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 |   Tales from real life |
| Well, if they're not true, they oughta be! |
I wrote an essay last year about the second amendment:
I think it still holds up. There’s a lot of talk this week about the ‘sacred’ right to own guns. The U.S. constitution says specifically that it does not guarantee sacred rights. In fact, the first amendment literally repudiates any such intent. This is more commonly known as the separation of church and state. My opinion is that the constitution does not confer the right for private citizens to own guns. My essay explains that the supreme court agreed with me twice before justice Scalia rewrote the second amendment in his own image. But, even if we currently have to accept that erroneous ruling, it’s far from sacred. The ‘right’ to own a gun is no more permanent than the ‘right’ to own a slave. If a majority of the people want to free society from guns, they have the right to do so. That’s guaranteed by the constitution itself. Sensible Americans can come together at any time and repeal the second amendment. The right of the states to maintain local police forces could then be codified in a new amendment with modern language that provides full clarity as to its meaning. The forces of darkness have gone all-in on Scalia's ruling. It's plain that there will be no meaningful legislation to reduce gun violence as long as the second amendment stands. We must move forward with a reform of gun laws to protect our children, our neighbors, our police officers, and our own souls. Realistically, we have only one course of action. Repeal and Replace! Let’s start a movement. |
I was in third grade when it was discovered that my problem with catching a ball was due to poor eyesight more than my natural clumsiness. That was the first time my desk happened to be at the back of the classroom. Mrs. Garbe asked me to read some vocabulary words that she'd written on the blackboard. I rose confidently, marched up to the front of the class, and read every one perfectly. "Mr. Fisher, why did you leave your seat?" she asked, frowning. "So I could see the words," I replied aloud. Duh, you can't read what you can't see! The next week found me in the traveling optometrist's office. Dr. Brown made a regular circuit, visiting our small town one day a week. There wasn't enough business for him to be there full-time. It was another two weeks before I was fitted with some snazzy black nylon frames. Think Buddy Holly or the young Drew Carey and you'll have an idea of the style. My mother had emphasized that durability was more important than looks. "Don't worry, Mrs. Fisher, these are unbreakable," Dr. Brown promised. Hah! I averaged two broken side pieces a year and once I even broke them perfectly in half across the bridge of my nose. A side piece could easily be broken by running full tilt into the back door of the school. We were racing out to recess, I was in the lead, and the custodian hadn't unlocked it that day. The more expensive break was due to a no-look pass while playing basketball. My friend, Jay, was going to nail me in the back of the head when I wasn't looking. But I turned just in time to catch it full-face instead. That one really hurt. I couldn't blame him too much, though. I'd angrily thrown a baseball bat the week before and knocked him cold for a minute (grade-school boys have difficulty showing affection). I got pretty good at tape-mending, because it could be a full week before Dr. Brown came back to town. The ability to read from the back of the room certainly came in handy, but the real revelation was the great outdoors. I was fascinated by the distinct outlines of leaves and branches where I'd only seen a greenish blur. And the gray-blue smudge on the horizon turned out to be the majestic Mission Mountains. I remember walking around in awe for days, just looking at things I'd never seen clearly before. I learned that my vision was 20-400. I think that means that I saw the mountains, 20 miles away, as though they were 400 miles distant (don't bother to correct me, I'm mostly joking). I was far from blind, though. I could focus on a book page if it was within six inches of my nose, and I could even see well enough to keep a car between the lines. I know, because I had to drive home from the river one day after diving in with my glasses on and coming up with my glasses off. It was a slow three miles and I braked often in fear that some random blob of color might be a dog or a cow. I wore many different frames in the next five decades, used hard and soft contact lenses, and eventually had Lasik surgery. I learned to take my vision for granted. Now, I'm back to needing glasses again to read this screen. And, even with glasses, it isn't always clear. Give a grateful nod to the miracle of sight. Because you don't really know what you've got till it's gone. |
Charlie is my son's furry partner. He began life as a shelter cat with poor prospects. His luck changed when he met a guy who needed a pal. Their story begins here: Charlie & Roy  .Charlie became the third black cat in our house when Roy moved back in with us two years ago. We already had a brother and sister pair of bob-tailed Manx that were ten years older and set in their ways. They didn't really want to welcome a long-tailed new 'cousin'. Charlie was still a kitten then, and his disruptive energy brought only disdain from the elder pair. The most notable thing about Charlie is his Jekyll & Hyde nature. He loves to ambush the older cats and play 'chase', but never hisses or bites. He'll make frantic leaps at the cat toys, but rarely shows his claws. Roy says he has good fundamentals, making the catch with both paws. Charlie will stalk a mouse intently, waiting craftily to pounce, but usually takes them unharmed. He's brought three live mice home to play, leaving us to wonder if he needs a pet of his own. Charlie likes to wrestle with us but seems to understand that human skin is fragile. Other cats might grab your arm and rake it painfully with their hind claws, but not Charlie. He knows it's all in fun and keeps the claws retracted when grappling. And the mock battle almost always ends with 'kissy licks' to make up. Our cats often dig in and leave puncture wounds when jumping down from a lap, but Charlie is more courteous. Like most cats, Charlie can't resist an empty box or bag. Every new Amazon carton has to be tried on for size as soon as the contents are removed. He'll nose his way into a shopping tote and then turn to peek out from the hidden lair. He loves it when someone taps on the outside so he can make a blind attack from the inside. But one day, his innocent bag play took a darker turn. My wife was putting away groceries and a plastic bag drifted down onto the floor. Charlie was on the case immediately. He found the opening and wormed his way in as usual, but when he turned to peek out, his head found the hole in the handle. We heard the bag flap and looked to see Charlie frantically backing up with the bag stuck around his neck. "Charlie, you goofball," I laughed. "Help him, please," Deb said with more concern. "C'mere guy, calm down." I tried to catch him, but Charlie was in full panic mode. That vicious bag chased him out of the kitchen, around the living room, and down the stairs. He couldn't shake it and we could hear the bag fluttering behind him as he raced into Roy's basement room and dove under the bed. "Hey, what're you doing to my cat?" Roy was gaming and hadn't really seen what the commotion was all about. "You'd better coax him out and save the poor boy," I suggested. I was still laughing, and Roy was indignant at my lack of concern. The bed frame sits in a corner, Roy couldn't reach him, and Charlie wasn't going to risk coming out. After a minute or two, I decided to lift up the mattress so Roy could be the hero and vanquish that dastardly bag. You'll be relieved to learn that Charlie was uninjured, although the mental trauma lingered for minutes. And it was at least an hour before Charlie went back to playing with the bag again. |
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