The Missing Link?

The Optimist
(by R.P.Edwards)

Grasping for straws
Sifting for specks
Got to keep searching!
Can’t give up yet!
We know it’s here somewhere!
The proof that we’re slime
So, dig in the dirt, boys!
We just need more time!

Fran, the first year graduate student was very excited.  “Professor! Professor!” she nearly screamed in an ear-piercing crescendo as she stood, faced her mentor (who toiled in another trench nearby) and waved her soft-bristled fossil finding tooth brush as if a swarm of gnats were attacking.  “What is it, Fran?” said the rather ancient gray bearded doctor of anthropology as he used his ivory handled cane to ease his exit from the hole.  “Dr. Mandible! Dr. Mandible! I’ve found something! I’ve found something!”  Fifteen minutes later the good professor used the index finger of his right hand (having summoned the photographer) and, along with the added framing of the findee, he pointed to the partially exposed skull of a possible link between ape…and man.  “Do you have it, Jeremy?” he said, squinting up at the professional picture guy who lowered his high-cost camera. “Yeah, I’ve got it doc.  But if you ask me,” he said, reaffixing the lens cover, “it looks like a chimp’s chomper.  I’ve seen hundreds of ‘em.”

And so it goes: another “find” that sheds light on the origin of man.  You’ll have to excuse me…but I think its bunk, bologna, and frankly…wishful thinking.  Yes, yes, I can almost hear the ruffling of feathers as many prepare to espouse the undeniable “fact” of evolution.  But, the truth is, volumes of strong opinion…do not a “truth” make.  And finding some sort of extinct ape…does not a “link” make.  What it does expose, however, is the desperate need to prove existence without a creator.  For, as we all know, if there is a creator, then there is a responsibility to this entity.

You know, I’ve got a son who is a computer programmer.  I’ve seen this fellow toil, hour after hour, on intricate programs that need much intelligent manipulation in order to work.  And often, along the way, there are a myriad of “bugs” that have to be worked out.  Now, do you expect me to believe that the human genome (far more complex that our computer stuff) just kinda happened?  That chance mutation (remember, that’s the only thing that can do it) sufficiently messed with the old Atari…to turn it into a X-box? Please.

Listen, I know opinions are varied.  But to me it’s obvious.  Creation declares, “There is a God!”  Here’s a couple links you might find interesting:  Answers in Genesis    and   Institute for Creation Research  I double dog dare you to check them out.

The People Business

The People Business
(by R.P.Edwards)

Be it widgets or windmills
Pliers or paste
Buttons or toupees
Hauling of waste
Building of buildings
Numbers to crunch
Serving the entrée
For supper or lunch
Pouring the steel
To sell as a sheet
Cleaning the hall
Where conventioneers meet
 Whatever you’re doing
Whatever for dough
Whatever your station
Be it tip top
Or low
The things that you sell
The items you’ve made
In eternities light
Will all fade away
It’s people, you see
The lasting…is there
A moment to touch
A moment to care
Yes, our business…is people
Whatever our trade
The heart…touching heart
That’s where profit…is made

“I didn’t come here to make friends.  I came here to make…money.”  It’s a phrase I’ve heard more than once in an industry that can sometimes be as hard as the product we produce.  But, the other day, having finished my seven day stint of “midnights” and, since I was a bit worn down, fatigued, vulnerable due to an unnatural schedule and poor time management, I, groggily making my way towards the escape hatch, passed on and received a pleasantry or two from coworkers I’ve know, after a fashion, for years.  Oh, sometimes our greetings are reflexive, but there are those times, when we are not rushed, or pushed, when a more in-depth wondering gives way to deeper questions and, with these, a deeper concern.  And I concluded, as I’ve known off and on from always…we are, no matter what we sell, or produce…we all are in (or should be, at least)…the people business.

Last night, as I lounged in the living room and others had gravitated to other rooms in the house, I wanted something to watch that could match my melancholy.  In short order I was lazily viewing the 1984 version of A Christmas Carol, starring George C. Scott as Scrooge.  And, it is in this rendition that his old partner, Jacob Marley, says it so convincingly.  “Business!  Mankind was my business.  The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business.  The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”

I hope, in these desperate times, that those who are able… would pause to look up from the ledger…and then refocus to see the heart of flesh that is on the other side of their decisions.  

And...God Bless us all…every one.

Please have your say by clicking “comments” below.

Minimalism

The Minimalist
(by R.P.Edwards)

I thought I was lazy
Slothful
A bum
Choosing to coast
When others say, “Run!”
Choosing to watch
While others climb high
Choosing the earth
While the teachers scream, “fly!”
But I’ve learned I’m ok
I’m a minimalist, see?
I’m so very glad
There’s a label…
For me

“What rank do I need in order to go camping?” That, dear reader, was my sincere query of the scoutmaster as I explored my options in boy scout world. “Tenderfoot,” was his reply. And so, I learned the “minimal” methods and memorization needed for said rank and, once achieved…there I stayed. Shameful…or is it?

Let’s face it…we are taught to go for the goals. Success is measured by the money, or the milestones. And oh, how we love the rags to riches, underdog makes good, stories. “Achieve!” they say. “Make something of yourself!” Earn! Learn! The candle…burn! And, in the process…we do…and having “done”…we die. And how we laud…those who try.

But what about the others? What about the mundane, the plain, the inane? What about the dull…who mull? The slow…who “don’t” go. The masses who “passes?” Are we not, dear friend, the reflector to the bulb? The chorus for the crooner? The wire…for the walker? And the answer is a resounding…yes!

And so, for those of us who find comfort in routine. Who lessen stress by conserving energy when it comes to rehab and repair, or the cutting of our hair; we have a name, a place, and a purpose. We are minimalists! And where, I ask you, would you achievers be…without us?

Life, Prorated

In His Image
(by R.P.Edwards)

Unique
In His image…am I
Crafted by His hand
A destiny for only me
A solitary plan
So when others say
I have no place
No fitting for their path
They forget the one
Who gave them breath
They forget that He has…wrath

As this is another Sunday posting, I thought it appropriate to continue in the same vein as last week. As you may recall, that offering pointed out how scripture reveals (without much digging) that God views human life in the womb, as just that…human life. I can’t help it if some religious institutions, through some sort of convoluted reasoning, come up with something different. The scripture is clear enough.

Well, the next obvious step is to find God’s view of human life unjustly terminated. What immediately comes to mind is the sixth commandment: Thou shalt not Kill. Or, more accurately, substitute “murder” for “kill.” You can find the list in Exodus twenty and some other places. However, while preparing for this article (briefly) I ran across an interesting verse from Genesis, “Whoever shed’s man’s blood, by man his blood shall be shed, for in the image of God He made man.” (9:6) Now, I suppose you could use this as justification for capital punishment, but my interest at this time is more to God’s view of His creation. We are made in His “image.” We are special, unique, purposed. And this, dear reader, includes the life in the womb.

Without a doubt, one of the largest stumbling blocks in the abortion debate is our conception of worth. For so long we’ve been told that a baby, one day before birth, is different than a child, one day after, that we start to believe it. We ascribe value to trimesters and terms. Days and months build the baby. However, if we were to use the same reasoning “after” birth (I.e, an infant is less valuable than a toddler, toddler is less than a teen, teen, less than an adult, but greater than senior, etc) we’d be called some sort of heartless fiends. But, don’t you see, when it comes to the human life in the womb…that’s exactly what we do?

To conclude: This blurb is aimed, mainly, at those who profess to trust Jesus as their Savior and believe the Bible is true. I really want all of us, who start at the foundation of the cross, to get on the same page when it comes to this very important subject. I honestly believe that with the fate of the innocent in the womb…so goes the nation. More on that…later.

Why Pie

Why Pie
(by R.P.Edwards)

Pie! Pie!

I must have Pie!

Why?

Why pie?

Well, because…I…I…

Yes?

Because…with my eye…

Yes?

Because with my eye…I spy…

Yessss?

Because with my eye…I spy…the calendar!

What?!

It’s Autumn, silly!

Time for Pie!

It’s in the brain. A trigger. Like a certain smell flips the switch and…Bam!…a memory. Like the sometimes briny breath of the scale pit (remember, I work at a steel mill) brings back thoughts of Long Island Sound. Or the sight and smell of honeysuckle might well resurrect a remembrance of grandma’s house, which had quite a bit. In this case, however, it’s the calendar. Sure, the high hovers around 80 degrees. Sure, leaves are still green and grass still needs to be cut. But…the calendar says…Autumn! And Autumn means…Pie!

So, naturally, after the tangent is taken…I text. “Pie, Pie, I must have pie!” And, it just so happens, that my understanding wife, mere minutes from the message, has a pie sizzling in the oven. And why? Because one lonely Dutch Apple “fund raiser” pie was languishing in our deep freeze. Awaiting the time…for pie.

O Delta Smelt

O Delta Smelt
(sung to the music of “O Tannenbaum” or, for the rest of us, “O Christmas Tree.”)
(New lyrics by R.P.Edwards)


O Delta Smelt
O Delta Smelt
O how we love this fishy

O Delta Smelt
O Delta Smelt
O how we love this fishy

To heck with farmers water needs
We give you most, so you can breed

O Delta Smelt
O Delta Smelt
O how we love this fishy

The San Joaquin valley: A very fertile piece of real estate in central California where all kinds of neat agricultural stuff is (was) grown (grapes, cherries, nuts, fruit, etc). In the mid to late 80’s, before heading back east, my young family occupied some space there while we tried to raise a couple boys and, at the same time, squish some knowledge into our brains (Note: for those so inclined; make sure it’s “useful” knowledge). Anyway, being a lad who grew up in Connecticut, I was not expecting, among other things, the heat (110 degrees on some summer days! “But it’s dry heat,” placate the locals. Yeah, right). As I was saying, we lived there and, not being from farm country, I was intrigued by the large contraptions used for irrigation in this “no rain today” environment. In fact, until we moved to the middle, I didn’t know there were farmers who still solely depended on the overhead clouds for the wet stuff.

I presume by now you’ve heard of the plight of the growers in said valley. It seems that a little fishy, named the “Delta Smelt,” being a bit down in population, is apparently adversely effected by runoff from farmers fields as they do their “feed the world” thing. Some concerned Washington types determined that it’s better to give these oversized guppies a hand, rather than let the crops…drink. They nearly closed the spigot. And the farmers…and the country…suffer.

Perhaps “we the people” should get involved. Perhaps this is just another opportunity to remind certain entities that their “authority” is not innate. It, as always, is given to be used, and not abused. Go ahead, put a few “smelt” in your tank, but, when your zeal threatens the livelihood of thousands, and the stomachs of millions…well, I say, it’s time for your lease…to expire.

Why Pro-Life?

The Pilot
(by R.P.Edwards)

Apostasy is all the rage
When Truth is at the wheel
But let the rebels take control
And reefs…will kiss the keel

Normally I don’t post on Sunday. But, since I’m up exceptionally early due to that “job” thing, perhaps a somewhat “religious” offering is in order.

Some background: Like many, I can be categorized as a “Christian.” Under this broad heading you’ll find me further defined as “born again,” and further, “Bible Believing.” Basically this means that I, having recognized my lost condition (and my inability to “work my way” out of it) cast myself upon the mercy of God, accepted the one who died for my sin (Jesus), and made a commitment to Him (sort of like the “I do” in a marriage arrangement. I.e. A serious thing). And, since I believe God is well able, I believe He figured out how to preserve His word on the pages (the Bible).

Now, having said all that, you can understand how this “relationship” colors my views. Just as my marriage to my wife effects --even when I can’t see her--my actions; even so my “commitment” to my Savior finds its way into my opinion. In other words; this God reality…trumps.

If you’ve been following my writings at all, you’ve probably figured out I’m hotly pro-life and, since it’s Sunday, and I know there are a lot of sincere religious folk out there who are indifferent to the subject or, for some reason…anti. Here’s my take:

It all comes down to the life in the womb. The Black Robed priests in DC say… “not”. Therefore, dispose of at will. But, how does God view this nine-month inconvenience? Just a few scriptures: In Genesis 25:22 Rebekah was pregnant and something unusual was happening. Here’s how it reads: “But the children struggled within her.” Well, she asked God about it and He proceeded to tell her that two distinct peoples would come from these twins. Now, in Psalm 127:3 it reads, “Behold, children are a gift of the Lord; The fruit of the womb is a reward.” Here’s what I want you to notice; the word “children” in both verses (in womb, out of womb) is the same in the Hebrew. In other words, God doesn’t make a distinction.

Here’s some New Testament. Remember the whole Christmas story? Well, Mary’s cousin, Elizabeth, was pregnant when Mary (also with child) showed up. Here’s what the older lady said when the younger came into the room, “For behold, when the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby leaped in my womb for joy.”(Luke 1:44) Later, in the next chapter, we read about the angel’s message to the shepherds. He said, “And this will be a sign to you: you will find a baby wrapped in cloths, and lying in a manger.” (Luke 2:12) Again, the word for baby (Greek this time) is the same. No difference in God’s eyes.

You see, to God, children are a “reward,” not a curse. In fact, in Jeremiah 1 he told the prophet, “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you.” Did you get that? God himself “forms” the child in the womb and has a plan for that child’s life!

It’s about time to head out to the “job.” But think about it…if each abortion is really the murder of one of God’s children…shouldn’t that, at least to Christians, be a concern?

Evil Never Sleeps!

Evil Never Sleeps
(by R.P.Edwards)

From our beginning
Fallen place
The choices…
Honor…or…disgrace
A warning from the one who keeps
“Lurking evil…never sleeps”
And so the children pick there path
And most choose bloodshed, cruelty, wrath
But some
The few
A vigil keep
Remembering …“Evil, never sleeps”
But through the years
The lights are few
Falsehood hiding bearings, true
But still a remnant
A vessel keeps
Remembering…“Evil, never sleeps”
And tyrants rise
And millions fall
And many answer
Honor’s call
And from their rest
To children speak…
“Remember…Evil, never sleeps!”
And now with despots
Again in place
A choosing…
Honor…or…disgrace
A need for vigilance!
and Semper Fi!
A patriot’s heart!
A warrior’s cry!
But instead we cringe
And sound retreat
And offer words
To tyrants…sweet
And choose the path
Where freedom weeps
Forgetting…“Evil, never sleeps”

I won’t belabor the administrations decision to renege on the missile defense arrangements with Poland and the Czech republic, other than to say, “What did we expect?” Honestly, did we think our military would become stronger…or weaker, with the election of our current President? Did we really expect our agencies of defense and deterrence to be supported, or denigrated? Did we really think that tyrants (yes…that describes ‘em) would cower before Mr. Obama, or become emboldened?

Listen, here’s the problem: Last November we (as in the yea-sayers) voted for a dream…a wonderful fantasy worthy of Hollywood where eloquent words…solved everything. The problem is…evil exists. And, unquestionably, there are those who joyfully give themselves to it. And, friend, weakness does not dissuade them. Only strength.

The Hard Way

The Hard Way
(by R.P.Edwards)

It’s a journey of instruction
Dependable and pure
Useful for the toughest case
The arrogant and sure
For those hell-bent and headstrong
Discarding what “you” say
A beaten path “you’ve” gone before
A path we call…Hard Way

It’s a phrase best said with flair, panache, an in your face almost arrogance. “Go ahead! (says dad, standing and raising his right hand quickly as if trying to bag the latest dinger from Albert Pujos [St Louis Cardinal, future hall of famer]). You don’t have to listen to me! You can do it (here it comes)…the hard way! Actually (the elder continues, pacing slowly back and forth, the right arm imitating the ump’s balls and strikes) it’s a time honored method! It’s been the teacher of multitudes! Whole generations! Why (there’s a pausing, facing, a slight bowing with the right hand flat against the breast bone, along with a rightward cocking of the head) even I have used it. So (upright and pacing) go ahead! Don’t listen to me! Do it your way! But if you’re smart (the pacing stops, the volume lessens, eye contact is made…and held) really smart…you’ll listen to your old man on this one.”

It’s tough growing up. Depending on your disposition (remembering that “pride” is part of the hardware) your little world expands, you become the master of it, and then extrapolate to assume the universe. Reality, when not softened by a timely (heeded) word, can be a cruel taskmaster. Yes, the “hard way” is an excellent teacher...one that needs to be avoided, if at all possible.

You know, looking at our current conditions (economic, social, spiritual) it appears that we, since we are hell-bent on ignoring the warnings of the past, are destined for a very hard teaching. And it’s a shame. So much pain to be avoided. But, perhaps, pain will be the best teacher. It is, after all, traditional.

Matchmakers

Matchmakers?
(by R.P.Edwards)

“O, we’re so compatible!”
Say the lovebirds in the nest
Singing pure devotion
Before a single test
But if you want attention
Pass decades, one…and two
“Then” we’ll pay your method…mind
The one…of which…you coo

Reginald looked across the crowded ballroom and there, like a blooming violet nestled midst a slightly jumbled line of darkly polished straight back chairs…was his destiny. All alone, and apparently content to be (as evidenced by her oft refusals of a suitors invitation) a fair skinned waif with long auburn locks and a floor-length dress of azure turned slightly sideways and, as her head leisurely turned to gaze upon the moon’s gentle reflections on the country club’s twenty-acre lake (her delicate shoulders revealing the slightest of sighs), Reginald, like an alighting monarch butterfly, quietly seated himself two chairs distant and, leaning, whispered, “Beautiful, isn’t it?” With the intrusion the maiden stirred suddenly but, after an apology and an anecdote, the ice was broken and, by evening’s end--such was their symmetry--a lifetime of married bliss was a bygone conclusion. [Five years later] “I WANT A DIVORCE!” “DITTO!”

Sorry, but these matchmaker commercials just hit me wrong. Oh, I sympathize with the search. I feel for the forlorn, but these “newbies” and their eternal declarations. Untested, untried, lacking rigors and rapids and rainy days. Devoid of potholes and pit stops and detours and destitution and denials and delusions and doo doo. Well, I think the euphoria of the youthful…is a bit misleading. Use a time machine to bring back a blissful octogenarian couple to testify. No time machine? How about a disclaimer scrolling on the bottom of the screen. WARNING! Couples in this commercial are suffering from short term phermonic delirium.

Beck Me!

I’ve been Becked!
(by R.P.Edwards)

Boyish
Quirky
Kinda fun
Careful now…he’s gotta gun!
Boisterous
Raucous
Then…a squeak
Bold as brass
Yet mild and meek
Chalk boards!…Experts!…and O, those knees!
The candies cry out, “Save us, please!”
But ‘neath the show and dramas do
Methinks there beats a heart that’s true
A conscience pricked by dangers tread
He speaks for founders…long since dead
And passion oft from passion spews
Along the way…a tear or two
As laughter laced with painful truth
Gives minutemen remembered youth
And conscious pause…of freedom’s “when”
Annoying beacon
Thank you …Glenn

No, I’m not an addict, but every now and then I like that Beck fix. As stated somewhere in the archives (yes, I have archives) I’m a union guy with conservative tendencies (or visa versa). Pro-life, pro-family, pro-second amendment, but recognizing the need of collective strength.

Well, it seems there are other “unions” being formed these days. Except, instead of facing off against a corporate meanie, many ordinary folk (in the form of tea-parties, town halls, etc ) are now joining voices and wills against a government…apparently gone mad. Indeed, there seems to be a remembrance (incredibly) that elected officials actually “do” work for us. That their loaned power and pocketbook is not a license for abuse. That their towering intellect (as lofty as it may be) is still subject to we rube-ish knuckle-walkers. And, though the course may, via perceived mandate, lead us to disaster’s very door, we can, at least, find solace in the fact that we are wiser now…and “never again.”

I looked a little into the history of the baby-faced broadcaster. You know, I found it appealing. Why? Because it’s not perfect. In fact, it’s riddled with imperfections, nor is it adorned with all the lettered “nothings” that so often grease the hinges of today’s elite mechanism. But, in prodigal fashion, despite his failings, Glenn has emerged as a passionate, compassionate advocate for “beginnings.” A voice for the hopeful past, and a glaring, focused, light beam into the darkened, crusted corners of the Washington cupboard. We may not agree on everything…but have at it, Glenn. Mix it up…and maybe we’ll be able to, eventually, fix it up.

That's what I think.  How about you?  Click comments below...and say.

Press depression

4 + 5 = 0
(by R.P.Edwards)

The fourth estate
The column…five
A champion…that takes a dive
Depending on objective words
Instead…a swooning sound is heard
And we, the bearers of their lack
May never have our nation back
For Murrow’s children
Gone astray
Espouse “their” whims
Their preference…say
The heralds voice
A barkers jive
The fourth estate
Now…column five

There were three estates, see: the clergy, the nobility, and the commoners. Edmund Burke (English fellow, a long time ago) said there was another power group to deal with…the press. These scribblers were the “fourth estate.” Now, Mr. Thomas Jefferson, writing to his bud, John Jay, said, “Our liberty cannot be guarded but by the freedom of the press, nor that be limited without danger of losing it.” A pretty important group, I’d say.

“The fifth column.” A phrase having to do with this guy named Emilio Mola who said he had a “fifth column” within the city of Madrid (Spanish Civil War) to go along with the four outside the walls. In other words: there’s a fox in the henhouse.

And so we have the joining. Here’s what I mean. Long before the November elections we had a media that overwhelmingly favored the “leftward” candidate. They loved his rhetoric, his vision, his promises, his poise. They “tingled” when he spoke and, when it came time to put pen to paper, the wunderkind candidate was seen through the glasses of rose. So…here we are, mere months into the new Camelot, and on the brink of disaster(s). And, I contend, should disaster come, then equal culpability must go to a media that has become the equivalent of a “fifth column.” Yes, if things go terribly wrong (and they very well might…to deadly effect) then we need to remember those who cosigned the loan.

Point Pointers

Talking Points…Point
(by R.P.Edwards)


How dare they take their little cards
And read another’s words
Spouting questions, one by one
The process is absurd!
Who cares if facts are listed!
Who cares if problems…true!
“Plagiarism” is what I say
Against the phony…YOU!

It wasn’t unusual that someone was saying--shouting rather--something. This was the public square, after all. And, since this metropolis had a “free speech” soapbox zone…the t-shirted, sandal clad youth mounted the stump, cleared his throat and (holding a rather large black bible in his uplifted right hand) began to espouse the “gospel” to the hundred or so lunchtime bystanders who milled about, enjoying a mild September’s offering. “Listen to me!” he shouted (a few turned to do so). “Three thing! Just three things to consider, and then I’m done.” (a few more paused to hear) “Number one!” he began, holding up the index finger on his left hand. “The Bible says, ‘All have sinned.’ In other words…we’re all sinners. We’re all deserving God’s judgment. Number two!” (he turned towards a congested corner to his right [some looking, though trying hard to hide the fact]). “Since we are all guilty and unable to “save” ourselves…we needed a substitute to serve our sentence. To take “our” judgment!” (some turned away, but more began to gravitate towards the ‘preacher.’) “ That perfect, sinless substitute is Jesus!” (Facing forward once again.)“And third!” he shouted, “You!…yes you! (he began sweeping the crowd with his gaze and the bible-toting arm) have to make a decision!” Suddenly, from the back bench where a professor was munching his pastrami n cheese croissant, the PHD stood up, faced the speaker, and shouted, “I’m sick and tired of talking points! That’s all you got…talking points! How about some original thought for once!” The crowd, murmuring quietly while the two orators beheld each other, quickly turned as the old sanitation worker--who was picking up a slimy bag from the lone trash receptacle--said, “Here’s another point for ya. The Bible also says!” he continued, dropping the bag to the ground and applying a tie. “The fool says in his heart, “There is no God!””

I find it amusing that some don’t like the notion of “talking points.” These little notes, often read by attendees of town hall meetings and such, are questions of contention. Sure, they may very well come from the research of others. But, (gasp!) Nearly “all” education is so attained! You research something. You tell me about it. It raises my awareness and concern…and I repeat it! Amazing. No, the problem is not when Mr. Smith quotes Mr. Jones, the real problem comes when people don’t think…when they swallow “points” without pondering. Or when they are herded somewhere to give the impression of intent…and sometimes for pay! That, dear reader, is a problem. In conclusion, don’t be wary of the points. Be wary, rather, of the “point...pointers.”

Ronald's PETA Problem

PETA POWER
(by R.P.Edwards)

PETA PETA
What’d you eata
That makes you act…so mean?
Trashin’ Ronald’s Happy Meal
Just hear the kiddies scream!
Oh, PETA PETA
Please be sweeta
I promise that I’ll try
Before the chickens nugget nap…
I’ll sing a lullaby

The Rep from the Animal Rights Guild (ARG!) was adamant, “Captain!” she shouted from the bridge’s hatchway. “The condition in the hold is unacceptable! The pets are suffering undo stress in these high seas. I strongly recommend we allow these precious living beings be freed from their pens and be tended to right away!” The captain, a weathered mariner of nearly sixty years, appeared indifferent as he barked commands to the helmsman and, via the squawk box, the engine room. “Captain!” repeated the resolute mistress as she stepped to, and placed her bejeweled right hand on the commanding officers nearest shoulder. Turning slowly (removing binoculars from his eyes) the gray-bearded skipper looked piercingly downward into the face of the intruder. “Madam,” he said succinctly with clenched teeth. “We have forty foot swells, only one engine, (then, loudly) and if I don’t give this “unacceptable” situation my undivided attention…we’ll all--including your precious “pets”--bloody die!” Yanking his shoulder away and reaffixing the lenses, he looked to the tumultuous future and spoke coolly, and clearly, “Boatswain mate, remove this “lady” from my bridge.” “Aye, aye captain.”

I watched with interest as PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) has gone toe to toe with the mega-giant, McDonalds, as to their purchasing of chickens that have been slaughtered in an inhumane way. First of all; I’m pleased--since I believe one of their goals is a vegetarian society--that they make allowances for the “harvesting” to begin with. Secondly; I’ve gone to their site, checked out some of the info and, frankly, they have a point. Dealing with “live” birds opens the door for abuse and disease. Their alternative, Controlled-atmosphere killing (CAK), seems more humane and--if the facts are “so”--cost effective. The whole “McCruelty, I’m hatin’ it” campaign, however, is a bit tacky. But it did get my attention.

OK, here’s the bottom line. My Biblical Christian view is this: If every chicken from creation to eternity was slaughtered in a ghastly way…all of these billions and billions added together do not equal “one” precious human baby that is regularly ripped to pieces….just down the street.

Here’s my proposition: How about PETA (supposedly 2 million strong) using their resources to end the inhumane practice of infanticide. Then, once that is done, I’ll be glad to join in their efforts to ease the pain of the chickens.

Union Thugs?

A Pug and a Thug
(R.P.Edwards)

A pug is a pug
And a thug is a thug
And a pug on a rug
Is not a rug with a thug
Nor is a thug on a rug
A rug with a pug
But a thug can act like a pug
But no self respecting pug…
Will act like a thug

The Union meeting started as most; a little small talk, a joke or two, some family news, and the happenings at the favorite fishing hole-- “You should have seen it!” bellowed a rather rotund (and well lubricated) laborer as he held his hands apart to their widest span. And then…it began. With a dimming of the white lights (leaving only a slowly pulsing red) the swarm, without a sound, filed into their decades-worn wooden seats as the ancient off-white screen (squeaking in protest) lowered from the ceiling and the gruesome slide-show began. One, after another, after another, after another and another…picture after picture of workers being abused, maimed, beaten, and dying. Every so often--in an almost subliminal quickness--images of companies, fat-cats, uncaring politicians, flashed amongst the carnage and--punctuating each photo of the “enemy”--a low, guttural gong. And then, images of grave after grave after grave. Fifteen horrid and hypnotic minutes passed and, as quickly as it began, the display ended and…we were ready.

The red-shirted leader (the room bathed in an eerie silence) slowly emerged from the sideline (walking with a slow, nagging, debilitating limp from a work related accident) and, as he stepped behind the old and gnarled podium (bathed only in the stark light of the empty projector) he leaned forward and, with the piercing gaze of an Old Testament prophet…he slowly scanned every section…and every face. “Are we going to stand for this?!” he shouted. “NO!” was the immediate, unified, momentous response. “Are we going to stand for this?!” he screamed again (slamming the podium with both fists). “NO!” returned the unified mass, standing to their feet and many shaking their own fists at the image of a company leader (in a most arrogant pose) who suddenly appeared on the screen…mocking them. “Then let’s get outta here and show them what the American worker can do!!” With that final unction the frenzied mob rolled out of the hall like an avalanche and, all I can say is…heaven help those who would dare stand in their way. Yes, heaven help them.

Excuse me a moment as I pause to admire my work of fiction (above). Not bad. OK, here’s the deal: A few days ago some union guys roughed up a Mr. Gladney who was giving out patriotic flags which said “Don’t tread on Me!” outside a “healthcare” forum site. It seems that these “Union Goons” didn’t like that…so they “tread” on him. Well, naturally there are those who would use this incident to reinforce their image of unions and their members. The phrases, “Union thugs,” “Union Goons,” “Union Mob,” …they just roll off the tongue, don’t they? But, the simple truth is…these ruffians were an anomaly. Sure, they were, and are thugs and goons…but the union didn’t make them that way. Honestly, in my approaching two decades of union membership I have discovered that union people are just that…people. You may be surprised to know that many will not, unthinkingly, swallow the party line. We have many pro-life, pro-second amendment, pro-traditional family members. And, aside from the left and right issues, most are just honorable, hardworking sorts who just want to make an decent wage and support the ones they love. Excuse me a minute…there’s somebody at the door. “Hi guys, what’s up?…Um, guys!…”

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Amazing Grace

Caution! Religious Content!

Grace
(by R.P.Edwards)

It’s hard to conceive
It’s rare to believe
Something for nothing
Just merely…receive
No earning
No striving
No works showing worth
No treasures of man
No toils of earth
There’s only acceptance
Repentance
…and done
The gift of God’s grace
The vessel…His Son

I was at work, sitting in the break room and, as I leaned back against the adjacent wall I leisurely propped my right elbow on the table, lifted my forearm and, for some reason, gazed at the fingertips. I noticed (although this was a nearly subconscious act) that all the nails were as you’d expect, except for the one attached to the little finger…it had a peculiar crease. “Hmm…curious,” was my response and, since none of the others seemed thus afflicted, I began a somewhat shallow reasoning exercise. “Perhaps it’s a sign of a deeper malady (as you get older you think of such things). Or, perhaps the result of an injury (I am a laborer after all).” And, as I pondered the “point,” I then began slowly scanning upward to the first knuckle…and then I saw it…the scar.

It was approximately twenty-five years ago, and I was a student at a small Christian college in Fresno, California. While there a manager of a turkey farm (ranch?) outside of town had pity on “we” impoverished married students. Here was his proposition: come to the farm, slaughter some turkeys, take home some grub. Sounded simple…but, oh, it was not. First of all, for this suburban soul, I was not used to being around a maddening crowd of white-feathered gobblers. And then there was the slaughtering process [the faint of heart may want to turn away]. We students (there were a handful) were each given a club-sized section of two by four. We were instructed to bean the hapless bird (particular ones selected by the judge; one per customer) and then apply the blade (provided) to complete the kill. Well, let’s just say my “technique” was lacking and, when all was done, I “did” end up with some choice turkey breast, but the foul was not the only one who bled that day. A turkey talon to the midsection produced a nasty scratch (never wrestle a desperate entrée) and my knife wielding cut he…and me. Thus…the scar.

Pardon the segue: Have you ever heard of the eighteenth century fellow by the name of John Newton? If not, I guarantee you that you’ve heard a song he wrote over two centuries ago…Amazing Grace. You see, although his later years were exemplary, honorable, devout; his early manhood was anything but. Described as arrogant and vile, for a time he even made his living in the cruel slave trade. However, through a series of events his eyes slowly turned to the Savior of his mother, and yielding to Him…an overflowing heart penned the words…”that saved a wretch like me.” Yes, in the person of the cross-bearer…he found forgiveness. And the lost…became found., and the blind…began to see.

Here’s my point: I fear in my intermittent railings against the sins of the nation, I may have placed an undue burden on the reader. Without apology I confess my belief that God’s blessing determines our nations future and, since nations do not have “souls”…their judgment is now. However, please allow me to remind, that it is not so for the individual. Like John Newton, and millions of others (myself included) there is a release of guilt, condemnation, torment…when our sinful lives are placed at the feet of Jesus. Whatever dreadful deeds we may have done (indeed, the scripture says “all” have sinned) God’s “Amazing Grace” is sufficient for complete absolution. Leaving, if I may, only a simple scar...devoid of the pain, and the horrible anguish of the moment and its consequences, it serves merely as a marker, a simple reminder of what was…and is no longer. Yes, God’s loving grace is amazing and, dear one, if you haven’t already, He’s there beside you…awaiting your call.

Thank you for your indulgence.

North Korean Chess

North Korean Chess
(by R.P.Edwards)

Laura Ling
And Euna Lee
Pawns
In our diplomacy
But
That being said
It’s fine by me
That Clinton went
And now they’re free

I’ve never been a big fan of former President Bill Clinton. Yeah, it has do with his stand on abortion and such. But, there’s something to be said for winning elections. I guess my frustration is really with a majority that favors these kinds of candidates. Which means, hearts and minds must be persuaded before other choices can be expected.

Anyway, as we were watching the moving arrival of the former prisoners I remarked to my wife, “If I was facing the possibility of twelve years hard labor, I’d be glad to see Bill Clinton there on my behalf.” It all comes down, I suppose, to the common denominator of being an American. We may not be perfect, and I certainly plan on opposing that which I deem immoral, but there’s still a nobility to the name. A hope. A dream. A possibility. And…being an ambassador in this capacity is a fine job for a retired prez. I only hope the current president can be used in this fashion….four years from now.

Cash for Clunkers?

Cash for Clunkers?
(by R.P.Edwards)

They call you a clunker
A beater
A heap
They wish your demise
O, see a man weep!
For you’re much more than scrap
You’re memories and miles
You’re journeys and jaunts
You’re laughter and smiles
No! You’re not a clunker!
You’re a classic! A jewel!
But…
If I turned down the money
I’d be a…fool

The weary jurist motioned for the two battling barristers to approach the bench. “Listen, gentleman,” he whispered as the three hair styles (perfect, plateau, and pointed) merged above the edge of the lofty desk. “I can’t believe this case has progressed this far.” “Hear, hear!” chimed in the defense until the piercing gaze and pointing gavel of the judge silenced the solicitor. “Your honor,” purred the plaintiffs advocate, “my clients have been grievously wronged. Their friends, their families, their intimate acquaintances…have been egregiously slandered…by no less than the government!” The gavel turned quickly and just as quickly quieted the gush. “Counselor,” resumed the judge (leaning on his left hand while slowly twirling the gavel in his right). “There will be no monetary compensation. Other than that, what will satisfy your clients complaint?” Armed with the question, the attorney turned and, after a brief consultation with the representative from CAF (Cars Are Family) he returned and said, “Simply a name change, your honor, that’s it.” “And what might that be…hmm?” The advocate cleared his throat, adjusted his collar, and said, “Instead of ‘Cash for Clunkers,’ the plaintiffs would like, ’Cash for Classics.’” “Cash for Classics?” repeated the judge with eyebrows slightly raised. “Yes, your honor.” The jurist leaned back, looked up at the portrait of John Jay in the corner and, with a resounding clack of the gavel, nearly shouted, “So ordered!”

Concerning the program that encourages folks to trade in their old heaps for a substantial discount…I’m indifferent, leaning towards OK. I know, some say the loss of parts will hurt those who keep the older vehicles (I believer there will still be plenty of “classics” about). Some say “we” the people are paying for it (Duh, every government dollar comes from the collective “us”). On the other hand it should help the auto industry (that’s good). Which, in turn, should help the Steel business (personal interest). That’s good. And it might even clean the air a bit, and reduce dependence on oil. All good. But I have a suggestion. Instead of me taking my ancient van to the dealership, just give me “half” the discount in cash, and you can have the ol’ girl. She stops spewing, and I’ve got some spendable dough to help the economy. Win…win.

The Profiler

The Profiler
(by R.P.Edwards)

A policeman named Crowley
A professor named Gates
One said, “His duty,”
The other cried, “Hates!”
What’s so sad is… it’s confirming
Of my profiling tool
No, not of race…
But of an Ivy League School

You know, this profiling thing is a mixed bag. To naturally associate bad behavior with skin tone is…shameful. Imagine being singled out for investigation because of your melanin level. Of course, there is the flip side. It’s the kind of profiling that advertisers depend on. Oh sure, they use the word “demographics“…but we know what they mean. Face it, certain groups are more prone to buy certain things and these business folk know how to push the "buy buttons" (seen those hamburger commercials?)

And so we come to Scholar Gates, and Cambridge cop, Crowley. As many know, the good professor became quite irate when the policeman came to his door due to a call made by a concerned citizen. Now, I don’t know if the prof was simply having a bad day, or perhaps past run-ins with armed peace-keepers produced a knee-jerk reaction, or possibly the anti-authority atmosphere of upper academia somehow tainted his perception. But, due to my limited experience and observation, I wholeheartedly choose the latter. You see, when I think of judges legislating from the bench…I think of their teachers at the university. When I think of godless media folk…I think of their instructors in academia. When I think of the general twisting of society, be it from the legislative seat or the high school rostrum, I trace it back to the perverse spawning grounds of “higher” education. So, to the professor, I say “Thank you for affirming my beliefs.”

Yes, I admit it, when it comes to the doctoral digs I am an unabashed, broad-brush, they’re all alike, profiler. But, what do you expect from a Midwestern, redneck, union steelworker.

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Spider-sense

The Weaver
(by R.P.Edwards)

Carefully, with silken strides
She weaves the needful place
Beauty formed
And deadly done
A graceful, grasping space
But when, perchance
While seeking life
An impostor then is found
She wastes no time
In sharing rhyme
She casts it to the ground!

It’s an American tradition. A bedrock sort of thing. Sunday afternoon, July, a gentle breeze, birds in the trees and…sizzling on the grill…hamburgers and hot dogs. True, earlier in the day, in our post-church wandering of the grocery store aisles, we bandied about the age-old question, “What do you want for dinner?” This, of course, led to categories, and sub-categories, and ultimately led us to ground-chuck, and the lowly hot dog. But now, all the difficult decisions of the day having been made, I focused on the task at hand.

After a few minutes; after the first flip; while the burgers simmered on the cooling rack above and the hot dogs, below, became…hot, my youngest son…sensing the shrinking window of opportunity…came outside to share a man-moment with dad. And, after passing (temporarily) the flat and squarish baton, I had him remove the tasty disks to a waiting cookie sheet and, midst the motions, I pointed out…the web.

There, hanging beneath a neighbor's second-story screened in porch, clinging to the horizontal support timber above and reaching diagonally to the vertical post to the left, a spider (some sort of orb-weaver I suppose, my father would know) had constructed a beautiful trap. As I pointed out this elaborate fly-catcher to my man-child, I remembered (and related) times past when I would tease these industrious eight-leggers by tossing into their net some tiny, lifeless matter. The spider, upon investigation, would quickly toss the “imposter” out of the web. She apparently had no time for that which did not add to her life.

And so…I was thinkin’. This little bug (I know, “arthropod”) is smarter than we. For, when we find that which is dead and lifeless invading our collective “webs,” we often tolerate the space-takers until our life-necessity is cluttered and clunky. Perhaps we should follow the lead of that little weaver.

(alright, here’s an addendum. I’m talking, mainly, of “non-human stuff”…not your spouse. If he or she is still wiggling…give ‘em a chance.)