THE PIG IS DEAD

A week or so before Nancy and I left for Israel we sat one morning watching the news of a potential government shutdown. My first reaction was delight. “It’s about time,” I chortled. Nancy sat, bemused. She had obviously thought things through. “Do you realize?” she asked me. “Our social security direct deposits won’t hit our checking account if they shut the government down.” I was stunned. “That’s our money they’re messin’ with.” Nancy smiled. “You don’t really think they’re concerned with little ole us do you? When push comes to shove we’ll be thrown overboard with all the other flotsam and jetsam.” I went upstairs in a mild fit of panic, muttering to myself, “I’m gonna’ give Jerry Moran a piece of my mind.”

By the time we got back home we found that the crisis had been averted. Republicans and Democrats had agreed to spending cuts that would save billions and keep the federal government running. Unfortunately, like most things politicians tell us, it was a sham or a half-truth. The government is still running, but the debt wheel keeps on spinning. When we left for Israel in early April our total government debt was under fourteen trillion. Today, as I sit typing, it’s almost fourteen and a half trillion. I’m trying to calculate as I hunt and peck, but I don’t have the math skills to figure it out. It’s safe to say the debt is increasing by millions per consonant or vowel. It could be as much as a billion a sentence.

You’d think our political leaders would get it by now, but it seems that the closer we get to the precipice, the farther they drift from reality.

It’s not that they haven’t had authoritative voices telling them to abandon their insanity. President Obama gathered a non-partisan group named the “fiscal commission.” Two of the commission’s experts, Erskine Bowles and Alan Simpson, were known for their honesty and straight/blunt talk. When the commission completed its work Simpson put our problem in stark terms. Noting that the days of bringing home the bacon should be over¸ he said, “The pig is dead. There is no more bacon.”

Unfortunately, Simpson’s eloquence has been met by government intransigence. Government has now exceeded the legal debt limit. Timothy Geithner is raiding piggy banks and mattresses to keep things afloat. We’ve now got four wars going on – Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, and Yemen. We’re rattling sabers at hackers and cyber-terrorists, threatening military retaliation against any violators. And, our government continues to diddle. Yesterday, Senator Olympia Snowe (Maine) made note of the fact that it takes a good four months to get hearings on important issues scheduled, let alone debated.

We are in deep trouble.

Knowing our government as I do I cringe at the thought of what creative solution they may be hatching. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear about them calling Emporia’s payday loan shops to keep the bombs dropping and the gears mashing.

I spent a few early minutes this morning listening to Bob Dylan’s “Workingman’s Blues.” The melody was haunting, the lyrics even more so. There was talk of the “the buyin’ power of the proletariat gone down,” money “getting’ shallow and weak,” and the new reality of low wages. There were the laments and complaints of the workingman – “Well, they burned my barn, they stole my horse and I can’t save a dime.” “I’m down on my luck and I’m black and blue.” The current economic reality a lot of Americans face was laid bare – “I can live on rice and beans.”

I’d broadcast the music and lyrics to Pennsylvania Avenue if I thought it would do any good. But, they’re in no mood to listen to one of their own. What makes me think they’d listen to a poet?

Here at home things aren’t much better. The Arts Council is screaming about the $26 thousand they lost. The price of green beans and asparagus is going up. The rocks are paid for, but now the CVB has its hat in its hand because visitor’s taxes fell far below expectations. Meanwhile, the price of bread and milk are on the rise. Yesterday, the Extension office floated its bi-annual trial balloon about becoming an independent taxing authority. They must think that slapping a coat of paint on the pig will make it look like Vermeer’s “Astronomer” to a gullible public. I also looked at my water bill yesterday. I’m using less, but paying more.

A year ago I wrote that we were heading for implosion. A lot of smart folks around town took me to task when I did. I guess there wasn’t enough happy talk to suit them. A year ago we were just flirting with disaster. Today, we’re smooching it. I wonder what the smart folks are thinking now.

THE BLUE COLLAR CURMUDGEON

We took our dogs, Ranger and Jack, to “Poochapalooza” on the 21st. Ranger, the Sheltie, was voted the second prettiest dog. Jack refused to be outdone. When the votes were tallied and verified Jack was certified as the ugliest dog in Emporia.

At first blush the title seems inappropriate, especially in these times of political correctness. But, Jack wanted me to reassure the good people of Emporia that he’s not in the least offended by the title. In fact, he wears it like a badge of honor. His ego isn’t bruised, nor has he developed the overblown sense of importance that contest winners often develop. Jack will continue to be just plain old Jack, begging for treats and keeping my leather chair warm for me. And, most important of all he wanted me to convey his thanks for the assorted treats he brought home. I haven’t tasted them, but he has, and they appear to be quite tasty.

As we left the fairgrounds we had quite a few people stop and congratulate Jack. They’d bend down to pat his head and say, “So this is the famous Jack” or “Atta’ boy, Jack.” In response, he’d wag his tail and snort a bit.

It’s been quite a journey. A short while ago Jack was on death’s doorstep. But, thanks to the loving care of Floyd Dorsey and his staff he made an amazing recovery. And, when an attempt was mounted to run him out of town, the good doc fired off a letter to the editor in his defense. With that and some vigorous support from the Gazette’s “notorious” bloggers he regained his dignity and his rightful place as just one of the boys here in town. Not bad for a guy who was inches away from the old bone yard.

For me, mornings have become a labor of love. Fixing breakfast for my buddy Jack takes a good fifteen or twenty minutes. There are pills to be cut and sprinkled and a couple of scoops of some kind of concoction to be mixed in with his food. Jack watches patiently while I go through the routine, knowing that at the end of the process he’ll be getting his second favorite thing in life – food. When everything is ready he follows me out to the back porch to wolf it down. He seems to delight in dining al fresco, which is about the only thing that gives a hint of refinement in his bones.

I say food is his second favorite because I’ve learned that Jack loves affection even more than he loves food. Food only comes a couple of times a day, but Jack thrives on endless love, affection, and kind words.

If Jack were a person he’d be a loveable blue collar curmudgeon. The exterior would be rough, but the interior would be pure gold. I think of him as a four-legged symbol for Emporia’s “everyman.” He’d work a forty hour week at minimum wage. On weekends you’d often find him occupying his favorite seat at the poker table, a cigar or a bone clenched in his teeth and his right paw wrapped around a stack of chips. He’d be the master of the bluff and the “All in.” For those trying to read his intentions, Jack would clench harder and growl, “You wanna’ see the hole card? Put your money in, Pal.”

When he wasn’t at the poker table, he’d be seen at the watering holes swapping tales of the old days at Fallujah, Khe Sanh, the high price of rocks, cost over-runs, exorbitant taxes, low paying jobs, and patriotic duty with the riff-raff. If he could, he’d be puffing on a cigar, but since decent folks have put the kibosh on that he’d have to find some way to content himself with not being able to enjoy one of a working man’s guilty pleasures. He’d grumble a bit and slap his pals on the back, snort “I love you guys,” and that would be it.

One thing’s certain. You’d never see Jack in the trendy places around town or glad handing politicians. Not only would he feel out of place weaving his way around the high and mighty, he’d find it down right depressing. If he ever got caught playing in that kind of traffic he’d sound more like John the Baptist than a social butterfly. He’d let folks know where he stood. When asked about what he thought he’d probably say, “You snakes…you vipers. Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?”

I don’t think that Jack is very worried about the call for tar and feathers that will almost certainly follow this essay. When you’ve won the brass ring at “Poochapalooza” you’ve reached the top. There’s nothing your detractors can say that will hurt you.

EDUCATION AND AMBITION

I’m about halfway through Andrew Bacevich’s book “Washington Rules: America’s Path to Permanent War.” It’s quite interesting.

Early on, in his introduction, he makes a startling confession – “Worldly ambition inhibits true learning. Ask me. I know. A young man in a hurry is nearly uneducable.”

It’s the time of year for the commencement addresses and I doubt there will be any advice given to the graduating classes about dialing back the ambition. Most will be about seizing the future or creating a new and glorious world. I listen to the speakers or read the transcripts and wonder if they believe what they’re saying or if their lips are just moving around aimlessly for ten or fifteen minutes, hoping to hit some pliable target with advice they don’t really believe, or heed, themselves.

I graduated from high school in 1960. I don’t remember much about the commencement exercise. I don’t remember anything the commencement speaker said. It might have been profound or it might have been quite clever. Whatever it was, I missed it. About a year after that I joined the Air Force. About four years later I shipped out to Vietnam and got a real education in the gears of the Robert McNamara/Lyndon Johnson sausage machine. By 1969 I’d had enough. I spent a few years trying to figure out what I wanted to do. In 1972 I immersed myself in college. That was back in the days when the air was bristling with revolution. The campuses were overflowing with talk of turning our colleges and universities into institutions of learning and life. I observed it all from a safe distance and in time I think I figured out that there was more to being a revolutionary than throwing bricks through windows or Molotov cocktails at the police.

I suppose a lot has changed since my days in high school. Citizen Gore invented the internet and we’re all wired now. We’ve got Facebook and Twitter. We can say everything that’s on our minds in 120 characters or less. The Johnny Mathis ballads and the rock ‘n roll rhythms of Danny and the Juniors are long gone. These days we’ve got Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga. The rice paddies of Southeast Asia have been replaced by the mountains of Afghanistan. The steeple on the corner has given way to the mega-church and the religious media empire. The political gravitas of the sixties is out and the political campaign as comedy is in. Did any of the budding futurists of the sixties ever consider the notion that someone like Donald Trump could be a serious candidate for the Presidency or that California would have a “governator” at the helm? (As an aside, with “the Donald” gone, who’s now poised to garner the pompous ass vote in 2012?).

Has it really been fifty years? It’s hard for me to tell. So many things look just the same now as they did back then. There are times I feel that we’re all characters in a Vonnegut short story or a Jean Paul Sartre treatise. A lot of folks are scurrying around like rats bumping their heads against the walls of a man-made maze, trying to find the exit that may not be there. Some of us have been on chapter six for some time, trying to figure out what the point is. Maybe there’s no point at all. How did Vonnegut put it?

“Oh, a sleeping drunkard up in Central Park

And a lion hunter in the jungle dark

Or a Chinese dentist and a British queen,

They all fit together in the same machine.

Nice, nice, very nice, so many different people in the same device.”

Bacehvich, the author I cited in my first paragraph came to what I believe was a profound insight – “Only as ambition wanes does education become a possibility.”

I don’t think Bacehvich will be getting any invitations to be a commencement speaker this year, next year, or any year. His advice may be sound, but it goes against the grain of just about everything we Americans believe. As the President recently put it, “We can do anything!” We can stop the oceans from rising and we can rain fire down from the heavens. And, if you don’t believe us we’ll convince you. Just ask Muammar Gadaffi.

Twenty or thirty years from now the graduates of the class of 2011 will be in charge. By that time their ambition will be in full bloom. I suspect that will mean the next generation of cult heroes will be worshipped or the latest iteration of a smart bomb will be screaming its way toward some unsuspecting tyrant’s air conditioning duct.

As the older, and wiser, generation was fond of telling mine – The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

KINDRED SPIRITS

I’ve had friends ask why Nancy didn’t take more photos of us in Israel. Israel wasn’t about being a tourist. We had no interest in scrawling “Kilroy was here” on the ruins of Caesarea Philippi. Israel is much more than the churches, mosques, ruins, or the archaeology. Israel is the people. Israel is a state of mind and heart.

Where to from here? We’d love to go back. But, travel gets more difficult with each passing year and the T.S.A. isn’t making things any easier.

And Israel? Whither to, Israel?

Archaeologists have found the remains of at least 26 civilizations in Israel. The Egyptians have been there. So have the Philistines, the Assyrians, the Babylonians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Byzantines, the Crusaders, the Muslims, the Mamluks, the Ottoman Turks, the British, and the Hashemites. Today there are about 14 million Jews in the world, which represents two tenths of one percent of the world’s population. About 6 million live in Israel.

The Jewish people have been through long periods of exile. In the 2nd century, the Roman emperor Hadrian expelled the Jewish population from Judea and renamed the nation Palestina (meaning land of the Philistines). It remained that way until 1948. Since then, Israel has been a bone of international contention. I suspect it will continue to remain that way for at least the remainder of my life.

Will the issues attendant with the Palestinian people and the Jews ever be resolved? I hope so, but I have serious doubts. The political and diplomatic obstacles are formidable enough, but the hatred at the root of the problem has made any solution almost impossible.

More than most Americans, I have some personal knowledge about both sides of the conflict. My sister’s second husband was Palestinian. He was handsome and hard working. He could be very charming. But there were times when all of that would give way to uncontrollable rage. He detested Jews. I learned never to say anything nice about Jewish people in his presence.

In the early nineties I was assigned duties as a mentor for a young Palestinian engineer. He was every bit as charming and handsome as my sister’s husband. He was absolutely brilliant. There were times I wondered why FedEx had me mentoring him. Our friendship grew. He became comfortable enough with me to call me, affectionately, “Bucko.” We often spent our lunchtime talking about our respective faiths. There were significant differences, but we could discuss them as friends. When the subject of Israel came up, though, everything changed. I told him of my hopes for a two state solution, with both sides living in peace within secure borders. He told me, “You Americans need to understand. We don’t want a two state solution. We want to drive the Zionists into the sea. We want them all dead.”

Do my sister’s husband and my young associate constitute the entirety of opinion on Israel? It’s a good question, and it’s not as easy to answer as some might think. Pew research just completed a post-Mubarak public opinion poll in Egypt. Fifty-four percent, an overwhelming plurality, favor rescinding Egypt’s peace treaty with Israel. In Lebanon, Hassan Nasrallah and Hezbollah are arming themselves to the teeth with help from Syria and Iran. Their aim is the destruction of Israel. The Iranian mullahs are committed to the obliteration of the “Zionist entity,” as is Hamas in Gaza. Here at home, attitudes are shifting. Christian denominations, including the Presbyterians, some elements of the Methodists, the World Council of Churches have equated Zionism with racism and have mounted boycotts of Israel. A couple of years ago I received some correspondence about the “Palestinian problem.” The solution offered was uniquely American – “Palestine for the Palestinians and the Jews to Texas.” I cut the correspondence off. It sounded too much like a final solution to me.

The people of Israel have a real dilemma. As Bob Dylan once wryly noted, Israel is “surrounded by pacifists who all want peace.”

In 2006 I purchased an Israeli flag and flew it from my front porch flagstaff when Israel went into Lebanon to stop the constant rocket fire from Hezbollah. It was my small gesture of support. I haven’t flown it since, but I suspect I’ll have the opportunity to hoist it again. When I do I’ll see more than just a symbol. I’ll see Amos’s face. I’ll see Menachem Goldberg, an Israeli farmer who has dedicated his life to the just application of the Old Testament law. I’ll see men praying at the Western Wall. I’ll see the shopkeepers and the children. I’ll take a moment to silently utter the old age prayer for the peace of Jerusalem. My neighbors probably won’t even notice and that’s alright. That unfurled flag will be a reminder to me of where I stand and that’s what really matters.

MENDING THE WORLD

“And one day, too late, your principles, if you were ever sensible of them, all rush in upon you. The burden of self-deception has grown too heavy, and some minor incident, in my case my little boy, hardly more than a baby, saying ‘Jewish swine,’ collapses it all at once, and you see that everything, everything, has changed and changed completely under your nose.”

Milton Mayer – “They Thought They Were Free”

Yesterday was Easter Sunday. Our church was packed to overflowing, due in in large part, I think, to the cultural habit of Americans to give the Almighty “his due” a couple of times a year.

It’s Monday and I’m staring out at the Mulberry tree outside my office window. I find myself contemplating the lessons of our recent trip. I’m still determined not to let mission creep rob me of what I’ve learned. It’s difficult. I’m as prone to cultural habits as any American.

It’s odd. I visited a lot of Christian churches while I was in Israel, from the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher to the Church of the Multiplication. But I didn’t find most of them that meaningful. Maybe I should have, and I’m sure a lot of my fellow Christians could fault me for my lack of insight or vision. I’m not going to mount much of a defense.

Of all the Christian sites I enjoyed the Church of the Multiplication most. It’s a very simple building, erected on the shores of the Sea of Galilee to commemorate Jesus’s miracle feeding of the 5,000. It didn’t take long to tour the interior. When we were done Amos gathered our group together and handed out plastic trash bags and told us that one of the really important outworkings of his Jewish faith was “mending the world.” For a half an hour he got us involved in that work. We walked along the shore, picking up trash that had more than likely been deposited there by other Christian tourists. Thinking back on it, it seems like such a small gesture. I’m sure other Christian tourists will come and carelessly dump more trash at the “holy site,” making our half hour seem to be a futile effort. But Amos’s message still resonates with me – “Mend the world!”

I’ve been home for ten days now. I’m no longer sleep-deprived and I’ve re-adjusted to an American diet. But I’ve come back sensing that I’m caught in an existential trap. America is going one way and I find myself muttering under my breath, “Dammit, let me off, I want no part of what’s going on here.” Peggy Noonan, in an April 21st op-ed expressed what I’m feeling. She describes an America that sends its young men and women around the world to bring the benefits of liberty to the uncivilized, yet finds itself falling apart at its cultural seams. We’re obsessed with Snooki and she and her friends are obsessed with sex. We’ve got five year olds toting guns to school. We’ve got people smacking each other around at McDonald’s, kiddie porn, and “Real Housewives” insulting one another. And, it’s all brought to you by Viagra.

Third world foreigners must look at this and think, “How empty and meaningless.”

As much as I feel I want to get off, I realize I can’t. It’s all spinning too fast.

Amos taught us that our task in life must be “mending the world.” It’s a lesson he’s learned well. His world is no less chaotic than ours. He has enemies surrounding him, bent on his death and the death of his wife and children. Yet, he works for peace in the midst of the chaos around him. How does he do it?

At Yad Vashem he spent a few minutes talking about how well engineered the Holocaust was. Once the ball got rolling, the extermination that followed was a masterpiece of efficiency. There was competitive bidding for the ovens and the best prices for Zyklon-B. There were numerical standards for how many Jews could or should be exterminated on a daily basis. As Amos described the meticulousness of the details I gave thought to Milton Mayer’s powerful words about self-deception. I found a quiet place and broke down, thinking back to my days as a process engineer and the formulas I used every day to increase operational productivity. The number of people required equals work divided by rate divided by span. Some German engineer used the same formula to advance the Final Solution.

Self-deception is a very powerful weapon. We Americans often labor under the burden of fixing everyone else in the world. I can’t help but wonder how much better things might be if we spent more time fixing ourselves before we attempt to civilize the rest of the world.

THE NEIGHBORHOOD BULLY

One of the questions I’ve most often been asked about our trip to Israel was “Did you feel safe?” The answer is always, “Yes.” I can only recall one time during the 10 days that I felt a bit uncomfortable. We were in Nazareth and a couple of people from our group had gotten separated from the main body. It took a few minutes, but our guide found the wayward pilgrims and re-united them with the rest of us. And, that was that.

The people of Israel live in a very dangerous part of the world. They’re not naïve. They don’t have a collective death wish. They understand their position in the world’s geopolitical order. They know they have many enemies. But, they want to live meaningful lives. As I traveled around the country I saw that the people focused on living life. I think the centuries of being labeled “Christ killers,” “money grubbers,” “communists,” or being the objects of the Fuhrer’s “final solution” has contributed to the national sense that life is now for the living.

This national ideal of life is reflected in the land. As we made our way from place to place the olive trees seemed omnipresent. The vineyards stretched as far as our eyes could see. Our daily meals included tomatoes, leeks, garlic, dairy products, humus, fruits, fish, lamb, beef, and a myriad of other staples, all locally grown. Our daily treat consisted of the best ice cream we’ve ever had.

This abundance hasn’t come overnight. It’s been the product of hard work and a great love of the land. As I watched the bounty unfold before me I was amazed at how prescient the Old Testament prophet Isaiah was when he declared “Streams will flow in the wasteland.”

Seeing the plenty, it was very hard for me to understand why this land should be so scarred by hate and terror. There’s more than enough for everyone, Jew, Christian, Druze, Baha’i, or Palestinian. Almost everyone recognizes this…almost everyone. And therein lies the problem. Almost everyone is light years away from being everyone.

For a significant number of people, from Palestinians to “peacemakers,” Israel is occupied territory and the Jewish people are thieves who should be driven into the sea. Bob Dylan expressed this jaded notion of Israel as the “neighborhood bully” lyrically:

“Well, the neighborhood bully, he’s just one man

His enemies say he’s on their land

They got him outnumbered about a million to one

He got no place to escape to, no place to run

He’s the neighborhood bully.”

Dylan’s words aren’t hyperbole. Hezbollah, one of the most virulent terrorist organizations in the world has expressed its hatred for the Jewish people in charter form: “Our primary assumption in our fight against Israel states that the Zionist entity is aggressive from its inception, and built on lands wrested from their owners, at the expense of the rights of the Muslim people. Therefore our struggle will end only when this entity is obliterated. We recognize no treaty with it, no cease fire, and no peace agreements, whether separate or consolidated.” In the Gaza Strip, Hamas is committed to the destruction of Israel and any attempts to make peace between Palestinians and Jews are tantamount to blasphemy: “[Peace] initiatives, the so-called peaceful solutions, and the international conferences to resolve the Palestinian problem, are all contrary to the beliefs of the Islamic Resistance Movement.” The Iranian mullahs believe that the total destruction of Israel will bring the “twelfth imam” and world justice. Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has expressed the insane notion that the Holocaust is Jewish fiction created to garner world sympathy.

Philosophical expressions and charters are one thing. Action is another. And this is where the rhetoric becomes terror’s backbone. About a week before we left for Israel two young Palestinian men broke into the house of Ehud and Ruth Fogel, who lived in the Israeli settlement of Itamar. They first stabbed the Fogel’s two sons, 11 year old Yoav and 4 year old Elad, to death. They then murdered Ehud and Ruth. They thought they were done and left. As they did they heard the Fogel’s daughter, 3 month old Hadas, crying in her crib. They re-entered the home and stabbed her to death for good measure. They went home and, with the help of family, burned their bloody clothing and hid the weapons.

I didn’t find Israel to be dangerous, but I don’t live on a kibbutz or a settlement. I don’t have to find some way to live a meaningful life when a four month old child becomes the target of the terrorist’s blade. How can the road to peace be found in the face of such evil? This is the Jewish dilemma.

THE PLACE THAT DRIVES MEN MAD

Nancy and I have been gone for a couple of weeks, on a pilgrimage of sorts. It appears that some things haven’t changed in America during our absence. We’re at a stalemate in Libya, the debt is mounting, and government is every bit as partisan as it was when we left. But, there are some hopeful signs. Lilacs are blooming by the southeast corner of our front porch and lettuce and broccoli are springing up in our raised beds out back. It’s comforting to know that some things are beyond the reach of government.

As our flight from Tel Aviv made its final approach into Newark this past Thursday I found myself daydreaming of the many times I’ve come back to America over the years. There was 1966, when I returned home from Vietnam. I kissed the ground. In 1969 it was thoughts of civilian life and an honorable discharge as the plane landed in Charleston, South Carolina. In the nineties it was usually business, flying the jumpseat on a FedEx cargo plane. During our sunset years we’ve found ourselves preoccupied with the customs declarations and whether or not anything we were carrying was animal, vegetable, or mineral.

I’m always glad to return home. I’m thoroughly American. My eyes get moist when I hear “I’m Proud to Be an American” on the Fourth of July. But, there was something different about this homecoming. I love my country, but I also came back with a deep bond of affection for Israel and its people.

This was my third trip to Israel. I came home from the first two trying to put the historical pieces together, rehearsing the words of the tour guides. “This is Beth Shean, where the Philistines nailed Saul’s body to the city wall.” “This is Megiddo and the Jezreel Valley, where many believe mankind’s final battle will take place.” “This is Masada, where 900 or so Jewish patriots chose death as free people to a life of slavery under the Romans.” “This is Jerusalem, the city of which the psalmist said, “If I ever forget thee, O Jerusalem, may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.” “This is Yad Vashem, where the memories of the Shoah are enshrined.”

If one is seeking just facts, Israel can be infuriating. As filmmaker Ridley Scott observed, “Jerusalem is the place that drives men mad.” One can ascend the temple mount and wonder what treasures lie beneath the Dome of the Rock. Is it the place where Abraham brought Isaac to sacrifice? Or was it Ishmael? And, what of the Christian sites? Was this church the place of the last supper? Or, was it here? Is this the real Golgatha? Or, is it here?

I came home this time sensing something quite different. It was a feeling that there’s much more to Israel than the “facts.” German theologians have two words to describe history. There is “history,” which is a litany of the facts. Then there is “high history,” the history that is being written by an “unseen hand.” It was the “high history” that captured my attention this time.

It’s said of Abraham, the father of the Hebrew nation, that he was looking for a city whose builder and maker was God. That search called for an eye which valued the unseen more than the material. It’s an eye that’s quite foreign to us Americans. We value the material. As Madonna put it so aptly, “We live in a material world and I am a material girl.”

I see now that a change of focus changes both the questions and the answers. The material me asks whether or not the retirement and social security checks will get deposited. The material me thinks about tomorrow’s meals. The material me seems to be at the mercy of the powerful. “What will I do if the government takes this away from me…or that?” “Will I cease to be a free man?”

I think there’s a great lesson in focusing on the unseen. Abraham was a pilgrim and Israel is a nation on a great pilgrimage. In that sense I’m a pilgrim too. Hence, their task is my task - seeking that city being built by “unseen hands.”

It’s not an easy task. At one point along the way I shared with our group that, while we felt something very special happening to us in Israel, we would all go back home where mission creep could easily sink in. The really important things might surrender to the tyranny of the unimportant. I’m home now and the questions born of that experience are raised. How can I maintain my focus when I’m so bombarded by the material? How do I keep my feet on the ground and maintain the pilgrim’s sense of longing for that city I haven’t yet seen?

GRAFTED IN

April 7th was a wonderful day for me, particularly the morning. We left the hotel in Tiberias at about 8:00 A.M. By 9:30 we were in a small tour boat navigating the Sea of Galilee. The waters were calm and the crew was very hospitable. They unfurled an American flag and played our national anthem for us. It was a kind gesture, the sort of thing that has a tendency to tickle the American ego. About twenty minutes into the ride the crew played Israeli folk music and led us in an Israeli folk dance. It was all very nice, but the highlight for me was sitting next to our tour guide, Amos Davidowitz.

I’ve never met a man quite like Amos. He’s part historian, part archaeologist, part soldier, and part philosopher. He’s 100% a family man and thoroughly Jewish. He’s committed to the life and ideals of his kibbutz.

Amos was actually born in Brooklyn, the son of a rabbi. He moved to Israel with his father when he was about twelve. Upon learning this much about his family history, I was curious to know more. Later on the trip, at Yad Vashem, he told us that he can’t trace his roots back very far at all. The Nazis had systematically destroyed all traces of his family tree, including people and documentation of their existence.

Amos the historian and Amos the archaeologist seem to be a unified whole. As we visited sites he would often pick up what appeared to be meaningless pieces of rock. He would hold them up and proclaim, “This is pottery from the time of the second temple.” He’d occasionally take a piece of rock to his mouth, taste it, and tell us that “This is a piece of a clay jar that’s about three thousand years old.” On the temple mount he told us that “Without doubt, Jesus ascended these steps.” “He almost certainly turned over the tables of the money changers here.”

The history and archaeology I’d learned in seminary seemed like dead letter in comparison.

“Chasing terrorists” is one the professional roles Amos claims. He’s a military man. Yet, there’s something very unique about his view of honor, duty, and ethics. He’s given great thought to what he does and why he does it. In 2005 he drafted an “ethical will.” A month or so before I left for Vietnam I had a will drafted. It was short and sweet. “Send the body here.” “Give what little I have to my mother.” Amos’s will is 12 chapters and 42 pages long. The title of the will is “A Path of Peace in the Field of Battle.” The chapter titles give witness to the depth of his thought – “Love is Like Checkers” “Being Jewish, or Anything Else.” “Between Peace and War.” There’s very little I can say that will add justice to what Amos has written. A small sample of his thought will suffice: “I have led men into battle, through battle and to the end of battle, but you can never lead men out of battle. It always stays with you. I fight because my country is at war, but I choose to labor for peace because I know war will solve nothing.”

As we made our way across the Sea of Galilee I sat quietly next to Amos and thought of what are common roots. I’ve seen Salvatore Dali’s depiction of the last supper. Jesus is at the center. He’s blonde and in appearance he’s Aryan. Jesus was a Jew. I suspect he looked a lot like Amos. His thinking was Jewish. His temperament was Jewish. I think he was a man’s man, in the same way Amos is. I don’t think a pasty-faced Aryan could get a small band of Jewish fishermen to follow him. No way!

Amos talked openly about the pain the world of Christianity has brought to the Jewish people over the centuries. One day he talked about the theological stream called “replacement theology,” the idea that the Christian Church has replaced the Jews and Israel as “God’s “chosen.” The idea started early in Christian history and gave a philosophical foothold for those who hated the Jews to formulate even more evil philosophies.

Thankfully, there are newer streams of theology that see Christians and Christianity as having been grafted in to the original vine of history. In Holy Writ we are called the wild olive that has been grafted in. We find our strength and sustenance in roots that are Jewish.

What Amos and the Jewish people have given us is a great gift. We are heirs to a promise of a Jewish consciousness that author Thomas Cahill said “Was animated and kept warm by the breath of God.”

This was Amos’s great gift to me. I’ll always be thankful.

LITTLE PLATOONS

A couple of days ago a friend commented on the op-ed I wrote on December 30th. He thought it might have been a tad pessimistic, but he also said it might have also been a tad true. About the only response I could muster was that he was a tad accurate on both counts. People who don’t really know me often assume that I’m a pessimist at heart, particularly when it comes to what has been my home town for over ten years. They also assume that I don’t like Emporia. They couldn’t be more wrong!

There’s a lot to like about this town – the wrap-around front porches, the blurbs in the Gazette’s crime blotter about “dogs at large” or “worthless checks,” watching schoolchildren on their way to school toting backpacks that weigh more than they do (a harbinger of the burdens to come, perhaps), the Flint Hills, hosting international students whose minds are pregnant with potential and dreams, the blue collar work ethic, the Stetsons, and the bib overalls.

But, the things I love about Emporia often collide with reality. I don’t like the slum lords, the chronic poverty, the payday loan shops, the revolving door of high dollar consultants, the decaying old homes, the empty storefronts, or economic development that relies far too heavily on low wage manufacturing to solve our problems. As I said on the 30th, I believe something’s gotta give.

Another friend recently told me that he was waiting for me to throw my hat in the ring again in the upcoming City Commission election. He seemed surprised when I told him I’d found more productive outlets to express myself and contribute to the welfare of Emporia.

It’s not that I find politics and government unproductive channels. I love the give and take, the debate, and the slings and arrows that are part of the public arena. I ran for office a few years ago, believing that we needed to change some things if Emporia was going to thrive in the future. First and foremost, I believed that we needed to shift our focus away from low wage manufacturing and to set our sights on the sweet spots of the new global economy - information technology and management, high wage manufacturing, small/lean companies ready and able to compete in the marketplace. I believed that we needed to confront our poverty and slum lord issues. I believed we needed to find ways to retrain our workforce and to stem the tide of graduates who inevitably leave Emporia as soon as the sheepskin is in their hands.

I’m no less passionate about these things today. The challenges are still there. In fact, the problems have become even more acute over time. I can’t say that our window of opportunity has closed, but I can say that time is of the essence. Something’s gotta give!

If I believe that strongly, then, why am I not running for office?

There are two answers to that question. The first answer is easy. I’m not the only guy in town who feels the way I do. There are, and will be, other candidates who want to be part of carving out a better future for Emporia. I’m going to listen and support those who have the vision and courage to meet the challenges head on.

But, politics isn’t the only area of meaningful service available. I saw this a year ago when I had the privilege to work on the Emporia Cleansweep campaign. I’m told that it was one of the most successful community campaigns in recent memory. Over a million pounds of trash were hauled away. Neighborhoods were cleaned up. Volunteers contributed thousands of man hours to the effort. There were businessmen, truck drivers, mechanics, bankers, realtors, students, and even a few politicians. But, for me, there was more. I saw that some problems won’t go away so easily or can’t be deposited into dumpsters. This is a great town, but there are a lot of lonely people who’ve become disconnected from the rest of us for one reason or another. There are widows without support systems and the poverty I saw went far deeper than cold statistics. These are the problems that cry out for solutions that can’t be solved by political decree.

For me, the most productive outlet going forward is to be a part of what Irish statesman Edmund Burke called “the little platoons” that serve society from the bottom up. In time, with the right political leadership, the economics of Emporia can change for the better. But some things won’t change with time. We’ll always have the lonely, the disconnected, the neglected, and the forgotten. That’s a task that only the little platoons are equipped to handle.

THE HAIR OF THE DOG

In my younger days I used to spend New Year’s Eve engaged in merry making and loud music followed inevitably by a desperate search for the hair of the dog on New Year’s Day. These days I rarely get to see the ball drop at Times Square and the loud music has been supplanted by something more like Lawrence Welk and his bubble machines. The change is due in part to concessions to age and in part to the onset of wisdom

I like to think of this all as a quintessentially American tale, a metaphor for how America has lurched from merry making to bubbles for the past twenty years. In the nineties it was all about the sure bet of initial public offerings and Silicon Valley, followed by the dot com bubble that brought the partying to a screeching halt. Then one millennium ended and a new one began. The dot com lessons, if there were any, were forgotten. America plunged headlong into the world of easy credit and collateralized debt obligations. Americans bought houses they couldn’t afford or flipped them about as soon as the ink dried on the mortgage contracts. It was quite intoxicating and it seemed that the party would never end. But, like all wild parties, it did. The result was an economic hangover the likes of which Americans hadn’t seen since the Great Depression. And, we’re flailing around, desperately searching for the hair of the dog. In my youth pickle juice, a couple of raw eggs, or a bloody Mary would usually do the trick. Unfortunately, they’re no match for what ails America today.

The fact that we’re still hung over has little to do with lack of effort. Our government has poured billions of dollars of stimulus money into the mix. They’ve bailed out automakers and banks. They’ve borrowed trillions from the Chinese, the Saudis, and any other international payday loan shark or hustler they could find. But, the dog that bit us continues to bite. Unemployment is so bad that millions have given up looking for work. Retirement funds have been depleted and a lot of us are walking around with our hats in our hands, pleading “Brother can you spare a buck or two or ten?”

In a couple of days it will be 2011 and there is another bubble that may just be ready to burst. In a recent 60 Minutes report Steve Kroft noted that a financial crisis involving state and local governments is looming: “In the two years, since the “great recession” wrecked their economies and shriveled their income, the states have collectively spent nearly a half a trillion dollars more than they collected in taxes. There is also a trillion dollar hole in their public pension funds.” That would be bad enough, but as financial analyst Meredith Whitney, who was one of the few who predicted the 2008 bubble, warned in the same report, “The most alarming thing about the state and local issue is the level of complacency.”

I’m not sure what that means for Kansas and Emporia. Maybe we’re too small for a bubble. Maybe we’re far away and insulated. On December 22nd, the New York Times reported that Prichard, Alabama, population 27,000, had run out of money. As the Times put it, “So the declining, little-known city of Prichard is now attracting the attention of bankruptcy lawyers, labor leaders, municipal credit analysts and local officials from across the country.”

Prichard had been warned for years that there was a bubble on the horizon, but no one listened. Apparently, Prichard wasn’t insulated, nor was it too small.

Our legislators here in Kansas have billions of dollars in unfunded liabilities to KPERS and keep kicking the can down the road, hoping the problem will just go away. Our city commissioners are so strapped for cash they’re considering fees for putting out fires or extricating someone from a car with the Jaws of Life. Desperation, it seems, may be the mother of invention. As police Chief Gary Smith put it, “It’s not easy to budget some expensive events.”

You’d think that our leaders would get the message. But, it seems that their hearing has gone dim. The Emporia Recreation Commission is talking about building a new, improved center, to the tune of millions. The city and USD 253 are carrying enormous loads of debt. Mill levies continue to climb; Emporia’s population is in decline; household incomes are stagnant.

Something’s gotta’ give. Like the rest of America, Kansas and Emporia are in desperate need of the hair of the dog. The question looming for us and our leaders is whether or not we’ll be willing to take the cure.

THE UNSEEN POWER

We’ve just come through the election season. The jockeying for power is over, at least for a while. Power seems to have shifted in the direction of the Republican Party. Time will tell whether or not that’s true.

If the money spent on the elections is any indicator there was a lot to fight for. Who would control the power of the national purse? Who would have the power and the votes to legislate? Who would have the final say on how the trillions of dollars we and future generations of Americans pour in to government coffers is to be spent?

No wonder the in-fighting was so vicious. As philosophers have observed over the centuries, power can be quite intoxicating. Sadly, it’s this intoxication that often leads people to grasp for power and then misunderstand or misapply it once they’re elected.

In the 1930’s, Mao Tse-Tung told his fellow revolutionaries they must “grasp the truth that political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.” To us, Mao’s ideas seem extreme. But, if we look at power along a societal continuum I think we’d be forced to admit that we’ve given government enormous power over our lives. Government can legally pick our pockets before the direct deposits hit our checking accounts. Government has tremendous power to coerce us to do things, even when we don’t want to do them. And, I think we’d also be forced to admit that government power is growing with each election cycle. And, therein lies the real danger. As Irish statesman Edmund Burke observed in a 1771 political speech: “The greater the power, the more dangerous the abuse.”

But, is that all that can be said about power?

In a little over a week millions of Americans will be attending candlelight services celebrating the birth of Jesus. For a few hours the commercial aspects of the holiday will be put on hold. Hopefully, the dust-ups about whether the pre-Christmas festivities are called Christmas celebrations or seasonal celebrations, the arguments about nativity displays, or the pointless debates about whether or not Jesus was actually born on December 25th will be forgotten.

For those of us who believe, there should be a much richer understanding of what the Christmas season is about. Rather than arguing with our critics and feeling powerless, we should see that real power often moves through unseen or un-observed channels.

I’ve heard it said that the more things change the more they stay the same. As with many things, there’s a grain of truth in that adage. Centuries ago, the Roman senate was legislating in much the same way our political leaders legislate today. Taxes were levied then and people were moved like pawns, as they often are today. But, there are those rare moments when something special happens to break the cycle. The tectonic plates of history shift. This, I think, is one of the fundamental meanings of Christmas. It’s the story of something remarkable that happens in a small, backwater town. And, it all happens while the Roman Empire rules, moves, and shakes the world. The characters we see don’t fit the stereotypes we have of the powerful. The revelations come to outsiders rather than insiders. There are the shepherds. Why them and not the high and mighty? There’s Simeon, an old man with a keen eye and Anna, a widow/seer. Why them and not Herod’s pillow prophets? Why then and not now? Why word of mouth to announce the news rather than Facebook or Twitter?

The message flows outside the normally accepted channels of power. It seems, as 19th century poet Percy Shelley put it:

“The awful shadow of some unseen Power

Floats though unseen among us, - visiting

This various world with as inconstant wing

As summer winds that creep from flower to flower.”

Unseen, perhaps, but not unfelt or beyond the possibility of experience.

The older I get, the more I’m coming to see that Christmas is, or should be, about the gentle application of power. It’s not about the power to name the festivities or who has the votes to pass the “desired” legislation. It’s not about who is to be the community icon or celebrity; it’s about those who are willing to live and serve quietly in society’s shadows and margins. It’s not about the power of the purse; it’s about the human heart and the power to gently tug it in the direction of grace.

The message of the season was summed up in three words by the angels making the announcement – “Peace!” “Good will!” Unfortunately, the message is as difficult to grasp today as it was two thousand years ago. It does seem that the more things change the more they stay the same.

CRUISIN' WITH THE FAT CATS

My wife and I just returned home from a trans-Atlantic cruise. For over three weeks we strolled leisurely through the streets of Rome, Florence, Barcelona, Cartegena, and Cadiz. On board the ship my days would begin with a pre-dawn walk on the track circling the putting green and bocce courts. When my walk was complete I’d get my wife and we’d go to the Ocean View Café for the breakfast buffet. One morning it might be eggs benedict. On another it might be smoked salmon or an omelet. For those with hearty appetites there were meats, including roast beef, pastries, roasted peppers or tomatoes, and assorted cheeses. After breakfast I’d stroll along the lower decks and pass by the shops, the casino, the library, and the ever present entertainers. Each night, after seeing the sights, we were treated to sumptuous meals, served by third-world waiters. Then, we’d attend a show. After each show we’d return to our room. The bed would be turned town, with a wrapped piece of chocolate on each pillow, courtesy of our steward, a young man from Indonesia. By 10 o’clock we’d turn in, to be gently rocked to sleep by the waves.

Looking back on it now it sounds absolutely decadent, the stuff that only the Rothschilds, Rockefellers, or the richest of the rich dared dream of just a few generations ago. For my wife and me, middle class Americans, a cruise is now possible. For others like us, middle class might mean a recreational vehicle, a boat in the driveway, a 2,000 square foot home with a downstairs den, or a storage locker across town that’s full of never-to-be-used junk.

Things certainly have changed over the past few generations.

We shared our evening meals with two very nice couples, both from Florida. After an evening of breaking the ice, one of the Floridians mentioned the elections that were going to take place in America the following day. I confessed I had very little interest in the outcome. As the conversation progressed I heard a lot about the dismantling of the American middle class. I asked what that meant. “The fat cats are swallowing everything up. There’s nothing left for the rest of us.” I thought about what I’d heard as I finished my portion of mushroom crusted Colorado rack of lamb. “Really?” I asked. “We’re cruising our way along the Mediterranean, stopping at exotic ports of call. We’re eating steak tar tare, lobster, crème brulee, bananas foster, and washing it all down with the finest wine. We’re being doted on by people from Indonesia, Serbia, Belarus, Colombia, and the poorest corners of the earth. If we want we can go to the casino and drop our cash into machines that virtually scream ‘You’ve got way too much money; let us take it off your hands and redistribute it for you.’ If the truth be known, on some sliding cosmic scale we’re the fat cats and I think the people pampering us know that quite well.”

We couldn’t ever agree, but our conversations about the destruction of the middle class always ended cordially. He still believed that he was living a diminished life because of the fat cats. I was suffering from pangs of guilt and the pains of over eating.

I took a valuable lesson from the dialogue. Class envy, when elevated to an art form, will make one blind to his own wealth and jealous of everyone a rung or two above him.

The trans-Atlantic crossing was quite boring. There’s a lot of water between the United States and Europe. I found myself occasionally going to the 15th deck and looking out at the vast expanse of water all around me. I thought of others who’d made the crossing before Nancy and me. There was her grandmother, who emigrated from Switzerland in the late 19th century. She probably spent her days in steerage, sans the crème brulee. There were the ancestors of African-Americans, who were chained, against their will, in the holds of ships, facing the prospect of being sold to a plantation owner in the land of opportunity. I thought of my Irish ancestors, who made the crossing in what came to be known as the “famine ships.”

I have no idea how we Americans fit into the scales of cosmic justice. All I have on this side of eternity are tantalizing clues – camels trying to negotiate the eyes of needles, parables about the debilitating effects of envy, the deceitfulness of riches, and the proclamation of the first being last and the last becoming first.

Given that, I’m not in the market for another cruise, a boat, a storage locker full of junk, or heart full of envy. I think I’ll be content with what I have.

I Now Report Sightings of Shovel-Ready Projects

An interesting read from economist Robert Higgs follows

I Now Report Sightings of Shovel-Ready Projects

MARCH OF THE BIRKENSTOCKS

"Four legs good, two legs better"

On a recent edition of C-Span’s “Washington Journal,” a young Democratic strategist named Dylan Loewe spent about forty-five minutes pitching his book “Permanently Blue: How Democrats Can End the Republican Party and Rule the Next Generation.” A snippet from chapter one follows - “That’s the kind of permanent majority the Democrats are on the verge of building: a single party, democratically elected to control the Senate, the House of Representatives, and the White House without interruption for an entire generation.”

Loewe’s analysis is impressive. As historian Doris Kearns Goodwin noted, “Combining passion and eloquence with deep research and sharp analytic skill, Dylan Loewe has produced a spellbinding book that should stimulate debate and provide hope to progressives everywhere.” It seems to add up. A charismatic leader, shifting national demographics, strong political organization, millions, possibly billions, of dollars in the campaign coffers, and weak political opponents all point to the very real possibility of a permanent Democratic majority.

I considered calling in to the program to remind young Mr. Loewe that Karl Rove, George Bush’s evil genius, had predicted a permanent Republican majority a little less than ten years ago. But, I decided against it. There was no reason to rain on a young man’s parade. Current trends may not be favorable, but political trends shift quickly nowadays. We may be heading for one party, progressive/Democratic Party rule.

Given that, I’ve spent the past week considering what the implications of Loewe’s thesis might be.

The most important feature of such a system would be maximum efficiency. There’d be no more blue state, red state nonsense. The Party of No would be eliminated. There wouldn’t be any need for problematic things like elections. If we held them at all, there would just be one choice on the ballot, named “the progressive of your choice.” The winners could claim 95% or better mandates. Saddam would glow white hot with envy.

The gridlock would cease. We’d all be blue; we’d all be Keynesians. The legislation and edicts could pour down in torrents. Every societal problem could be solved. Agencies could be created. Czars could be appointed. The Party faithful could start hoisting ladders to heaven.

There would be some knotty problems to solve on the way to a one party utopia, the principal ones being our Declaration of Independence and Constitution. For over two hundred years we’ve held that “all men are created equal and are endowed by their creator…” But, with a bit of legal skullduggery it could easily be changed to read, “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” Government lawyers could dance around, a la Napoleon, cracking whips and proclaiming “Four legs good, two legs better.”

It might be better to do away with our founding documents all together. Have you ever read such negative stuff in all your life? All the talk about “Governments deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed” or “absolute Despotism” and “usurpations.” And, worse yet, all those negatively tinted amendments in the Constitution – “Congress shall make NO law,” “the right of the people…shall NOT be infringed,” “NO solider shall be quartered…,”Excessive bail shall NOT be required,” “The right of United States citizens shall NOT be denied or abridged.”

The new ruling paradigm wouldn’t have the usual hallmarks of despotism. There’d be no goose stepping. We’d be treated to a new breed of despots, dancing around the halls of power in Birkenstocks.

I’m sure there would be dissent at first. But, given time and the judicious use of Conan the Barbarian’s principle to “crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their women,” the complaint box would dry up. If that failed to squelch all dissent, the legislative branch could re-invigorate the World War I Espionage Act, upgrade the Patriot Act and thereby make any opinion contrary to the ruling opinion illegal. Violators could be shipped off to Death Valley gulags, to be re-educated or fed gruel and moldy bread for the rest of their lives.

Seeing all the potential for progress, it makes me wonder what on earth our founders were thinking about. I sometimes see myself as a bit of a contrarian, but I couldn’t hold a candle to those guys. You’d think they’d have just gone with the flow. But no! They complained, in writing, about the taxes, plundering, and suspending legislatures. Some of them even signed in quadruple font. When the time for fighting came they carried flags reading “Don’t Tread On Me” or “Live Free or Die.” What on earth were they thinking?

Well, there you have it. In a little more than a month we might know whether or not Loewe is right. If he is, Birkenstocks may be “in” and our founding documents may be on the way out.

BETTY GRABLE AND FRANKENSTEIN

On August 26th I wondered what the next shoe to drop might be. I got my answer the next day. I was expecting a shoe. What I got was a hobnailed boot.

In a convoluted attempt to justify what appears to be a 3.5 mill increase on property taxes, Lyon County controller Dan Slater said it could have been worse, thanks to a county wide sales tax increase approved in 2008. Instead of a 12 or 13 mill increase, we’re ONLY getting about 3 and a half.

You’ll have to pardon me if I don’t break out in a string of “Hallelujah’s.”

The 2008 sales tax was cleverly marketed as property tax relief. So, a 3.5 mill increase in property tax and a one cent sales tax have somehow become a great act of municipal generosity. It was like hearing the executioner say the choice will be strychnine or hemlock, the guillotine or the electric chair.

I don’t think folks expected Betty Grable in ’08, but I don’t think they bargained on Frankenstein, which is exactly what they got.

County officials were quick to come to Dan Slater’s defense. As Tammy Vopat put it, “I don’t remember anybody actually coming out and saying keep the mill levy flat.” “I think that people are smart enough to know costs have gone up. There’s no way without cutting something you’re going to be able to keep the mill levy flat.”

If it was an attempt to invoke sensitivity it fell flat on me. Our officials don’t seem to understand that sensitivity is a two way street. To be honest, they appear to be willfully ignorant of the economic impact their decisions have on Emporians who are least able to afford them.

A few years ago we moved my wife’s mother to Emporia. Velma’s a proud woman. During WWII she worked on a B-25 assembly line putting pilot switch boxes together. She was conscientious, knowing how critical the quality of her work was to the men who flew the missions. She’s now a 91 year old widow living on a fixed income. She is the primary caregiver for a developmentally disabled son, who also lives on a fixed income. I don’t think her case is unusual. There are a lot of Emporians living in similar circumstances. They’re not stupid. They do know that “costs have gone up.” When I visit my mother-in-law and her son in the morning, for example, she’s very aware that her property tax bill is higher now than it ever was in Kansas City. She knows that she pays more for water here than she did in Shawnee. She knows that the price of staples like bread, milk, sugar, and flour are creeping up. She also know that sales taxes add another penny or two to every dollar she spends “shopping Emporia first.” When the temperatures soared above the century mark a few weeks ago she didn’t want to turn the air conditioning on, worrying that the increased utility cost would have to be leveraged against a “luxury” like okra, one of her son’s favorite vegetables.

I think a lot of us are getting tired of being flimflammed by officials who appear to be honor graduates of the Marie Antoinette school of sensitivity.

When I was twenty I took a job as a door to door salesman, selling encyclopedias. After two days of training, having the mantra “it will only cost a dime a day, less than the cost of a cup of coffee” drilled into my head, I was sent on the road with the company’s best salesman. He sold a set at the second house we went to. It was impressive. I think he could have charmed the apples off wallpaper if given the opportunity. A few houses later, when my turn came, I kept going back to the mantra – “Sir, this will only cost a dime a day, less than the price of a cup of coffee.” It seemed to be working; the man was on the verge of buying. But then I got hit by a pang of conscience. The man and his family were obviously living on a very limited income. I knew he couldn’t afford the encyclopedias, nor did he need them. I began folding up the marketing materials and explained, “Sir, you really don’t need these. There’s a library down the street and your son can use the encyclopedias there for free.” As soon as we left I got fired. I slept well that night, knowing my conscience was clear.

In the end we’ll get a property tax increase heaped on top of the sales tax increases. I’d like to hope for better, but I don’t have that much faith. Nothing will change here until our leaders truly understand that sensitivity is a two way street.

KRAKATOA BREWING

In an early August op-ed, Peggy Noonan laid out how many feel about the growing disconnect between “average” Americans and their political, civic, and cultural leaders. As Noonan put it “But do our political leaders have any sense of what people are feeling deep down? They don't act as if they do. I think their detachment from how normal people think is more dangerous and disturbing than it has been in the past. I started noticing in the 1980s, the growing gulf between the country's thought leaders, as they're called--the political and media class, the universities—and those living what for lack of a better word we'll call normal lives on the ground in America. The two groups were agitated by different things, concerned about different things, had different focuses, different world views.”

I don’t know what to make of it. At times I feel that events in Washington, D.C. are in a far away galaxy and there are times when I feel they’re like a huge asteroid poised to crash through the ozone layer. I find myself occasionally thinking back fondly to the days when Ike was the President and I was the stickball champion of Chatham Street. And, there are days when I feel that the serenity of the Flint Hills can protect me from the madness.

Unfortunately, the respite is only temporary. The disconnect is everywhere. There’s no escaping it.

On August 3rd the Gazette reported that “Even in tough economic times, 64 percent of Emporia voters agreed to continue a half-cent sales tax for economic development and property tax relief through 2024.” There are 13,808 registered voters in the city of Emporia. There were 2,156 votes in favor of the extension. The truth is, only 15.6% of those registered voted to approve the extension. Why did so few vote? Was R.D.A president Kent Heerman right when he claimed “it looks like voters were very interested in continuing industrial and economic development and property tax relief.”? Or, could it be that we’re seeing detachment and disenchantment played out locally?

In the wake of the vote, Steve Sauder thanked “the very astute voters in Emporia for extending the ½ cent sales tax through 2024.” Where does that leave those who voted no? Apparently, they’re not very astute. What about those who didn’t vote? Feeling disconnected? Were they were thinking “What’s the point? The deck is stacked.”

Last week, the city commission approved a budget with a gaping $750,000 hole. Among the line items that escaped the hatchet was a $250,000 subsidy to the municipal golf course. The prevailing argument in favor of the subsidy was that quality of life things like the golf course make Emporia appealing. A few budgets ago a $50,000 annual taxi subsidy for retirees on fixed incomes and folks with disabilities was scrapped. Apparently, seniors pushing walkers or wheezing through oxygen bottles must make Emporia less appealing. Oh well. I guess it’s all for the best, isn’t it?

I can’t figure out this mill levy thing. The school district approved a 2.55 mill increase in their budget, blaming it on decreased valuations. I’ve lived here since ’99. Property valuations have increased by 48% over that time. Following their rationale, the mill levy should have decreased over the same period. Yet, the school district levy has increased by about 30% since ’99. Overall, my property taxes have increased by 88%. If the formula weren’t so expensive, it would actually be funny.

A lot of Emporia’s ham and eggers have tried to tell their leaders they’re tapped out, but it doesn’t seem to be working. You don’t suppose the communications cables have been disconnected, do you?

The city is $35 million in debt. USD 253 is carrying another $27 million. That’s about $2,500 for every man, woman, and child in Emporia, or about $10,000 for the average Emporia family. On top of that, our federal government has us in hock to the tune of $44,000 per citizen. Our poverty rate is close to 20%. And, our leaders are wondering why folks aren’t “shopping Emporia first.” Could it be a sign of disconnect? You betcha.’

What’s the next shoe to drop? A few more mills, perhaps? $650,000 worth of Astroturf at Soden’s Grove? By the end of the year the city is going to have to figure out what to do with the old Arts Council building. I wonder if Mayor Jim Kessler, who has vowed to create revenue out of thin air, has a plan to set up the presses and print the money when the Arts Council vacates.

Peggy Noonan was right. There’s a massive primal scream building up in America. I fear that unless our leaders, at all levels, get connected, the sound of the explosion to come will make Krakatoa seem like a whisper.

SNEAKY PETE'S GUIDE TO KEYNESIAN ECONOMICS

Harry Truman was reported to have once said “You can line up ten economists end to end on the floor and you’d never come up with a straight line.” He was almost certainly right.

Since I retired a few years ago I’ve done a bit of dabbling in economics, principally to amuse myself as I amble off into the sunset. I’ve read the classics from Smith’s “Wealth of Nations” to Marx’s “Das Kapital,” with a bit of Hayek, Friedman, Pipes, DeSoto, DeSouza, and Higgs sprinkled in. I’ll admit my bias. Adam Smith and the free market capitalists make sense to me. Marx? I got about half way through “Das Kapital” and decided to ship it off, free of charge, to some east coast Marxist who could make better use of it.

This past May I decided to tackle John Maynard Keynes’ “General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money.” It’s now August. I’ve made it as far as chapter 10, “The Marginal Propensity to Consume and the Multiplier.”

Theoretically, I should like what I’m reading. Granted, I’m only an eavesdropper, but I think I’ve read enough to understand that (1) We’re all going to die (2) Thrift is bad (3) Consumption is good (4) Consumption is all the better if you can get government to pry the loot from the hands, bank accounts, and investment portfolios of the rich, their children, grand-children, and great grand-children and give it to guys like me right now so that we can consume like drunken sailors.

What’s not to like about that? It may not make sense, but it doesn’t have to. The notion of enshrining inter-class and inter-generational theft may not be an honest way to spend five shillings, as economist Paul Samuelson once put it. But, as he also said, it’s “pure genius.”

It’s no wonder politicians have become such skilled practitioners of the pickpocket’s art. They’re geniuses too. They can appropriate money they haven’t earned, from people who have. And what are they doing with the money? They’re creating a totally dependent class of citizens and an army of government bureaucrats that would be the envy of Genghis Khan’s pillaging hordes.

For the past 10 years this has been a very bi-partisan effort. George Bush, a closet Keynesian, gave us trillions in debt and deficits. Barrack Obama, a full bore Keynesian, has set the pedal to the metal. We now have fourteen trillion in debt and if the Congressional Budget Office is right we’ll add another eight trillion by the end of the decade. And you and me? We’re just along for the ride in the back seat, with the geniuses at the wheel. It may look to us like we’re careening down the edge of a cliff with no brakes and no clutch, but they know better. We may be scared out of our wits, but they’ve got the cure. “Just shut up and take a slug of the Sneaky Pete. Everything’s gonna’ be fine.”

The alternative to this is austerity and smaller government, which was just voted in by the British. As I write, British Prime Minister David Cameron is slashing and burning like a wild man. His task, as he sees it, is to drastically reduce the size and power of government that has “turned able, capable individuals into passive recipients of state help.” Now I ask you. How much fun is that? It seems downright uncivilized.

Is it really a good idea to have “experts” at the helm when you’re trying to navigate your way between disaster and catastrophe? I remember a young student from my days in grad school. He was absolutely brilliant, theology’s equivalent of Keynes. It was widely accepted that he could manipulate the Almighty like a child playing with Silly Putty. There was a word - eschatology - he became quite enamored of and he managed to squeeze it into every sentence he uttered. One day it might be the “consequent eschatology of Schweitzer.” On another it might be “eschatological developments and the social milieu.” I once asked him how he would explain what he was saying to a cab driver. He looked at me, nonplussed, and said “Cab drivers aren’t worthy of this.” I suspect many of his parishioners, if he ever had any, have long since been devoured by Scylla or sucked down the vortex by Charybdis.

Given the fun I’ve had to this point, I can hardly wait to get to Keynes’ chapter 24 – “Concluding Notes on the Social Philosophy Towards Which the General Theory Might Lead.” As I look out the windshield I think I know we’re it’s heading and I want to scream, “We’re going off the cliff; we’re gonna’ crash and burn!” But I’m no expert. Maybe I’d better take another slug of the Sneaky Pete to dull the oncoming pain.