attorney that she merely slipped and fell.

Dayton, OH: A police officer going through Wendy’s drive thru is convinced that he was short changed by the cashier, a minor. The cashier, the manager, and the store’s video verify that she did not short change the officer. He comes into the store, sprays her with mace and arrests her anyway.

Bay County, FL: In January 2006, a juvenile at the county’s boot camp detention center goes into physical distress during exercises. While the boy is limp and unconscious, Sheriff Deputies beat, kick, and place the boy in a variety of restraining holds. Unable to get the care he needed in time, the boy died.

The common thread running through all of these incidents is the sheer arrogance of people who believe that they can cut a bloody swath through society with impunity, bullying and running roughshod over the very citizens they are charged with protecting and serving. And this arrogance is tethered to that of an all-powerful government that believes it can run roughshod over the Constitution and choke the basic rights of Americans.

President Obama’s abysmal and characteristically off-target dismissal of Professor Gate’s arrest as racial profiling misses the point completely. The more power the government amasses, the more intrusive it becomes in our lives. And the more intrusive government becomes, the more intrusive, arrogant, and tyrannical its enforcement mechanism grows. The problem isn’t racial profiling. The problem is out of control cops who somehow believe that disagreeing with them is an arrestable offense. Again, I’m not making a general indictment against all police officers here, but the problem is widespread enough to warrant exploration.

Look around you. Do officers park their patrol vehicles in conspicuous locations so that they can be seen and therefore enhance traffic safety by serving as a deterrent to wreckless driving? Or do they hide behind the bushes, in the shadows, waiting to play “gotcha” and thereby raise revenue for local government? Where I live, in Bay County, FL, we have an unfortunately large percentage of officers who are better suited to appear on reruns of Dukes of Hazzard than on public streets dealing with real citizens. Of course, there are professionals in their midst,..but they haven’t risen high enough through the ranks to effectively weed out the imbeciles and bullies. One officer has even pulled someone over for failure to use a turn signal when the road curved! He used this as a pretext for issuing a citation that he has previously lost in court. Aggressively exploring the outer reaches of invincible ignorance, this officer and many like him wouldn’t recognize real Probable Cause if it stole his chewing tobacco.

It is time for police across the country to look in the mirror. Just like the elected official, a law enforcement officer holds a public trust. He is there to truly Protect and Serve, not intimidate, harass, and bully the public. The badge he wears should not be accompanied by a chip on his shoulder. He wears the uniform of a public servant, not the Gestapo. We all lament and mourn the death of a police officer. The point should not be lost, however, that when enough police officers act like thugs and violate the public trust as rampantly as they are currently doing, they dehumanize themselves and become targets for people at the fringes of society. As the police culture insulates itself and recedes from the society it is charged to protect, the situation becomes even more volatile. It’s time for law enforcement to return to the basics of its credo, To Protect and Serve, and in so doing, they can begin to earn back the trust of the community.

And it is time for citizens to insist that government stay within its lawful boundaries, which is to say its Constitutional boundaries. As the government returns to its rightful place, so too will our law enforcement agencies regain some sense of justice and moral equilibrium, enforcing the law as well as obeying it, and discarding the absurd belief that they ARE the law and therefore can do anything they wish.

I was a law enforcement officer. I am a veteran. But first and foremost, I am an American. My rights come from God, and are not bequeathed as an indulgence by an arrogant politician or a bully with a badge. I’ve fought for liberty before, and I’ll do it again. I’ll not see my country, my family, or myself abused by the excessive power of the state in any form. To my fellow citizens; stand up and assert your rights. To the good officers, the just and fair officials; stand up and help bring this country back to the ideals of the Founders. To the bullies and goons; you are on notice. Screw with us at YOUR peril.

America In The Mirror

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed…” Declaration of Independence

On the surface, this year’s 4th of July celebration was like the many that preceded it. My son, having infinitely more patience and mechanical sense than I ever had, oversaw the assembly of a new charcoal grill. Burgers, chip, drinks, laughter, conversation, and even a performance by Victor Borge on a DVD underscored a 4th of July at the Carter house. We celebrated family, our country, and the men and women that have stood between us and freedom’s enemies abroad.

A few years ago, I wrote a piece where I wished everyone a happy “Independence Day” in recognition of what we are celebrating. I make no such suggestion this year. America could use a good long look in the mirror.

Thomas Jefferson said, “I consider the foundation of the Constitution as laid on this ground: That all powers not delegated to the United States, by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States or to the people' (10th Amendment). To take a single step beyond the boundaries thus specifically drawn around the powers of Congress, is to take possession of a boundless field of power, no longer susceptible to any definition.” There is nothing in the Constitution that authorizes the federal government to seize control of private businesses, but it has done exactly that. The president now controls car companies and even fires a private CEO at his whim. The government oversees executive salaries and aspires through impending legislation to control virtually every aspect of your life.

Despite the promise from our new president to post a bill online for a period of 7 or 8 days before taking action on it, bills are rushed to a vote and signature in hours, not days. James Madison said that, “It will be of little avail to the people, that the laws are made by men of their own choice, if the laws be so voluminous that they cannot be read, or so incoherent that they cannot be understood.” And so the modern day Statists’ is in a panicked rush to pass measure after measure that tramples on the very liberties that brave men and women have fought and died to preserve.

Just recently, the President announced his intent to mandate what type of light bulb we will be allowed to use. Home loans will be made more available depending on where you wish to live. In a rare moment of candor on his health care plan, President Obama even said that it may be time to tell granny that it would be better to forgo the surgery she needs and just take pain medicine. Thus does the government presume to tell us how to live, where to live and even if we can live. And we think of ourselves as free?

The philosopher Mortimer Adler said that, “Freedom is the emancipation from the arbitrary rule of other men.” Does anyone believe that we are so emancipated today? The late actor Jimmy Durante boiled it down to this: “Why doesn't everybody leave everybody else the hell alone?” The answer to Jimmy’s question is found in man’s own history. The natural condition of mankind, according to our Founding Fathers, is freedom. But the historical condition of mankind has been one of tyranny and servitude. From the kings and pharaohs of ancient times to the Marxist, fascist and socialist experiments of recent generations, man’s history is replete with the desire of some men to lord over the affairs of others.

You see, the “change” the statist promises is not new and certainly not real change. It’s the tired old promise that if you just surrender more of your property, more of your time, more of your earnings, more of yourself to the state, you will be taken care of, and we’ll all be happily transported to a utopian paradise that has never existed and runs contrary to the very nature of man.

And so we have a situation in which the President flies his wife to New York City for a date at taxpayer’s expense, enjoys $100 a pound beef at the White House, throws a Hawaiian themed party for Congress on the White House grounds that featured (I’m not making is up) huge amounts of pork, flies across the country to sign a stimulus bill that so far has stimulated the unemployment rate all the way up to 9.5%, and then tells us what kind of light bulbs we can use! That’s not the audacity of hope. That’s the audacity of arrogance! Our elected officials castigate private executives for flying on private jets at private expense, all while flying all over the world on junkets at public expense. The ruling elite live the lives of potentates while putting their feet on the very throat of the private sector, and we call this change? Hope? What a load of crap!

Folks, any government that can reach into your toilet and your light socket has got you by the proverbial whatchamacallits. You can call it a lot of names, but freedom isn’t one of them. Independence was a good idea, but it no longer applies. The state has grown so powerful, so arrogant, that it is out of control. Just look at it’s enforcement arm. There are some brave and selfless law enforcement officers out there, but have you seen the videos? People beaten, tased, and arrested for nothing more than verbally challenging an officer? Here in Bay County, where many officers wouldn’t know what probable cause was if it did a lap dance for them, a young man in obvious physical distress was beaten, kicked, and died at the hands of local law enforcement officers. Show them a copy of the Constitution and they will spit tobacco juice and tell you they don’t care about that around here. AND THEY GET AWAY WITH IT!! The Constitution is null and void, its limitations on government ignored by the very people who took
oaths to defend it. The saddest fact is that we have the very best of us overseas, fighting and dying for something that doesn’t even exist back home.

All of these thoughts and more weighed on me as I went downtown for the annual fireworks display in Panama City. An investment of over $50,000 had been made in this years display, making it the largest on record in this part of the state. As the crowd joined in the countdown, I could feel the excitement build. Five, four, three, two, one…and a jarring boom sounded from two barges in the bay as the pyrotechnics rocketed upward. Then, simultaneous bursts of color lit the night as the concussion of blasts seemed to kick us in the chest.

For the next 20 minutes, we were treated to the best of American music and enough bombs, cascades of light, and brilliant explosions of color to make even a die-hard KISS fan like me happy. Lee Greenwood’s “Proud to be an American” played and I remembered the brave people I had the pleasure to serve with for 20 years in uniform. Then, when John Phillip Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever” began playing, the volleys of fireworks reached a crescendo. These were punctuated at first by the bright explosion of concussion bombs in the sky. Soon, the punctuation turned into a relentless assault of concussion. I recalled the relentless and withering attacks our military deals to any foreign aggressor who dares to assault our country, our people, and our freedom. The colors and sounds that split the night recalled the audacity of our Founders who stood up to tyranny and declared that this would be a free nation. A nation where government would be restrained by force of law from any function that did not directly protect the liberty of the individual. These were the real community organizers, people whose beliefs and doctrines stemmed more from Christianity than from Karl Marx.

Much has been damaged in America. Much has been destroyed. But are we finished? Can freedom make a comeback? Every day that our service people don the uniform, they answer in the affirmative. They don’t quit, ever. Neither should we. Speak up. Contact your representatives. Remind them that they work for us, not the other way around. WE own this place!! Not the pin-heads in Washington and not tobacco spitting bullies with badges. WE THE PEOPLE own this country! Freedom is not negotiable. It is not for sale, in return for a cradle to grave nanny state. It is not a favor occasionally granted by the government. It is our birthright, given to us by God. Seize it back!! If we can’t do that, then lower the flag, call it a day, and as Samuel Adams said, “Crouch down and lick the hands which feed you. May your chains set lightly upon you, and may posterity forget that you were our countrymen.”

With a Twinkle In His Eye

My Grandfather. D.P. Carter, is ailing. Cancer is running it’s insidious course through his body. My company was able to get me through my home town so I could spend some time with him today. I knew he was frail, but I wasn't quite ready for what I saw. He has such a strong mind and determined spirit. The man is a fighter par excellence, yet his body is letting him down. He was sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed, because he didn’t want me to see him in that bed when I came in. He looked shrunken,..frail,...and tired. From a distance, he almost looked “hollow-eyed,“ but those eyes burned bright when I walked up to him. The first thing he noticed was a my bald head. "Where did your hair go, boy?" I told him I gave it the day off. He laughed. He wanted to go in the living room where we could talk. So the hospice nurse, a dear soul named Lou, got him in his wheelchair and in the living room we went.

Grandpa is in a sort of fog right now. He has a tough time connecting thoughts, remembering things he's already said, heard, or seen. The conversation was disjointed at first, so I thought we'd go back down memory lane instead. That got him alert. I asked him about the time, when he was a little boy, when he waited until his dad was taking a nap, and then dipped his dad's hand in chicken poop before taking a feather and tickling his dad’s nose with it. Grandpa laughed and said, 'He rubbed that shit all over his face." He added, "I got my ass beat, but it was worth it." And then we were off to the races, talking about old times. He told me the story of when Lake Charles High was playing a football game back in the 50s. He and my Uncle Lester got drunk and marched on the field with the band at half time. Or the time they faked press credentials and got into the press box during a LCHS away game. Then there was the story about him and Grandma, Lester and Aunt Lou, going to Beaumont and “honky tonkin.” They came back home and one of Grandma's sisters was there waiting. Grandma's sister, Edna, was a teetotaler and believed alcohol was evil. Grandpa said, "I tried to act sober, but Lester was passed out. Edna was standing there watching. I opened the door and Lester just rolled out onto the ground." He started laughing and I said, "And you caught hell?" "You got that right boy!" It was priceless.

I picked up a little book that he wrote a few years ago. It's a book about his life. My favorite passage is the one where he met my Grandma Carter many years ago in Church Point, LA. He described her as, "...the cutest little coonass I had ever seen." He goes on in the book to point out that he was a truck driver, delivering beer for JAX Brewery out of New Orleans. This didn't endear him to Grandma's father who, Paw Paw tells us as an aside, was a Presbyterian minister. Again, priceless stuff.

A few years ago, Grandpa was in a nasty head on collision in town. He ended up in hospital busted up pretty badly. He told me the story about how the docs said that he had actually died that day and they brought him back. In the middle of the story, he forgot what he was saying and went back to the beginning of the story and started telling it to me all over again, unaware that he had just told me the story. I smiled and listened because I don’t want him to stop telling me stories,…ever. He repeated himself yet again, and on the third round I figured I should verbally do the equivalent of bumping the needle when a record gets stuck. So I interrupted him and said, "I know how the docs brought you back." "You do?" he asked. "Yep," I said. He replied "Well they manipulated my pace maker." I said, "Nope, that's not how they did it." He leaned in, looked at me intently and said, "Well then, how did they bring me back?" I answered "Gumbo." "Huh?" "They brought you a bowl of gumbo and you came back!" He looked at me for a moment, and then said, "You're full of shit, ya know that?" I said, "Yes sir. Look who I got it from." He started laughing and we were off again.

He asked my Aunt Rosalie to go get his big Bible. He asked if I had time to listen to him tell me about the family. I said of course, and that I wanted to pass all that information down to my kids. “Oh, please do,“ he said. Aunt Rosalie brought his Bible and there in the front, years ago he had written the names of his brothers and sisters along with their dates of birth and death. He told me about his parents and siblings. He is the last surviving member of that family. His parents were share croppers. Dirt poor. He was one of 12 children, only 8 of whom survived. They lived a hard, hard life. In his book, Grandpa wrote, “To be honest, we were so poor, that the poor people called us poor.” Describing one house the family lived in, he writes:

“It was a big old house, with a chimney at each end of the the house, the kitchen was separated from the house with a little walkway connecting the two together. There were cracks in the floor, and you could see the ground underneath, so just swept the trash through the cracks. The house was three or four feet above the ground. There were cracks in the wall, and there were no glass windows. The windows had wooden shutters and when you opened them, there was the wide open space outside.”

Grandpa goes on to tell us that the reason why there were high poster beds back then was so mosquito bars could be hung on them. That way the family could sleep without being eaten alive by the bugs. But despite all the hardship, the overall impression Grandpa leaves in his writing is of a happy family. Hard working, but happy. He has always been the most naturally jovial person I've ever known.

After about an hour of visiting, including a walk down the driveway and back, he was tired. We got him into the hospital bed, and he was asleep before he ever hit the pillow. The hospice nurse looked at me and said, "He's a special man." "Yes ma'am," I answered, "From the time I was this high (gesturing with my hand close the floor), I always looked forward to visiting Paw Paw Carter. I knew there would be jokes, smiles, and lots of laughter." Lou told me that even when he is in pain, he makes jokes with her. I’m not surprised. It seems to go with the territory in this family.

I don't know that Grandpa will be with us much longer. His 93rd birthday is next month and something in my gut tells me he may not live to see it. The laughter is still there. The quick wit and humor is still there. But his body is fighting him, and he is tired. Tired and frustrated that he can't will his body to keep up with his soul. When he goes, the world will smile a little less. When that bright light of his moves on, things will darken a bit for the rest of us. But in a way, he's spent a lifetime teaching us by example not to take ourselves, or life itself, too seriously. I've heard it said that one of the ways you measure success is not by the stuff you accumulate, or even the titles you earn. It's the smiles you leave behind that show your measure. If that's true, and I suspect it is, my Grandfather is a giant of a man. Our loss will be Heaven's gain.

Memo to Barbara Boxer

I had heard about the incident, but didn’t really believe it could be true. We hear so much about elitist, pompous-assed types inside the beltway that I assumed this story was just so much hype. Surely, a term of respect from a decorated military officer would not be rebuffed by a politician, no? So, thanks to the resources of the new media, I saw the video for myself. I’m astonished, disappointed, and ashamed at the level to which our political class has lowered itself.

Madam Senator, Ma’am, Your Awesomeness, whatever the deuce you want the world to call you, as a tax payer, a citizen (this means you work for me, not the other way around) and a military veteran with 20 years of service defending your sorry hide, just who do you think you are? In the military, as well as in the part of the country I am from, the term ma’am or sir, is a sign of respect and yet this was not good enough for you? This man has served our country honorably. Looking at his medals, I see that he participated in both Desert Storm and Iraqi Freedom. The man is Ranger qualified, parachute qualified, has been awarded two Bronze Stars for combat service to this country, has made a career of risking his life so you and your cohorts can screw up ours, and you presume to lecture him and demand that he rhetorically kiss your derriere?

Allow me to help you with this business of titles: You and your colleagues have managed in a very short time to accumulate more debt than all of our past presidents combined. Ignoring Constitutional constraints on federal power, the government of which you are a part insists on meddling in our lives, confiscating our property, taking over private businesses, stealing the wealth of our children and grandchildren, punishing industry and rewarding sloth, all while dismantling our defenses and returning us to a pre 9/11 posture while North Korea fires missiles like they were firecrackers and Iran tramples its citizens and mocks our wobbly Commander in Chief. You people even regulate how much water can be flushed in our toilets!! Appropriately, Congress has lower approval ratings than the average used car salesman and yet you get your knickers in a bunch because one of America’s finest calls you ma’am? There are worse titles that spring immediately to mind. Get over yourself lady. You’re a politician, not a deity.

In All Humility,
Dave Carter

Motor City My Bayou Born Butt

The good thing about driving up north this time of year is the that the weather is cooler. The bad thing is...well,....everything else. Forbes magazine looked at 75 of the largest metropolitan areas in the US and rated Detroit as the second worst city for a driver. Now I know why. I spent most of the day trying to get from one side of the Detroit to the other. Actually getting through the city is certainly not what city leaders apparently want. I had to through town to get to Pontiac, MI, which is on the north side of Detroit. Since I-75 runs north and south right through town, I figured this would not be a problem. It never occurred to me that the @!$*& interstate would be shut down. But it was!!

Fortunately, there were signs that said to take an alternate route. I looked at my atlas, while traveling of course, and saw that I could take I-275 north. Then I could take I-94 back east and join up with I-75 further north, OR I could take 275 on up to I-696 east, which would again take me to I-75. I saw that where I-94 meets I-75 is still in the downtown area, so I figured 696 would spare me from having to drive through that circus. There were even signs on I-275 that reminded me that I-696 was an alternative route. I figured, hell, if the sign likes the idea then so do I!! So I passed I-94 and headed for I-696, see? It was only after I passed I-94 that new signs informed me that I-696 was under construction, and advised me to seek an alternate route. So I was now looking for an alternate to the alternate. With me so far? If so, give yourself some ice cream.
Now, I'm not from Detroit, so I don't know the local routes. Plus, I'm driving an 18 wheeler, so I've no idea if the local routes are closed to large trucks. I therefore had no choice but to continue on through the construction on I-696, where several lanes converged into one lane. It took two (count 'em!), TWO hours to get from the south side of the Detroit to the north side. Those of you who are in favor of government-run health care, please read the above experience again. If the all-knowing, all-wise, all-seeing bureaucracy can’t handle something like roads and highways, how in the name of Hippocrates’ left nostril are they going to handle your medical needs?

Fortunately, I was carrying a trailer full of automobile air bags, so if there had been an accident, at least no one would have been hurt, right? I delivered the air bags (not to be confused politicians, who are more correctly called gas bags), and headed back south again. The signs going south on I-75 advised me to exit the highway at something called 8 Mile Rd because the highway was closed. In fact, going back on I-696 (the way I came) was out of the question because it was completely closed on the west bound side. Having entirely too much fun at this point, me and my large truck took to itsy bitsy 8 Mile Rd. This road has many stop lights, low bridges, a few liquor stores and hookers thrown in for good measure. The city leaders have worked hard to provide newcomers to their fair city an in-depth look at Detroit's diverse culture. Whether or not you can get through with your vehicle in one piece is another matter because the roads are the worst I have encountered anywhere in the country. Seatbelts are not only law here, they are the only thing that will keep you from flying through the windshield as you bounce from one crater to the next.

Fortunately, 8 Mile Rd intersects with state highway 39, which is a major artery that you will miss because the signs indicating how to get on that highway are few and are placed so that if you weren't in the correct lane (far left) to begin with, you won't have time to make it to the exit and will have to find a place to turn around without A) getting hit by one of the locals who drive like old ladies on a bad acid trip, or B) getting attacked or mugged by one of the local hospitality specialists (gang members). Highway 39 will eventually take you to I-75 on the south side of town, where you finally take your leave of this place.

But what Detroit lacks in planning (i.e., shutting down the interstate and then screwing up the alternate routes as well), it more than makes up for in rudeness. This is where nice people go to become mean, and it's where mean people go to become criminals. You see, I've theorized in recent years that a car is like truth serum. You don't have to get someone drunk to find out what they are really like. Just put them behind the wheel!! Ensconced in the anonymity of their vehicles, people feel free to become themselves. Maybe they think no one will recognize them, so they don't have to pretend to be courteous. Where they would never cut in line at the grocery store, they will do so without a moment's hesitation behind the wheel. In Detroit, they leave their place in a line of cars and drive along the shoulder of the highway, where there is no lane, so they can cut in further ahead. If you put your blinker on to move over and let someone merge into traffic, traffic to your left will rush up and block you so you can't extend that courtesy. Then, the person trying to merge gets angry because you won't move over, not realizing this his fellow numb-nuts are the ones blocking you. And, heaven help you, if are actually able to move over so this screwball can get into traffic, he will stay to your right and block you out in the fast lane where everyone tailgates you and wonders why you were in the fast lane to begin with. These people are nuttier than squirrel turds, but they have an attitude that is beyond mean. It's rabid, and makes Ohio look pleasant by comparison.

Fortunately, I'm headed back south now, with a load of vinegar going just south of Atlanta. Now, Atlanta drivers are a bit strange at times too, but they are the Sisters of Mercy compared to Detroit drivers. And Atlanta highways are the streets of gold compared to the bone-jarring, absurdly planned, mass hazard that passes for a highway system in Detroit. Tonight, I’m comfortably south of Toledo. Time for a Happy Meal.

Memorial Day

“We sleep safe in our beds at night because rough men stand watch in the dark, ready to visit harm upon those who would injure us.” H.G. Wells

The weather man called for rain today, but the weather hadn’t bothered to listen to the forecast. It was sunny and warm with a smattering of clouds here and there to provide momentary shade. A constant breeze kept the heat in check and kept the flags waving. In fact, the first things I noticed at Kent-Forest Cemetery in Panama City, FL, were flags. Flags everywhere. There is a section of the cemetery known as the Garden of Honor and it is here that members of our armed forces are buried. A brick walk goes through the center of the Garden of Honor ending at a pedestal surrounded by a U.S. Flag and the flags of each of our armed services. There’s a large plaque on the pedestal that pays tribute to the war dead that surround that little circle of flags in the Garden of Honor.

This is Decoration Day, or so it was named in 1868 when the day was set aside at Arlington Cemetery, according to union General John Logan, “…for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country.” It wasn’t intended as a day of mourning so much as a day of remembrance and resolve that the blood shed in our defense would not be in vain. Today, this Garden of Honor was awash in a sea of flags. The Patriot Guard, a volunteer organization composed largely of bikers, stood at the perimeter of the ceremony holding large American Flags in honor of the fallen. Flags adorned each of the graves in the Garden of Honor. Veterans of every conflict since World War II were in attendance. Gold Star families (those who have lost loved ones in war) were there as well. Some vets wore their old uniforms out of respect, others the clothing of their organizations (American Legion, Veterans of Foreign Wars, Disabled Veterans, etc.), and still others like yours truly wore hats with their medals and insignia pinned to the front.

As the ceremony began, with patriotic songs by local singers, my mind kept going back to another memorial. At Prince Sultan Air Base, Saudi Arabia, a memorial to those killed in the Khobar Towers attack was constructed. While deployed there, I visited that memorial regularly to pay my respect to my brothers and sisters that were killed and injured in the attack. Fathers, sisters, sons, daughters, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, comrades in arms. They were just like us, talking about what we would do once the “Freedom Bird” took us back to “the world” (home), what it would be like to see our kids again, our families, where we were going to take the family on vacation, etc. And then one day….a sudden, bone shattering concussion, and those people will never see their families again. For the military member, one bullet or one explosion and you’ve gone from Veterans Day to Memorial Day. Your dreams, your hopes, your plans, they all stop. To my dying day I will believe that it is harder on the families than anyone else. Today there was a section reserved for Gold Star families, a few of whom walked to the center of the Garden of Honor to see the plaque. The pain in their eyes told the story. To them, the sight of our flag, the sound of the National Anthem, the crack of gunfire as a 21-gun salute is rendered, the playing of Taps,…these all have an impact on these people that is so deep, so personal, it cuts to their very souls.

All of these thoughts were coming to the surface as the Honor Guard presented The Colors. The National Anthem was sung, and I along with other vets rendered a sharp salute. I can’t render a salute to our flag without remembering my brothers and sisters that didn’t come home. I can see the young man with over 100 pounds of gear on his back, sweat pouring, eyes squinting as he tries to figure out if that is a “friendly” or an “unfriendly” approaching him, knowing that his next decision will determine if he comes home or not, or if he is to be second guessed and court martialed. I think of my best friend Technical Sergeant Lee, another retiree, whose disabilities leave him on oxygen a good part of the time, unable to get about without the assistance of a cane, heart trouble, hands in braces, chronic pain, you name it, and he is not that much older than I. But the kicker is that Bob would do it all again in a heart beat for our country. Prior to one of my various deployments to the mid east, I spoke with Bob on the phone. In one of those “gut check” moments, he told me, “Dave, remember, you have to go. But you don’t have to come back.” This is the reality that stays with us, and leaves people like me moved to tears at ceremonies like today’s. Why did some of us make it while many of our betters didn’t?

The guest speaker at today’s ceremony was Mrs. Deborah Tanish, whose son, Sgt Patrick Tanish (US Army) was killed by a road side bomb in 2004. She spoke from the heart, but was also armed with facts. Did you know that less than 1 percent of the US population serves in the armed forces? That’s less than 1 percent defending the other 99+ percent. She told the story of a young corporal in Iraq who saw an Iraqi father and his daughter making their way back to their home. The young girl was carrying a heavy load on her back while her father carried nothing. This is antithetical to American culture where we simply will not treat our children as beasts of burden. So the corporal approached the father and told him that he would carry his daughter if the father would carry her load. The father agreed, and the corporal, already weighed down by over 100 pounds of gear, carried the young girl to her home. These are the kinds of people who stand between the rest of us and a large group of blood-thirsty lunatics who want nothing more than to kill as many of us as possible. So, you ask, what happened to that young corporal? He was later killed in combat in Iraq. Today we honor him and so many like him.

At the ceremony’s conclusion, the first volley of gunfire for the 21-gun salute startled a few people in the crowd. Then, from the side, the slow and mournful tones of Taps sounded. Veterans again saluted as a final show of respect to our fallen brothers and sisters. Just over the horizon, as the last notes of Taps played out, a four-ship formation of F-15s from nearby Tyndall Air Force Base approached the cemetery at low altitude. As the formation flew overhead, one of the fighter jets separated from the formation, pointing his jet straight up into the clouds and engaging the afterburners in a gigantic roar of tribute to the warrior spirit of our comrades killed in battle.

In the movie Saving Private Ryan, an old man visit’s the grave of the man who saved his life during the war and says, “I hope that at least in your eyes, I’ve earned what all of you have done for me.” Writing in National Review, Chairman of Vets for Freedom Pete Hegseth observed that, “The minute, excuse me—the second—we believe our freedom is ‘inevitable and/or immutable,’ we cease to live in history, and have soured the soldier's sacrifice. He died in the field, so we can enjoy this beautiful day (and weekend). Our freedoms—purchased on the battlefield—are indeed “worthy of war.” That is why, through the tears and the solemn respect, we pay homage to our fallen heroes. Today is a day for remembrance and for celebration. Celebration that such men and women exists. Celebration that our nation can produce such extraordinary people. And for me, looking down at the headstone of a young private who was killed at the age of 18 in World War I, celebration that I can refer to people in this generation of heroes as my friends.