The Joys of Liberalism

Though I did not watch the State of the Union address, I did catch a bit of the Republican response, which I thought was a pretty good comedy act.

Back when I was but a young lad the worst thing you could be called, politically, at least, was a communist, or maybe a socialist.

Now, though, these days, there are no more communists, except in North Korea, maybe, and even true socialism seems to be on the wane. But the skies are not all blue, not yet; may be not ever.  No, friends and neighbors, now we are told that we face another ideological demon far more sinister than mere communism or socialism.  We now face...liberalism.

However, a couple of nights ago, while unable to sleep for fear of the liberal beast, I got to thinking.  Maybe liberalism isn't all that bad.  Maybe it's no more evil than conservatism.  Possible?  Yes?  No?

Well, consider what liberalism hath wrought in the last few hundred years in just our happy little land:

• The American revolution
• Emancipation 
• Women's suffrage
• Repeal of prohibition
• The Voting Rights Act

Where have all the Moffetts gone?

My oldest little girl, the sweet perfect child that I held, cuddled and protected from all manner of  "bad guys" has grown up.  Thankfully, through divine intervention, she made it through her teenage years (16 and 17), when she was in dire danger of being a "statistic" at the hands of her enraged father.

Cooler heads (and the Good Lord) prevailed, though, and now she's a young lady, a college graduate that's decided to make it her life's vocation to teach children. 

...and now she has informed her Mama and I that she is engaged...

Now, don't get me wrong.  This in itself is a good thing.  Her fiance is a really fine young man, blessed with a good sense of humor and a boundless supply of patience.  I know this because for the last two years he's been roommates with K1 and K2.  Anyone that can live for any length of time with two of the three Moffett girls is a man to be reckoned with.  It'll be nice to have an additional shot of testosterone at family gatherings.

My wife and I are very happy with these recent developments, and are looking forward to the wedding, and to having her permanently off the family payroll.

However, it dawned on me last night that my little girl will soon change her name.  While this doesn't really bother me, it gave me pause to think.

I don't have any brothers, and with my Dad passing away a few years back the Moffett line (Texas branch) is wearing thin.  If K's 2 and 3 marry off then we Texas Moffetts will fade away in a few years.  I  have no doubt that I may have an enemy or two, but not too many, I hope, who may welcome that day.  The Moffett family, North Carolina branch, is still going strong, but we Texas Moffetts are thinning out.

The only hope, here, for carrying on the family name is if my other two girls don't marry (which I hope doesn't happen), or do marry and keep their last name (which I don't necessarily hope for, either). The other options are to adopt a kid, but I'm 47 years old and really don't want to go down the child rearing path again, or to have a grand kid with a given or middle name of "Moffett."

If none of those come to pass then it looks like the clock's running out on the Texas Moffetts.

This is powerful stuff, and is something that no one tells you about when you have all daughters.

Counting the days

After much stopping and starting, mostly stopping, it seems lately, thanks to characters taking unauthorized trips into and out of the storyline, novel #2 is about ready to post...except I need to review it again and see what hidden formatting gremlins I've missed...and I don't like the title that I started with.

I dislike the title so much that I'm not even going to mention it here, lest some detractor (most likely one of my kids) look at the new title, whatever it winds up being, and say, "That's the best you could come up with?"

I thought I had a really good title, but of course some other joker already took it.  I don't want to be the kind of writer that jacks other writer's titles.  Ludlum, Forsythe, or some other famous and successful writer can get away with that type of stuff.  We hacks, though, especially ones like me who sell in the mid single digits, should refrain from such nonsense.

(Side note...one of the good things about being an unsuccessful novelist is that you tend to know exactly who bought your stuff, and can call and thank them personally. Let's see Ludlum top that!)

I don't like wrestling with titles.  They are important, I know, but I'm not very good at it, and as a result I get very frustrated.  This new novel is a little over 300 pages and is close to 90,000 words, and I think it's fairly engaging (notice that I said, "engaging" and not "good."  I don't know how good it is), but after writing those 90,000 words I'm stuck for a five word title.

This may be one of the reasons that writers drink.

Snuff cans I have known...and a double dog dare.

The wife and I moved K3 back into the dorm at Texas Tech this weekend.  At dinner Saturday night we were talking and the subject of dipping snuff came up.  This would not seem, on the surface, to be a subject that a 19 year old girl would discuss with her Mom and Dad, but it came up, and the kid asked if I had ever dipped.

For the uninitiated this involves taking a bit of Skoal or Copenhagen smokeless tobacco and putting it in your lip.  "Just a pinch between your cheek and gum," as the old commercial went.  Once you got it in there it kind of moistened up, and you took great pains to spit out the juice.  Under no circumstances should the juice be swallowed.

Well...

When I was about 13 or 14 many of my friends were beginning to dip.  I was in a Buddies supermarket (predecessor to Winn Dixie) with my Dad and we passed up the Skoal display.  I said, half joking, "Dad, buy me a can of snuff!" 

Dad looked at me and said, "I'll buy it if you use it."

This was the paternal equivalent of a double dog dare.  For those who might be unfamiliar with the Southern/Texan tradition of the "double dog dare," suffice it to say that failure to take up the challenge of a double dog dare leads to a big loss of face, often to the extent that it cannot be overcome in a lifetime. 

This is why many people leave the South; they failed to rise up to the challenge of a double dog dare.

So he bought it, and I used it...or tried to.  We got home and I made a fairly big show of confidently opening the can and placing just a pinch between the teeth and gum, and then waited for further developments.  I quickly decided that I was not sure what was supposed to be enjoyable about this exercise.

Mom was fairly upset with the proceedings.  Being a southern girl, herself, she knew that the first time user often barfed vile fluids spectacular distances just a short while after using just a pinch between the teeth and gum.  She feared for her carpet.  My two younger sisters waited with eager anticipation for the impending disaster.

However, fortunately, intestinal fortitude prevailed and I managed to avoid puking while showing my Dad that I was fairly able to use this stuff the way that it was supposed to be used.  I think that as my Dad he was proud that I didn't barf, but as a guy he was a little disappointed that I didn't barf.  Guys always get a kick out of watching other guys puke.  It must be a neanderthal thing ("Better him than me!).

Anyway, I never got very good at it, and in fact I don't think that I ever finished a can.  It usually wound up getting all dried up before I could use it all.  Certainly I wasn't as good a dipper as some of my friends, who could put these enormous pinches into their mouth without ill effect.  I won't name them in case they read this; I wouldn't want their wives or kids to start asking uncomfortable questions.

The boy got "middle named" on aisle 7

Yesterday I went with the wife on the weekly grocery shopping trip.  I actually enjoy doing this; call me a dork, if you will, but it's fun.

As we were winding through the aisles I heard a lady "middle name" her son from a couple of aisles over. 

For those who have never had the unnerving experience of being "middle named," this entails someone in authority, most usually your Mom, call you by all three of your names as a result of you breaking a rule.  For some reason this is called being "middle named."

For example...<boy pulls the head off his sister's Barbie doll...>  "Scott Otis Vanderdork!"

Being just middle named by itself was a signal that you had committed a transgression, but the list of possible crimes was long.  It could be anything from eating the topping off the pecan pie to smacking the Smedley boy down the road because he picked on your sister. 

Being middle named could result in punishments that ranged from a mild squawking to a swift smack on the ass using weapons up to, and including a wooden spoon.  Or, if this was a more serious misdemeanor, you might get a few swats with a switch, which you might have to cut yourself from the nearest tree.  In my personal opinion willow tree switches produced the worst agony. I learned early on that when ordered to cut my own switch, do not go to the willow tree. 

(Side note--having your grandma tell you to cut your own switch was a bad thing; the guilt was worse than the punishment.)

Most misdemeanors could be handled by Mom, or by whatever Mom happened to be on the scene. Our neighborhood, growing up in the early to mid '70's, was an patchwork of mutually supported equal opportunity maternal discipline.

The only thing worse than being middle named would be to hear, "Scott Otis Vanderdork!  Wait 'til your father gets home!" 

Having to wait for Dad, though, was reserved for felonious accusations, such as serious fighting, vandalism, or committing minor infractions at school. 

The caveat here is that if the offense involved the authorities the punishments were often piled upon, with both Mom and Dad weighing in.  That might get you a switch from Mom followed up by Dad's belt.  If Mom had a wooden spoon handy when she got the initial news she might give you a pre-emptory swat or two before going to the switch.

I don't know how prevalent "middle naming" is anymore.  With the slew of people immigrating into Texas it seems to have gone by the wayside a bit.  I remember it, though, vividly.  It was never a good thing, but it was a big part of my childhood.

A blog entry gumbo...

 What with selling the house so that we can buy another house and move next month, as well as the holidays coming and going, along with kids coming home and leaving to resume their appointed rounds, I find myself not having the mental capacity to write anything coherent.

As a result, here are some bits and bobs that have been popcorning around in my noggin lately...

• We received a large stack of papers from our mortgage company regarding the house we are trying to buy.  Included in this stack of papers are three figures that the casual reader, who knows nothing about real estate, might consider to be the amount that we'll owe at closing.  Being a bit confused I called our mortgage rep who said that the actual amount we'll owe at closing will be a completely different number.  Glad I asked, said I...why then do you have so many different numbers listed in this paperwork.  We're required to, he said.  Oh...that explains it.

• Kid 3's attempt to transfer from Texas Tech to Sam Houston State was foiled by the short time frame between the fall and spring semester, so she's headed back to Lubbock.  She was registering for classes last week and I was chatting with her (I forget about what, exactly).  She said, "They don't take much crap in West Texas."

• Was out with the wife a few months back doing some shopping.  As happens frequently I said something to her, and when I didn't get a reply turned to look at her, but she was gone.  I backtracked through the store and found her holding a purse in each hand.  One was a nice brown leather very sensible "Mom-type" purse.  In her other hand she was holding a purple plaid fabric number.  She looked at me and said, "Should I do what's expected of me, or should I just be me?"

• I understand that the Holy Father has appointed some new Cardinals (at least I thought I heard that last week).  Are these new guys more trustworthy, less trustworthy, or about the same as the current bunch?  How many of them have skeletons, or kids, in their closet?  When I was younger I would never have asked that, but after the Church's stellar reputation lately, all Catholics should be asking that.

• If Rick Perry somehow wins the election, does it trouble anyone that he will be President of the very country that he, as Governor, suggested that Texas secede from?

I fear no squirrel...

I never had a BB gun growing up, and I think that it has had negative effect on me, especially since I grew up in Texas, in Tarrant County, next door to Fort Worth, "where the West begins." All of my friends had BB guns, but my parents (really, I think it was my Mom) forbade such weapons. However, Kid 2 has resolved this painful part of my boyhood by buying me a BB gun for my birthday last year, and for Christmas this year. They aren't anything like those elaborate $200 fancy air rifles, just your basic Daisy Buck and then a Daisy Red Ryder. Not only does this resolve that ugly period of my youth when I was forced by authority to go around unarmed, it also allows me escalate combat operations against the neighborhood squirrel that has been stealing my pecans. I only have one pecan tree in my yard, and it has surved drought, freezes, hailstorms, and many years of being snapped off at the base every winter by my kids. It has finally starting producing pecans, which I love, but sadly, which I rarely get to enjoy, thanks to that thieving little furry bastard. I should point out that we live in what used to be ranchland, and there was scarcely one tree in the whole subdivision when we moved it 13 years ago. Through diligent planting, however, it's now fairly shady, at least for this part of Texas. Hence the squirrel. However, the little furry bastard has made himself scarce since I've upgraded the armory. I guess because of the drought this year the pecan crop was severly limited. My wife saw him a couple of times, and once I was able to get a quick shot off, but I shot high. I've taken the opportunity hone my marksmanship by plinking away at an empty beer can that I hung on a crepe myrtle tree at the back of the back yard, and I must say...I'm a hell of a shot. Now, if I can get the damn squirrel to just sit on top of that can...

Inspections, appraisals...and a suitcase of cash

The wife and I are moving.  For the last several years we've been searching around Texas for a house on a lake.  We had thought about a beach house, but hurricanes scare us too much.  We finally found just the house on just the right spot on Lake Livingston, some three hours south of us.

Finding the house and agreeing on a price with the sellers was the easy part. 

Since then we've been buried under a sea of paperwork, which anyone who has ever bought a house can identify with.  We've had to discuss inspections, appraisals, interest rates, closing dates and a blizzard of other details.

Then, the other night I was watching Househunters International and the man was trying to buy a house in Bulgaria.  I'm sure he had his reasons, but I've never really thought of Bulgaria as a real estate hot spot.  In any case he found his house, and then was surprised to find out that the closing procedures involved the full price of the house...in cash.

Now that's an interesting concept.  Aside from what must be the nerve wracking experience of walking the streets of a foreign country with literally a suitcase of cash, the whole deal has a certain sense of sinister underhandedness that appeals to me.

I am really tempted to try that next month when we close.  Assuming the wife would go along with me, which she would not, imagine the commotion at the title company when I heaved a bag stuffed with 20 and 100 dollar bills onto the desk.

"I'll take the title, and a receipt, please."

(A slight detour here...this reminds me of the time that I had to get a passport, back in 1979.  Being a minor at the time my Dad went with me to the post office to do the deed.  We filled out paperwork, swore to this and that, assured the Man that we were not up to no good.  After everything was scrutinized and approved, and after a blur of stamps were applied it came time to pay.  Old Dad whipped out some cash, at which point the passport people informed us that cash was not accepted.

Even being 15 years old I got a kick out of Dad pointing to the spot on the $20 bill that said, "This note is legal tender for all debts public and private," and then reading it out loud to the Man.

Dad was a man of principles, but we still had to write a check for the passport.)

Faith and religion

Well, happy New Year to all!

I confess that I was a bit stuck for a subject to write about, and then happened on a blog called Christian-With-A-View, which I think I've linked below.  This is an interesting, and I think fairly intellectual look about faith.  Good stuff; I recommend it.

Today's subject from that blog revolves around multiple translations of the scripture.

I read that, and being the malcontent that some say I am, got to wondering, why are so many people faith (of any faith), so convinced that their flavor of faith is the true one?  Even we Christians, who all profess to believe in largely the same idea, that Christ is the son of God, and was sent to save the world from sin and to offer salvation to the sinner, immediately digress from that point and fall to arguing viciously over what I would think would be some pretty minute points about the overall faith (forms of baptism, for example).

I sometimes wonder if God sowed all of these multiple religions over the world just to see how we simple humans would deal with the idea of conflicting views. 

Who's to say that all religions can't offer salvation?  After all, if God's making the rules here, there's nothing to keep Him from sliding that trick card into the deck. 

The classic example is the person from some remote part of the world that has never been exposed to Christianity, or Islam, or any other religion aside from the one that his people practice. I have a hard time believing that God says, "Sorry, friend, you're out of luck...into the fire you go."

I would suggest that an all powerful and ever living God would look at how this person lived his life according to his own faith. 

Most religions, I gather (though I am certainly no theologian), seem to espouse peace and love as their primary principles.  It's only when humans get involved in the process that things get mucked up.   All faiths seem to have long periods of history where the devout didn't exactly behave as demanded in the manual.

Before anyone spouts off thinking about how Christianity, or Islam or any other faith is exempt from this, let me suggest a quick review of the Crusades, various jihads, the colonization of the Americas and Africa...you get the idea.

I guess at the heart of my argument is the proposition that people, no matter what faith they espouse, should look inward before pointing fingers at anyone else's faith and squawking that they are doomed to hell.

There may be someone with a theological background who's reading this and muttering, "What a fool."

Well, I'm probably a fool about many things, but I would suggest that theology and formal religion can really get in the way of  faith.