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prep74mike · 5 years

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National Pastime Forever A cool, clear spring evening, a cold beer, a couple of warm dogs and the chance of someone hitting one out. Thus I sat in the stands with my 2 sons (we all missed my daughter, their sister, who was home being wife and mommy) during our recent trip to the M's game against the Angels. America in her third century has a few things still good, this being one of them. Yes taxes are too high, politicians talk too much and too loud and TV is embarrassingly bad, but a night at the ballgame makes up for it. In between pitches my eldest son and I told stupid jokes. At the 7th inning stretch my youngest son and his buddy went up to walk around a little bit. When the national anthem was played we all took off our hats and paid attention, some even sang along. No ISIS was at this game, the arguments had were only about that close play at first. The lady in front of me stopped chewing her Red Vines long enough to yell at the ump over a missed called third strike. The fella to my right tried to patiently explain to his 11 year old son all about a balk. The big American flag in center field, fluttering in a susbstantial breeze, reminded us that major league parks were integrated long before the bathrooms in Selma, although both took way too long. Ted Williams, Jimmy Foxx, heck even the great DiMaggio, all went off to fight a war while ballplayers back home kept right on playing ball. This night at the ballpark, like all nights, boys and girls wore their ball gloves and looked with wonder and youthful expectation at every foul ball hit our way. Baseball was and still is our National Pastime. Nothing will ever change that. Some have argued that pro football has replaced Major League baseball as America's pastime. Ha! About a decade ago, my wife, my sister, my brother in law and I all went to an NFL game in the stadium next door to this baseball field. In the first half of that game, we were surrounded by screaming young men with their shirts off drinking beer and yelling profanity laced insults at the opposing teams. By the middle of the third quarter these guys were all passed out, lying in their seats, open mouthed, bare belly's extended and unaware of the remaining action on the field. Baseball is our National pastime forever, whether played in empty lots or Little League fields or the shiney new stadiums of the major leagues. Boys and girls play and laugh and the parents and fans scowl and scream and a fun time is had by all. When a middle aged, middle class guy can sit and watch a game with his sons and feel 13 again, the debate is settled. In 1970 my best friend Danny and I went on a trip to San Francisco with his adult sister Carla. We were 13 and huge baseball fans. We begged Carla to take us to old Candlestick Park to watch the Giants play the St Louis Cardinals. She did, bless her. We saw Willie Mays and Bob Gibson and Jim Ray Hart and we were in heaven. It was a cold Friday night in June and the sparce, shivering crowd was a bit grumpy. We sat next to an old guy who complained constantly about everything: the cold weather, the Giants inability to score runs, the state of the world. Finally, a usually mild mannered Danny turned to him and said "Mister would you stop complaining please? You're at a ballgame!". Well said Danny, " Play Ball".

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prep74mike · 6 years

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Farewell, my lovely

When I compare

What I have lost with what I have gained,

What I have missed with what attained,

Little room do I find for pride

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

In June 1974 I graduated from high school. Growing up as a young boy and all thru school I had been an always enthusiastic and sometimes very capable athlete. I had spent my senior year as a starting offensive guard on our championship football team in the fall and played soccer on our spring soccer team.

By June, I was playing soccer in the college summer league and preparing for the upcoming Fall college club soccer

season. During this glorious first summer of my young manhood, my days were simple: get up and work from 8-4 (I was a painters helper....aka grunt) go home and change into my shorts and spikes, pick up my girlfriend and goto the soccer complex to play in one of five games a week.

After our games, my friends and I and our girlfriends would go down to the river to drink beer, listen to BTO, skip rocks and run up and down the rocky banks.

In fact, most of my life was spent on my feet, running, kicking and trying to out throw, out hit and out run other boys (and sometimes some athletic girls).

40 years later, on a warm summer August day, I was painting a friend's house as a favor. Again I had BTO playing on my radio.

I was alone, painting and grooving in the morning sun. Birds chirped along with me. I had recently retired from full time work and life was good.

For some unknown reason, I stepped off my ladder into thin air and onto the hard concrete patio 4 feet below. I fell hard. My nose broke and bled, I scratched my hands and bare legs. I was covered in my own blood. I also noticed that my left foot had a deep gash. It didn't look too bad tho so I washed and bandaged it and then kind of ignored it. Two weeks later I was in the hospital and was very sick. I had a raging fever and was sick to my stomach. My foot had become seriously infected .

After a week in intensive care, I was told that they couldn't save it. They would have to amputate my leg, just below my left knee.

I was stunned.

Long ago, Raymond Chandler wrote a crime thriller called " Farewell, My Lovely". It is a pulp detective story about love and deception and in the end, loss and redemption.

It is a melancholy and sad story written in the noir style popular in that era.

It follows of course, the fictional LA private detective Phillip Marlow. In this story Marlow loses something very valuable but in the end finds something greater and in fact more important. I loved reading this and of course watching Robert Mitchum play it in the movie. It always reminds me that while some things can be lost, all is never lost.

When one loses a body part it takes away something else. Something not physical but mental. It takes away ones sense of completeness.

Thus, although my stump didn't really hurt too much, I still felt wierd. Something was literally missing.

The loss was sometimes overwhelming.

I would reach for my foot, it wasn't there.

I tried to hop and fell.

I woke up one night, got out of bed and stepped into nothing.

I used a wheelchair and a walker and crutches.

Then I got an expensive fake leg and soon learned how to walk again.

At fist, I hobbled around like an ancient pirate on the bridge of his rickety ship. Then I got pretty good at it. Although I now walk slightly funny, with long pants on, no one can tell that I am missing a leg.

I know however.

Did I feel like half a man after my amputation? No, but maybe 3/4 of one.

To be sure, the person I had been was gone. I was no longer him. Poof.

I am kinda embarrassed to say it, but I cried alot after my amputation. I am not sure why or what it meant. I guess that sometimes I just missed my old self. I liked him. He was cool and tough and fast.

I knew that I would never again run and jump and play in pure physical joy.

After more than 60 years, I was now an old man who walks kinda funny.

That's the loss, to be sure.

However, in time I realized that, like Longfellow's poem, and Chandler's story, I actually gained more than I lost.

That gain is more important to me and quite remarkable really.

It started in the hospital where my daughter Shannon, her husband Chad, my son Bill and my brother Pat all sat with me before my surgery and then waited for me to come back out. (Son Jack was still in school).

I could see in their faces that they too were in pain and that they loved me.

After I was discharged from the hospital, they packed me up and sent me to recover at Shannon's house.

My loss helped me grow closer to my kids, Bill and Shannon and Jack. They helped me in ways I can't even describe. They nursed me and took me out to eat and went to movies with me. They told me how much I meant to them in so many different ways. I adore and enjoy them.

I grew closer to my grandkids, Taylor and Sophia and young Mikey. They ignored my disability and showed me how to laugh and play and pretend.

My brother Pat and I became best friends again after many years apart. I, in fact, moved a block away from him and now see him every day.

My sister Mary prayed for me and took me to church to ask for divine healing. She cried and asked God and God listened.

My older brother Greg went with me for coffee and walks in the mall.

I made new, close friends and when I healed I moved to a new place, 300 miles away, after a lifetime in Spokane.

When added up then, the tally has me way ahead of the game.

Every day now ends the same. At bedtime, I carefully take off my Prosthetic leg and set it aside. I clean my stump and carefully stand on my one leg to put on my PJs. This is the time of my day when I most feel disabled. Nothing can hide my sagging pajama leg. If I had to leave the house fast I would be in big trouble.

To help in case of an emergency, I keep a walker by my bed.

I typically fight sleep for an hour or so. I think of my family and friends and old girlfriends. I wonder what they would say if they saw me now?

I then fall into a deep sleep.

And I dream.

When I dream I always have my leg. I dream of running and jumping and sometimes a simple thing like taking a shower.

One recurring dream I have is from that long ago summer of 1963. JFK is still President. In a couple of months, the Dodgers will sweep the Yankees to become Champions of baseball.

Bonanza is in living color.

In my dream it is a long, warm, summer evening and the neighborhood sounds surround my dad and I as we stand on the side of our house and play catch. (We love baseball and have our old mitts and a well worn ball.)

Sprinklers woosh in the air.

Cars can be heard speeding only blocks away on busy Sprague Ave.

Dogs are plentiful and bark at each other while they play.

The buzz of a small plane comes from above.

My sister Mary can be heard organizing a group game of kick the can. 5 year old brother Pat is on the porch crying. Brother Greg is playing his latest Elvis record.

Plop....plop...plop goes the ball hitting our mitts. Dad's smiling face glistens with a touch of summertime sweat. He is in pure joy, playing catch with his adoring son.

Looking at dad, I think of Koufax and Mays and Mantle. Hero's for sure but none bigger than the handsome man patiently throwing me the ball.

In my dream, as we play, I envision what the future will hold for me: It will be hours playing in fields of glory and schoolboy battle. It will be games where I can run and jump and hit. I know that cheerleaders will yell my name and fans will cheer my teams.

I know that no matter what, my kids will be pretty and my dogs jolly. My life will be good. I will go to college and wear a suit to work.

Evenings will be warm and light and thier breezes soft.

My sun will always shine.

They can never cut that away from me.

Plop....plop.....plop.

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prep74mike · 6 years

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Tiger!

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prep74mike · 6 years

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Tiger!

Jack Fox and the American Dream. The story of Tiger Jack Fox vs. Melio Bettina for the light Heavyweight Championship of the World. 1939.

Holy Cross Cemetery is nestled in a quiet residential neighborhood on the Northside of Spokane. It's acres of green grass, tall pine trees and rows of headstones look peacefull and serene.

With a bit of help from a very helpful attendant, one can find the headstone of John Linwood Fox.

Tiger Jack Fox was born in Indiana in 1907, or so they thought, and he died in Spokane in 1954.

Fox was a great fighter, in today's market he would be a multi millionaire. But in 1938 (Tigers peak) a black fighter was abused, defrauded and manipulated. During this period Fox won many fights, including against such big names such as Jersey Joe Walcott (twice) and former World Champion Bob Olin. Tiger even was the "Indiana Colored Heavyweight Champion". Can you imagine such a title designation today?

Concurrently he was harassed by creditors and continually in trouble with the law.

On November 14, 1966 my younger brother Pat and I watched, with our dad, Muhammad Ali beat Cleveland Williams in three rounds in their Houston prize fight. Some say it was Ali at his peak. Whether that is true or not, he was really good that night.

I was 10 and Pat 8. We loved boxing and Ali in particular.

After the fight my dad gathered Pat and I around him sitting on our couch and told us the legend of the great Spokane boxer Tiger Jack Fox.

It was a story told us many more times by dad over the years and we got to know the story well. The first telling however, stayed with me for good.

Dad was a huge sports fan. He spoke of local stars like the the old Spokane Indians and Gonzaga's long forgotten football team. Or national jocks like Joe DiMaggio and Lou Gerhig and the rest.

Tiger Jack was different however. He was one guy, not a team and he was local, dad had seen him in person several times. Many times dad was close enough to reach out and touch Tiger Jack and looked into his focused eyes.

December 6, 1938 was an unseasonably warm day in New York. Holiday shoppers had began to descend on downtown Manhattan and all it's neighborhoods, including Harlem. 1938 Harlem was still filled with African Americans of the lower income level. It's hotels and bars were swarming with guests to the city, mostly blacks, who were not as welcome downtown.

The night of carousing began early for Jack Fox. A heavy party goer anyway, Tiger Jack had many reasons to celebrate this holiday season. Only a month earlier Fox had beaten Al Gainer to earn the chance to fight for the Light Heavyweight Championship of the World in early 1939. His opponent would be southpaw Melio Bettina, a native New Yorker and crafty young fighter.

Tiger Jack was very busy and successful in 1938. By November he had fought 17 times, including a win over future Heavyweight Champion Jersey Joe Walcott.

On December 6, 1938, Fox went to a party and returned back to his cheap hotel around midnight. He was stabbed below the heart with a razor blade by a 28 year old maid at the hotel after a mysterious argument. Iitially he was told that he would never fight again. but he returned to the ring less than two months later to fight for the Championship vs Bettina on February 3rd of 1939. In no condition for such a challenge of that magnitude, Tiger suffered a 9th round technical knockout in the one and only opportunity he ever received to fight for a world championship.

His peak was reached and quickly began the portion of his career where his opponents were less talented and he made less and less money. He finished his boxing career fighting in and around the Pacific Northwest, ultimately retiring in Spokane. Before he retired he even tried professional wrestling, to capitalize on his famous name. He had become a freak show, a circus clown used to entertain and amuse. No longer a serious athlete.

50 years after his death he was voted in the top 100 best pound for pound sluggers of all time. Like my dad had described him, he was a legend.

The day which began at the cemetery in bright sunshine, had become short and dark. Shadows crept across the pasture of marble. Nestled within the warmth and serenity of faith in eternity, lies a forgotten hero. In his lifetime, he was used, stolen from, taken advantage of, humiliated and abused for his racial being.

He was also worshipped by a generation of fight fans who recognized his talent and entertaining manner. But his death and funeral were scarcely noticed and lightly attended. His burial place was purchased by his last part time boxing manager and full time pawn broker, Jack Powers. It cost $500.00.

Jack Fox's American Dream was a one way street. The assent was celebrated, the dessent, ignored.

Tiger Jack Fox, saw the bright lights of Broadway and the cheers of thousands. John Linwood Fox however, died on the sidewalk from a heart attack. He was only 47 years old but looked like an old man.

His end came on a dirty street, outside an old movie theater in Spokane where he had just watched a forgettable afternoon triple feature. When he collapsed, the forgotten cheers of adoring fans were absent. His body layed askew on the cold concrete and was stared at by passerbys of his hometown. No one recognized him.

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prep74mike · 6 years

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Moon over the morning Pacific.

In daylight, and at noon,

Yesterday I saw the moon

Sailing high, but faint and white,

As a schoolboy's paper kite.

Longfellow

I am sitting in my third floor room at a resort in Ocean Shores looking at the Pacific Ocean. It is 5 am on a quiet July Monday (2 days before Independence day) morning and there are no people around. Everyone must still be asleep.

I am creating a new holiday " Geezers on the Shore" as it seems that I am here with only a bunch of seniors.

That is not true of course and the young are present at the beach, in the shops and at the many motels that dot this resort area.

While the kids and the young folks run on the beach, fly kites and ride horses, we Geezers sit in our cars, listen to Bob Dylan on satellite and talk about Fonzie and Mork and Mary Tyler Moore (would we love her, ect).

I look up as 2 hungry Seagulls look in my window at me. They sit on the close roof and clearly have been fed from this very window. I ignore them coldly.

My eyes drift upward and in the light morning, summer sky, hovers a fading moon. It doesn't fully understand that daylight has arrived. Meanwhile, also over the Pacific, a misty fog sits and hides the ever present waves from sight.

I know they are there. They are always there, slowly forming with small, white, caps and coming every few seconds. They never stop, the water is never still. I suppose that the Ocean can become mean and angry, however in it's benign form it is lovely and calming.

My mind calmly drifts and I wonder what the first explorers thought when they happened upon this endless water and it's inviting looks and sounds.

I read that the Pacific represents half of all the water in the whole world. Wow.

It's name "Pacific" means Peaceful. Magellan so named it after fighting thru the rough waters around Cape Horn.

I think of what early Man thought when faced with this same view, a 100 or a 1000 years ago. Were they afraid? They certainly were amazed because it is amazing. Everyone is amazed. We all sit and stare, quietly embracing it's wet, green-blue wonder.

I board the medium sized boat with a bit of apprehension. As the prayer says " Oh God, the Sea is so great and my boat so small". I feared that I may get seasick. For, about 20 of us, who remember Mickey Mantle (and a few who remember Joe DiMaggio), were going whale watching.

The Pacific , thankfully, was Pacifico-- peaceful. Calm, flat, quiet. It was a morning best described as "amazing".

The Captain of this ship was Al. A nice guy about my age who seemed to know what he was doing. His "first mate" was Shelly, a girl of about 25 who had a swimmers body and very tight shorts and a tight tee-shirt which said " let's have a Whale of a good time". The men read it slowly and the women turned away. Shelly was Al's daughter. She looked at us men in our 60's and 70's much as a dog would regard a flying pig, interesting but totally unnecessary. We understood totally, she was kind and very helpful.

Shelly handed us all binoculars and told us to stare out into the water and look for whales. While she was sweet and nice, she acted as tho we were all in kind of a floating day care for Geezers. I imagined that she would soon tell us how to breathe. Just kidding of course.

We all looked and talked and talked and looked. For 2 hours Al drove us around surrounded by nothing but water. He was frustrated that all the whales were clearly napping a 1000 feet below us. It got hot and we were given a cold soda. I had a Coke Zero and enjoyed it muchly.

Finally Al headed for home. No whales to watch today. We really didn't care. We had a great time on the boat with the air clear and the ride smooth. We docked and got off the boat while Al and Shelly stood and said goodbye with genuine charm and soft eyes.

It was a good day.

Back to my 5 am coffee-ocean watching-bird teasing-moon sighting. It was a lovely was to start another God given day and truly Pacifico.

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prep74mike · 8 years

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The 2016 Ugly Baby Contest: And the winner is.......

In January 1945 a Kansas City political machine boss named Tom Pendergrast died. Pendergrast had once been one of the most powerful political bosses of the early 20th century. Before Social Media and Television, political bosses such as Pendergrast were scattered across America, mainly in large cities. New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, etc all had such famous bosses. These men would back specific candidates for local, state and federal elected political offices. When those candidates won, they would turn all patronage (I.e. government money) over to the bosses. The bosses would then use that money to pay off favors, give out plum public works projects, get rich themselves and perpetuate their power. Thru this government money trough the bosses would control the politics in their areas. This was a highly unethical practice and these guys were very dishonest. Tom Pendergrast's prize national political "mouthpiece" was Harry Truman. In Janurary 1945 Trumam was the ex Senator from Missouri and the new Vice President of the United States. Truman would soon become President. (Upon the April 1945 death of Franklin Roosevelt). However, by 1945 Pendergrast had fallen on hard times. He had been convicted of federal tax evasion, served time in prison (Leavenworth), had cancer and was abandoned by all his former friends and allies. He was living in his modest Kansas City home, waiting out his life. When he died, Truman was strongly advised, by both his own and FDR's advisors, not to attend the funeral to be held in Kansas City. They felt that attending the funeral of such a convicted criminal would look bad for Truman, FDR and the whole administration. Truman, a stubborn man and very loyal to his old sponsor, nevertheless went to the sparsely attended service. Truman was the only elected official to attend. Newspapers across the country published pictures of Truman greeting some of the few mourners. Truman, facing alot of heat over this issue, said simply "he (Pendergrast) was my friend and I was his". Regardless of what one thinks of Harry Truman, this episode shows alot about his character. Although his political career sprang from and was buildt with the full support of a powerful, dishonest, political crook, Trumam was a man with a distinct sense of right and wrong. He believed that the Presidency of the United States was to be protected and cherished. He believed in honesty, integrity and a strong sense of decorum. He believed in manners. He believed in standing for something other than self. I thought about this the other night when I watched the 2nd Presidential debate between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump. In less than 70 years we have come from Truman to Trump and Clinton. A sad decline to be sure. Between these two issues do not matter, what is now important is Trump's potty mouth or Clintons non reaction to a fly landing on her frozen face. Trump called her "evil" she called him a "liar". They refused to shake hands. Clinton wants to protect women from a raging alpha such as Trump. The Donald wants to put her in jail. Trump claims his sexual bragging is just talk. He says that he has never actually sexually abused anyone. He does claim that Bill Clinton is an absolute rapist and serial abuser. Is he lying? Hillary claims that she has broken no laws and that she is an innocent putz with an Ivy League law degree who can't read simple classifications. Is she lying? At this point one is no longer sure how either feels about taxes, Russia or terrorists. However, we are well schooled on their feelings about foreplay. I decided that these two ambitious climbers decided to engage in a mud wrestling contest, with the most powerful office in the free world as the grand prize. Trump decided that he needs a bigger airplane and Clinton needs another house. They are fighting it out in the schoolyard. They think no one is watching. To us, a hopeful nation waiting for a leader, it has become an ugly baby contest. The worse of the two will win. We as a people, lose either way.

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prep74mike · 8 years

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Arnold Palmer RIP.

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prep74mike · 8 years

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Arnold Palmer RIP.

The King is dead. No, not Elvis (he is dead too) but golfing great Arnold Palmer. Arnie died last weekend at the age of 87, after being ill for a year. One is usually not stunned when a person of 87 passes. It is an age which some of us hope to achieve and which those already there should be prepared to meet our maker. But with Arnie it is different. He seemed ageless, much like the sun or the moon, hovering above us and brightly shining. Not young, not old. Infinite. We saw him winning golf tournaments (he was a great golfer with 62 wins on the PGA tour), selling Pennzoil, Blood thinner and a drink called the 'Arnold Palmer". Arnie was always somewhere, smiling, talking and determined. Years ago Arnie (a licensed pilot) set a world speed record for an around the world flight in an airplane. Ho hum, we collectively thought, it was just Arnie being Arnie. Arnie was a success at everything in his life. He was a respectful and dutiful son to an abusive and demanding dad. He was a longtime married man who buried one wife and found a new, late in life one. He was a loving dad and grandad. Arnie has written several popular golf related books. I remember as a boy and young man pouring over "Go for Broke" his 1973 autobiography so many times that it literally fell apart at the seams. At one point in his life Arnie thought about running for Governor of Pennsylvania, where of course, he was a legend. He would have won in a walk and was strongly courted by both political parties to be their candidate. In the end, he politely demured the offers saying at the time that he didn't want to use his celebrity to get a job for which he was unqualified. Imagine that kind of integrity and character in today's world. In 1979 my brother Pat and I went to a golf exhibition featuring Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson. Nicklaus was already being touted as the Greatest golfer of all time and Watson was clearly the greatest golfer at the time. But is was Arnie who we meet to see. We followed him for 18 holes. Nicklaus shot a 65, Watson a 66 and Palmer a 71 yet it Arnie who won the day. The crowd loved him, he was polite, friendly and commanding. He exceeded our expectations of how a hero should be. At one point we were 2 feet away from Arnie and a lady in the crowd asked that he and Nicklaus pose for a picture. They quickly agreed and lined up to pose. Arnie suddenly saw an equally polite Tom Watson shyly standing off to the side not wanting to spoil the shot. Arnie immediately called out "Tom, come and join us" and Watson did. Class meets class. Of course Arnie was past his prime by the time that I started to follow him. As a lifelong Red Sox fan I always loved an underdog and he had become one. It was a perfect match for me. Arnie was excitable, aggressive and inconsistent, much like me. Thus, my favorite Arnie Palmer story comes from the 1974 US Open, which was tagged as the "Massacre at Winged Foot" in the 1974 Dick Shaap book about that golf tournament played at Winged Foot golf club in New York. In June 1974 I had just graduated from high school and was painting houses to earn money for college. During this 4 day tournament I was painting a house near my gifriend's parents house. Everyday at lunch time I would run over to her house to check the morning paper for scores of the tournament. In the days before ESPN and the Internet that was the only way to get the updated information. Arnie, at age 43, was doing good in the tournament and in fact led it after 2 rounds. One day, while eating a sandwich and reading the scores, my girlfriend asked "Why do you like him so much". "Because he is old and feisty, just like I wanna be" I answered. Of course to an 18 year old boy, 43 is old. Arnie lost that tournament and in fact never won again but I followed him just the same for years. Sometimes it is hard to think of Arnie as 87 and me as 60. In my mind I am 18 watching a 40 something Arnie battling the golfing greats of his time. 1974 seems like yesterday. Yes the King is dead, long live the King.

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prep74mike · 8 years

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prep74mike · 8 years

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Ali, Elvis, Dad and God: Sunrise.

Ali, Elvis, Dad and God: Sunrise. “I am the greatest” “I ain’t got no quarrel with them Viet Cong” Muhammad Ali

“I really like Vegas” Elvis Presley

ALI Muhammad Ali is dead. It is hard for me to say that. Part of me always felt in touch with my youth when he was alive. Ali and Arnold Palmer are the two athletes that I first remember and I grew up loving them. Of course Palmer was past his prime by the time I remember him, although we didn’t know it. Ali was different. He was at his peak when I was 10, on the night in 1966, when he beat Cleveland “big cat” Williams in Houston. But then of course he was arrested and stripped of his title for protesting the Vietnam war. He was prohibited from fighting for almost 4 years, his profession seemingly finished. (By the way, name someone else who gave up millions and their own profession for protesting this war. Jane Fonda kept making movies and making millions, Tom Hayden began a political career that eventially made him a rich man and George McGoven almost got elected President). But Ali was different, he literally put his money where his famously big mouth was. So after his extended exile, he made a comeback and soon got beat by a pesky Joe Fraziez. His career was once again declared finished by the “experts”.

Thus, on the night of Oct 30, 1974 I stood with my dad in the old Spokane Coliseum waiting for the big fight to begin. We were there to watch the closed circuit TV showing of the World Heavyweight Championship fight between undefeated and young (24) George Foreman against old (32), brash and definite underdog Muhammad Ali. Part of Ali’s appeal to me always was that my dad hated him. True teenage revolt. Dad was a WWII combat veteran and considered Ali to be a draft dodger. During that war, my dad had five siblings in the service at once and thought it was ones duty to serve our country. Even a war such as Vietnam was important to him. I felt the war to be a mistake and felt Ali was on the side of right. We had several arguments on the controversial subject. I was there to see Ali win. Dad was there to see Forman clobber my hero. I paid for the tickets because I wanted to share this moment with my dad. He agreed to come with me, prepared to gloat. The large crowd was restless as the prelims went on. Everyone wanted the fight to begin. Most (but not me, the eternal underdog fan) thought that Foreman would knock Ali out in a round or two. My friend and soon to be brother-in-law, Mike bet me $50.00 that Ali would lose. I took the bet for reasons of male pride, I was unsure of where I (a poor college freshman) would come up with the money if Ali lost. When the lights lowered, the crowd hushed and the fight began.

FAST TIMES

1974 was an incredible year. It was my first year as an adult, although I was really still just a kid. Earlier that year in Janurary, my high school where I was a senior, had its big winter formal dance. However this was also the same night as the first network showing of the first Ali vs Joe Frazier fight. Mammoth in scope, this Fight of the Century was the Holy Grail for any boxing fan. Before ESPN and cable TV had sports on constantly, we were excited to first see a fight that was almost 3 years old. My buddies and I, of course, were big sports fans and were really interested in seeing this fight. We all loved Ali, we used to say to each other “what round Muhammad”? as a greeting. In fact, we got together and rented a hotel room across the street from the dance so we could watch to fight on Wide World of Sports before the dance.

In my mind, I can still see 6 high school girls (our dates) dressed in their formal prom dresses, sitting around a smallish hotel room eating pizza. We had canceled our dinner reservations to watch this replayed fight and bought pizza’s instead. Lance Romance’s were we. Of course as we knew, Frazier beat Ali by a decision. Our dates were bored and anxious to go to the dance. When the fight ended we went to the dance as one happy group (at least us guys were happy, not sure our dates felt very special) for we had seen our hero. We were convinced that Ali would get his revenge when Ali/Frazier 2 was fought in a few days (he did). By the way, in my high school days it was considered “cool” to rent a hotel room on the nights of our big dances. Two or three or four guys would pool together and rent a room. Before the dance we would gather and have a beer or two and after it ended we would go back to our rooms and make out some with our dates. After a little romance we took them home and we would stay up most of the night playing poker and shooting the bull.

Later that Spring (May) my hometown hosted a World’s Fair, Expo ‘74. This was a big deal for our smallish city (175,000 souls). I wanted to be involved in the all the hoopla so I got my first real job, I was a pedi cab driver on the fairgrounds. I would pedal folks from one point to another for a small fee. It was fun. I was young, athletic and very happy to be around all the people (lots of pretty high school girls running around. If one caught my eye I would give her a free ride. Not great business acumen but very romantic). On the fair’s opening day our President, Richard M Nixon, came to open the fair. The fairgrounds were packed with people there to see the President declare “Expo 74 officially open..” I gave lots of free rides that day. When the President was done, he left in a motorcade. I wanted to see him leave so I rushed to the street to wave and cheer him. Although the crowd was large and festive and almost adoring: Nixon, in the middle of his Watergate mess, looked straight ahead. Turning to neither side and not waving once, his face was a scowl. The Trickster.

MOVING UP WITH ANNIE

In June, I graduated from high school. I was headed to a local college and about to spend a long summer of sports (I was playing in a summer soccer league), girls and beer. Its hard to explain the summer after one graduates from high school, if I had to choose one word it would be, bliss. Legally I suppose I was now an adult but I still acted like a kid. No matter, I could now rent an apartment, which I did with some friends and fellow college freshmen. Freedom from my parents! Of course now I had to do my own laundry.

Of course this all happened at the time that I had my first serious girlfriend. I had met her thru friends, she went to a huge public high school. On our first date I took her to a driving range to hit some golf balls (back then I would only date girl jocks. If she didn’t like sports, she was out). Not only could she hit a golf ball pretty well but after we were done, she stopped to wash her bare feet in the drinking fountain. I was immediately smitten. Although we didn’t last much past my school days she was sweet and nice and fun to be with. FAREWELL TRICKY DICK In August 1974 President Richard Nixon, resigned from office. I was not very political then, but I knew this was a huge deal. To mark the occasion, I watched his resignation speech with my dad. Dad had no love for Nixon and said only “look at poor tricky Dick, he still sweats like a pig on TV”.

ELVIS, VIVA LAS VEGAS

On that Labor day weekend some friends and I made our first trip to Las Vegas. We soon discovered that gambling, women and booze only lasted until ones money ran out. At 18, we didnt have much of that anyway. One thing stands out about that weekend: I was standing in the hallway of one of the big casinos waiting for my friends. Suddenly, the hall became crowded. Several big guys came towards me. They were surrounding another guy as they briskley walked, all looking straight ahead. I saw the hair, the sungalsses, the flashy suit. It was Elvis! Instinct drove me to say something witty. “ Hey Elvis” I blurted out. He looked my way “Thank you, thank you” he mumbled as he glided by. Quickly he was gone, vanishing into a waiting elevator. I stood open mouthed, staring after him, feeling the warmth of passing too close to the sun.

FRESHMAN FORTY

September brought me to college. For the first time in my life I had no parents waking me up for school. My roommates and I missed more classes than we attended and I soon found out that life out of high school was different indeed. To put it politely, good results were not quarenteed. After my first quarter in college I was put of academic probation. That was that, if I didn’t raise my grades I would be thrown out of school.

RUMBLE IN THE JUNGLE

Back to the October Ali/Foreman fight. From the beginning it went just as I had hoped. Ali beat the crap out of him. As each round passed, my dad got more upset. Since he hated Ali so much, he was sure Foreman would thump him. When Ali finally knocked Big George out near the end of the 8th round, I literally jumped out of my seat with pure joy. The crowd around me was wildly cheering and going nuts. My dad sat slumped in his chair. Finally, muttering to himself “well I’ll be damned”, he slowly rose and stumbled toward the coliseum door and the waiting cool October air. I soon joined him and we rode home in silence. When we pulled into the driveway and dad turned off the car, he turned to me and said “ you were right and I was wrong, enjoy it”. He would never again speak of this fight.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

After Thanksgiving I moved back home with my folks. I started to do better in school and awaited another Christmas. While on school break a couple of days before Christmas, Annie called me from her work. “He won sportsman of the year” she excitedly told me. My hero, professional fighter, outspoken Muslim, militant war protestor, Muhammad Ali was named Sports Illistrated “Sportsman of the Year” for the only time. He had been barred from boxing for years for his religous beliefs, he had grown old and fat, he was written off as a has-been. Now he had completely come back to sit atop the sports world. What grit, what guts, I mused. This was a great man. I went to sleep that night with Christmas lights twinkling, a light snow falling, a contented smile and dreams of gifts to soon come.

GOD Soon thereafter and a few nights after Christmas I met God. I had been upset for a few days. School wasn’t going well, I was worried about my parents constant fighting (in 6 months they would seperate for good) and of course I fretted about my future. On this night I struggled to fall asleep. I finally dozed off about 1 AM. Suddenly I woke in a soft cloud surrounded by darkness. My mom arrived on my cloud dressed in a white flowing gown. She grabbed my hand and we began to fly thru the night sky. A warm breeze met us as we sailed higher, no fear, no anxiety, no worries. Mom smiled as we flew on, happiness surrounded us. This was no dream, it was real. We approached a gently shining light and stopped just short of it. We were still in the sky but neither flying nor falling. Nothing was said as we hovered, but warmth and happiness overcame me. Suddenly, in my late night consciousness I realized that all would be fine. That I would graduate college (I did), fall in love (years later I did) and have great kids (I did and do. I even have 2 fantastic grandaughters so far.) God was introducing himself to the now adult me.

DAD and ALI AGAIN 1974 had started with me still in high school. By the end of the year I was half way thru my first year in college. In the warm quiet of an evening I still think back to that year. I remember my Dad, he was was a good guy. We liked hanging out together. Sports and politics kept us in touch. He died a few years later and I took it very hard. A simple man, he didn’t teach me much about living. But, he taught me alot about how to die. To the end he spoke of “that damn” Ali.

It was also the year that I left my cocoon of childhood and peeked out at a larger world. I was active and loud and excitable. I had seen my first President. I spoke to one King (Elvis) and worshipped another (Ali). It was my sunrise year. As a child life had been a cartoon, some black and white like when President Kennedy was shot, but mostly in color. The Flintstones, the Jetsons and Wiley E Coyote where painted in my memories. When a boy, I used to skip down the road in front of our home, nothing on my mind, a child’s right. Now I had seen Vegas, wow, try and unsee that. No more cartoons for me, all reality from now on.

Elivs once said: “When I was a boy I always saw myself as a hero in comic books and in movies. I grew up believing this dream”. I’m no longer a boy of course, not even close as I’m almost 60, and yet I have always shared that dream with Elvis. Of course Elvis is dead, then dad and now Ali. I may need to get a different dream. RIP Mr. Ali.

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prep74mike · 8 years

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Small house

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prep74mike · 8 years

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Gonzaga, Redemption and the elusive Final Four

Gonzaga, Redemption and the elusive Final Four "For the Greater Glory of God" Last month a new college basketball team was crowned NCAA champion. Of course it was not Gonzaga. The Zags were beaten the week before and denied yet another chance to make it into the Final Four. Again, the Zags glimpsed at the sun, but in the end were turned away. A wonderful year, ended by a team with too much talent. Whether one likes Gonzaga or not (show me someone west of the Rockies who doesn't love the Zags) one cannot deny what this institution has meant to the Spokane area. Founded in 1887 by that legendary Jesuit Priest Joseph Cataldo, Gonzaga has been a huge part of this area for over 125 years. Farther Cataldo started Gonzaga (both High School and College) to serve the Inland Northwest Native Americans to whom he dedicated his life. " For the Greater Glory of God" is Gonzaga's motto. Imagine that, an instituiton started in the name of God for God. No wonder Spokane loves the Zags. It is an institution of love, compassion and service. The history and mission of Gonzaga reminds us all that there is something great when we look outside of our ownselves. "For the Greater Glory of God" Imagine a young, poor, Native American boy (Gonzaga used to be an all boys school) trudging to school in the winter of 1887. The snow was cold and wet and the sky gray and angry. Hungry, this young student knew that Father Cataldo himself would serve him a warm breakfast right before he hammered home the ABC's. "The Greater Glory of God", Bing Crosby knew it before he headed to Hollywood as did Tom Foley before he went to Washington to run the Congress. Read a story by Sherman Alexis and one can feel it. Governor Christine Gregoire knew it too as she ran this great state. All Gonzaga alumni, them. " For the Greater Glory of God" Everyone going to a football game at Albi stadium (named after another Gonzaga alum, Joseph Albi) feel it. " For the Greater Glory of God", more than the famous alumni Gonzaga has produced are the thousands of other folks who have had the privilege to attend or have worked for Gonzaga. The lawyers and sales reps and teachers and stock brokers and office workers, the list goes on and on. We all carry the Greater Glory of God in our hearts. We all know that God gives and forgives, as should we. Gonzaga has redeemed so many of us and God has redeemed us all. Toora, toora, loora Toora, loora, li Toora, Toora, loora Hush now don't you cry Go Zags

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prep74mike · 8 years

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Of beauty and Nice: Sheep may safely graze.

Of beauty and Nice: Sheep may safely graze. "It opens yet a fragment of the frontier of beauty" Albert Einstein on listening to the music of Johann Sebastian Bach. Johann Sebastian Bach was a genius. His music takes one to a green and yellow meadow, a soft wind blowing as the sounds of life flutter around. In Bachland it is always spring and the world is always new again. I think of Bach often, as I think of the beauty in Verdi and Puccini and Mozart and Dylan. As I do paintings by Van Gogh or Monet and writing by Fitzgerald or Salinger. The swing of Willie Mays had it, as did the stride of Jesse Owens. One could not watch Michael Jordan dunk a basketball without a gasp and a nod to his art. These folks and many more, provide us all beauty to sustain us, to give us a buffer against the sadness and pain and hardness in our lives. As Eistein told us, we must stop and look and find nice in those small corners of our life. We now live in a world where people blow each other up with no warning. Some persecute others for their religion or skin color or loves. Money drives many of us to act badly as we crave more clothes and phones and big screen TV's. We don't really discuss any more or debate, we argue and insult. It is easy to find bad, depressing news. Thus, I've decided to tell a story about goodness, beauty, honor and plain old nice. My grandpa was born in 1892 in Naples Italy. Imagine 1892-such a long time ago. Teddy Roosevelt was not yet known to the country. Charles Lindberg, John F Kennedy, Babe Ruth, Ronald Reagan and Al Capone (also Neapolitan) were not yet born. Actually grandpa was born in a small village just outside Naples. He was named Frank Vincent Scarano. His famiy was poor of course, food scarce and work was hard. In the third grade his dad died and he dropped out of school and went to work as a laborer to help support his widowed mother and his 3 brothers. By the age of 10 grandpa was carrying water and food to mine workers near his home. He was working 12 hour days. Life was bleak and sad and dark. Most nights he went to bed hungry and tired. Insread of meat his mom made spaghetti sauce with eel. Some days he worked thru lunch for they lacked any food to send with him. They of course had no electricity nor an indoor toliet. Grandpa went to bed at night praying for a better life. The dreams of this young boy were of grinding work and cursing men, not of schoolyard games or girls. A few years later his mom died and his brothers left to live with their Aunt in the big city. Grandpa decided to come to America. The promise of clean water, plentiful food and soft beds drew him naturally to the promised land. This boy, stripped of his youth by poverty and hardship, made the trip across the Atlantic by himself huddled in a cold freighter ship, surrounded by strangers. Fast forward 34 years. Grandpa had made it big. He had fought in a war, married, raised 2 kids, owned a grocery store and several houses. He was a long way from the sweating hills of Italy. Grandpa decided to retire at age 48. He sold his store and bought a 10 acre piece of land and started a truck farm. He raised peppers and corn and zucchini. He buildt his own house. He bought a few cows for milk and beef. He raised chickens for eggs and when they grew older, he butchered them for Sunday dinners. He sold his goods during the summer and fall at a stand next to his house. During the winter he stayed home and became quite proficient at the crossword puzzle in the daily newspaper. Come spring of course, he worked in his fertile fields. Life was good. He walked to "work" and took a nap every afternoon. He had become an American success story. About 1950 an "old" widow (old then was about 45) moved next door to Grandpa and Grandma, in a house he owned. Her name was Olive and she had 4 growing boys, all under 13 years old. Olive's husband had just died from an untimely heart attack. He had left Olive with no money and with very little prospects. She had little education and no marketable skills. She took in laundry, baked pies to sell and cleaned a few houses. She worked about 60 hours a week trying to raise her boys. When she wasn't working she was cleaning her own house and cooking for her always hungry sons. When I was very young, Grandpa would send me next door to mow her lawn during the long summer. (She didn't own a lawnmower so her son's couldn't do it). I was mowing about 5 other lawns at the time and charging $1.50 each. I had a pretty good racket going and made enough money to keep me in penny candy and Ice Creme. Grandpa told me not to ask her for money for this chore. He would pay me for it, and he did. Every week. He would always pay me with 6 quarters. I knew the money came from his produce stand. I was 11 when Olive moved downtown to live with her sister. Her last boy had left home. I lost touch with her and Grandpa never mentioned her. A few years later I was in the 8th grade and my Grandpa died. I was 14, he was almost 80. The world hardly noticed his passing. He was a simple, obscure little man who worked hard and said little. He invented nothing, never ran for public office and did not sing or dance. As I was still in grade when he died I was still an alter boy. I served his funeral mass in our local Catholic Church. During the mass, the organist ( my mom was the regular church organist but could not play at her own dad's funeral, so they called in a substitute) played a pretty song which I had never heard before. As we left the Church after the ceremony I asked my mom what that strange, nice song was. "Bach" mom answered "Sheep May Safely Graze, your Grampa's favorite song". Mom wandered off and I stood outside the church thinking of Grandpa, how nice he was and how much I was going to miss him. From behind me I heard a small, frail voice softly say my name. " Mike, do you remember me?". I turned and it was Olive. "Of course I remember" I replied "how are you?" I asked. "I am fine. I know you must go be with your family. I just want to tell you about your Grandfather" she whispered. I leaned forward to hear her better. She was shorter than I remembered and quite frail. "When my husband died I had to move from our big house in town because I no longer could afford it. I saw an ad in the paper for a small house for rent in the Valley and I took the bus out to see it. I met your Grandpa." "I looked at the house and liked it. It would mean a new school for my boys but it was clean and quiet and I could afford it". " Your Grandpa asked about my circumstances and I told him my story. He was quiet for a minute, then he said "let's start out renting to you for $10 a month. If we like each other after awhile we can increase the rent. Well, I lived there for 15 years and he never raised the rent one red cent! Although I tried many times, he would always say 'later...maybe later'. For this deal he asked for nothing in return. He wouldn't even take a free pie from me. When I baked him a pie he would always pay the going rate. He would bring me vegetables, eggs, chickens and milk, always telling me that they were surplus and he didn't want them to go to waste. When my last boy left home, I was lonely and wanted to move in with my older sister. She was also alone. I went to him and told him that I was leaving. I was so sad and cried. He just smiled warmly, patted my back and said 'Olive, it's been nice knowing you. Thanks for being such a good tenant'. Can you imagine? This fine, generous man thanking me, after all he had done for the boys and me". Tears rose in Olive's tired, old eyes as she finished "your Grandpa was a nice, beautiful man". With that Olive turned and walked out of my life forever. Although he has been dead for over 45 years, I still often think of my nice, beautiful Grandpa. I think of his lost youth working in desperate fields. I think of his own mother and brothers. I think of another widow and other boys, whom he chose to quietly help. And I smile and look upward. Sheep may safely graze indeed.

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prep74mike · 8 years

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Of beauty and Nice: Sheep may safely graze.

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prep74mike · 8 years

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Storm Warning. A race to the bottom.

Storm Warning. A race to the bottom. “I’m with the people, the people like Trump” Donald Trump, 2016

“We must stop thinking of the individual and start thinking about what is best for society” Hillary Clinton 2008

“Great liars are also great magicians’ Adolf Hitler, 1922

I admit that I don’t like Donald Trump. To be sure, part of my dislike is class envy. The Donald was born rich and has stayed rich his whole life. Never has Trump worried about paying his electric bill or making a rent payment. Never has Trump counted the days until his next paycheck so he could go to the store and buy his family food. Not only does he have a fleet of expensive cars but he also has his own custom 757 airplane. Compared to other prominent billionaires, Trump gives little to charity. Trump attracts beautiful women because he can buy them a helicopter or a couple of new boobs. If there was a guy who looked and spoke like Trump and worked at USPS or Subway and hung out at the local bar on Friday night, everyone would laugh at him. It is true that many rich guys have been President and they have done a good job. However they had been tempered and humbled by personal challenges. Franklin D Roosevelt was born rich, but endured and overcame a crippling disease. John F Kennedy was also born rich but also was sick most of his life and fought in a war. Ronald Reagan was rich when elected President but had been born over a shoe store and grew up poor during the Great Depression. Trump has faced neither major illness, military service nor personal financial challenge. That’s Trumps problem. He has always gotten what he wants. The Donald promises to "Make America Great again” which sounds kinda scary. Trump, if elected, will have a gold “T” painted on the chest of the Statue of Liberty. He will also change her welcoming message from “……Give me your tired, your poor, your helpless…” To “give me your white, your Christian, your angry, oh….and not too many”. Besides his extreme wealth, Trump is an ass. Preening, bombastic and insulting, Trump is the opposite of what America typically looks for in a President. When Trump speaks he embaresses himself and those who support him. Trump claims to be smart. I’m not so sure. Rather, I think he is “wily”, a term usually of derision and closely associated with deceit.

In any other year the choice to vote against The Donald would be easy. I mean it’s like voting against the flu.

This year however, his opponent will most probably be Hillary Clinton. She dresses like Chairman Mao and lies like a cheating husband but Madam Hillary, at age 68, will finally be the Democrat nominee (I qualify this however by saying, unless she is indicted). Hillary and her husband, former President Bill Clinton, have amassed $200,000,000 since they became public servants. Somehow I suspect hanky panky. Hillary is well known for her adaptability. On any given day she can change her position on any issue depending on public opinion. Trouble follows the Clintons wherever they go. There have been numerous credible accusations against one or the other ranging from sexual assault to insider trading. Those challenging the Clintons typically end up in ruin. Numerous women have stated that while Bill was a chronic sexual predator, it was Hillary who cleaned up the mess behind him. And she takes no prisoners. Hillary likes money and power and hangs on to it with a determined fierceness. Early in this campaign cycle (last summer), there was a video of Hillary walking thru an airport. There are no “regular people” near her as the Secret Service had cleared them away and put them behind ropes. In the same situation Bill Clinton or Ronald Reagan would have talked to the folks and signed autographs or taken pictures with them. Not Hillary, she strolled thru looking straight ahead with a plastic smile on her face and a look of royalty about her. Hillary’s problem is that she doesn’t like people unless they can help her politically or give her money. She does not belong in a Democracy, rather, she should be Queen of Belgium where she can wave to her subjects from afar and dance with Princes at fancy balls. There have actually been Presidents who have ridden to their inaugural alone on horseback. Can one imagine Hillary doing this? Hardly, she needs a 10 car caravan to go and get a $600.00 haircut. The day before he was shot and killed, President Lincoln walked the streets of Washington DC with only one bodyguard. He greeted people and shook some hands. My guess is that President Hillary would not do this.

Where then are “we the people” left? We have a choice between two power hungry, money driven, sociopaths with no relation to the truth. How do I vote for either?

I am reminded again of the wisdom of Thomas Jefferson who said: “In a democracy the people get the leaders they deserve”. I don’t believe that I deserve either a President Trump or another President Clinton, yet I will probably get one or the other. Of course Jefferson could not predict the coming ‘Age of Selfie’ where America incessantly takes pictures of ourselves, our food, our children. In an age of technological narcissism we naturally will vote for a narcissistic President.

I heard one commentator recently say “I will vote for XXXX then go outside and throw up”. Blunt, crude, graphic…but a pretty good idea.

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prep74mike · 8 years

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Storm Warning. A race to the bottom.

Storm Warning. A race to the bottom. "I'm with the people, the people like Trump" Donald Trump, 2016 "We must stop thinking of the individual and start thinking about what is best for society" Hillary Clinton 2008 "Great liars are also great magicians' Adolf Hitler, 1922 I admit that I don't like Donald Trump. To be sure, part of my dislike is class envy. The Donald was born rich and has stayed rich his whole life. Never has Trump worried about paying his electric bill or making a rent payment. Never has Trump counted the days until his next paycheck so he could go to the store and buy his family food. Not only does he have a fleet of expensive cars but he also has his own custom 757 airplane. Compared to other prominent billionaires, Trump gives little to charity. Trump attracts beautiful women because he can buy them a helicopter or a couple of new boobs. If there was a guy who looked and spoke like Trump and worked at USPS or Subway and hung out at the local bar on Friday night, everyone would laugh at him. It is true that many rich guys have been President and they have done a good job. However they had been tempered and humbled by personal challenges. Franklin D Roosevelt was born rich, but endured and overcame a crippling disease. John F Kennedy was also born rich but also was sick most of his life and fought in a war. Ronald Reagan was rich when elected President but had been born over a shoe store and grew up poor during the Great Depression. Trump has faced neither major illness, military service nor personal financial challenge. That's Trumps problem. He has always gotten what he wants. The Donald promises to "Make America Great again" which sounds kinda scary. Trump, if elected, will have a gold "T" painted on the chest of the Statue of Liberty. He will also change her welcoming message from "......Give me your tired, your poor, your helpless..." To "give me your white, your Christian, your angry, oh....and not too many". Besides his extreme wealth, Trump is an ass. Preening, bombastic and insulting, Trump is the opposite of what America typically looks for in a President. When Trump speaks he embaresses himself and those who support him. Trump claims to be smart. I'm not so sure. Rather, I think he is "wily", a term usually of derision and closely associated with deceit. In any other year the choice to vote against The Donald would be easy. I mean it's like voting against the flu. This year however, his opponent will most probably be Hillary Clinton. She dresses like Chairman Mao and lies like a cheating husband but Madam Hillary, at age 68, will finally be the Democrat nominee (I qualify this however by saying, unless she is indicted). Hillary and her husband, former President Bill Clinton, have amassed $200,000,000 since they became public servants. Somehow I suspect hanky panky. Hillary is well known for her adaptability. On any given day she can change her position on any issue depending on public opinion. Trouble follows the Clintons wherever they go. There have been numerous credible accusations against one or the other ranging from sexual assault to insider trading. Those challenging the Clintons typically end up in ruin. Numerous women have stated that while Bill was a chronic sexual predator, it was Hillary who cleaned up the mess behind him. And she takes no prisoners. Hillary likes money and power and hangs on to it with a determined fierceness. Early in this campaign cycle (last summer), there was a video of Hillary walking thru an airport. There are no "regular people" near her as the Secret Service had cleared them away and put them behind ropes. In the same situation Bill Clinton or Ronald Reagan would have talked to the folks and signed autographs or taken pictures with them. Not Hillary, she strolled thru looking straight ahead with a plastic smile on her face and a look of royalty about her. Hillary's problem is that she doesn't like people unless they can help her politically or give her money. She does not belong in a Democracy, rather, she should be Queen of Belgium where she can wave to her subjects from afar and dance with Princes at fancy balls. There have actually been Presidents who have ridden to their inaugural alone on horseback. Can one imagine Hillary doing this? Hardly, she needs a 10 car caravan to go and get a $600.00 haircut. The day before he was shot and killed, President Lincoln walked the streets of Washington DC with only one bodyguard. He greeted people and shook some hands. My guess is that President Hillary would not do this. Where then are "we the people" left? We have a choice between two power hungry, money driven, sociopaths with no relation to the truth. How do I vote for either? I am reminded again of the wisdom of Thomas Jefferson who said: "In a democracy the people get the leaders they deserve". I don't believe that I deserve either a President Trump or another President Clinton, yet I will probably get one or the other. Of course Jefferson could not predict the coming 'Age of Selfie' where America incessantly takes pictures of ourselves, our food, our children. In an age of technological narcissism we naturally will vote for a narcissistic President. I heard one commentator recently say "I will vote for XXXX then go outside and throw up". Blunt, crude, graphic...but a pretty good idea.

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prep74mike · 8 years

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Donald Trump: A latter day Andrew Jackson?

Donald Trump: A latter day Andrew Jackson? Friends described him as having a "disturbing temper" mostly used in the political arena to get what he wanted. His political opponents and personal enemies were terrified of his temper and likened it to a "volcano erupting" and "blood curling" in its intensity. His war record was impressive yet his treatment of his Indian opponents was noted for its cruel sternness. Although he killed a guy in a duel after first being shot himself, he was politically canney and extremely smart. If one insulted his beloved wife he was quick to punch or raise his cane. In war he was brave and in peacetime he was ambitious. When he lived in the White House, loud, wild parties were held, sometimes he attended them (although by then he was in his 60's) and other times he stayed in his upstairs bedroom, sequestered like Elvis. With a shock of ''unruly" and "flamboyant" hair and being very tall and skinny, he was often ridiculed for his looks. However, women were very attracted to him and men envied his charisma. He took on an early American political dynasty (Adams) and beat them at their own game. He was doubted as a "rube" and "dangerous amateur", but in the end, he became a suçcessful two term president and is considered to be one of the giants in American history. Andrew Jackson was our 7th President and a truly memorable figure. Fast forward to today. Donald J Trump wants to lead this nation as our President. Like Jackson, he is politically a novice, he has funny looking hair, he talks strangely to most Americans (yuuuge) and the new day political dynasty's (Bush, Clinton) hate him. By all accounts however, many "regular" people love him. At his speeches he draws thousands and sometimes tens of thousands cheering folks while other candidates sometimes speak to a handful of loyal, subdued voters. While governors and senators speak of their accomplishments, Trump mocks them and even challenges them in a sometimes " earthy" manner. Haughty writers, opinion makers and "journalists" treat him as an oddity, a circus freak and their words of his accomplishments are ofter spoke thru clenched teeth. Trump speaks of sealing our borders, stopping the influx of immigrants and making America "great again". Although he runs as a Republican, Trumps mantra is very Jacksonian in its tone. The Mussolini led Facists in pre WW2 Italy concurrently made the trains run on time while butchering 300,000 innocents. Trump promises much of the same. He promises to make us all rich, create good jobs and concurrently get rid of 12 million undesirable's. When Andrew Jackson stole Florida from Spain and systemically evicted tens of thousands native Americans, he was cheered by a strongly nationalistic population. Likewise, millions cheer Trump when he preaches America first, second and third. As Trump marches to the Republican nomination for President, he gathers more and more Americans to his quest for a return to a Jacksonian America. Protected by walls and guns and an angry public, Trumpism will return America to an ugly, racist past. Under Jackson the antagonists were Native Americans. Mis-named Indians, these folks (including women and children) were rounded up, shipped off to remote, barren reservations and many slaughtered. With Trump the bad guys are Mexicans and Muslims. Under President Trump America will become the savior of a white, Christian world where the poor and helpless and different looking will be systemically removed. One cannot seperate their support of Trump from support of his racial governing. They are joined and twisted together. There is no hiding Trumps beliefs, he is a plain spoken guy. Like Jackson 200 years ago, we know what we are getting with him. Sadly, as was said many years ago: being a Democracy, America gets the leaders we deserve.

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