A Scout is Kind

     The BSA leadership must be thinking that outdoor survival skills are a cinch compared to the mess they are dealing with now.

     What to do. What to do. Either the BSA continues its program of discrimination against gay scouts and leaders and they lose the sponsorship of small businesses like, oh, Intel and United Parcel Service, or they change the policy and lose the support of a majority of their Church sponsored groups.

     Let's be clear. The BSA has struggled for years with Pedophiles. They have paid millions of dollars to settle child molestation claims. A pedophile is a person with a very immature sexual development who prefers children as sexual partners. Pedophilia is a despicable crime and it's against the law. A gay man or woman are NOT pedophiles. But I'll let you do your own research. I'm kind of tired of trying to convince people.

     The BSA ought to offer a new merit badge in tightrope walking. They're trying to make everybody happy with their latest appeasement which will include gay scouts, but not gay leaders. Excuse me? How does this make any sense at all? Do you know any scouts working on an "I'm gay and I want to tell the world" merit badge? Not likely. In fact, it's not likely that most of those young scouts even know they're gay yet and if they have any inkling whatsoever, they're scared and confused. They won't be into 'confessing' it around the campfire anytime soon.

     Which brings us to the problem. Little 'Timmy' is a good scout. He's diligent and prepared. He earns the required merit badges and he becomes an Eagle Scout. He grows up, becomes involved in scouting as a leader, and then the realization hits him. Tim is gay. Under the new BSA proposal, Tim will be excused from scouting. He's no longer welcome.  How exactly is that going to work? Who wants to tell Tim, the Eagle Scout, that he's a deviant and he can't be trusted any longer in the BSA program? Do you? Do you? Or maybe you? Not me. Not ever me. Because I understand the difference between a pedophile and a gay person and I would have trusted a gay person with both of my Eagle Scout sons. How is a person's sexual orientation any of my business? I just want that scout leader to lead my sons out of the forest safely.

     The BSA's wishy-washy position has definitely demonstrated some awesome skills in knot tying. I'm thinking the corporate sponsorships the BSA relies upon won't be backing the 'compromise' anytime soon and Church groups aren't going to be too happy, either. That's called  'Gordian' knot. Which ever way the BSA floats its canoe, it's rough rapids ahead.

     A scout is kind. Remember that. A scout is kind.

    

    

    

    

    

"A City Upon A Hill"

     In 1630, while still aboard a ship in Boston Harbor, the Puritan, John Winthrop, gave a church sermon. He reminded his fellow colonists that their new home ought to be modeled as a "city upon a hill", watched by the entire world.

     This week, just a few miles from Boston Harbor, a horrific act of violence was perpetrated on innocent people. Among the dead was an eight-year old boy. Just weeks ago, this little gap-toothed boy, in a tender photograph, held a hand-lettered sign of his own artwork. It read simply, "Peace".  The sign was his personal eulogy to the dead children and teachers of Sandy Hook Elementary.

     Today, in a most memorable act of cowardice, the United States Senate rebuffed reasonable, sensible efforts to pass legislation that would have begun moving us forward in the effort to curb the violence that clutches at our throats on a near daily basis. The Senate's arrogance is breathtaking. Ninety percent of Americans are in favor of some form of gun control legislation.

     What must John Winthrop be thinking of his "city on a hill"? Is the world still watching? If they are, what do they see?

     Today, nearly 400 years after Winthrop's sermon aboard the Arabella, our children are no longer safe at school, in theaters, at malls, or at athletic events. Evil permeates our 'city on a hill' from every direction. Troubled husbands shoot their wives and children, young adults gun down one another in our streets. The 'city' has become a blood-soaked, blood-thirsty, revenge-seeking cesspool of cold, cold hearts.

     Many have decided that the best way to fight violence is to respond with "an eye for an eye".  They will arm themselves with even more weapons. They will bathe their fears in paranoia. They will ignore the suffering and grief of our neighbors.  They will publicly carry their weapons and threaten to kill anyone who questions their value system. They have forgotten that our commission, as John Winthrop understood it so well, is to be a "city on a hill".

     Winthrop's hopes and dreams were that by escaping the old world already overcome with cruelty, we would become a different kind of nation and a different kind of people. Our 'better selves' would be guided by principles of compassion, kindness, and love for our neighbors. Winthrop saw the founding of America as a rare opportunity in a new world to create a new Country founded on eternal principles.

     Sadly, the lights of our 'city on a hill' are dimming. We cannot let them go out entirely. On Monday, amid the confusion and the fear of the Boston Marathon bombings, people were filmed running TOWARD the explosions. They had no idea if their lives were still in danger or not. People already in the first aid tents were seen ripping out their IVs in order to make room for the seriously wounded. As long as we have those people in our midst, there is hope that our 'city' may once again shine brightly.

     Perhaps our United States Congress was watching those unselfish acts of courage and brotherly love. They needed that courage today. Sadly, for today at least, the lights of Congress went dark.

    

    

    




 

Love, Limerance, and "Rope-A-Dopamine"

     One of our daughters has a friend who, with the exception of Hollywood stars, may have the shortest marriage on record. She and her eternal companion were married on Friday. The following Monday, the spell broken Bride bought a one-way bus ticket back home sans a be-fuddled Groom. The squabble over the divorce settlement lasted longer than the nuptials. I wonder who got the inevitable rice cooker?

Love, Limerance, and Dopamine. Let's chat, shall we? Limerance is an emotional obsession over another person that could sometimes be better known as "Affection Deficit Disorder". It is that state of mind that makes fools of us all. We meet that 'irreplaceable' someone. We obsess unceasingly about our special angel. Could anyone else be more beautiful or handsome? (Well, yes) We can't live, breathe, or think about anything or anyone else. We walk through sliding glass doors and we don't even notice. We forget the little things like where or even if we have a car that may or may not be parked somewhere.

Here's the good news. Limerance only lasts about eighteen months. Then your feet return to earth again and your object of affection is daily less god-like and increasingly the actual slob-like  clay feet they always have been. They haven't changed. You have. The dopamine levels in your head are normal again and you are free from "Rope-A-Dope". You are normal again.

A failure to recognize the role of Limerance in the love cycle contributes to why more than 50 ercent of our marriages end in divorce. It's also a sneaky culprit for why over 40 percent of our babies are born to single mothers. You, my friend, are not immune to Limerance. It is love's counterfeit and you should know the difference.

Which brings us to what love actually is. There may be some who believe that I'm not the best expert on what love is, but I just perfectly described that dastardly Limerance.  I can nail what love is too. Be patient.

Our children have all at one time or another, usually when considering their own choice of a spouse,  asked me what love is. I have stumbled around and hemmed and hawed and given no satisfactory answers. Here now is my answer: Love is a commitment to another person, no matter how difficult or steep the challenges. Love is unselfishness in its purest state. Love is about caring for someone else beyond death. Love is about compassion and forgiveness. Love is the heavy hitter in the bottom of the ninth with two outs and three runners on base. Love knows that there's somebody there who will hit that triple and knock you home every single time.

Love is history. Love is living with a person filled with integrity and honesty. Love really means it. When the lights of Limerance go out, love still illuminates the darkest corners of despair. Love walks the sick babies in the night, forks over obscene amounts of college tuition, provides a stable home, and forgets about wealth or worldly possessions in favor of stable, well-adjusted, well-educated children.

So, to everyone who may think that I'm no authority on much of anything, it's likely. I do know this:  Regardless of the challenges in our lives, and the recent public airing of a major obstacle that might have broken weaker bonds, Mike Johnson and I are still here. We have been married 40 years. And we have created a love that only we can define. That's enough for us. It's enough for our children. It will be enough forever.

Lights out.  

Camouflage Is A Choice

Last Thursday and Friday, I drove down to Salem and spent the day with organizations working to stem the tide of gun violence in the United States. We met with various members of the Oregon Legislature to discuss possible solutions to gun violence and we made some great progress.

Of course, the gun rights folks were well represented and easily recognizable. They were the ones dressed in camouflage and holding rifles. With firearms strapped to their legs. Spewing profanity-laced insults. I didn't see a single gun lobby hand-lettered sign without a spelling or grammatical error. The English language is a specialty of mine, so I'll be generous and let that last observation slide.

With the exception of two presentations I was asked to do, I spent most of the day observing and listening. Here is what I saw: I felt like I was in a surreal re-run of "Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves". Virtually every gun rights individual that I saw was dressed from head to toe in a nifty camouflage outfit. Now, I have nothing against camouflage in hunting situations when hiding is of the essence. But in Salem, Oregon? On a public street? In front of the State Capitol Building? What purpose does camouflage serve on a busy city street? Will we be shooting the geese flying over and do we really believe they haven't espied our merry band of camouflaged hiders lounging on the Capitol Building steps? Camouflage does not mix well with marble walls.

Which brings me to my next observation. I saw more guns and pistols in one day than I have seen in  my entire life. Rifles were slung over shoulders just in case a deer came bounding down the street or something. You never know. Pistols were strapped to legs just in case of . . . . . something. I'm not sure. It looked to me like most of those leg strapped firearms were in serious position to blow somebody's fatherhood into the next County.

Someone annoyed virtually everyone, including his own delegation by running up and down the sidewalks and Capitol steps with his "Don't Tread On Me" flag. Honestly. I'm benign and harmless, but tripping this gentleman on his tenth jaunt past me did cross my mind. I wondered if he really thought I needed that many times running past me to rapid read all them words on his flag.

I feel bad even mentioning my final observations, but given the story I will finish this piece with, I feel a little justified.  I saw lots of obese, out of shape, unshaven, dirty, smoking, unkempt men in the gun rights group. Really, it was comical. No, it was sad.

Well, as nearly as I could tell when the fun was over and as I was leaving for the long walk to my car, I overheard someone in the Gun Lobby group shout quite loudly and spitefully, "All of you 2nd Amendment 'traitors' are so old, you're going to be dead and gone and then we'll get to do whatever we want without having to bother with you!"

Once again, I must beg to differ, Mr. Camouflage. Here's why. You are so obese and out of shape, you will be dead fifteen years before I am. Your smoking habit will probably buy me another five years of your life. I can already out walk you, out think you, and out run you if I have to. I'm going to be around a LONG time and I won't be offering to push your wheelchair in any parades.

If you really want to be taken seriously, how about shaving once in awhile? Perhaps you might consider leaving your firepower at home and wearing a shirt and tie. Camouflage is not your best wardrobe choice when attending a business meeting at your State Capitol  Building.  Consider enrolling in a beginning English skills class. Cease the profanity and the threatening gestures and looks? And tell that idiot with the "Don't Tread On Me" Flag to stay home next time.

Make some basic, sensible choices. Become the men you pretend to be. Guns will never make you men. My quiet observation revealed you as bellicose, bullying, insulting cowards. Find yourself a spokesman who makes the choice NOT to wear camouflage and who can complete a sentence without including a profanity or an obscenity.

How's your blood pressure? Your Cholesterol? Your lung capacity? Your reading comprehension? Mine are all just fine, thank you so much for asking. See you in twenty years at the next potluck.

The Color Red

So you actually thought that babies were delivered by storks? Until someone delivered the awful truth or you correctly deciphered the spray painted illustrations on the sides of an old abandoned swimming pool.

Some babies are delivered in the back of an old 1950 Chevrolet. This is true and I'm not making this up. Bud drove and Ruby sat next to him in the front. Two babies arrived at their new home in style in that Chevrolet. Here's how it happened.

Bud was a hopeless alcoholic. The babies in the backseat belonged to Bud. Ruby, you were not the Mommy. You were just along for the ride. A very long 1,000 mile ride. Only you and Bud knew that the babies were on a one-way trip.

Ruby. you had a good heart. Perhaps you had a sad story of your own to tell. A three-year old can spot an imposter in about two seconds and Ruby, you were no imposter. You had compassion. At every gas station along the way, you herded the two babies into the public bathroom and cleaned them up as much as you could. You made them a bed as best you could in the backseat of the Chevrolet. You spoke with kindness. You were patient and soothing. You were in a tough place, on a long trip with a drunk and his two babies and you did your best.

Ruby. You disappeared from the babies lives forever after you helped deposit them in what would become their home. I have never forgotten you, Ruby. Whenever I think of the color red, I think of you, Ruby. Whatever your life was like, however it may have ended, for a few days in 1953, you shepherded and sheltered two bewildered, abused babies to safety. You were the best stork ever.

Thank you, beautiful Ruby.

Love,
One of your babies.

 

Wasps in the Pinata!

I much prefer that expression to "a bee in your bonnet". Imagining an entire birthday party of piñata swatters running for their lives makes me laugh. I have a waspish sense of humor.

Once, when I was a little girl, I had a third 'eye' for about three weeks. I purposely annoyed a wasp just to see if I could out run it on my roller skates. Fail.

But I made the best of a bad situation. My third eye was quite the center of attention in my second grade class. For about a week, nearly every previously loyal classmate ushered me to the front of the classroom for "Show and Tell". These days, I would have had my own show on "Fatal Attractions".

After the first week, when my third eye showed no sign of respectfully receding, I was then exhibited in the older health classes as a prime example of what a very small, angry, venomous, insect can do to the human body. Children drew pictures. They took measurements. They even invited the Principal. They did mathematical calculations of how many wasps it would have taken to kill me.

Then, just when I was beginning to bask in and enjoy the limelight of eternal fame and glory, I went wading in Silver Creek. I had been given specific instructions to "STAY AWAY FROM THE DAMNED CREEK." God and Mother took note of my disobedience. I contracted pneumonia and spent the next week in the hospital. My third eye disappeared there. I think the nurses with the penicillin needles did something with my third eye and it's probably in a formaldehyde bottle at some famous university like Harvard or Yale.

Go ahead and go to the piñata parties, but plan an escape route in advance. Unless of course, you think you can outrun a wasp. Good luck. Want to borrow my skate key?