There is an old riddle that asks – “Do they have a 4th of July in England?” Well of course the answer is yes – they just don’t celebrate it like we do. The 4th of July in America is the big day – the day we celebrate our independence. For without our liberty every other day would be very different.
I am not going to speculate about the ways this country would be different without individual freedom and liberty – I don’t have to. It’s happening before our eyes. But for now, let’s pretend everything is O.K. and let me regale you with a list of the Presidents who were born and died on July 4th. What they had to say concerning how government works and its relation to the people it serves is fit for application today.
John Adams, the 2nd President of The United States died on July 4th, 1826. His last words were “Thomas Jefferson still surv (ives).” But what he didn’t know was that Thomas Jefferson, the 3rd President of our country, would also die the very same day. Jefferson’s last words: “This is the fourth?” Adams had wrote previously that “The happiness of society is the end of government,” meaning the goal of government is the happiness of society.
Perhaps this is what Thomas Jefferson was alluding to when he wrote in The Declaration of Independence: “We hold these to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
In 1809 Thomas Jefferson wrote to a group of citizen’s in Maryland that “The care of human life and happiness, and not their destruction, is the first and only legitimate object of good government.” Is it these words that President Obama is using to fuel his fervor for national health insurance, or do these same words give us pause when we debate the subject of how we care for the unborn?
President Jefferson was a prolific letter writer. In a letter to James Madison he said “…a little rebellion, now and then, is a good thing, and as necessary in the political worlds as storms in the physical.”
James Madison, the 4th President, broke tradition when he died just 6 days shy of July 4th on June 28th, 1836. In a speech given in 1788 he said that “I believe there are more instances of the abridgement of the freedom of the people by gradual and silent encroachments of those in power than by violent and sudden usurpations.” President Madison forgot to tell us about the encroachments that are neither violent, nor gradual, and where the usurpations are both sudden and seen.
James Monroe, our 5th President, perhaps trying to reestablish a tradition, also died on the 4th of July (1831). In his inaugural address of 1817 he said “National honor is national property of the highest value.” Recently we have lost much of our national honor which has given our enemies the impression that we are weak and vulnerable.
Calvin Coolidge, the 30th President, is the only President who was born on the 4th of July (1872). In a speech given to a group of newspaper editors in 1925 he declared “The chief business of America is business.” With government taking over banks, insurance companies, and auto maufacturers it should be restated as “The chief business of the government is taking over American business.”
Do we have the 4th of July in The United States of America? Of course, but are we losing our freedom and liberty?
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I heard my Dad laugh today
Today, the first day of summer, I heard my Dad laugh, which is odd as he has been gone for over five years. Well, maybe “heard” is not the right word. But I could feel his laugh and then I imagined him asking me with that big broad smile of his, “What’s the matter Jer?”
I was going through my parent’s music collection and after listening to Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops, The Statler Brothers and Mitch Miller, I put in Nat King Cole. This was a CD I purchased for my parents in an attempt to right a wrong committed decades ago. As Nat started to sing, the CD skipped, and skipped and skipped again until I took it out to examine it. There was nothing wrong with it. Just like there had been nothing wrong with a record by the same artist.
My Dad loved to have music playing in the house. We grew up listening to Floyd Cramer, Percy Faith, The Ray Conniff singers, Fats Domino and many others. Dad even bought the Simon and Garfunkel Album “Bridge Over Troubled Waters” in 1970. He would put the record on the Hi-Fi (long before there was Wi-Fi) and crank up the volume on “Bye Bye Love”.
Back in the late ’60’s he had bought a record cleaner which promised to clean and preserve records for many years of listening pleasure, while at the same time restoring the record’s sound to its original quality.
The first record he chose to experiment on was one by Nat King Cole. Dad liberally sprayed the cloth with the cleaning solution and began to vigorously wipe both sides of the record. He had large hands and was able to get the job done rather quickly. After he was satisfied that the record had been properly cleansed of any impurities he placed it on the turntable.
The sound that came from the speakers was a sour, mournful moan. It was obvious: the record was ruined. It had been chemically altered and would never sound the same again. I, being a young vandal, recognized the opportunity.
“Can I have it?” I asked.
Without questioning my intentions Dad handed it over to me. I took the record and did something that I was forbidden to do, both by my parents and commonly recognized rules of decency. I grabbed a sharp tool and I scratched it. I scratched it deeply, numerously and insanely.
Then Dad read the directions which advised the user to let the record air dry before playing. I said I was sorry, but the damage was done. He threw the record in the garbage.
Now clearly, if Dad had read the directions, and if I had been less impulsive things would have been different. Because of that, and numerous other life lessons, I have learned to take things slower, more methodically; because some times – things get better when left alone.
One of my favorite quotes is “the serenity prayer.” As written by the author Reinhold Niebuhr in 1943: “God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things that should be changed, and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other.”
I gave the CD a little cleaning for old time’s sake and tried it again. Nat King Cole sounded perfect. I could almost hear my Dad sing along.
“Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
Those days of soda and pretzels and beer
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
You’ll wish that summer could always be here.”
I was going through my parent’s music collection and after listening to Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops, The Statler Brothers and Mitch Miller, I put in Nat King Cole. This was a CD I purchased for my parents in an attempt to right a wrong committed decades ago. As Nat started to sing, the CD skipped, and skipped and skipped again until I took it out to examine it. There was nothing wrong with it. Just like there had been nothing wrong with a record by the same artist.
My Dad loved to have music playing in the house. We grew up listening to Floyd Cramer, Percy Faith, The Ray Conniff singers, Fats Domino and many others. Dad even bought the Simon and Garfunkel Album “Bridge Over Troubled Waters” in 1970. He would put the record on the Hi-Fi (long before there was Wi-Fi) and crank up the volume on “Bye Bye Love”.
Back in the late ’60’s he had bought a record cleaner which promised to clean and preserve records for many years of listening pleasure, while at the same time restoring the record’s sound to its original quality.
The first record he chose to experiment on was one by Nat King Cole. Dad liberally sprayed the cloth with the cleaning solution and began to vigorously wipe both sides of the record. He had large hands and was able to get the job done rather quickly. After he was satisfied that the record had been properly cleansed of any impurities he placed it on the turntable.
The sound that came from the speakers was a sour, mournful moan. It was obvious: the record was ruined. It had been chemically altered and would never sound the same again. I, being a young vandal, recognized the opportunity.
“Can I have it?” I asked.
Without questioning my intentions Dad handed it over to me. I took the record and did something that I was forbidden to do, both by my parents and commonly recognized rules of decency. I grabbed a sharp tool and I scratched it. I scratched it deeply, numerously and insanely.
Then Dad read the directions which advised the user to let the record air dry before playing. I said I was sorry, but the damage was done. He threw the record in the garbage.
Now clearly, if Dad had read the directions, and if I had been less impulsive things would have been different. Because of that, and numerous other life lessons, I have learned to take things slower, more methodically; because some times – things get better when left alone.
One of my favorite quotes is “the serenity prayer.” As written by the author Reinhold Niebuhr in 1943: “God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things that should be changed, and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other.”
I gave the CD a little cleaning for old time’s sake and tried it again. Nat King Cole sounded perfect. I could almost hear my Dad sing along.
“Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
Those days of soda and pretzels and beer
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
You’ll wish that summer could always be here.”
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Father's Day
We used to get my Dad a tie every year for Father’s Day. One tie from five kids – that was it. Looking back that seems kind of cheap.
If my kids got me just a tie for Father’s Day, I would think I had done something wrong - kind of like the lump of coal that naughty boys get at Christmas. You see I am a bit flawed - I like stuff. I think I may be too materialistic. Although as I get older things means less and less to me as I have witnessed enough damage from moths and rust to know these treasures do not last.
We didn’t have an excessive amount of resources at our house when I was young. We ate butter sandwiches for lunch, and we rarely threw leftovers away. But, we were happy. Going to out to eat, even to McDonald’s, was a treat. We didn’t have pop in the house to grab on a whim, and Kool-Aid was a special drink.
My parents, like most of my friend’s folks, had grown up during the great depression. Mom had memories of eating beans three times a day and Dad talked about his mother feeding the men who walked the country side looking for something to eat and willing to trade work to get it. Dad told us that these men would be invited in to sit at his father and mother’s table, but the men – either too proud or too ashamed – chose to sit outside and sleep in the barn until they moved on in the morning.
We have come along way in a generation. I remember the day I saw my first color TV. It was at the home of a prosperous family in Belle Plaine; “Bonanza” was playing. I was so taken by the color of the Cartwright clothing that for years I compared all TVs to that experience. My family had a black and white console at home for many years. It was an Admiral brand. There were only five channels available, if you counted Channel 2 (the educational channel). I grew up watching “Star Trek,” “Lassie,” “The Wonderful World of Disney,” “Lawrence Welk,” and “The Wizard of Oz” (including the “color” part) all in black and white.
B&W television sets probably became obsolete with the change from analog to digital broadcasting. They surely were manufactured without a thought of digital signals, and I can’t imagine that many would upgrade a TV that is worth less than the converter box.
There is one scene involving a B&W TV set that will forever haunt me. Twenty-five years ago or so Rhonda, my girlfriend (now my wife), bought a TV for me as a gift through the newspaper want-ads. We got directions to a house in the country. The father let us in without much conversation. “There it is,” he said pointing to the small TV. I noticed that it was the only TV in the sparsely decorated room. It was kind of hard to get a good look at it because of the four small sad children standing around it trying to keep it from running away. Rhonda gave the man the $50.00 and I reluctantly picked up the TV and carried it to the car.
On the ride back to town and for the next 25 years, we have wondered whether he was getting rid of the TV to protect his children from moral decay, or if he just desperately needed the money.
You know, I think one tie is really all I need after all.
If my kids got me just a tie for Father’s Day, I would think I had done something wrong - kind of like the lump of coal that naughty boys get at Christmas. You see I am a bit flawed - I like stuff. I think I may be too materialistic. Although as I get older things means less and less to me as I have witnessed enough damage from moths and rust to know these treasures do not last.
We didn’t have an excessive amount of resources at our house when I was young. We ate butter sandwiches for lunch, and we rarely threw leftovers away. But, we were happy. Going to out to eat, even to McDonald’s, was a treat. We didn’t have pop in the house to grab on a whim, and Kool-Aid was a special drink.
My parents, like most of my friend’s folks, had grown up during the great depression. Mom had memories of eating beans three times a day and Dad talked about his mother feeding the men who walked the country side looking for something to eat and willing to trade work to get it. Dad told us that these men would be invited in to sit at his father and mother’s table, but the men – either too proud or too ashamed – chose to sit outside and sleep in the barn until they moved on in the morning.
We have come along way in a generation. I remember the day I saw my first color TV. It was at the home of a prosperous family in Belle Plaine; “Bonanza” was playing. I was so taken by the color of the Cartwright clothing that for years I compared all TVs to that experience. My family had a black and white console at home for many years. It was an Admiral brand. There were only five channels available, if you counted Channel 2 (the educational channel). I grew up watching “Star Trek,” “Lassie,” “The Wonderful World of Disney,” “Lawrence Welk,” and “The Wizard of Oz” (including the “color” part) all in black and white.
B&W television sets probably became obsolete with the change from analog to digital broadcasting. They surely were manufactured without a thought of digital signals, and I can’t imagine that many would upgrade a TV that is worth less than the converter box.
There is one scene involving a B&W TV set that will forever haunt me. Twenty-five years ago or so Rhonda, my girlfriend (now my wife), bought a TV for me as a gift through the newspaper want-ads. We got directions to a house in the country. The father let us in without much conversation. “There it is,” he said pointing to the small TV. I noticed that it was the only TV in the sparsely decorated room. It was kind of hard to get a good look at it because of the four small sad children standing around it trying to keep it from running away. Rhonda gave the man the $50.00 and I reluctantly picked up the TV and carried it to the car.
On the ride back to town and for the next 25 years, we have wondered whether he was getting rid of the TV to protect his children from moral decay, or if he just desperately needed the money.
You know, I think one tie is really all I need after all.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Landmarks
When I was young I used to wonder how my Dad was able to climb behind the wheel of the family station wagon and drive almost anywhere without ever looking at a map. He never stopped to ask for directions, and of course he did not have a GPS to guide him.
When I asked him how he managed to find his way from here to there and back he told me about landmarks. This of course was the subtle trick of looking for the familiar; the recognizable. He had driven all over the state for fifteen years as a Greyhound bus driver and later on as truck driver for Red Owl; so naturally he had the experience of driving to guide him. After a while I started to look for landmarks myself.
The ones that stuck out were the softball fields of Union Hill or St. Thomas (depending on which set of grandparents we were visiting), the house in New Prague (on the corner of 19 and 21) with the front porch that seemed to hang over a bottomless canyon leading to certain death for careless kids, the hand-painted sign in Shieldsville warning of the Lake Mazaska Monster.
Coming back from Southdale the landmarks were Brambilla’s, Winnie’s Dress Shop in downtown Shakopee (where my Mom liked to point to the dress on display in the window), and the Rahr tower. These landmarks let me know we were close to home and on the right track.
My favorite ones still are the rotating beacons from the Fairbault municipal and the Flying Cloud airports. They can be seen for miles and give me a nostalgic calming feeling. After a long day at Grandma’s house in Fairbault my Dad would take the back roads home (this was before 35W was built).
Listening to WCCO in the dark with Dad driving and Mom at his side, my brothers and sisters and I would watch for the flashing airport beacon for miles until we would go over the last hill and it would disappear from sight. We knew it was still there, we just couldn’t see it. Now with that light behind us we turned our attention to the front to see what the car’s headlights would show us.
Lately, I have been wondering where our nation is headed. I don’t recognize any of the landmarks, and we seem to be driving with the lights off. We have a new driver who, like my father doesn’t ask for directions either, but he, unlike my father, can not rely on his experiences to guide him because he doesn’t have them. He is taking us down a road that this nation had not been before: Insurmountable debt, government ownership of private industry, and alliances with those who are intent on our destruction.
President Obama does have a Global Positioning System. But his system of global positioning is not designed to take us over the river and through the woods, but rather it is to position himself, and consequently this country, to be loved and accepted by all across the globe – to become one. Bin Laden, Kim Jong-Il, Ahmadinejad may be on the same road as our President – but they are driving in the opposite direction without regard to who may get in their way.
I like technology but have resisted getting a GPS. I don’t often stop and ask for directions either, and my sense of direction is not to be trusted. But, when I am entering an area where I have no experience I am not too proud to admit that I may be lost.
When I asked him how he managed to find his way from here to there and back he told me about landmarks. This of course was the subtle trick of looking for the familiar; the recognizable. He had driven all over the state for fifteen years as a Greyhound bus driver and later on as truck driver for Red Owl; so naturally he had the experience of driving to guide him. After a while I started to look for landmarks myself.
The ones that stuck out were the softball fields of Union Hill or St. Thomas (depending on which set of grandparents we were visiting), the house in New Prague (on the corner of 19 and 21) with the front porch that seemed to hang over a bottomless canyon leading to certain death for careless kids, the hand-painted sign in Shieldsville warning of the Lake Mazaska Monster.
Coming back from Southdale the landmarks were Brambilla’s, Winnie’s Dress Shop in downtown Shakopee (where my Mom liked to point to the dress on display in the window), and the Rahr tower. These landmarks let me know we were close to home and on the right track.
My favorite ones still are the rotating beacons from the Fairbault municipal and the Flying Cloud airports. They can be seen for miles and give me a nostalgic calming feeling. After a long day at Grandma’s house in Fairbault my Dad would take the back roads home (this was before 35W was built).
Listening to WCCO in the dark with Dad driving and Mom at his side, my brothers and sisters and I would watch for the flashing airport beacon for miles until we would go over the last hill and it would disappear from sight. We knew it was still there, we just couldn’t see it. Now with that light behind us we turned our attention to the front to see what the car’s headlights would show us.
Lately, I have been wondering where our nation is headed. I don’t recognize any of the landmarks, and we seem to be driving with the lights off. We have a new driver who, like my father doesn’t ask for directions either, but he, unlike my father, can not rely on his experiences to guide him because he doesn’t have them. He is taking us down a road that this nation had not been before: Insurmountable debt, government ownership of private industry, and alliances with those who are intent on our destruction.
President Obama does have a Global Positioning System. But his system of global positioning is not designed to take us over the river and through the woods, but rather it is to position himself, and consequently this country, to be loved and accepted by all across the globe – to become one. Bin Laden, Kim Jong-Il, Ahmadinejad may be on the same road as our President – but they are driving in the opposite direction without regard to who may get in their way.
I like technology but have resisted getting a GPS. I don’t often stop and ask for directions either, and my sense of direction is not to be trusted. But, when I am entering an area where I have no experience I am not too proud to admit that I may be lost.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Weekend in Ada
There are at least two ways to go through life: Hurry up so you see everything, or slow down so you don’t miss anything. The big cities get all the attention, which is fine. But if you want to slow the clock down spend some time in a small town. When I say small - I mean smaller than Shakopee, even smaller than Belle Plaine – something in the neighborhood of 1,500 living in the city limits.
This is not one of those travel column where I tell you where to go, what to see, what to eat, and how to dress (I have trouble with those areas myself on a daily basis), it’s more of a reflection of a perception. Recently I loaded up the family (and my daughter’s boyfriend) and drove four hours northwest to Ada.
Ada is a community that frequently gets attention either with its championship sports teams or it’s propensity for flooding. Ada, which is North of Fargo near the North Dakota border, graduated 39 seniors from its high school this year. It did this in partnership with neighboring Borup (population 100 or so). My sister’s daughter was one of them.
The graduation ceremony was, from my perspective, almost perfect. “Pomp and Circumstance,” the traditional tune for these ceremonies only had to be played once. The National Anthem was sung by three of the seniors, a local minister led the audience in prayer (without the ACLU whining in the corner), the speeches were of the proper length (short) and interesting – complete with the tearful good-byes. Plus, my niece lost her shoe under the stage during the processional. But, as she said during her speech – “I lost my shoe but I got my diploma.”
This town, although small, is not without its modern conveniences. At the Norman Motel – with its 15 units you have access to a Wi-Fi connection and cable TV. (Call ahead for reservations.) The Orpheum Theater shows first-run movies, there is KRJB (106.5 FM), the local radio station that pushes 100,000 watts across town and the surrounding area. The town boasts three banks, several professional offices, a bowling alley, hospital, restaurants, stores, parks, and churches. In short, Ada, like most small towns, has all of the charm without the fuss.
You can safely walk around town, as my kids did with their cousins. The local priest, who marked 25 years in the ministry, was honored with a beautiful stainless steel gas grill by the congregation. I am sure he had plenty of help wheeling the grill from in front of the church to the back of his pick-up truck.
Soon, one or two of these 39 kids may pack their own truck looking for something better. Hal Ketchum’s song “Small Town Saturday Night” hints at this. “Bobby told Lucy ‘The world ain’t round, drops off sharp at the edge of town. Lucy you know the world must be flat, ‘cause when people leave town they never come back.’”
Ada reminded me of those days forty years ago in Belle Plaine. You could leave the house in the morning, come back for lunch, go again, and then back for supper. No worries, no cares, and the summers lasted forever.
Bigger is not always better. I like New York City – but it would not be my first choice to raise a family. A New York minute is a phrase used to describe a frenzied hurried moment, but a small town weekend suggests a slower serene pace. I am convinced now more than ever that small town values are concepts not to be taken for granted.
This is not one of those travel column where I tell you where to go, what to see, what to eat, and how to dress (I have trouble with those areas myself on a daily basis), it’s more of a reflection of a perception. Recently I loaded up the family (and my daughter’s boyfriend) and drove four hours northwest to Ada.
Ada is a community that frequently gets attention either with its championship sports teams or it’s propensity for flooding. Ada, which is North of Fargo near the North Dakota border, graduated 39 seniors from its high school this year. It did this in partnership with neighboring Borup (population 100 or so). My sister’s daughter was one of them.
The graduation ceremony was, from my perspective, almost perfect. “Pomp and Circumstance,” the traditional tune for these ceremonies only had to be played once. The National Anthem was sung by three of the seniors, a local minister led the audience in prayer (without the ACLU whining in the corner), the speeches were of the proper length (short) and interesting – complete with the tearful good-byes. Plus, my niece lost her shoe under the stage during the processional. But, as she said during her speech – “I lost my shoe but I got my diploma.”
This town, although small, is not without its modern conveniences. At the Norman Motel – with its 15 units you have access to a Wi-Fi connection and cable TV. (Call ahead for reservations.) The Orpheum Theater shows first-run movies, there is KRJB (106.5 FM), the local radio station that pushes 100,000 watts across town and the surrounding area. The town boasts three banks, several professional offices, a bowling alley, hospital, restaurants, stores, parks, and churches. In short, Ada, like most small towns, has all of the charm without the fuss.
You can safely walk around town, as my kids did with their cousins. The local priest, who marked 25 years in the ministry, was honored with a beautiful stainless steel gas grill by the congregation. I am sure he had plenty of help wheeling the grill from in front of the church to the back of his pick-up truck.
Soon, one or two of these 39 kids may pack their own truck looking for something better. Hal Ketchum’s song “Small Town Saturday Night” hints at this. “Bobby told Lucy ‘The world ain’t round, drops off sharp at the edge of town. Lucy you know the world must be flat, ‘cause when people leave town they never come back.’”
Ada reminded me of those days forty years ago in Belle Plaine. You could leave the house in the morning, come back for lunch, go again, and then back for supper. No worries, no cares, and the summers lasted forever.
Bigger is not always better. I like New York City – but it would not be my first choice to raise a family. A New York minute is a phrase used to describe a frenzied hurried moment, but a small town weekend suggests a slower serene pace. I am convinced now more than ever that small town values are concepts not to be taken for granted.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Community Organizer
Margaret Mead said “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.”
Ten years ago a small group of neighbors banded together to back down a giant. The giant was Q Prime, a well-funded corporation from New York that was committed to build an amphitheater in rural Scott County, between Shakopee and Jordan. It had purchased 100 acres and were ready to begin construction later that year. Q Prime also had started the process of obtaining the necessary permits with the planning commission. But what it had not planned on was the spirited opposition it would face from people committed to protect their homes from an invasion.
I attended Q Prime’s propaganda meeting where they tried to sell the local citizenry on the concept. They assured us that the sound emanating from the amphitheater would be barely audible, and that the traffic would be at manageable levels. We were promised that the outdoor theater would be a benefit to us with the added jobs, increased tax base and all-around good times. I guess they thought because Minnesota had elected a former fake fighter for governor, its residents would believe anything. We didn’t.
Our own informational meeting was held and everyone within earshot of the proposed amphitheater was invited. About a hundred people showed up to listen to our side of the story and to learn what they could do. From that meeting, about a dozen committed souls gathered every week for the next several years. They devoted a good part of their lives and income doing what they could to protect our treasured way of life.
Because we had banded together for a common cause I got the chance to meet some of my neighbors. Out in the country a neighbor can be anyone who lives within a couple miles of you. In our small group we had everything we needed: There was a guy who understood the lexicon of engineers, a woman who had a passion for legislative affairs, a woman skilled as an administrator and logician, men who enjoyed hanging out in garages at night building signs, a guy who knew a guy who owned “Herman” (the large advertising bull on wheels), an environmentalist who had friends in the valley, a guy comfortable with public speaking, a poetic president of a homeowner’s association, and people whose families had lived and worked on the same farms for generations. Plus there were hundreds of concerned citizens supporting the cause.
But we also had a county government that cared. The county administrator, the county board of commissioners, and the staff were approachable and available. From the beginning our homeowner’s association had decided that since “you can’t fight city hall,” (presumably the adage applied at the county level as well) we would work within the accepted limits of polite society.
We had fun. We marched in parades, we hung out at the county fair, and we got involved in helping to shape the future of the county. It was worth the effort. We won.
We didn’t bother to implement the strategies found in “Rules for Radicals” by Saul Alinsky. In that book, which seems to be the handbook for the current administration, the author begins with “What follow is for those who want to change the world from what it is to what they believe it should be." But we weren’t out to change the world – we just wanted to hang on to what we had. I only wish that those in Washington were interested in the same thing.
Ten years ago a small group of neighbors banded together to back down a giant. The giant was Q Prime, a well-funded corporation from New York that was committed to build an amphitheater in rural Scott County, between Shakopee and Jordan. It had purchased 100 acres and were ready to begin construction later that year. Q Prime also had started the process of obtaining the necessary permits with the planning commission. But what it had not planned on was the spirited opposition it would face from people committed to protect their homes from an invasion.
I attended Q Prime’s propaganda meeting where they tried to sell the local citizenry on the concept. They assured us that the sound emanating from the amphitheater would be barely audible, and that the traffic would be at manageable levels. We were promised that the outdoor theater would be a benefit to us with the added jobs, increased tax base and all-around good times. I guess they thought because Minnesota had elected a former fake fighter for governor, its residents would believe anything. We didn’t.
Our own informational meeting was held and everyone within earshot of the proposed amphitheater was invited. About a hundred people showed up to listen to our side of the story and to learn what they could do. From that meeting, about a dozen committed souls gathered every week for the next several years. They devoted a good part of their lives and income doing what they could to protect our treasured way of life.
Because we had banded together for a common cause I got the chance to meet some of my neighbors. Out in the country a neighbor can be anyone who lives within a couple miles of you. In our small group we had everything we needed: There was a guy who understood the lexicon of engineers, a woman who had a passion for legislative affairs, a woman skilled as an administrator and logician, men who enjoyed hanging out in garages at night building signs, a guy who knew a guy who owned “Herman” (the large advertising bull on wheels), an environmentalist who had friends in the valley, a guy comfortable with public speaking, a poetic president of a homeowner’s association, and people whose families had lived and worked on the same farms for generations. Plus there were hundreds of concerned citizens supporting the cause.
But we also had a county government that cared. The county administrator, the county board of commissioners, and the staff were approachable and available. From the beginning our homeowner’s association had decided that since “you can’t fight city hall,” (presumably the adage applied at the county level as well) we would work within the accepted limits of polite society.
We had fun. We marched in parades, we hung out at the county fair, and we got involved in helping to shape the future of the county. It was worth the effort. We won.
We didn’t bother to implement the strategies found in “Rules for Radicals” by Saul Alinsky. In that book, which seems to be the handbook for the current administration, the author begins with “What follow is for those who want to change the world from what it is to what they believe it should be." But we weren’t out to change the world – we just wanted to hang on to what we had. I only wish that those in Washington were interested in the same thing.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Summer Job
Monday is Memorial Day, the day to honor those who died for our country. Memorial Day was first observed in 1868 to honor the dead from The Civil War. Originally known as Decoration Day it later became the day to honor the American Casualties from any war. In 1971 it was moved from May 30th to the last Monday in May to create the three-day weekend.
With the summer season starting I’m thinking of taking some time off – but just for the summer. In addition to working in such a noble profession, I think teachers must also be the smartest people in the world. They have the summers off. They deserve it. I also think that maybe I could benefit from the same schedule. I’m not sure I deserve it though. I just want to do something completely different while taking a few months off from my regular job. In some circles this is called “going on a sabbatical” (from the word Sabbath, meaning to take it easy).
Clive Prout, founder of The Sabbatical Coach (a web site developed to help people explore the idea of a sabbatical) describes it as “a period away from your normal routine - a time to immerse yourself in a different environment, a chance to see your life from a different perspective.”
That’s what I need, a different routine, something to mix it up a little. Maybe I’ll get a job, you know - a summer job. Some of the most fun I ever had working was while working on a summer job. Typically (at least in my world) a summer job is not permanent, complicated or particularly demanding.
I could become an election judge. To help assure accuracy I would even bring my own abacus. Politics has always interested me. I need a line of work to prepare me for the role of a trusted elected official. How about a stint as a professional wrestler or maybe a comedian? Maybe I could work as a mortgage banker selling ARMs (adjustable rate mortgages) and LEGs (lengthy egregious gimmicks).
There seems to be some call for medical assistance available only through the internet. Maybe I could become a miracle healer. I read about the family that is resisting government mandated medical treatment for their son. They appear to be victims of a modern-day snake oil salesman selling hope to the vulnerable and uneducated.
But in addition to being conflicted over government intrusion (remember the National Organization for Women’s mantra “keep your laws off my body”) and the glaring need to protect children of all ages, I am unclear if we are talking about alternative medical practices, or alter-Native American medical practices for profit.
I could go back to school and get my law degree. There are sure to be plenty of opportunities for an enterprising attorney to make a living. If the Scott County Attorney and sheriff get their way it will become even more illegal for minors to drink alcohol. I could represent the naïve parent, handicapped by their need to be considered “cool” by the younger generation, has hosted a party for their child and their underage friends.
But maybe I’m trying to hard. It’s possible all I really need is a good book, a cold drink, some shade and bug spray. So this weekend I will start the summer by remembering those who rest in peace. After all, because of them I have the opportunity to rest and relax.
With the summer season starting I’m thinking of taking some time off – but just for the summer. In addition to working in such a noble profession, I think teachers must also be the smartest people in the world. They have the summers off. They deserve it. I also think that maybe I could benefit from the same schedule. I’m not sure I deserve it though. I just want to do something completely different while taking a few months off from my regular job. In some circles this is called “going on a sabbatical” (from the word Sabbath, meaning to take it easy).
Clive Prout, founder of The Sabbatical Coach (a web site developed to help people explore the idea of a sabbatical) describes it as “a period away from your normal routine - a time to immerse yourself in a different environment, a chance to see your life from a different perspective.”
That’s what I need, a different routine, something to mix it up a little. Maybe I’ll get a job, you know - a summer job. Some of the most fun I ever had working was while working on a summer job. Typically (at least in my world) a summer job is not permanent, complicated or particularly demanding.
I could become an election judge. To help assure accuracy I would even bring my own abacus. Politics has always interested me. I need a line of work to prepare me for the role of a trusted elected official. How about a stint as a professional wrestler or maybe a comedian? Maybe I could work as a mortgage banker selling ARMs (adjustable rate mortgages) and LEGs (lengthy egregious gimmicks).
There seems to be some call for medical assistance available only through the internet. Maybe I could become a miracle healer. I read about the family that is resisting government mandated medical treatment for their son. They appear to be victims of a modern-day snake oil salesman selling hope to the vulnerable and uneducated.
But in addition to being conflicted over government intrusion (remember the National Organization for Women’s mantra “keep your laws off my body”) and the glaring need to protect children of all ages, I am unclear if we are talking about alternative medical practices, or alter-Native American medical practices for profit.
I could go back to school and get my law degree. There are sure to be plenty of opportunities for an enterprising attorney to make a living. If the Scott County Attorney and sheriff get their way it will become even more illegal for minors to drink alcohol. I could represent the naïve parent, handicapped by their need to be considered “cool” by the younger generation, has hosted a party for their child and their underage friends.
But maybe I’m trying to hard. It’s possible all I really need is a good book, a cold drink, some shade and bug spray. So this weekend I will start the summer by remembering those who rest in peace. After all, because of them I have the opportunity to rest and relax.
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