CONSERVAPHOBIA

Until recently I didn’t think Conservaphobia was a real phenomenon. But, after reading a Friday Gazette op-ed, I’m flummoxed.  Now I don’t know whether to repent or go into hiding.

I’m a conservative. For the sake of political correctness and personal safety I should be saying that in hushed tones, but I just can’t help myself. I’ve been a conservative since the days of Jimmy Carter and I intend to be planted in the ground someday as a conservative.

Far be it from me to critique the work of experts. They apparently know more about a guy like me than I know about myself. If some academic expert, with impeccable credentials, says that I’m a mass of “fear, intolerance of ambiguity, need for certainty or structure in life, or overreaction to threats” who am I to criticize?

Some experts think that being conservative is dangerous. In one paragraph we’re just garden variety conservatives. In the next we’ve become “right wing authoritarians,” or RWA’s. They’ve even developed RWA scales so they can pigeon hole us.

I can hardly wait for the op-ed about RWA leaders. I’m guessing they’re going to exhume Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher. The psycho-babble will be fascinating.

It might be time to make Emporia a model for more sweeping solutions to its conservative problem. We could start with pilot programs. We could allocate space in one of our empty storefronts for a twelve step program to help desperate conservatives shake the oppressive shackles of their political philosophy. I might attend, more than likely under compulsion. I can see myself sheepishly breaking the ice: “Hi, I’m Phil and I’m a conservative.” I can almost hear the gasps from the other miscreants assembled as they respond in unison, “Hi, Phil.”

Twelve step programs might be a bit too gentle to solve the problem. If they fail, as many will (we conservatives are a highly resistant lot), escalation would be in order. We could have latter day Robspierres roaming the streets to ferret out offenders. All of Emporia would be a conservative free zone¸ protected by Committees for Public Safety. Anyone caught skulking around with a copy of “God and Man at Yale” or C.S. Lewis’s “The Abolition of Man” would be dragged, kicking and screaming, to an interrogation room. There¸ skilled interrogators with names like Lakshmi, Sonari, or Kai, would ask the important questions in gentle, new age tones. “Have you had any conservative thoughts recently?” “What do you know about the work of Edmund Burke?”  “Have you ever subscribed to the political philosophy of Ronald Reagan?” “Are there any other conservatives lurking around in your neighborhood?”   The interrogations would always end with this reminder – “Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime is death.” (see “1984,” Book 1, Chapter 2)

The interrogations won’t be enough to cause the hard core conservatives to recant. In those cases, lobotomies would become the preferred option. The Committee for Public Safety could hire Nurse Ratched to oversee the operation.

When all is said and done I think that a lot of detractors possess some of the same personality traits they accuse conservatives of holding exclusively. I’ve met more than a few Progressives in my lifetime who “consider themselves more upstanding and moral than others.” I’ve even met some who “hold numerous hypocrisies and double standards.” But I’m not ready to declare that there’s a malady called Progressive Personality Disorder. If they want to be better than everyone else, I say let ém.

If the truth be known, most conservatives believe in a “transcendent order” and have an abiding “affection for the proliferating variety and mystery of human existence, as opposed to the narrowing uniformity, egalitarianism, and utilitarian aims of most radical systems.”  (“The Conservative Mind, From Burke to Eliot” – page 8).

I could go on, but I think I’ve made my point. I’ll close with a couple of gentle reminders, one from the poetry of Robert Burns and one paraphrasing Holy Writ.

In his “To a Louse,” Burns wrote about noticing a woman of high estate sitting in front of him in church. He saw that she had all the trappings of class and distinction. She was dressed to the nines. What she couldn’t see was what Burns could -  a louse crawling across her hat. The poem ends with the following observation:

“And would some Power the small gift give us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notion:
What airs in dress and gait would leave us,
And even devotion!”

In his Sermon on the Mount, Jesus reminded his listeners they would do well to remove the logs in their own eyes before they tried to remove the specks in their brothers.’ It was good advice 2,000 years ago. It’s good advice today.

SMOKIN' IN THE BOYS ROOM

For the past couple of months city and county politics have reminded me of my high school days, especially getting caught smoking in the boys’ room.

I should’ve never started smoking, but I was young and I wanted to be one of the boys. I knew what the rules were. I knew there were bathroom monitors roaming around, but I was willing to take the chance. For me, the opportunity came between Latin II and Physical Education. As soon as Mr. Landrigan dismissed us with one last reminder we’d better bone up on our ablative absolutes I was gone, hoping I’d be able to find a stall to satisfy my nicotine fit in secrecy. I usually got away with my misdeeds¸ but the bathroom monitors occasionally caught me and about six or seven others in the act. The door would swing open and we’d hear, “Awright, who’s smokin’ in here?” I think they took great delight in what came next –lit cigarette butts hissing as they hit the water, followed by the sound of flushing.

I’m not sure how many bathroom monitors we have here in Emporia, but whatever the number is, I don’t think there are enough.

I don’t attend city, county, or school board meetings as often as I should, but when I do I get the nagging sense that our esteemed leaders have spent some of their time puffing away together somewhere back in the goodoleboy’s room. It’s not that I’ve ever been back in the goodoleboy’s room that makes me wonder; it’s just that there’s something in the air. There are times I want to whisper to folks around me, “Do you smell cigar smoke creeping out from under a back room door?”

Some of my friends think I’m a bit too eastern for these parts. This is especially true when I ask them whether or not they’re a bit curious about political doings here. They tell me that, unlike easterners, Midwesterners trust one another and that business in Emporia and Lyon County takes place on a handshake basis. Now there’s nothing wrong with handshakes. I like them. And, as far as trust goes, I’m actually a very trusting guy. I trust my wife, my kids, and my friends. I trust my neighbors and their kids.  I trust Jack and Ranger, my dogs. They’ve never tried to bite me. But I do admit to feeling queasy being around politicians who try to pick my pocket when my attention is focused elsewhere.

At some of the recent meetings I got that feeling. When I hear politicians saying something like “We can move money from this fund to that fund,” my antenna goes up. When the gang at the county tells us we need a sales tax to give us property tax relief and we still wind up with higher property taxes I want to scream, “If you’re gonna’ mug me, please slap me only once.” When I get a copy of a budget and it’s just a page or two shorter than “War and Peace” I begin to wonder what genius adorned with a green eyeshade authored this minefield. My suspicions get aroused and I begin to hope the Gazette’s ace reporter or Jeff O’Dell has a bit of the muckraker in their blood.

But, maybe my friends are right. I just need to be more trusting. Our local politics is probably as honest as a barracks poker game. And, besides, if there is political double-talk and patronage here it’s as American as apple pie.

Lately I’ve been seeing a lot of the “We’re going into executive session” and it’s got my wheels turning. What’s up with that? Are we dealing with bruised egos who are feeling compelled to let us know how important they are? Are they trying to tell us, “We’re dealing with stuff so sensitive we have to communicate with each other by way of Enigma machines” or that if any Emporian ever found out what was going on it would trigger Armageddon?

A couple of weeks ago the city commissioners went into executive session from 9:00 A.M. till 11:00. At 11:00 they sat down for a few minutes and promptly went into executive session again. Our commissioners spent about as much time in secret as Ike and his team did planning the Normandy invasion.

I’m a trusting soul. I really am. But I’m curious. What on earth are they hatching back there? Is someone smoking in the goodoleboys’ room? I’ve heard that where there’s smoke there’s usually a cigar.

Maybe it would be good if our leaders knew we’re watching them. Who knows? One of these days the door may open wide and they’ll hear, “Awright, who’s smokin’ in here?” If the next sounds we hear are hissing and flushing we’ll know our curiosity was justified.

IF IT AIN'T BROKE, BREAK IT!

Some historians have credited Herbert Hoover with the following political beatitude – “Blessed are the young¸ because they will inherit the national debt.” Hoover may or may not have said it, but I guess that’s not particularly relevant. Hoover has also been credited with doing nothing once the stock market crashed in 1929, but that may not be entirely true either. When the stock market crashed he blamed it on the Coolidge administration’s laissez faire, pro- business policy. By the time he left office the Hoover administration had passed the highest income tax increase in American history, doubled the estate tax, and secured passage of the Smoot-Harley tariff of 1930, which precipitated a worldwide trade war. In the aftermath of the speculative bubble that had caused the market to crash unemployment had gotten as high as 9%. By 1930 unemployment had been reduced to a little bit over 6%. By 1931, thanks to Smoot-Harley, unemployment reached 11%. When Franklin Roosevelt was elected in 1932 the unemployment rate had skyrocketed to 23.6%!

Maybe I’m looking at it the wrong way, but I don’t think Herbert Hoover did “nothing.” He did a lot and not much of it was good. Coolidge, the “Old Stone Face,” may have gotten it right. He had on occasion referred to Hoover as “Wonder Boy.”  He was also reluctant to support Hoover’s presidential bid in 1928 and had once remarked, “For six years that man has given me unsolicited advice—all of it bad.”

I started this essay writing about debt so I guess I’d better get back to it.  It’s interesting. Just about everyone in the country seems to agree that we have a national debt problem. Economists are telling government officials we have a crisis on our hands. Strangely, though, the message of debt reduction doesn’t seem to have a lot of appeal in some circles.

In a recent essay published by Time Magazine, Brad Tuttle opined, “While it is prudent for the individual to save more and scale back on consumption, the consensus is that, collectively, we need to spend to get the economy humming along once more. If the masses were to exhibit boring, responsible, debt-averse consumer behavior for a sustained period of time, that would be a recipe for continued economic strife.”

I’m not sure who is responsible for this consensus. My guess it’s a brigade of Washington think tankers. The average American isn’t that dumb. You know eventually the politicians are going to get a hold of this and, when they do, they’re gonna’ have a field day.

It gets even worse. It’s one thing for the Obama administration to blame the Bush administration for our current predicament. That may or may not be true. But it’s another thing altogether to blame you and me, and that’s what’s happening.  The argument, so it goes, is that, since consumer spending represents 70% of our economic activity, consumers who are scaling back on big ticket purchases and reducing debt load are “seriously hampering the economy’s recovery.”

Well, there you have it. It’s all our fault.

Why is it that bad ideas seem to get such traction? I find it mystifying. It seems, for example, that every time we have a national disaster, a tornado, a hurricane like Katrina or Irene, a flood, or a blizzard, the airwaves begin buzzing with the idea that maybe the tragedy wasn’t so bad after all because it will stimulate economic activity and bring on recovery. I understand that there is some economic activity that comes on the heels of a disaster, but does that mean that the solution to our economic problems is to mount tragedy upon tragedy to create the desired economic outcome. Really? I guess that means we’d do well to start burning our cities down, inventing machines to shake all of our houses like James Bond’s dry martinis, or opening the national spigots and flooding everyone out. Man, talk about stimulus! It’s too bad Herbert Hoover didn’t think of that. Had he been clever enough he could have adopted the mantra, “If it ain’t broke, break it” to market all the destructive energy.  We just may have avoided the Great Depression. We might have had a lot of scorched and flooded earth, broken buildings, and stratospheric casualty reports, but the lucky ones left standing would have been employed rebuilding everything.

I wonder what our young people are thinking as they observe the madness disguised as compassionate genius in action. Are they dreading the future? Surely, they must be thinking that the ruling generation has taken leave of its senses. Lord, I hope they don’t start thinking like their elders and begin breaking things. Maybe, for the sake of self-perseveration, I’d better suggest they just eat, drink, and be merry now, for tomorrow they will probably be broke!

THE LAKE WOBEGONE STANDARD

Nancy and I love listening to Garrison Keillor’s “Prairie Home Companion” on Saturday evening, especially the news of Lake Wobegon(e), a fictional Minnesota town where, “the women are strong, the men are good looking, and all the children are above average.” If you haven’t heard Keillor weave his tales I recommend you do. Tune in to NPR at 5:00 PM on Saturdays.

This morning I caught the tail end of a CNBC interview with author Thomas Friedman. He was pitching his latest book, “That Used to Be Us – How America Fell Behind in the World It Invented and How It Can Come Back.” I haven’t read the book, but after hearing the interview I have it on order.

I’ve just finished reading a Christian Science Monitor review of the book, which has really whetted my appetite for more. The review describes the authors, Friedman and Michael Mandelbaum of Johns Hopkins University, as “frustrated optimists.” What’s got them frustrated? “America is in denial, unwilling to accept that it’s been living beyond its means and getting, well, a little lazy.”

I wonder if Friedman and Mandelbaum paid a visit to Emporia when they were doing their research. It sure looks like it. If there were a gold standard award for denial in economic development and clever, meaningless jingles I think we’d win hands down.

I’m often taken to task by this town’s important people because I don’t tow the “everything’s fine” party line that dominates our leadership. That’s alright. I realize there’s a price to pay when you rub the powerful the wrong way. But, in their rush to criticize they’ve missed the really important point. I’m right and they’re wrong. We’ve got problems that demand serious reflection and answers. Denial won’t make the problems go away and, worse yet, it keeps us from answering the difficult questions and finding our way out of the mess we’re in.

Time is of the essence. With each passing day Emporia, and America, are falling further and further behind in a world that is increasingly competitive and skills driven.

I’ve seen the competitive international environment first hand. I’ve seen just how good our competitors are. I’ve seen them in Singapore, Israel, and South Korea. I’ve read about the emerging markets and the rise of trade partnerships like the “BRICS,” who are pooling resources to supplant the United States as the world’s dominant economic power. And, here at home, I’ve seen it in my living room and dining room as I sat with international students and discussed their aims and dreams in life.

My wife and I have hosted four international students since 2003, one from the Republic of Moldova, one from South Korea, one from Vietnam, and one from China. While each student came with ethnic and cultural distinctives, they held two important things in common. They understood how fiercely competitive the world economic environment is and they came to compete and win. They understood that “average” is no longer good enough and that the world is now demanding excellence. One of our international students, Corina Nour, was interviewed by the Gazette when she attended Emporia High several years ago. She was asked what she thought of homecoming. She said, “Not much. We don’t have homecoming in Moldova. Students there understand the global marketplace and they gear themselves toward success in that arena.” In a couple of months she’ll graduate with a Masters’ and launch out into the deep. She’ll succeed. As much as we’d like to keep her, we know that won’t happen. She hasn’t spent her time preparing to be mired in a low wage, high poverty environment.

One of the recommendations Friedman and Mandelbaum make is for America to adopt the Lake Wobegon(e) standard. What’s that? It’s the standard that says “average” is no longer acceptable. It’s not acceptable for our students or our teachers. More importantly, it’s no longer acceptable for our leaders. They need to see that the path of disaster is strewn with the casualties of “average is good enough.” We need to be about the business of excellence. The new world of economic opportunity demands it

I hear all the time that I’m too negative. I say that I’m like Friedman and Mandelbaum. I’m a “frustrated optimist.” I know we can do better. In fact, I think we should be. We should be gearing our young people in Emporia toward excellence in achievement. I think they’re capable of it. The same holds true for our workforce. They can rise to the challenge. Our leaders need to rethink the old, costly notion that low wage manufacturing is Emporia’s future in the same way it’s been our past. All it’s done is get us into a low wage, high poverty rut. It’s time to put some 21^st century wheels on the wagon.   

INSPIRATION AND PERSPIRATION

My Pastor, Mike Stubbs, has often said that he learned early in life that when one is seeking answers to life’s mysterious questions and the answers tried seem to fail, it would be a good idea to try the obvious answer you’ve been avoiding all along.

I think Mike’s formula is very true when it comes to inspiration.

A couple of times a month Nancy and I spend our weekend in Kansas City. As we approach the I-35/Broadway exit we always comment on the progress being made on the Kauffman Center for the Performing Arts. It’s almost completed and when it is it will be a Kansas City gem.  As it is, it’s a sight to behold¸ with its not quite complete roof gleaming in the sun. It’s being built along the lines of the Sydney Opera House.

As I’ve looked on it lately I’ve begun to wonder how it all got started. Not long ago the building site was an empty lot on the edge of the Freight House District. Well, the answer is obvious. It was inspiration. Given that, how did inspiration become reality? The answer is every bit as obvious. It’s perspiration. It’s hard work.

The project was as ambitious as any I’ve ever seen in Kansas City. The total cost, when completed, will be over $400 million. That’s a big number and you’d think that it would derail things. But the cost wasn’t an inhibiting factor at all. In fact, as of October, 2010, $370 million of the needed funding had been secured. How much of that funding was taxpayer money? None.  The Ewing Kauffman Foundation has contributed over $30 million. The Hall family chipped in $23 million; the Jean Brandmeyer Family Foundation gave $12 million, the Helzbergs contributed $10 million.

Putting this all together was hard work. It was a marriage of inspiration and perspiration. I’m sure the board of directors had to do a lot of legwork and negotiating to get the funding. The men and women who manned the scaffolds have done yeoman work. It shows.

It’s amazing what can be accomplished when people work together.

I’ve had some people tell me that there isn’t enough private energy or capital to undertake big projects here in Emporia. Well, they couldn’t be more wrong. My brother-in-law, James, has been telling me how proud he is about being part of the ground breaking for Hetlinger Development’s $2 million expansion. James is rightly proud of his small part in what is happening. So should everyone at Hetlinger Development, from the board of directors, to staff, to financial contributors, to the workers who will in the end seal the dream with brick and mortar. The completed project will allow Hetlinger to expand their client base by 25%!

What started this project in motion? It’s obvious. It was inspiration.

The question of how to convert inspiration was answered in the same way supporters of the Kauffman Center answered the questions inspiration raised for them. The hard work began. Grants were solicited and received. The Mabee Foundation gave $400,000. Smaller contributions came through the “Everyday Heroes Campaign.” The board of directors, to a person, contributed. Staff contributed as well. And, so it went. Well, now ground has been broken. The dream will become a reality.

As with the Kauffman Center, no taxpayer money will be needed for the Hetlinger expansion. Not a dime! Why? It’s obvious. Once the seeds of inspiration were sown things flowed in the right direction. The dream was so viable that people wanted to contribute to make it a reality.

There are some great lessons in this. First, when the dream has real value its supporters rarely take the path of least resistance. They don’t go to the city council or the city commission with their hats in their hands. They go out and find the dreamers and doers. They connect wallets, purses, hammers, saws, hands, feet, and hearts to the dream. That’s how it happens.

Secondly, people gravitate to hard work. They dislike things that flow along the path of least resistance.

Third, they reward hard work.

Fourth, they’ll get behind a good project.

One of the things that makes me weary about things in Emporia is that far too many projects here run along the path of least resistance. It makes me question their inspiration. It makes me wonder if the visions proponents have decided that a mill levy increase or the public trough is the way to get the maximum benefit from the minimum effort. It’s “Let the taxpayers fund it.”

If the proponents of these projects believe their dreams are so worthy I think it’s time for them start doing the hard work needed to turn inspiration into reality. If they don’t know how, I recommend they call Hetlinger or the Kauffman Foundation.

KILLING 'EM WITH KINDNESS

To hear our city and county commissioners these days you’d get the impression that every mill levied against us is baked with love and that every public service provided is absolutely essential to our well-being.

Now I don’t spend a lot of time in the belly of the beast. I’m just a front line foot soldier sitting here in my third line trench, and from where I sit these acts of municipal kindness feel like upright pianos with cast iron innards being heaved at me. I’ve tried my best to get them to see what they’re doing, but it’s not working too well. I’ve occasionally thought I’m invisible, but the cashiers at Wal-Mart or Reebles, my neighbors, and my friends all say “Hello” when they see me out and about. Maybe our leaders can’t see me because I don’t genuflect in their presence or fawn all over them. It’s probably time for another approach. Let me try this. “I love you commissioners.” “You’re the absolute best.” “You’re the cat’s pajamas.” How’s that?

I’ve gone as far as I can go. I’m going back to making my case. Commissioners, please. Stop it! You’re killing me with your kindness.

I’m really not against the concept of government. I like it, particularly the idea of self-government, which I’ve been led to understand is supposed to be the American ideal. What I’m decidedly against is government, whether it’s Federal, State, or Municipal, that all too often does things it has no business doing and fails to do many of the things it should.

Sometimes it amazes me. Our leaders seem to have enough money to subsidize a public golf course to the tune of six figures annually, but couldn’t find enough to subsidize reduced cab fares for the city’s elderly and handicapped a couple of budget cycles ago. The commissioners said they were simply eliminating a duplicate service. The net effect of the decision was one transport service for the elderly and disabled and two golf courses, one getting a public subsidy and another having to compete with the subsidized links.

How is it our leaders have enough time to consider having taxpayers foot the bill for overpriced property on Highway 50, but can’t seem to find the time to deal with slumlords who prey on renters and cost their neighbors in higher property taxes and then add insult to injury by failing to pay their fair share and depressing property values?

There must be some sort of chemical mix in the water down at city hall and the county courthouse that causes our leaders to take leave of their senses just about the time they have to make a decision. I think they must be using them in every government office in the country.

Last night I read about a bill the California senate just passed. It’s titled Senate Bill 432. In their superior wisdom, a small band of public spirited politicians have mandated that all hotels, inns, bed and breakfasts, etc. in the state start using fitted sheets on their beds. According to the politicos, the reason for the mandate was worker safety. For any hotel, inn, or bed and breakfast that has the temerity to defy the legislators there will be criminal penalties. The California innkeepers say the decision will cost them close to $20 million and that the costs will be passed on to their guests. Will the mandate improve safety conditions for the state’s hotel workers? No, but that doesn’t matter.

The California House is going to consider the proposed legislation sometime this month. I’m sure the Senate will send the proposal, along with enough chemicals to ensure the bill’s passage.

A couple of months ago, the cities of San Francisco and Santa Monica considered legislation banning the practice of male circumcision. When religious groups, particularly Jews, objected, the lawyers stepped in and argued that “So long as a law has no discriminatory intent, states and the federal government may, therefore, regulate behavior in ways that contradict individuals' religious beliefs and practices.” In other words, Jews can object all they want. They can argue they’ve been circumcising their male children since Abraham instituted the practice 4,000 years ago, but it may not do them any good.

The measure is going to be on the cities’ respective ballots in November.

I see these things being played out in my home town, in California, and in Washington, D.C. and I feel like my head is spinning. The country is drowning in debt and deficits. So is California. So is Emporia. And what are our leaders doing? Drinking chemically laced water, mandating fitted sheets, banning circumcision, subsidizing golf, pandering to slumlords, and printing money. It makes me want to scream from my housetop, “Stop the insanity!” “Stop killing me with your kindness!”

BEATING DEAD HORSES

I’m going to be accused of it so I might as well jump right in. I’m going to beat on a dead horse.

Actually, the reason I’m flailing away is that the horse isn’t really dead. I’ve been whacking him for years now, but in spite of my heroic effort he keeps coming back to life. My critics must be having a field day. They’re probably saying to themselves, “This fool thinks he’s smacking an old nag around. He doesn’t understand that our horse is actually more like Seabiscuit.”

The horse I’m talking about is the cultural and political divide in this town. On one side of the divide are those who say that everything in Emporia is fine. Their contention is that there’s not much we need to do to fix the things that ail us other than shop a little bit more here in town. They seem to hold the high ground and feel the defenses they’ve erected are impregnable.

They might be right, but I think I’ll keep it up, sort of like Ulysses S. Grant did at Cold Harbor. I’m thinking that if I can somehow remain ambulatory I may win out in the end.

Who’s the nag I’m beating on? It’s the divide between Emporia’s important citizens/decision makers and its rank and file.

I got back from a meeting last week and found a school district pamphlet called the “Clipboard,” dated June 22^nd. There’s was a news brief on the cover page circled that read, “The policy also shifts two of the 11 paid holidays from Veterans Day and Good Friday to additional days during Christmas.” That was it.

I called the school district this morning to figure out how the decision to shift the holiday had been made. The process went something like this. In the past, teachers and administrators used Veterans Day as an in service day. Those who worked on Veterans Day got paid for the holiday, which meant they had to work a half a day to earn their holiday pay. This year the “calendar committee” decided to eliminate the Veterans Day holiday and add that day to the Christmas break. They forwarded their recommendation to the school board, the recommendation was approved. It’s now district policy.

As far as the decision makers are concerned it’s a done deal. Then, why am I beating on a dead horse? Actually, I’m not. I’m beating on the old nag named Disconnect. He’s very much alive.

Some questions occurred to me as I listened to the explanation. Did anyone on the calendar committee consider how Emporia’s veterans might feel about the change? Could the committee have found another day on the calendar that would have kept the Veterans Day holiday intact and still meet the requirement for an in service day?

My critics might have a couple of questions for me. “Why are you getting so hot and bothered?” “Isn’t this much ado about nothing?” And therein lies the problem. The disconnect in Emporia is palpable. It’s as deep and wide as the Grand Canyon.

A couple of weeks ago city leaders were busily trying to convince USA Today that Emporia was America’s most patriotic city. I think there was a disconnect there. I think patriotism was misused to further narrow political and economic interests. Now we’ve got some of Emporia’s leaders all but saying that a day set aside to honor veterans means little or nothing. And, they wonder why Emporia’s average guy feels the deck is stacked against him. They wonder why the “little people” refuse to turn out in droves on Election Day.

I suppose veterans are not that big a constituent group. Besides, they’re too busy dodging RPG’s up in Tora Bora to complain.

The disconnect probably seems quite small. But, when you add all of the small disconnects in Emporia up the number becomes almost unmanageable.

How is it, for example, that someone can assume the city has pockets deep enough to treat $23,000 an acre like it was chump change? Maybe it’s easy when you hold 65 Emporians over the fires of economic hell as collateral. Do you think the average hourly sweating out the weekly paycheck might be feeling like he’s being held hostage in this game of economic chicken? I do!

I’ve spent years wondering how this city’s slumlords get away with what they do. They must be politically connected. I’ve wondered why city leaders keep saying, I’m fixin’ to work on the problem….tomorrow….or the day after tomorrow. It’s a lot easier when the slumlords’ victims have decided to bite the bullet or they’ve just given up.

The end result is that we’ve got a lot of people who’ve become invisible to leadership. And, until they become visible nothing else here will change for the better.

SILVER MEMORIES

In a week or so Nancy and I will be celebrating our 25^th anniversary. For the past few years we’ve celebrated at our favorite Kansas City restaurant, Le Fou Frog (The Crazy Frenchman). I’ve already made our reservations for this year.

Twenty-five years is a significant chunk of time. A lot can happen in twenty-five years. We’ve witnessed the election of our first African-American president, 9-11, two wars in the Persian Gulf, one in Afghanistan, a national economic meltdown, and a presidential election decided by the Supreme Court. We’ve been through the death of her father and one of her brothers and my mother’s passing. We’ve been unemployed. We’ve been broke. We’ve been blessed with plenty.

Yet, when I consider our years together it’s not so much the big things that capture my attention. It’s the silver memories that taken together add up to powerful bonds of love and affection. So, I’m going to share a few of those moments with you. As I do, you might want to prop your feet up and think back to your silver moments with your significant other.

I remember the early days. Nancy and I had been chosen to be part of a teaching team. There came a time when we’d spend time outside the church, just talking. The first conversations lasted five minutes. Then, five minutes became a half hour, then an hour or more. One night as I was on my way back home I found myself in a mystical conversation with Nancy. I could see her face in the windshield. As I passed through the inner loop of downtown Kansas City a cop pulled me over. I was doing 62 in a 45 MPH zone. I apologized and admitted my guilt, but knew I couldn’t tell the cop that the reason I was speeding was because I had gotten caught up in the apparition of a beautiful woman. He kept pressing the point and I finally said, “If I plead insanity will you give me my ticket and let me go?” The result was an on-the-spot safety inspection of my beat up old Ford and close to $300 of mechanical repairs to go with it. The next time I saw Nancy I proposed. I told her, “I’m not a college sophomore any more. I know what I want. I’m head over heels in love with you. And, besides, if I don’t marry you I’ll be dead broke in less than a month.” That was in April of ’86. We got married in September.

The early years were tough. We had to work our way through differences. I liked noisy mornings, jumpstarted by Dire Straits. Nancy preferred Debussy. She was quiet and reflective, as opposed to my manic flailing around on the exercise machine in the basement. She liked quiche. I liked ham and cheese omelets.

We moved to New Jersey in the late eighties. We rented an old Victorian home near Montville. It was a wonderful place. Nancy loved it. I remember a morning when we were peering out a picture window in our breakfast nook while we sipped coffee. Suddenly, there was something that captured her full attention. It was a bird. She got so excited when she saw it that she grabbed my hand across the table, squeezed it, and exclaimed, “Oh, Phil, it’s the Flicker! He’s come back.” I don’t think she was fully aware of what was going on inside her. I’m not a weak man, but a part of me wanted to cry out in pain. I didn’t want to short circuit the moment, so I sat there, soaking in the effect, realizing that I was going to share many more of those wonderful moments with her as time went by.

I remember our first brush with mortality. It was early morning and we were sitting at an inn in Cape May. Nancy seemed to know that I was feeling uncomfortable about being around so many older people. I was beginning to sense time and mortality moving at light speed away from me. She asked what seemed to be a strange question. “Slick, what will you do if I die before you?” Like an idiot, I blurted out, “I don’t want you to ever die.” I felt so noble when I said it. It wasn’t till I got home and read C.S. Lewis’s “A Grief Observed” that I realized I’d been more worried about the things I wanted from Nancy  than I had about Nancy herself. I had to learn that she wasn’t put on earth solely for my amusement.  

There are so many of those silver moments, but I’ve run out of space. It’s time to go downstairs and reflect quietly. Maybe it would be a good time for you to reflect on your silver moments, too.

TWO OLD DOGS

In my younger days I burned the candle at both ends, and sometimes even the middle. If I could find a wick, or the hint of one, I’d set it ablaze. Like almost any young man my preoccupation was wine, women, and song.  At those rare moments of adult sanity when I entertained thoughts I’d eventually pay a price for my misadventures I’d dismiss them and move on to a new one.

These days many of the memories of my youth have faded and I’m left with the physical reminders that there is a price to be paid for burning the candle of youth. A little over two years ago I went through open heart surgery, thanks to my love of greasy food. Six weeks or so ago the pain in my back was so excruciating I could barely get my tennis shoes on when I got out of bed at 5:00 A.M.  I went to a chiropractor for the first time in my life. It took several treatments to get the arthritis to respond to the chiropractor’s skilled hands. Two Sundays ago I had to go to the emergency room at Newman. Blood tests revealed that I’d had a flare-up of pancreatitis, which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I wouldn’t even with it on a politician. For a week after I left the hospital I had to maintain a liquid diet. If you’re anything like me living on chicken broth, popsicles, diet Jell-O, noodles, and one cup of morning coffee can get very old, very fast.

You can see that I’m struggling with the aging process. That’s why I’m glad I have my buddy, Jack, the ugliest dog in Emporia. He’s a great teacher.

Like me, Jack is getting long in the tooth. A few months ago he seemed to be on the verge of going to the old bone yard. But, thanks to Floyd Dorsey and daily enzyme treatments Jack seems to be doing alright. He’s no spring chicken, mind you, but he’s alive and has occasional visits from the sweet bird of youth.

Our days together start with a walk. By seven he’s back home and ready for breakfast. It takes me a few minutes to cut up the pills and sprinkle the enzymes on his food. As I do, Jack gets a case of the happy feet. He jumps up and down. The sound of his toenails hitting the wood floor reminds me of the sound of a flamenco dancer’s castanets. As soon as his bowl hits the floor Jack hurls himself into his work. It takes him less time to eat the food than it took me to prepare it for him. Then, it’s off to take a nap in his favorite spot under the piano.

For the next forty-five minutes I tune in to C-Span’s “Washington Journal getting my daily fix of what America is thinking. As soon as I’m satisfied that the Republic is safe for at least one more day I fix breakfast for myself, which amounts to Shredded Wheat, skim milk, orange juice, daily medications, and two tablets of pancreatic enzymes. Then, if the mood strikes me, I might sit down in front of my laptop and work on an essay, mow the lawn, or go to a commission meeting and stick a barb or two into Emporia’s high and mighty.

While I’m doing my thing Jack spends his day quietly. He’ll chew on a bone for a while, then hide it from Ranger, the Sheltie, and Brudder the cat. If he doesn’t have a bone to work on he’ll sit in front of me and emit strange guttural sounds and muffled “Ruff’s” to let me know he needs one. When he goes outside he moves slowly, showing his age. But, it all changes when a neighborhood squirrel occasionally does his high wire act between the utility poles running along the right of way in back of our house. Jack sees him and it’s like he’s been hit by an instant jolt of electric youth. He vibrates, then runs full tilt toward the interloper, barking as he does. He’s never caught the squirrel, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

Jack seems quite content. For him, life is quite simple – food mixed with enzymes, a daily bone, concessions to age and occasional bursts of youth. There’s a meter, a rhythm to it all and it’s quite mysterious to observe. I heard Bob Dylan describe it this way once:

“Oh, winds which rush my tale to thee
So it may flow and be
To each his own, it’s all unknown
If dogs run free”

As I take part in his these daily rituals I’m learning that Jack and I are in some ways very much alike. We’re just two old dogs living our sunset years on enzymes.

BEANBLOSSOM THE GREAT

Most people know him as Jimmy or James. In lighter moments I know him as Beanblossom the Great. It’s a moniker I gave him when we first met twenty-five years ago. He liked it and it’s stuck like glue ever since.

James is my wife’s developmentally disabled brother.

James wasn’t born with a disability. He was quite normal at birth. He was the older of a set of twins. But, sometime in the fall of 1946 he got very sick. The doctors later told the family he’d developed spinal meningitis and double pneumonia simultaneously. By the time his parents got him to a hospital his fever had reached 109. He survived the ordeal, but his brain was all but fried. He’s been developmentally disabled ever since.

I don’t know much about the time between his early life and when I met him. I do know that he spent some of that time in institutional settings at Parsons and somewhere in western Kansas. By the time I met him he was living at home, spending his time listening to gospel music or working in a sheltered workshop in Johnson County.

We hit it off right away. Like Forrest and Jenny we were two peas in a pod. That has never changed over the years. I’ve done my best to be a constant friend to him and on occasion I’ve stepped in to be a fierce defender. One of the enduring lessons I’ve taken to heart from James over the years is that there is often much more to folks with developmental disabilities than meets the eye.

Some years ago, when he was living in Shawnee with his mother, the workshop started sending a series of notes home with him. If I recall correctly they were called incident reports. They were a curious mix of police report and institutionally based language. “Consumer refused to do assigned work.” “Consumer screamed.” “Consumer got into an argument with Charles.” A meeting was scheduled and his mother asked me if I would attend. When the meeting began I could see that James was quite worried. The supervisor began by reading back the litany. “Consumer did this.” “Consumer did that.” I Interrupted and asked, “Why do you keep calling James “consumer?” “What’s he consuming anyway?” “Too much oxygen?” “Too much of your precious time?” The supervisor explained and his explanation went right over my head. Institutional language has that effect on me. We then proceeded to the primary cause of the meeting. James had been told to assemble some notebooks. When the work was brought to him he saw that the notebook covers had pictures of scantily clad women. He told the supervisor he couldn’t do what he’d been told to do. The supervisor insisted. James said he wouldn’t. The supervisor said he had to. James ended the standoff by saying, “You can’t make me do this crap.” The result of the dustup was the incident report that had precipitated the meeting. I asked the supervisor if he had any understanding of James’s moral compass. He looked at me quizzically, which told me that he probably didn’t believe a developmentally disabled person could think moral thoughts. I assured him that James did indeed have a moral code that he would not violate under any circumstances and that a good supervisor would have found something else for James to do instead of setting up a battle of wills he would never win.

The meeting ended with not much resolved. James wasn’t going to shift his moral compass and the supervisor was going to continue to flex his administrative muscle.

James is, of course, developmentally disabled. It would be easy to think the best way out of the dilemma would have been to give in. I disagree. I think his response was quite normal. Isn’t it normal for us to draw lines we won’t cross? Didn’t Johnny Paycheck strike a chord with the public when he crooned, “Take this job and shove it?”

Thankfully, things have improved immeasurably since that meeting. James now lives here in Emporia. He lives independently, with the help of the wonderful staff at Auspicion. He spends his days working for Hetlinger. He loves his work and his supervisors, especially Vivian. Every time we get together he has me transcribe his daily production numbers on to small slips of paper which he files meticulously.

There’s a lot more I could say, but I’m running out of space. The bottom line is that James wants the things in life we all want – to be happy, to live independently, to be productive. All in all, I’d say that’s quite good, and quite normal.

Maybe you’ll have the pleasure of meeting him some day. If you do you may get to know him well enough to call him Beanblossom the Great.

THE LAST REFUGE OF A SCOUNDREL

By the time this essay is published the flags will have been taken down and the odor of the fireworks of Independence Day will have dissipated. Rand McNally will have moved on in their search for America’s most patriotic city. The official fanfare that accompanied the dedication of “the rocks” will be history.

When all the talk of patriotism and the push to impress Rand McNally was going around it seemed a bit out of place to me. I thought of being amused, but came to the conclusion there was nothing amusing about it. I actually found myself getting angry. It wasn’t because I’m less a patriot than the sponsors of the dog and pony show. I was upset because I believe that those who were pushing the show had a misplaced sense of what patriotism is, or should be, all about.

In April, 1775, British author Samuel Johnson, made a remarkable statement – “Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel.” Was Johnson saying that there was something inherently wrong with being a patriot? Far from it. A year earlier Johnson had published a pamphlet titled “The Patriot.” A small sample of what he wrote follows:

“It ought to be deeply impressed on the minds of all who have voices in this national deliberation, that no man can deserve a seat in parliament, who is not a patriot. No other man will protect our rights: no other man can merit our confidence.”

“A patriot is he whose publick conduct is regulated by one single motive, the love of his country; who, as an agent in parliament, has, for himself, neither hope nor fear, neither kindness nor resentment, but refers everything to the common interest.”

Johnson saw clearly that there was more to being a patriot than beating the drums. Patriotism, as he saw it, was a state of mind and heart that put self-interest on the shelf and elevated a higher motive. To the patriot, a person’s neighbors, his community, and his country were the paramount interests.

These are some of the ingredients that have been missing in the rush to impress Rand McNally or to serve a few narrow interests at the expense of the people who pay the bills and do the serving.

There’s something else that’s been missing. A lot of true patriots are being passed by, as if their service to this community and country mean nothing unless they serve the narrow interests of the few.

I moved to Emporia twelve years ago. Over the years I’ve had many opportunities to talk with a neighbor named Terry Bassler. Terry is a transplant to Emporia. He hails from Oklahoma. I have fond memories of our brief conversations as Terry walked his dog, Mattie, by our house in the cool of the evening. Terry is a plain spoken man. He has a wonderful drawl when he speaks. He’s honest to a fault. In fact, he’s downright unimpeachable. I remember talking to him about his orders to deploy to Iraq with his National Guard unit. It wasn’t much of a conversation. I thanked him and told him to be careful. I told him I’d be praying for him. About three months or so after he deployed we got word that he’d been wounded. Not long after that he came home with pins screwed into his leg, courtesy of an explosive device of some kind. Just seeing the pain he was going through made me wince. I see Terry from time to time these days. I’ve never heard him complain. He just keeps plugging away, in his own quiet way.

I don’t think I’ve ever met him, but I occasionally read something he’s posted to the Gazette’s forums. His name is Matt Slater. The last I heard he was serving a tour in Afghanistan. Before he deployed Matt, along with some of his fellow entrepreneurs, fought the proposed smoking ban. He lost that battle, then shipped out. He occasionally comments on things here at home. He’s never complained about serving his country. He’s one of those “fire eaters” the high and mighty around town love to marginalize.

I find it quite ironic.

One of the great characters in 20^th century literature was an old German soldier named Katcinsky, from Erich Remarque’s classic “All Quiet on the Western Front.”  Kat, as he was affectionately known, was the grizzled old veteran the younger soldiers relied on in difficult times. When the younger soldiers wondered how to end the bloody war, Kat came up with an ingenious solution. The King and the Kaiser would meet, in their underwear, clubs in hand¸ in a field.

I think the solution is timeless. Maybe it’s time for our leaders to stop beating the drum. Maybe it’s time to ship them “over there” Maybe then they’ll learn what patriotism is all about.

STUPID IS AS STUPID DOES

Just about every time I get caught up in the clutches of an expert, a scientist, an economist, or a politician I begin to wonder whether or not life has any meaning or purpose. You’d think it would be the other way around. After all, they’re the people whose resumes lionize them as deconstructers the mysteries and myths that have kept mankind in the dark for centuries. As Frederick Buechner once observed, they are the special ones among us who specialize in solving our problems for us. How have they done it? By eliminating “all the ancient myths and dreams and superstitions.” It’s a case of addition by subtraction. Take away the old wives’ tales and open up a spreadsheet and there you have it. Our problems are solved. All we need to do is put our lives in the hands of this modern age’s anointed ones.

Why is it, then, that I cling so stubbornly to the old ways of thinking? I doubt that my answer will satisfy many, but it’s the only answer that makes sense to me. Like Buechner, I’ve had a summons to a pilgrimage¸ where I sense “meanings no less overwhelming because they can only be hinted at in myth and ritual,” where I glimpse “a destination I can never fully know till I reach it.”

I like to think of myself as a reasonable man. I love the political process. I enjoy tweaking the noses of the high and mighty. Lord knows, they richly deserve what they get.  I know that two plus two equals four. I take medication to regulate my heartbeat and blood pressure, which means, I think, that I have some measure of trust in modern science. I have some grasp of great concepts like supply and demand. I think I’ve learned to demand less when everyone else is demanding more, knowing that getting into the rat race will cost me more in resources I don’t have in order to get what a lot of other people seem to think is absolutely necessary to maintain the good life. I’m learning to resist the temptation to convince myself I can’t live without the things they have or want. This all seems quite reasonable to me.

I got a call a couple of weeks ago from someone who was upset about something I’d written. I never did find out what he was upset about. Once I acknowledged that I was indeed Phil Dillon, he screamed, “You’re stoooooopid!” I couldn’t think of anything to say in response other than, “Thank you.” That seemed to make him angrier. He screamed even louder, “Did you hear me? I said you’re stoooooopid!” I thanked him again and he closed with a crescendo. “Go to hell, stoooooopid!” I was tempted to remind him of Forrest Gump’s insight that stupid is as stupid does, but I thought that might bring on a real fit of rage. I reminded him that, while he had established to his satisfaction that I was stupid, I didn’t think I was stupid enough to go where he wanted me to go.

My critic may be half right. There are times I feel as dumb as a stump. I knew just about everything when I was thirty. Now, I’m pushing seventy. I’ve learned more , but I know less than I did forty years ago. This is a big world and a very big universe. There’s a lot about life and existence that’s mysterious and I’m not smart enough to figure it all out. I’ll leave that to those who have a firmer grasp on all the facts.

Sometimes I’m tempted to defend myself. But, I usually come to my senses and realize any defense I mount wouldn’t be acceptable to my detractors. When the temptation does come I read the Book of Job. When his comforters were done with him he found himself confronted by the Almighty himself. The questions from on high came rat a tat, like the Anvil Chorus. “Can you loose the chords of Orion?” “Do you send the lightning bolts on their way?” “Do they report to you?” “Do you give the horse his strength?” “Does the hawk take flight by your wisdom?” After the last question came Job put his hand over his mouth and answered, “I spoke once, but I have no answer- twice and I will say no more.”  

Like Job, I’ve come to the place where I’ve learned, often through painful experience, there’s more to life than spreadsheets, political calculations, science or slickly marketed appeals to greed. If that marks me as a fool, there’s nothing I can do but embrace my foolishness. It’s better, I think, to be a fool at peace than to be a “wise” man caught up in a web of self-deceit.