tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-136257092024-03-05T01:26:58.996-06:00Just One Mans OpinionThis blog covers East Texas, politics, transportation, seniors, housing, health, science & anything else that inspires Tom or makes him nuts. The author, works as a nonprofit consultant, senior and disability advocate. A mule-headed conservative & public policy advocate dedicated to improving the quality of life & access for people with disabilities of all ages, his liberal colleagues think he should spontaneously combust. Some hope he will do so - very soon!Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.comBlogger643125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-77613776210213164392023-09-10T22:53:00.001-05:002023-09-10T22:53:41.425-05:00Are Sharkicanes Next?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuXnvbXADj6zgmwPTbXJb4lvauaFK9WYEXOzFQb7S8T3LVEaoh1xd441yJJJbq_3NSdcmhrIoq9SVTgLWsF1U8kjTu0VnhhG2OGfB77Oc1ihJ5t6E7TgI0G0Bw3HmhDKqUWFp5sKOn4itnEGvAjM-0yFhjoo03gwXWxfvvP3FLTNgKeaxUf6QA/s620/sharknado.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="620" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuXnvbXADj6zgmwPTbXJb4lvauaFK9WYEXOzFQb7S8T3LVEaoh1xd441yJJJbq_3NSdcmhrIoq9SVTgLWsF1U8kjTu0VnhhG2OGfB77Oc1ihJ5t6E7TgI0G0Bw3HmhDKqUWFp5sKOn4itnEGvAjM-0yFhjoo03gwXWxfvvP3FLTNgKeaxUf6QA/w550-h311/sharknado.jpg" width="550" /></a></div><br /><b>A few years back, some cocaine fueled movie producers got together and bounced around some ideas for a movie.</b> They thought, maybe comedy or horror or science fiction - something like that. Jaws made a lot of money and shark movies boiled off the franchise in doves. Someone else suggested a disaster movie. A lot of people love disaster movies. Then someone who obviously was one toke over the line, said, "Why not combine Jaws and Twister; call it say, "Tornado-sharks!"<p></p><p><b>"It doesn't have the ring of a good disaster film."</b></p><p><b>"What if we have a tornado pick up a whole bunch of sharks and drop them on people in Los Angeles? Call it Sharknado!"</b></p><p><b>"Brilliant!" shouted the third producer. </b>And it was off to the races with sequels that struck LA again, Florida, and sent the hero, surfer and bar owner Fin Shepherd and his surfer chick girlfriend April all over the world. Wherever they go in the 5 sequels more sharknadoes would break out around them. The world is destroyed except for Fin who then time travels in the last installment, rescues a bunch of key people and saves the world.<br /></p><div class="" dir="auto"><div class="" dir="auto"><div class="x1iorvi4 x1pi30zi x1l90r2v x1swvt13" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message"><div class="x78zum5 xdt5ytf xz62fqu x16ldp7u"><div class="xu06os2 x1ok221b"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><div class="xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><b>Now, I don't want to upset anyone, but I watched a documentary about tornadoes a while back and I'm concerned.</b> Apparently, if these two hurricanes <span></span>cranking up in the Atlantic and Pacific cross paths, there could be water spouts that draw sharks up into the hurricanes <span class="x3nfvp2 x1j61x8r x1fcty0u xdj266r xhhsvwb xat24cr xgzva0m xxymvpz xlup9mm x1kky2od"></span> and when these hurricanes make landfall sharks actually<span class="x3nfvp2 x1j61x8r x1fcty0u xdj266r xhhsvwb xat24cr xgzva0m xxymvpz xlup9mm x1kky2od"></span> could be dumped all over what the movie producers called "The Feast Coast" from Florida to Texas. Now, this isn't the problem that I'm having exactly. I know that between gangs with stores of illegal guns in LA and Texans who are some of the most heavily armed Americans. So both places have adequate ammunition and sufficient stores of spices to handle the situation. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><b>The problem in the states that will be struck would be working out the bag limits on flying sharks</b>. I can't afford to get into any trouble with the game wardens. Can you even shoot flying sharks, when they exit the sharkicane or do you have to wait till they make land fall? Is there a tag I need to buy in the event of a 2020 sharkicane? </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><b>If anyone has any information about how to get flying shark hunting licenses, let me know.</b> It will be very much appreciated. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">© 2023 <i>by Tom King</i><br /></div></div></span></div></div></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-2855718683990252772023-08-13T20:06:00.001-05:002023-08-13T20:15:22.799-05:00How They Made The Canterville Ghost Better Than Oscar Wilde's Original<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiioFYbZdjyv7EVDNlNrWWCyqo8BRH2pZzAS7syn8VykEg8Wo762-wXslSK6dll1oXFpAuTErYHm4rhTL7q60EgMInV_W1HaiYL5rABBCcQ6CkXejEqyis7rwPRi-_mTTU3ZmNg64Lqo8AsRJnaWzKwlf8xXX-JkcE7qDX5AMUUFGd0bFqQouHe/s1479/Canterville%20Ghost.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1126" data-original-width="1479" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiioFYbZdjyv7EVDNlNrWWCyqo8BRH2pZzAS7syn8VykEg8Wo762-wXslSK6dll1oXFpAuTErYHm4rhTL7q60EgMInV_W1HaiYL5rABBCcQ6CkXejEqyis7rwPRi-_mTTU3ZmNg64Lqo8AsRJnaWzKwlf8xXX-JkcE7qDX5AMUUFGd0bFqQouHe/w456-h348/Canterville%20Ghost.jpg" width="456" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>Why I Like What Some Screenwriters Do to the Stories They Base Their Movies On.</b></span></i></p><p><b>Just finished watching the 1944 movie, The Canterville Ghost and then went back and refreshed my memory of the original Oscar Wilde story from which it was drawn. </b>There have been other versions, but I like the '44 outing with Margaret O'Brien and Robert Montgomery. It is the kindest version of the lot. </p><p><b>First of all in the movie, Sir Simon is only guilty of cowardice</b>. In the book he murdered his wife in cold blood along with 4 other people who died as a result of his prodigious haunting ability. He is an evil spirit and lies and manipulates the daughter of the American minister's family who have come to live in Canterville Chase while working for the American government. Sir Simon delights in pointing out the hypocrisy of the minister. This is not in any way a story to create good feelings between the British and Americans.<br /></p><p><b>The '44 movie version, on the other hand, is set during WWII and the story is adjusted to promote good feelings between the Brits and their American cousins jammed into southern England preparatory to crossing the channel into France</b>. In the story, a platoon of Army Rangers take up residence in the castle and are confronted by the ghost. The soldiers aren't intimidated by the ghost and drive into a corner in deep depression. Margaret O'Brien who is delightful as the Lady Jessica DeCanterville, meets her spectral ancestor and sets about to help him find a brave relative to help him end the curse.</p><p><b>The original story also has a female character, Virginia Otis, whom Sir Simon manipulates into helping him cross over to the other side. </b>Given his track record, I suspect that bright light he goes into are the fires of hell, but that's just me. Wilde seemed to be saying that the unrepentant Simon managed to manipulate his way to heaven without having to repent of murdering his wife. <br /><br /><b>One of the American soldiers in the '44 movie, Cuffy Williams, played by Robert Montgomery, turns out to be a descendant of the Cantervilles and as such can do a heroic deed in Sir Simon's name and free his spirit to rest in the garden behind the pines. </b>He overcomes his own fear, does the heroic deed proving that all Cantervilles are not cowards and frees Sir Simon's spirit from the curse his father had put upon him when he was walled up in the closet. This Simon did repent and was more of a hapless victim than the Oscar Wilde Simon. <br /><br /><b>I think the movie is way better than Oscar Wilde's cynical version.</b> Wilde, a gay socialist and aesthetic, never wrote anything I cared for other than ones that screenwriters managed to give happy endings like Canterville. The poor man kept looking for God, but didn't seem terribly interested in obtaining forgiveness or changing his ways. Wishful thinking may explain why Sir Simon in his story manages to take advantage of a pure hearted girl and a letter of the law ritual. Wilde attempted to do much the same by doing a last minute Catholic conversion and last rites on his deathbed. </p><p><b>I like movies with happy endings. So sue me!</b><br /><br />Tom King<br />© 2023<br /> <br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-7985418543065765142023-08-06T14:04:00.003-05:002023-08-06T14:53:06.908-05:00I Think Angels Took Pity on Me<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9sOs4UW7GekroIQcjnCeMwmo7_jgWEsZ1pr-Hlo-0fD6AV7nMWVx_xfYPYJT9MBExhXuMVzOH8bC6cWJrgu_XQ5DG0xExwrp5pkZmxQe7HwxInSxO39E7j5sIwz1QE4lzieeCJGdzvxAt3DnDXbPOezwkI47F4XlTKMmfyoiMxzHm-UPFi7fa/s575/EK%20Birdwell%20broom%20and%20mop.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="144" data-original-width="575" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9sOs4UW7GekroIQcjnCeMwmo7_jgWEsZ1pr-Hlo-0fD6AV7nMWVx_xfYPYJT9MBExhXuMVzOH8bC6cWJrgu_XQ5DG0xExwrp5pkZmxQe7HwxInSxO39E7j5sIwz1QE4lzieeCJGdzvxAt3DnDXbPOezwkI47F4XlTKMmfyoiMxzHm-UPFi7fa/w439-h191/EK%20Birdwell%20broom%20and%20mop.jpg" width="439" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The scene of the action. I worked in the mop<br />shop on the left side of the brown building.<br />Doc Ward's shop was behind us less than a quarter<br />mile. The station where I bought Mission Orange<br />Grape Nehi and, of course, Dr. Pepper is the white<br />building at the far left which often sold gas at 17¢ a <br />gallon when he got into a price war with the station<br />across the street where Mom bought baloney.*</span></i><br /> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>My friend John </b><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en"><b>worked at one of my hometown's ubiquitous broom shops. </b>Doc Ward had a shop on College Drive where John, now a respectable dentist, worked. I worked just down the street making mops for EK
Birdwell. Everybody pretty much had a job in Keene, Texas. At one point it was the per capita most heavily industrialized college town in America someone figured. It was mostly because we worked our way through high school and college to pay our tuition.<br /><br /><b>John had warned me before I went to work at the mop shop to watch out for the pranks they liked to play on new guys. </b>So, my second day at Birdwell's, the guys tried to send me down to Doc Ward's
to borrow back our "handle stretcher." There was a whole, unnecessarily detailed story about mop handles that had been cut too short that went with the request. We worked strictly on piece time so a trip down to Doc's would not earn me a nickel and back then, I could get a bottle of Grape Nehi for a nickel. My thrifty soul, smelled a rat. </span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en"><b>So, I asked the if
they wanted #2 or #4 stretching oil to go with it and by their smirks I knew I'd dodged one of those get-the-new-guy pranks.</b> Later they tried to send me to the broom shop for a yarn stretcher. I used the time to step over to the gas station next door for a 16 oz. Mission Orange. When I got back, I told Rocky who was on his third attempt to "get me" that the broom shop guys had put it under his mop machine. Rocky actually looked under the machine for a second before he caught himself.</span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en"></span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en"> <b>For some reason I
managed to avoid pranks.</b> I think my guardian angel looked out for me.
Tommy Lewis attempted to rig my mop taping and trimming station so that
when you pulled the handle release it dumped a big box of mop yarn clippings on
your head. Unfortunately (for him) I was over on the mop making machine
learning how to make mops that day and EK came in to get a mop sample to put on one of the trucks. He wanted to make sure the sample was perfect and I don't think he trusted any of us to do it right. </span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en"><b>Anyway, E.K. shoved the mop's handle up into the catch above him, taped and trimmed the
mop and then gave the release rope a big jerk. </b>A cascade of white mop
fuzz rained down on his head. He did not look happy. I managed to look duly shocked and thus
avoided retribution. I was laughing so hard inside, however, I think I
was internally hemorrhaging. Tommy on the other hand looked like a cat
trying to pretend it hadn't just eaten the canary while having yellow
feathers sticking out of his whiskers.</span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en"><b>While working at summer camp, I had two pranksters go after me. <i>I suppose I looked a likely target. </i></b>My soon-to-be buddy, the young not-yet-a-doctor Allen tried putting jalapenos and bay leaves in my pancakes, but the kitchen staff, whose aid in the prank he'd enlisted, switched the poisoned pancakes and stuck some extra bay leaves in the ones they gave him. There's no taste quite like onion jalapeno chili powder bay leaf pancakes with butter and syrup. Jack ran choking and gagging across the dining area to the water fountain. It took him 3 days to get rid of the taste. He even apologized to me afterward for even thinking of such a thing.</span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en"><b>Another prankster dumped water on one of the kitchen girls after he failed to pull off the old glass balanced on a nail gag on me.</b> He picked the wrong victim. The next day the cook called him aside while one of the girls swapped his glass of red Kool-Aid for a glass of onion juice with red food coloring and ice in it. Tim took a big swig of it while the campers were singing the prayer song. The camp director fixed him with an icy stare when he started coughing and sputtering and he had to wait till the song was over before staggering to the water fountain to spend an unpleasant half hour trying and clear his palate.</span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en"><b>I learned from all this that you never prank your boss, the kitchen staff, the bookkeeping staff or the innocent. </b>Angels are watching and the word "karma" is probably derived from observation of the likely gleeful angelic works of retribution perpetrated upon naughty persons.<br /><br />© 2023 by Tom King</span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en">*<i>The photo above was taken from the parking lot of Ada's Cafe across the street from the mop shop, where I would on rare occasions buy myself breakfast or lunch of a warm Sunday morning, taking a considerable chunk out of my pitiful wages for the week. But boy howdy, the woman could cook!</i><br /><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-38407968590781255492023-08-04T13:25:00.004-05:002023-08-04T13:25:45.917-05:00Shopping With My Sweetie<p>Lost in Walmart <br /></p><p>Since you'll be incommunicado all weekend and we could hardly hear each
other, I thought I'd tell you this story before I forget it. We went
shopping yesterday. It was social security check day for everybody, so
Walmart was packed. We got lucky and I got a mobility cart for Mom.
We'd already walked to the Ross store and then to Panda Express and then
over to Walmart so she was fading fast. We put our folding camp chairs
in the basket. (Walmart has taken away the outside benches during CoVid
and never put them back, so we take our own chairs to wait for the
return bus). Also loaded the bag from Ross, and Mom's purse in there.
This info is important to the story. Mom took off in the electric cart
and I waited around to see if anyone dropped off another cart on their
way out. My knees have had it so when I can get off them it helps. My
left knee has a big dent in it where the cartilage has worn away and
left it bone on bone. I now understand why Grandpa used to walk the way
he did. I walk like that now. Anyway nobody gave up a cart, so I took
off with the shopping basket full of stuff looking for your Mom.
The woman can disappear faster than a Navy SEA:L in full camo in the
middle of a jungle. I searched for her for quite a while, bought some
clearance sale chrysanthemums and scanned the retail horizon before me.
No sign of my Sweet Baboo.
Then I got a bright idea. I'd call her phone and get her to tell me
where she was. To my surprise and relief, when I called, I heard her the
distinctive sound of her phone ringing somewhere up ahead of me. So
off I went trying to find the source of the sound. She wasn't answering
her phone so I figured I'd follow the ringing. I have her set up with an
old-fashioned telephone ring so it's quite loud and easily to identify.
Still, I couldn't quite track down the source of the ringing. It
seemed to move here and there ahead of me. When the phone went to voice
mail, I called again. The ringing sounded really close by so I took off
again in pursuit.
This time it sounded like she was in the cleaning supplies (not
surprising), so I hurried on hoping to catch her. She still wasn't
answering her phone. Again the phone went to voicemail and stopped
ringing. I called again from the sour cream and yogurt section. This
time it sounded like the ringing of her phone was coming from behind the
back wall. I circled back found those double swinging employee doors
going back into the stock room. I opened it a little and it sounded
like she was back there somewhere. So I turned my cart around and parked
it by the door. I rang her phone again. This time the ringing had
moved off, to the left again sounding like it was moving but now moving
behind the back wall of the store. I hurried to follow, hoping she'd
pop out somewhere. Finally, I came to the shoe section. "Aha!" I said,
knowing she'd been looking at shoes earlier. I reached the end of the
back aisle and turned left onto the sneakers aisle. Again the ring tone
seemed move quickly cutting across my path coming out from behind the
wall. moving behind the display shelves ahead and settled on a new
course somewhere up ahead somewhere.
By chance, as I accelerated to catch up with her, I glanced down into
the basket and stopped. My eye caught sight of a brown bag with MAMA
written on it in big letters. A sudden awareness began to dawn on me.
This was Sheila's handbag there in the front of my basket. And what
would be in her handbag? Wallet, hand sanitizer, hairbrush, perfume, her
medications,
and..............................................................oh
nuts!
Her phone!
I'd been frantically following the sound of her phone ringing at me from
the front of my shopping cart trying to keep up with a phantom wife.
I'm getting too old to keep up with a shopping wife. So, I went to the
Subway at the front of the store, bought a drink and sat down to wait.
Sure enough, in about twenty minutes, I heard my name being paged to
come to the fitting room to meet my wife. I stumbled back across the
store to find my sweetie perusing the clearance rack. We managed to
escape Walmart once we joined forces and got out for just under $200.
She says she's going to quit going shopping because she spends too much
money. I'm not helping much. She shops by picking up things, trundling
around for a while and then putting it back on the shelf because she
thinks she's spending too much. Earlier she'd put back some shoes and
some lavender hand lotion. Coming along behind her, I picked up the
discarded items and carried them along with me on the side where she
couldn't see them to the checkout stand. While the cashier was ringing
up her stuff, I slipped the shoes and lavender lotion onto the counter
while she was looking for something in her purse. I can't stand for her
to not get what she wants. Us guys are like that. Our wives put up with
so much from us, we jump at any opportunity to spoil them just a bit.
We guys have no idea how to get in her head and just know what she needs
or wants. So, if we see that she wants something, we jump on it. Notice
that women and men express love in different ways. Women read your mind
and do things for their men before they ask. It is their highest form
of love. Sheila buys stuff for me that I didn't know I needed. Men on
the other hand, express love by deed - I'll climb the highest mountain,
fight tigers, cross blazing deserts and raging rivers. Our expressions
of love are things we can do that we know how to do. We're lousy at
guessing what women want. We don't read minds. Tell us and we're on the
job. It's the nature of men and women. Men do goal directed stuff. Women
build nests and social circles. Men are outwardly focused against the
threats from the world against their wives and families. Women are
inwardly focused, trying to make everyone in the circle, if not, happy,
at least safe, alive and breathing.
So guys like me follow our wives' handbags around Walmart, rescuing
shopping discards and trying to figure out how to make them feel
special. I'm going to go ice down my knees now. She's taking a nap. All
is well in our little world. <br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-10142312841201900702023-07-15T02:19:00.000-05:002023-07-15T02:19:42.841-05:00Taking a Stand Against Spiritual Bullies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHybyjGFn8b6vFI_DbpUm3onF2weATXV8E27kDbGizleaEkzKzRwbGL0WeUKTheDIqU3row0p4N8rCpLEXAoirIOXFps9GypDDvhz3h7irOQtY48wNW3HKPAZK9f5N3i8OFkPliQUblIL4vMcDgSugwMAZS_kU0pAwLO9z7SRSwpEz5ech5g/s1280/Though%20I%20stand%20alone.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHybyjGFn8b6vFI_DbpUm3onF2weATXV8E27kDbGizleaEkzKzRwbGL0WeUKTheDIqU3row0p4N8rCpLEXAoirIOXFps9GypDDvhz3h7irOQtY48wNW3HKPAZK9f5N3i8OFkPliQUblIL4vMcDgSugwMAZS_kU0pAwLO9z7SRSwpEz5ech5g/w401-h226/Though%20I%20stand%20alone.jpg" width="401" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b>I grew up having to deal with bullies.</b> I was a skinny kid with horn-rimmed glasses (usually taped) and made good grades. I might as well have worn a target on my chest. My small 10 grade public school got all the kids that were kicked out of the larger church school. The teachers used to put all the honor roll kids on the front rows as a kind of human shield against the barbarians in the back. My Mom must have worried that I had hemophilia I came home with blood on me so often.<br /><br /><b>From that experience, however, I learned to be mule-headed and somewhat indifferent to pain.</b> I still have a knot on my forehead where a kid pushed me face-first into a concrete wall. I think he cracked my skull. In those days you didn't have CAT scans for that sort of thing and doctors were very expensive. You learned to be resilient and you get very tired of knuckling under to bullies. You also learn all sorts of subversive ways to resist them.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPjoWOkPN6mJuUOXWywET65sHpkGuD4oUC-FXVAR3evpBIIwZ_NCBuSJTWSj4XGR6FfmZm-DE0EGkbhdP047Aa9AK0sKh9q3Kc2iAVCu3fyPCNf5pQMRnp_ZEolMp7PY6MQb_SaOEUeBjkvu2_PdW0MjVW9yV4ZyS4bFdzyYfeql2W0D5pI5TQ/s557/bully%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="557" data-original-width="486" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPjoWOkPN6mJuUOXWywET65sHpkGuD4oUC-FXVAR3evpBIIwZ_NCBuSJTWSj4XGR6FfmZm-DE0EGkbhdP047Aa9AK0sKh9q3Kc2iAVCu3fyPCNf5pQMRnp_ZEolMp7PY6MQb_SaOEUeBjkvu2_PdW0MjVW9yV4ZyS4bFdzyYfeql2W0D5pI5TQ/w227-h261/bully%202.jpg" width="227" /></a></b></div><b><br />As an adult you expect that you won't have to put up with that sort of thing.</b> Sadly, bullying takes on a different form among grownups, but bullies still exist. Spiritual bullying is the most pernicious form of bullying I think. It happens in religion, politics and culture one way and another. Resisting these people can be every bit as difficult as standing up to a giant 5th grade thug.<br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b>In church it's the bony-fingered self-righteous who use their position's power to intimidate others to get their own way.</b> We've all met the woman or man that Ray Stevens, in his song Mississippi
Squirrel Revival called "Sister Bertha Better Than You." In politics, it's the use of political power to crush any opposition through legal means, bureaucratic intimidation or by silencing those who speak out against whatever they are up to.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b>In the culture, it ranges from the homeowner's association that tries to fine you for flying a flag.</b> I know of an HOA that tried to fine homeowner's for planting their rose bushes. Another tried to fine a woman recovering from cancer because she was two weeks late mowing her grass. I've seen community members who threaten you because they think you raised funds for a local nonprofit organization without getting permission from whoever thinks they are in charge of that sort of thing. Happened to me a couple of times.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXTg0FRTbk-laXY5bSad_60QdGE_xNmYjmpFnOBhU56Qt-RIhFx2opPxZ4455NKsHc_McWSKeTopzuThGO3dt8fj8uz8nt7Y-I1mLTAlVVpw-14rHvXMHoYJwbnMwEjftuLXvRGQTPypvaWbBkR2VREMd54ndhP1OVnevhMZ7DLHhk17HCJ0T5/s850/Ellen%20White%20-%20the%20want%20of%20men.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: times; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="850" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXTg0FRTbk-laXY5bSad_60QdGE_xNmYjmpFnOBhU56Qt-RIhFx2opPxZ4455NKsHc_McWSKeTopzuThGO3dt8fj8uz8nt7Y-I1mLTAlVVpw-14rHvXMHoYJwbnMwEjftuLXvRGQTPypvaWbBkR2VREMd54ndhP1OVnevhMZ7DLHhk17HCJ0T5/w425-h200/Ellen%20White%20-%20the%20want%20of%20men.jpg" width="425" /></a></div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: small;"><b>In this day and age, as we close in on the end of time, I am reminded of Christ's admonition that we need to stand strong in such times as these. </b>It's can be hard to do that. Often there is a price to be paid. An Air Force colonel named John Boyd used to tell the pilots he trained that they faced a choice of two paths. Along one they could do what was good for the Air Force. Along the other, you could play the political games. Play the game and you could count on steady advancement, awards and a long career. Do what is right and, Boyd told them, you can expect you'll never be promoted beyond colonel. </span></div><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b>There is a price to be paid to stand for the right, though the heavens fall. </b>Your reward may not come in this world, but God is watching and the reward he offers for your faithfulness is far beyond the rewards of men.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b>Jesus once told his disciples a story.</b> It was about Pharisees who stood on a corner praying to God and thanking Him that they were better than other men who were simply praying for God's mercy. Jesus said, plainly, "They have had their reward." </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><b>That's all they'll get it seems.</b> For those who like David, Jonathan, Gideon, the disciples and Jesus Himself, who stand for what is right, like a tree planted by the waters, shall not be moved. For these brave souls, there is a reward beyond measure waiting. For the bullies? They have had their reward.</span><br /><br />© 2023 by Tom King<br /> </p><p></p><p> </p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-55399621653733144282023-03-07T00:27:00.001-06:002023-03-07T00:53:13.870-06:00Christian Filmmakers Making Believers Out of the Film Industry<p> <br /></p><div data-block="true" data-editor="f0342" data-offset-key="8mmtf-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9r7fj-0-0"><span data-offset-key="9r7fj-0-0"><span data-text="true"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYpRYRYt5K1Y2pUMwZEJPcyOd-S9i4_o7srYWPvB1ctVeBC0Xb7e5uk1Z9Q1yMZ_bdMc1BE8l89UxWmHPI6Y6BNAU3wPCm-m6cVxRKC0bIOoeDWw0mNqRErrzWWglr-zfMjnVUIeT55P3nQOlFnyV4g4pfC7WLFJRIbztl-I4nS2JfqpCxew/s1200/Jonathan%20Roumie%20in%20The%20Jesus%20Revolution.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYpRYRYt5K1Y2pUMwZEJPcyOd-S9i4_o7srYWPvB1ctVeBC0Xb7e5uk1Z9Q1yMZ_bdMc1BE8l89UxWmHPI6Y6BNAU3wPCm-m6cVxRKC0bIOoeDWw0mNqRErrzWWglr-zfMjnVUIeT55P3nQOlFnyV4g4pfC7WLFJRIbztl-I4nS2JfqpCxew/w462-h243/Jonathan%20Roumie%20in%20The%20Jesus%20Revolution.jpg" width="462" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jonathan Roumie in The Jesus Revolution<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><b> </b></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9r7fj-0-0"><span data-offset-key="9r7fj-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>A New Christian movie from Lionsgate studios called "The Jesus Revolution" starring Kelsey Grammar and Jonathan Roumie (who plays Jesus in The Chosen) opened in fewer than 2500 theaters on its first weekend and grossed 16 million dollars.</b> The second weekend nearly doubled that earning 30 million dollars on a budget of just 15 million. And word of mouth has been responsible for most of that volume at the box office. It also looks like maverick Christian film producers like Dallas Jenkins over at Angel Studios are also making enough of a profit to fund several future movies that appeal to Christian audiences. Profits from The Chosen as well as other projects Angel Studios is releasing over the coming year include an animated feature about the life of David, the Israelite King, a children's animated television series and though most people don't know it, they produce the Youtube hit, Drybar Comedy that features clean comics performing in, of all places, Provo, Utah. </span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="f0342" data-offset-key="64l7t-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="64l7t-0-0"><span data-offset-key="64l7t-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="f0342" data-offset-key="9odan-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9odan-0-0"><span data-offset-key="9odan-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>With the work they've done on "The Chosen", Angel Studios has opened a breath of fresh air upon the Christian film industry and given more mainstream studios like Lionsgate the courage to take a risk on Christian-themed projects.</b> The Christian film industry has been doing some very nice work on pretty tight crowd-funded budgets the last few years. They've even drawn some mainstream acting talent like Ed Asner, John Ratzenberger, Kevin Sorbo, Jim Caviezel, Mira Sorvino, Tyler Perry, Sean Astin, Patricia Heaton, Roma Downey, Kirk Cameron, Dean Cain, Stephen Baldwin, Eric Roberts, Kelsey Grammar, Lee Majors, Eric Avari, Randy Travis, Dean Cain and Candace Cameron Bue. Christian film also provides work for a host of new talented young actors and actresses willing to risk the wrath of Hollywood's distinctly anti-Christian culture. Hallmark and the Lifetime Channel have upped the depth of the faith-based films they produce, seemingly a bit less hesitant to address prayer, church-going and Christian values than they once were.<br /></span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="f0342" data-offset-key="8l56d-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8l56d-0-0"><b><span data-offset-key="8l56d-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></b></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="f0342" data-offset-key="9ef7-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ef7-0-0"><span data-offset-key="9ef7-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIHQ1nBHoRzAP9dkbw-xIShtBFGUbpcO6UWVVZaaw0L9dkBvXp30BSv0E2xyNrUfGSdBhpMM7KSkvfx7vB_4i6wu47gBt7N_e13rC-sPfRWwsqIRgMJ2GmMJ4HkWRVFmUC3xzzWFXdEraT84tE5fhsskAzwPav4PxMU8GIpRCYKk4gK-gTYQ/s2560/The%20Chosen%20-%20Jesus%20and%20his%20disciples.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1760" data-original-width="2560" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIHQ1nBHoRzAP9dkbw-xIShtBFGUbpcO6UWVVZaaw0L9dkBvXp30BSv0E2xyNrUfGSdBhpMM7KSkvfx7vB_4i6wu47gBt7N_e13rC-sPfRWwsqIRgMJ2GmMJ4HkWRVFmUC3xzzWFXdEraT84tE5fhsskAzwPav4PxMU8GIpRCYKk4gK-gTYQ/w402-h277/The%20Chosen%20-%20Jesus%20and%20his%20disciples.jpeg" width="402" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Jesus and His disciples - The Chosen</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></b></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ef7-0-0"><span data-offset-key="9ef7-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b> My wife and I are watching The Chosen over and over every weekend the way we all did when Star Wars came out in the 70s.</b> The series is just that compelling. Christians can't get enough and even hardened criminals find themselves drawn to a Jesus who is approachable, kindly, and joyful with a sense of humor to boot. This Jesus is one they can imagine themselves following. They can see a reflection of themselves in his very human disciples and for the first time in their lives, this collection of tough guys and hard cases can imagine themselves following Christ themselves.</span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="f0342" data-offset-key="ful7l-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ful7l-0-0"><span data-offset-key="ful7l-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="f0342" data-offset-key="5oekr-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5oekr-0-0"><span data-offset-key="5oekr-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>Christian film is growing out of its awkward stage. </b>The burgeoning faith-based film genre has delivered performances in the past 20 years that rival the quality of mainstream films of 20 or more years ago. I've lately seen performances and stories that for quality beat lots of today's mainstream films with much larger budgets. Christian films often tell compelling stories, many of them based on true stories. And they do it all on achingly tight budgets, while managing to look professional while doing it.</span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="f0342" data-offset-key="fubho-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="fubho-0-0"><b><span data-offset-key="fubho-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></b></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="f0342" data-offset-key="epng2-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="epng2-0-0"><span data-offset-key="epng2-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuy3K1b3W5VBOGj7QGd66vCJ6zubcOsZDWCkWVUTXL28vxfKi__4bowcx69m0VzXMGqZ3QPmI4CF1md0ZTm4X7hotykaB9XCKDjqOZ0nCFcLg8Sx_bcD-1NWL3JC_eHvW85N-NzCYC17hQ7EwR77PRC6joHr7oHnsE9inhdsFKCXyo7dlBBw/s630/The%20Chosen%20-%20Eric%20Avari%20as%20Nicodemus%20meets%20secretly%20with%20Jesus.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="354" data-original-width="630" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuy3K1b3W5VBOGj7QGd66vCJ6zubcOsZDWCkWVUTXL28vxfKi__4bowcx69m0VzXMGqZ3QPmI4CF1md0ZTm4X7hotykaB9XCKDjqOZ0nCFcLg8Sx_bcD-1NWL3JC_eHvW85N-NzCYC17hQ7EwR77PRC6joHr7oHnsE9inhdsFKCXyo7dlBBw/w453-h255/The%20Chosen%20-%20Eric%20Avari%20as%20Nicodemus%20meets%20secretly%20with%20Jesus.jpg" width="453" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Eric Avari as Nicodemus in his secret meeting with Christ<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></b></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="epng2-0-0"><span data-offset-key="epng2-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>The genre is learning its craft and producing some surprisingly wonderful films.</b> The Chosen has even become a very popular television choice in Texas prisons with inmates stumbling around the day room engrossed in their computer tablets as they binge on season one. Violence has decreased dramatically over the weeks since the new inmate computer tablets were distributed to the men. Soon, word spread throughout the cell blocks that "The Chosen" was "...something you've gotta see, man!" Church attendance went up. An altar call at TDCJ's Coffield Unit last weekend resulted in 30 to 40 inmates coming forward to follow Jesus. Episode 1 of season 2 (only season 1 is available on the tablets so far) packed the chapel this weekend when the chaplain held a special showing.</span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="f0342" data-offset-key="2ob5v-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="2ob5v-0-0"><span data-offset-key="2ob5v-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="f0342" data-offset-key="497n7-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="497n7-0-0"><span data-offset-key="497n7-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>Something is a' brewing out there; the kind of signs Jesus told us to watch for, I'm thinking. </b>I hope we can take back the part of our culture that finds stories about faith and belief a thing worth watching and supporting. From the number of films crowd funded by independent donors and people who send in their 5 dollars because they want to see a movie they can feel good about seeing, film-makers seem to have discovered a way to produce movies that don't necessarily appeal to jaded Hollywood producers. It seems millions of movie-goers and non-movie goers are willing to put up their own cash to see wholesome films that lift the spirit, instead of being stuck with movies that glorify violence, illicit sex and crime. </span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="497n7-0-0"><span data-offset-key="497n7-0-0"><span data-text="true"> </span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="497n7-0-0"><span data-offset-key="497n7-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>Lately, the proverbial fig tree has been putting forth leaves so to speak.</b> This makes me happy.</span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="497n7-0-0"><span data-offset-key="497n7-0-0"><span data-text="true"> </span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="497n7-0-0"><span data-offset-key="497n7-0-0"><span data-text="true">© 2023 by Tom King <br /></span></span></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-91406856790701922192023-01-15T17:34:00.001-06:002023-01-15T17:35:41.616-06:00A Very Funny Guy<p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9v267DyNmdkQO5EyDSIS4fnsKsNlH_C5fO6k_FmwQ5WwLk8pZIfUQ1rETKxZKIp1yLCn54SITMs_6uPPVc7Mzw9ZcZHuKyr_mkeHBiGQQkNjmFO2mQDwnuRB0YDdfdtpoj3y2ppvr6H-LK24pdIobpzxhqBhM9vM10n98NIy28lFFEOroDA/s1466/1993%20leading%20singing%20at%20game.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1030" data-original-width="1466" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9v267DyNmdkQO5EyDSIS4fnsKsNlH_C5fO6k_FmwQ5WwLk8pZIfUQ1rETKxZKIp1yLCn54SITMs_6uPPVc7Mzw9ZcZHuKyr_mkeHBiGQQkNjmFO2mQDwnuRB0YDdfdtpoj3y2ppvr6H-LK24pdIobpzxhqBhM9vM10n98NIy28lFFEOroDA/w395-h278/1993%20leading%20singing%20at%20game.jpg" width="395" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Micah leading the singing of the girl's team's fight song.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /><b>It's been more than a decade since the terrible
day our beloved son, Micah died</b>. I did CPR for 30 minutes while waiting
for the ambulance and couldn't bring him back. It was the worst day of my life and I've
had plenty of bad days. Sheila and I got through that day but it feels
strange. It doesn't seem like more than a decade since we last heard him drive up
in the driveway after work and burst through the front door looking for
something to eat. In many ways our lives fell apa<span class="text_exposed_show">rt
in the aftermath - Sheila's illness, our jobs went away, we lost our
home, moved far from our families, passed through poverty, homelessness,
our other son sick and in prison because of it. We lost most everything
of worldly value that we have worked for. </span></p><p><span class="text_exposed_show"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTAs_jSGS4Qlhh5VzpgK9DndKuVRR_r_LUwGCvAFwEYg2uUYs6EFkgzRRfbA1OJYyPKlH1lgPXsi-F2DUVmJYTjRDGgHKy2xV4uC87ApGooZutt3qGTJbyDq2CzzuNPR7JRf8rnHdiAOcbf3pVNb5dUbhIzZerhQS8XAVwYDw1fnHKGbKvLg/s1325/1979%20Micah%20hooray.tif" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="1325" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTAs_jSGS4Qlhh5VzpgK9DndKuVRR_r_LUwGCvAFwEYg2uUYs6EFkgzRRfbA1OJYyPKlH1lgPXsi-F2DUVmJYTjRDGgHKy2xV4uC87ApGooZutt3qGTJbyDq2CzzuNPR7JRf8rnHdiAOcbf3pVNb5dUbhIzZerhQS8XAVwYDw1fnHKGbKvLg/w412-h259/1979%20Micah%20hooray.tif" width="412" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Gray day at the beach - Micah scooping up the ocean with a fork.<br /></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span><span class="text_exposed_show"><b>And here we stand, trusting in God
that all things do, in fact, work together for good to them that love
God.</b> The devil doesn't like anyone who passes through the fire and
clings to their faith in spite of it. Our daughter and son-in-law,
however, are pillars of the church and are doing well. Sheila's health
is stabilized. It doesn't mean the challenges are done, but we face them
trusting in Jesus. We can do nothing else here at the world's end, save
stand and fight. Thank you all for your many prayers and your wonderful
support in our hours of need. We love you all and pray for you
constantly. God bless you all. Here are a couple of stories friends sent me about Micah. They give me courage.</span><br />
<p></p><p></p><ul>
<li><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="UFICommentBody _1n4g"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDae1dpw_FDnT4vUr3Ee3fszB-MeSgdZC3J50uP8yXADcC2NOmo_47n3AQE1YqeshqkhVbJ_nvye7JbfmGwGuQnrgNfgw83C_9nClmSvmkr7gd54LNyhyidGkiCj4uMrUDox2HvvGApGbR9FaKQPjZWvWI62GDTCegBuDPMf8F2QuHSmclpw/s1800/2003%20mission%20trip%20jordan%20and%20micah%20working.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1800" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDae1dpw_FDnT4vUr3Ee3fszB-MeSgdZC3J50uP8yXADcC2NOmo_47n3AQE1YqeshqkhVbJ_nvye7JbfmGwGuQnrgNfgw83C_9nClmSvmkr7gd54LNyhyidGkiCj4uMrUDox2HvvGApGbR9FaKQPjZWvWI62GDTCegBuDPMf8F2QuHSmclpw/w254-h188/2003%20mission%20trip%20jordan%20and%20micah%20working.jpg" width="254" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Micah & Jordan in Mexico</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>I
often think of Micah, and his beautiful love for Christ and others. I
still will never forget the Mexico trip we were both on, and our bus
arrived at this out-of-the way area with small cabins and a main
building. The only food sent on the bus was an
entire box of flour tortillas... So around 6:00 PM that night, Micah
came to my cabin, and said, ""I've been foraging for food, Paula, and I
have found a really old bull roaming this property! Now I know a lot
of folks here are vegetarian, but come sun-up, I think most of 'em would
change their minds and eat BEEF Fajitas!". Then he added with
resignation, "Besides, it's an old bull, And since I've got this
(brandishing a large Bowie knife), I think I can take him! So If Harley
and the food hasn't shown up by midnight, I'm killing the bull, and
prepping him! All I need you to do is get a fire going on this
brick-built grill, while these guys (motioning to a few young college
kids) can gather fire wood for you!" - Paula Westbrook</span></span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ZA7ga9BHZCwLg3uclsvLh7NMKqIMJYwRri2aDDQyrWp1wL9bLoz28epUXFIV83FK73qKVmQDy-gwhYeUUsEDyNr4uPIS1JoynnpFaJA52_-KV6tKpxoympmAN2tiZxsAOjwkE7GRfRYDpkg-L0Nx6CKEFnVQeM3CXjQ7chtg91wZJXJK1A/s875/1994%20b%20ball%204.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="875" data-original-width="595" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ZA7ga9BHZCwLg3uclsvLh7NMKqIMJYwRri2aDDQyrWp1wL9bLoz28epUXFIV83FK73qKVmQDy-gwhYeUUsEDyNr4uPIS1JoynnpFaJA52_-KV6tKpxoympmAN2tiZxsAOjwkE7GRfRYDpkg-L0Nx6CKEFnVQeM3CXjQ7chtg91wZJXJK1A/w176-h258/1994%20b%20ball%204.jpg" width="176" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Micah "The Wall" King</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto">In
1993 our son Micah played basketball for Keene High<br /> School. The boys
team played first and then the girls played. I think this game was at
Blum, Texas - big Keene Charger rivals. Between games one of the girls
on the team complained to Micah that the girls always rooted (loudly)
for the boys team, but the guys didn't seem interested in supporting the
girls when they were on the court. As the girls team took the court,
Micah rounded up the boys, stood them up and led the Keene
crowd in singing the girls team's fight song. Someone took a picture of
the moment (top of the page). That's Micah on the far right with the Big Dog sign in his
hand, singing his heart out for the girls. </span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"> <br /></span></li></ul><ul><li><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Gb5LZ3MmBeBWuhcT3dzVE2cbljoLUaf_dpYB6pgL0OGFod-kchUCHr-KxAMpjhtx-tMdEeKd8e3hn67xA87s5CWz-lClHsW-FkxmIxCRXHyHA0EDtD-smArctXwKIGW839Bq41gn5forcM0rFfwCNryomY_4mXo-h2SWxs1VgeKW07jFlw/s2844/1988%20in%20the%20blowup%20pool.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2124" data-original-width="2844" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Gb5LZ3MmBeBWuhcT3dzVE2cbljoLUaf_dpYB6pgL0OGFod-kchUCHr-KxAMpjhtx-tMdEeKd8e3hn67xA87s5CWz-lClHsW-FkxmIxCRXHyHA0EDtD-smArctXwKIGW839Bq41gn5forcM0rFfwCNryomY_4mXo-h2SWxs1VgeKW07jFlw/w249-h185/1988%20in%20the%20blowup%20pool.jpg" width="249" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Micah playing shark with our daycare kids.</i></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Micah worked at Little Caesar's Pizza while he was in high school. He and a friend managed the store by themselves. His partner one day was in the back making a pizza when he heard the bell on the door jingle he waited to hear Micah greet the customer. After a while he went to the front to see what was going on. A customer stood at the counter. Micah was nowhere in sight. Micah's partner went to the counter and said, "Welcome to Little Caesar's." He nearly jumped out of his pants when he felt a tug at his cuff. He stepped back and look down to see Micah, all 6'3", 280 pounds of him folded up inside the space under the counter, grinning from ear to ear. Micah's partner had no idea what to do next. He wound up taking the customer's order and pretending there was nothing wrong. When he went back to make the customer's order, Micah crawled out from under the counter and acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary for your friendly neighborhood Little Caesar's. The poor customer looked utterly confused, but sat quietly till his pizza came out. Micah had a weird sense of humor.</span></li></ul><ul><li><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2PHopyfOEFECGFk44CCKd9WcDiPVDSoE7z8oo8U-OFjVCZWx-cGWIWDQXietkQKnAb4v4aFOyR3YjRagU868yEO4NACYjfspwMs9PkVyQeOJeApJTgCkRBLiBmoHOX-28XT-NFU9KA0rzzIULArdn_T4kDVZur-HWR4sAcKaq_G2RF3O8og/s2048/after%20graduation%20001.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2PHopyfOEFECGFk44CCKd9WcDiPVDSoE7z8oo8U-OFjVCZWx-cGWIWDQXietkQKnAb4v4aFOyR3YjRagU868yEO4NACYjfspwMs9PkVyQeOJeApJTgCkRBLiBmoHOX-28XT-NFU9KA0rzzIULArdn_T4kDVZur-HWR4sAcKaq_G2RF3O8og/s320/after%20graduation%20001.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Micah with his Boys & Girls Club kids</span></i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table> A mother approached us at Micah's memorial. Her elementary school son played the trumpet. He had been invited to play a trumpet solo at the First Baptist Church, the second largest church in Tyler. He was terrified. He confided his fears with Micah during Boys & Girls Club after school the week before. Micah encouraged the boy to go ahead and play. He shared stories with the boy of his own struggles with stage fright. He sometimes would shake so hard, people on the stage could feel the floor vibrate. What Micah did for the little trumpeter was get up early on Sunday morning, went down to the First Baptist Church and sat down on the front row next to the boy. "Don't look at anyone else," Micah told him. "Look at me. Keep your eyes on me while you play and you'll be alright." The boy gave a perfect performance. Micah came home that day and never told us what he had done. The boy's mother told us how grateful she was for what Micah had done for her boy. "My son," she said, "trusted and loved Micah and that got him past his fear."</span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"> <br /></span></li></ul><ul><li><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBcHMgBpCeZzNm3cXlByvDt2LUJfe5vohagQl7AXS0NlkLdZJ1TmB45UcHePxHFl6ZNIiWFvFUylvOc3RLW44B0JJYo9G52Rz7M9D0rG8zeawDq9-Rkwq1rro4OXzwwKOuAv2MEGRnXw3iQYKu_SO5rP_TcAbbTHH2gOB9dcd8MMO4Y-gYA/s640/IM000594.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBcHMgBpCeZzNm3cXlByvDt2LUJfe5vohagQl7AXS0NlkLdZJ1TmB45UcHePxHFl6ZNIiWFvFUylvOc3RLW44B0JJYo9G52Rz7M9D0rG8zeawDq9-Rkwq1rro4OXzwwKOuAv2MEGRnXw3iQYKu_SO5rP_TcAbbTHH2gOB9dcd8MMO4Y-gYA/w232-h174/IM000594.JPG" width="232" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Micah's daycare class</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Two weeks before his death, Micah was talking to a friend. They talked about the future, girl troubles and school. Suddenly, Micah asked, "Do you think anyone would miss me if I died?" I kind of think he knew God was telling him his time was short. I can answer his question now. There's not a day goes by I don't think of Micah. His Mom is the same. Everyone I know remembers our gentle giant fondly. Many of his kids have come to us years later to tell us how much they miss him. </span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"> <br /></span></li></ul><ul><li><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbv_FDtgz5VkBtAyCoUJvcgbwdUxaoP4pkvOi6fRJrJK6_uo0ePPPCldi0kfsZ6vGNhhCfW7wGy_Ngc9mUxAcrk4fscvVz_3kYgwCtj9wKQtLv1wnmHyyArlbVDe_xLYxut7tBuSjmYDhtvjoh9fyBoFZOWtHa9Rg_Z3tf3XRqOLV1BiI2xg/s792/1988%20nature%20reserve%20with%20Mom%201.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="792" data-original-width="552" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbv_FDtgz5VkBtAyCoUJvcgbwdUxaoP4pkvOi6fRJrJK6_uo0ePPPCldi0kfsZ6vGNhhCfW7wGy_Ngc9mUxAcrk4fscvVz_3kYgwCtj9wKQtLv1wnmHyyArlbVDe_xLYxut7tBuSjmYDhtvjoh9fyBoFZOWtHa9Rg_Z3tf3XRqOLV1BiI2xg/s320/1988%20nature%20reserve%20with%20Mom%201.jpg" width="223" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Making another memory with Mom.</i></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table> One day I went out in the backyard of our daycare center one stiflingly hot Texas day and found Micah sitting in a wheelbarrow full of water spraying jets of water into the air with a hose. "What ARE you doing?" I asked looking at the growing puddle in the middle of the playground. "I'm makin' a memory," he replied. It was Sunday and the puddle would evaporate by sundown so I figured no harm, no foul. The boy (I say "boy", he was over 6 feet 250 pounds by then) gave me a sheepish grin. I gave him a thumbs up and left him to his memory making. I told his Mom to look out the back window and told her what he said he was doing. She cried a little. Moms are easily made misty-eyed.<br /></span></li></ul><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><b>The mark of a life well-lived is the hole it leaves when that life ends. </b>Our church has never been so filled for a funeral than it was for Micah's memorial service. The stories that we told of his life at the service made us laugh and cry. I've seldom seen a funeral service quite like it. I miss him and look forward to Jesus' coming when he will rise and all of us will together be caught up in the clouds to go home with Him. What a day that will be!<br /></span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto">© 2022 by Tom King </span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs x1xmvt09 x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x1f6kntn xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><br /></span></p><div><br /><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-82975161914594016832022-12-17T05:05:00.007-06:002022-12-17T05:13:40.594-06:00Thou Shalt Not Touch????<p><span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAJB6L7xAXDLLkkJ4tYlLpIG57Pf1XCuq_NlLNBA1WMiI8K6D7sLw-ZfDss1iC1Fq-UJfaKgBJ-V7X5Te5JGWkPlplEjneSs6av6U7IHpkZwakKSnTNvXr3xXrNkhoMyGK2BUoqYTWuAfFze_TVjdzS_gKL3LvHrlHcoVjpngJvNoqQ1BFbg/s576/100_5470.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="384" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAJB6L7xAXDLLkkJ4tYlLpIG57Pf1XCuq_NlLNBA1WMiI8K6D7sLw-ZfDss1iC1Fq-UJfaKgBJ-V7X5Te5JGWkPlplEjneSs6av6U7IHpkZwakKSnTNvXr3xXrNkhoMyGK2BUoqYTWuAfFze_TVjdzS_gKL3LvHrlHcoVjpngJvNoqQ1BFbg/s320/100_5470.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>My friend Miss Mary Bob</i></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span><b>In this age of CoVid they're telling us we all need to maintain something called "social distancing".</b>
Also the public health Nazis say that things like hugging friends and
kissing friends on the cheek need to be things of the past and never
reintroduced into the culture. We're basically being told that we ought
to keep our hands to ourselves.</span></p><p><span><b>Well, not me.</b> I'm a hugger and I WILL kiss your cheek. I'll kiss both of your cheeks. <i>I draw the line, however, at kissing anyone's butt cheeks.</i> Seriously though, I read somewhere that a human being needs at least 17 hugs a day to stay mentally healthy. I am not ashamed to show affection, but I have been told before that this is childish, immature, confusing, etc. to some people. That's just too bad. I believe that we will hug each other in heaven and I am practicing to be a citizen of that wonderful place here on this earth where we need all the bits of heaven we can get.</span></p><p><span><b>As for being childish, Jesus said, "Except you become as a little child, you shall not see the kingdom of heaven."</b> If I love you, and this includes nearly everybody I know, I will tell you, I will show you. I will cry with you and rejoice with you and there is a place for you in my heart. If you betray me, I will forgive you. If you hate me I will pray for you. This love comes from the Holy Spirit, a gift from God I've had since I was a child. I am not starving for affection. but I have a healthy appetite for your love. </span><br /><br /><span>Even so, come Lord Jesus.<br /></span></p><p><span><i>Sheila King*</i><br />© 2022</span></p><p><span>*Thanks to my Sweet Baboo for the guest post this week.<br />-Tom<br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-88261186796796317562022-08-16T19:30:00.003-05:002022-08-20T12:54:53.895-05:00The Hands of God <h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><i><b><span style="font-size: small;">How God Used a Clock to Remind a Grieving Mother of His Promise</span><br /></b></i></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;"><i><b></b></i></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;"><i><b></b></i></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;"><i><b></b></i></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;"><i><b></b></i></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;"><i><b></b></i></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;"><i><b></b></i></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;"><i><b></b></i></h3><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilYbMwR08BZgJo0UsgxiaPOPGsJn22q0SYIkiuLp9h8p5XzLNBihMNkBLVeWKQASjZEV_A2W8TTCkYbwB52d1gPH6LOFP5plFQ6_KGlH-DqBh6LBqBoGk-AunHIXRsZuRA47zuUfk9yL2BAlzz2k6fHhyMlV3AsHk-nHagsmEw74uuztsaYg/s576/Howard%20Miller%20Clock%201-13.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="576" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilYbMwR08BZgJo0UsgxiaPOPGsJn22q0SYIkiuLp9h8p5XzLNBihMNkBLVeWKQASjZEV_A2W8TTCkYbwB52d1gPH6LOFP5plFQ6_KGlH-DqBh6LBqBoGk-AunHIXRsZuRA47zuUfk9yL2BAlzz2k6fHhyMlV3AsHk-nHagsmEw74uuztsaYg/w277-h277/Howard%20Miller%20Clock%201-13.jpg" width="277" /></a></b></div><b>We experienced another of God's little miracles; the sort that come along when God needs to remind you he's still there. </b>First a little background. It was March 7, 1975 around nine or ten o'clock in the evening. Sheila had been in labor since 2 am that morning. The doctor gave her something for pain and she was in and out of it. Labor pains would come and she'd sit up and holler. King babies come in 9 pound plus sizes with enormous heads. Matt was no different. Several of her friends and I were sitting with her, talking and waiting. <p></p><p><b>Suddenly, she sat up, said, "Isaiah 54: 1 and 13."</b> Then she passed out again. We looked it up in a Bible we had on the bedside table. It said, (vs. 1) "Sing aloud, O barren woman, you who have not been in labor; break forth into singing
and rejoice, you who have not travailed with child; for more are the
children of the barren than the children of her that is beloved by her
husband, says the LORD. (vs 13) <span class="p">And all your sons shall be taught of the LORD; And great shall be the peace of your children."<span class="p"></span></span></p><p><span class="p"><span class="p"><b>Turns out we had to trust in that promise a lot with our boys, but God has "taught" all of our children over the years in one manner or the other.</b> A little warning about that, though. God doesn't always teach your children the way we think He ought to. Parents' instinct is to protect their children from danger, pain, and discomfort. God often prefers to pull the rug out from under the little wahoos and let 'em take a tumble. We often had to take a deep breath, let them fall and pray, "God, we trust you know what you're doing."</span></span></p><p><span class="p"><span class="p"><b>As you may know if you read this column regularly, we lost our middle son, Micah, in 2006.</b> Fourteen years earlier, Sheila wrote a song called <i>Corin the Piper</i>. She didn't know where it came from and wasn't her usual style. <a href="https://twayneking.blogspot.com/www.geocities.com/micahking/corin.mpg" target="_blank">I've written about how the song came back to comfort her when he died.</a> This wasn't the first time God checked in on us to let us know He is still there making things work out as he promised.</span></span></p><p><span class="p"><span class="p"><b>Most recently, we were talking to Matt on the phone and he mentioned something that happened to him that he believed was a little comforting sign from God.</b> We were talking about the time his wife had decided to leave him. He had been suffering the effect of increasing symptoms of hereditary bipolar disorder. He had been going through his files looking for documents he would need when she divorced him. He came upon a copy of his birth certificate we'd ordered for him a few years back. What caught his eye was the only bit of color on the black and white document - a red stamp showing the date the copy was made - October 18. Something about it nagged at him as he finished sorting through the little pile of paper that documented his life. </span></span></p><p><span class="p"><span class="p"><b>At the time my son had been reading one of those Bible-in-a Year plans.</b> The reading guide was there beside the gathering pile of documents. He turned to October 18 and the central chapter was Isaiah 54. Verse 1 caught his eye - "Sing aloud o' barren woman...." He glanced down to verse 13. "Your sons shall be taught by the Lord." He took the verses as a reminder that God was watching him and would continue to be his teacher. Every day to this day we pray for him and with him at 1:13 pm, a reminder of those promise texts from the night of his birth.<br /></span></span></p><p><span class="p"><span class="p"><b></b></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidszSVlvAQoqexN4isMcLOE5J_MPE5PeJe89ze9jK8oJ0wI3UeE1u4_IL74TaN0T_Fi6R0daCiIYCTdzLfKKkpsyCCVJz_pLSUwvEZF6l57_Lg6VecOf0AgQb9fz0JUQOHmiN3b7XqeEbNWXcpqdehr34NZy2cafcSPrdY2vUaoleluqk3aw/s900/1995%20Micah%20portrait.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="645" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidszSVlvAQoqexN4isMcLOE5J_MPE5PeJe89ze9jK8oJ0wI3UeE1u4_IL74TaN0T_Fi6R0daCiIYCTdzLfKKkpsyCCVJz_pLSUwvEZF6l57_Lg6VecOf0AgQb9fz0JUQOHmiN3b7XqeEbNWXcpqdehr34NZy2cafcSPrdY2vUaoleluqk3aw/w181-h253/1995%20Micah%20portrait.jpg" width="181" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Micah 1995<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span class="p"><span class="p"><b>Later, after we talked to him that day, I was struck by a memory from the night Micah passed away.</b> We'd just got our antique Howard Miller mantel clock back from the clockmaker. As it began to chime for us once again, we were drawn back to that terrible night. Sheila and I had gone to bed early while Micah was still up watching television in bed. We had already gone to sleep and the house was quiet. Micah's movie tape had ended and everything was still. Suddenly, there was whir as the clock chime tried to spin up. Then there was a pronounced single click as the chime gear attempted to move the hammers to sound the chime. But the chime spring had wound down and couldn't turn the chime mechanism. Sheila woke straight up at the click sound and sudden quiet that followed. Immediately, she had very a bad feeling. She woke me up and in an urgent voice said, "Go check on your son." I hurried to his room. To my horror, Micah was rolled over, face down in a pillow. He'd evidently had a seizure. He'd had nighttime seizures since his teens; something that had shown little response to treatment. He slept with a CPAP machine to help him breathe and keep his oxygen levels up. That night he'd gone to sleep without putting the CPAP mask on. </span></span><p></p><p><span class="p"><span class="p"><b>Flipping on the light, I rushed to his bedside.</b> I rolled him over, checked his pulse and finding none, began CPR while Sheila called 911. It was close to half an hour before the ambulance arrived and took over. We followed them to the hospital that night, praying all the way. The next three days and nights were a heart-breaking nightmare.</span></span></p><p><b>But while Sheila and I were talking about that night, we were again blaming ourselves.</b> We went to bed early. We didn't make sure he put on his CPAP. We failed to look out for him. Where was God's promise for our children? Sheila said she would never forget the moment the clock stopped. I do to. And I remember the time exactly. It was 1:13 am. The clock has a peculiar glitch. It always chimes about 2 minutes early - some kind of mechanical defect. It still rings at 13 minutes, 28, 43, and 58 minutes. I suspect God has prevented the clockmakers, who had twice attempted to repair the clock, from fixing the chime so that it ran on time. They never did, though I had spent more than $350 dollars on repairs over the years. </p><p>That night the hands of the clock stopped precisely at 1:13 am. I've known this for years, but never connected it to Isaiah 54, verses 1 and 13! It was our promise that God left us - a note on the hands of the clock that awful moment to let us know He was still watching. Even in that awful moment, He was taking care of our son. And He also left us a sign to comfort us 16 years later, when it was just the two of us 3000 miles from home and our kids and feeling again the pain of losing a child. Micah was such a good person and it was hard to understand why he was taken from us.<br /></p><p><span class="p"><span class="p"><b>But our God is a kind God; much more so than we give Him credit for. </b>Remembering that little handwritten note from God, was such a comfort to Sheila. Micah's mom still grieves for him all these long years later. That terrible night God laid His hands on the clock and stopped it at 1:13, saying, "Fear not my children. Remember my promise. I loved Micah. He'll be safe with me till I come for you both. The peace I promise is his and can be yours if you only believe."</span></span></p><p><span class="p"><span class="p"><b>And God keeps giving us little signs and wonders to remind us we are loved by Him.</b> He left his thumbprint that awful night. Then, sixteen years later, just when we needed His reassurance again, God reminded us that he'd already left us a message that night so long ago. <br /></span></span></p><p><span class="p"><span class="p">© 2022 <b><i>by Tom King</i></b><br /></span></span></p><p><span class="p"><span class="p"><br /></span> <br /><br /></span><a id="otnt" name="otnt"><br /></a></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><br /></h3><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-59454227028662711452022-06-14T20:09:00.006-05:002022-06-14T20:31:07.483-05:00Six Weeks from Everywhere<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEj-X2gCmnt5rUB5glyCZhWGa2hmFMtueKHADv4M8UnA54HGf_AUwgzHDcVA0LEtvqKPKk3rp7WuQPXQW5t6ZhHYcgYvunw-HA7n7b7C90b7h1IGrkr4_WmlT4SnCxcawD7UJlzggFJSAGMvkmFdCM-GOq8lm-JsWQ_m7-84L9BAiNXTtKHQ/s522/Keene%20Water%20Tower.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="375" height="373" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEj-X2gCmnt5rUB5glyCZhWGa2hmFMtueKHADv4M8UnA54HGf_AUwgzHDcVA0LEtvqKPKk3rp7WuQPXQW5t6ZhHYcgYvunw-HA7n7b7C90b7h1IGrkr4_WmlT4SnCxcawD7UJlzggFJSAGMvkmFdCM-GOq8lm-JsWQ_m7-84L9BAiNXTtKHQ/w268-h373/Keene%20Water%20Tower.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><b>I grew up in the little town of Keene, Texas. </b>I watched this water tower being built and for several years operated a day care center with the tower practically in my backyard. I grew up in Keene during the late 50s and finished college there in 1976. I got a special medallion with my graduation cap to celebrate my class being bicentennial graduates.<p></p><p><b>A lot of my peers like to get on Facebook and wail about how their childhoods in Keene were so terrible. </b>Most of them do it because they are fighting feelings of guilt for leaving the Adventist Church. They didn't want the inconvenience of Sabbath observance or to have their worldly lifestyles cramped. It's pretty much a typical teenage rebellion and it starts when hormones start running wild and kids want to do things their parents would prefer that they wait before doing.<br /></p><p><b>Keene is (or was) a Seventh-day Adventist town.</b> It's grown and because it's such a nice little town, a lot of non-Adventists have moved into town and set up shop. Adventists are fundamentalist Bible Christian church. My great great grandfather, Elder Horatio B. French signed the church charter and helped establish the original Keene Industrial Academy that became the heart of the town. Elder French baptized better than half the newly minted Texas Adventists of the early 20th century. He was the traveling/baptizing pastor serving churches that didn't have a pastor yet. My family's history is deeply embedded in the town's history. The first hospital/sanitarium in Johnson County was in what became my grandparents' cow pasture. The roadbed of the Old Betsy Railway cut off a corner of their property next to the stock tank. I went to school from first grade to a BA degree right there in town. My great grandfather taught in the original Keene Public School. I did my student teaching in the elementary church school. My great grandfather's students became my teachers. </p><p><b>The town stood on the highest spot in Johnson County which isn't saying much.</b> Tornadoes for some reason (something to do with angels) avoid the town. For years we had no police department. When we finally did there were only two officers, Jake Howard, our neighbor, and my stepdad Ralph DeLaune who stuck lights on the family Rambler and patrolled on weekends. Mom turned us out on summer mornings, we ran loose in the town and surrounding woods, and we came home when the sun went down, often with a jar full of fireflies to light out way. There were no streetlights in town in those days and the streets themselves were all gravel with grader ditches. </p><p><b>The secret to having a happy childhood in Keene back in my day, I am convinced, was to not care about being one of the popular kids.</b> If you didn't care about them, they had no power over you. Me, I had no chance to join that august assemblage. I was a nerd, skinny with thick glasses and most of the time had white tape across the broken bridge of my specs. Teachers set all the honor roll students on the front rows and in my public school days, most of my class of 35-40 kids in 2 grades were either too poor for church school or had been kicked out or were the few isolated Baptists in the public school district. Meaner than second skimmings some of them. They liked to knock me around for their collective amusement.<br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Edo6CP-swr-CpwERMgHDlgioNHiIRXSMwleh4_-01vjGDmA3W5bjHz6CfNO3l3hu7l8tXY2pqYxYjD0jg-Vv1a6qCugVIeI4XpvrqTX1YwLIy365hWx88QRnwxCtlRIPG3ZB-Lo1RstwhtofUbP8nm14HFscenNi9p1P8kZov5MKTihtrw/s1200/packages.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Edo6CP-swr-CpwERMgHDlgioNHiIRXSMwleh4_-01vjGDmA3W5bjHz6CfNO3l3hu7l8tXY2pqYxYjD0jg-Vv1a6qCugVIeI4XpvrqTX1YwLIy365hWx88QRnwxCtlRIPG3ZB-Lo1RstwhtofUbP8nm14HFscenNi9p1P8kZov5MKTihtrw/s320/packages.jpg" width="320" /></a><b>Early in my life I discovered two important things. </b> One, you can get a job throwing papers when you are in 6th grade. The route was five miles long, up hill and down, rain, snow, sleet or hail. I made $5 a week which I collected on Sunday (that's when Adventists and agnostics were all home in Keene). The Cleburne Times-Review didn't publish a Saturday edition. That's so they could take off on Sunday. It worked out perfectly for me because I couldn't throw papers on Saturday. All the businesses in town at that time closed up from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday and Seventh-day Adventists don't do business on Saturday. Not even delivering papers. So the local newspaper business had a kind of symbiotic relationship with their Adventist neighbors.<br /></p><p><b>The second important thing I discovered was the miracle of mail order.</b> I picked up the newspapers I delivered on the loading dock at the post office where we had a PO Box for years. As my reading for pleasure expanded, I discovered the classified ads in the back of Boy's Life and various comic books and such. For a few dollars I could get all sorts of things through the mail - flying airplanes, toy soldiers, catapults, and a subscription to the science fiction book club. I built a sci-fi library to rival the Carnegie Library's in Cleburne where I pedaled my bike to on weekends, dodging dogs and climbing hilly gravel roads all 10 miles there and back. </p><p><b>Back in those days, we were apparently more tolerant of delay.</b> Virtually everything I ordered from the back of Popular Mechanics, Popular Science and other such magazines, carried a warning label. </p><p><b>PLEASE ALLOW SIX WEEKS FOR DELIVERY.</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsfOukKFGYjAx1a-FCM0PpyRqeYGeUZ_8gS7CuO8o3fFLff0puQVmVY-H6Tmw4--QntH-ggiGTL_0NPyTmGku_HXhoBWky8qltRQESdcDHiLRYaHYk0Jtq0YH6GKhPVWMKDE5leZKGJ7otnHrOlOd1HuPWB9vPYRjaz-RvLcoJznDjJyr5uw/s1910/postman%20delivers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1910" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsfOukKFGYjAx1a-FCM0PpyRqeYGeUZ_8gS7CuO8o3fFLff0puQVmVY-H6Tmw4--QntH-ggiGTL_0NPyTmGku_HXhoBWky8qltRQESdcDHiLRYaHYk0Jtq0YH6GKhPVWMKDE5leZKGJ7otnHrOlOd1HuPWB9vPYRjaz-RvLcoJznDjJyr5uw/w564-h296/postman%20delivers.jpg" width="564" /></a></div><b>When you are 12 years old, six weeks is an eternity.</b> I'm not sure whether it was because they had no robots to pull stuff from the warehouses, or because they just weren't in all that much of a hurry. One thing it did was teach me patience. As a kid with galloping ADD, patience was a skill I very much needed.<p></p><p><b>Anyway, though Keene seemed to be six weeks from everywhere in the world, I became addicted to buying stuff by mail.</b> I took up slot cars and found a whole company that sold slot cars, track, tires, motors, frames, decals and everything you could imagine. I learned how to buy a money order, fill out an order blank and send off for stuff. I bought model rockets, models of things the local five and dime didn't stock, and supplied for the 47 hobbies I carried on in my bedroom workshop. </p><p><b>As an adult, Sears, Montgomery Wards, and various mail order houses scratched my itch to send myself gifts in the mail. </b>As a grownup, I still liked getting those packages in the mail.</p><p><b>AND THEN CAME AMAZON!</b> What a wonderful idea. I was already a fanatic reader and they started out with books, sucked me in and then expanded the range of things they sell astronomically. Then I discovered eBay and debit cards and it was off to the races. I have Amazon Prime and no car, so there is always a steady stream of stuff rolling up the driveway that I got shipped to me free. Walmart's even bringing me my groceries. It's Christmas every day. I even send stuff to my family straight from Amazon. It's cheaper if it qualifies for Prime shipping and it gets there faster than if I went to the post office, picked up a money order, sent my order in, waited six weeks and then reshipped it to Mom for her birthday. </p><p><b>Thanks to Fedex, Amazon delivery, UPS and other competitors, even the US Post Office has gotten faster and more efficient. </b> </p><p><b>So now, I'm down to three days from everywhere on average.</b> I get cranky if I have to wait a week. I even run a little mail order website and print the shipping on my computer. People talk about the good old days and the good old days definitely had merit. We had lots more horned toads, fireflies, and trees you could climb that weren't forbidden by insurance companies. But if I'd had three day Prime shipping and streaming video, who knows if I would have ever worked up the enthusiasm to get out of the house and become an adult.</p><p><b>I think I became an old man during a crucial social, political and cultural upheaval</b>. Not a bad time to be alive. Anyway, the Schwann's guy just delivered two frozen pizzas, I've got Amazon coming this afternoon with a package of guard rails for my Carrerra Go Slot car set, and tomorrow a guy on eBay is sending me a usb fan to cool my 3 tb hard drive that has all my movies on it. And Sheila's got a bottle of vinyl floor polish that will be here Thursday, same day her prescription refill will arrive.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin8sRffLZw1O5cxrnMWokWf4Gc5qckW0pJaY-16xtyhdMxw7hoPkZFG0uBp8oSL_7oCN5PIqToGrH4TAYO0ROuL-v2_JKLgQtKwG41DxI07ypkoT2TTEZfnx5mza_cVdFoBlDR38UOS34yE-uSNy93o-8p_55_T6tuAecGcnQfSIYsdFmGzw/s2048/Eli%20Batman%20cape.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin8sRffLZw1O5cxrnMWokWf4Gc5qckW0pJaY-16xtyhdMxw7hoPkZFG0uBp8oSL_7oCN5PIqToGrH4TAYO0ROuL-v2_JKLgQtKwG41DxI07ypkoT2TTEZfnx5mza_cVdFoBlDR38UOS34yE-uSNy93o-8p_55_T6tuAecGcnQfSIYsdFmGzw/s320/Eli%20Batman%20cape.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><b>We've come a long way from the days of six weeks from everywhere.</b> We've even got our five year old grandson hooked on receiving packages from Grammy and Poppy (mostly Grammy). Grammy just outfitted him with Batman outfit complete with mask and cape - all ordered from my desktop and delivered in 3 days.<p></p><p><b>I really like living "3 days from everywhere."</b> We don't have a car. We're old and arthritic and don't get around very well. We're kind of back to where we were as kids. Thank heaven for those wonderful packages. They don't take nearly as long. And icing on the cake? My town just got an Amazon Warehouse that opened up just a couple of miles from our house. Some stuff comes the same day or the next from there. </p><p><b>Is this a great country or what?</b><br /></p><p> © 2022 <i>by Tom King</i><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-12135202697703687772022-06-12T03:27:00.003-05:002022-06-12T22:16:21.679-05:00If Biden Keeps it Up He'll Be Missing Some Tax Revenue!<p><b> <br /></b></p><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho5zjybgLHeub6q1P0Z8gNm1ZNBubUhbKq58sFEMB1Pol8NqgOcuGEZGMp3zG7cfXF9ADgtTv1dQt7Qic7KEmTaQtdRJDYviKiamjKdpH7CaezDy5yMYztqWtLVlLDJh7wdt8-xblAwhbM4lsO2JWgBETc51NXBk8_4BfsVQgO6Ess2mhqaA/s600/Texalaskahoma%20Flag.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho5zjybgLHeub6q1P0Z8gNm1ZNBubUhbKq58sFEMB1Pol8NqgOcuGEZGMp3zG7cfXF9ADgtTv1dQt7Qic7KEmTaQtdRJDYviKiamjKdpH7CaezDy5yMYztqWtLVlLDJh7wdt8-xblAwhbM4lsO2JWgBETc51NXBk8_4BfsVQgO6Ess2mhqaA/w471-h313/Texalaskahoma%20Flag.jpg" width="471" /></a></div><br />Our alleged president is really working on making Texans mad. </b>Today his administration announced another critical food shortage. As if baby formula wasn't bad enough, there's a new one on the horizon.<p></p><p><b>IT'S SALSA!</b></p><p><b>That's right folks, no more picante sauce, enchilada sauce, salsa, or taco sauce?</b> Salsa et al is expected to be off the shelf and in short supply elsewhere by summer. And as he did with the supplies of Covid treatment meds, expect President Puddinhead Biden to restrict supplies to Texas and Florida first. It's likely he'll ship any loose truckloads of Pace Picante Sauce to the border. <br /></p><p><b>Next up, he's issued an executive order radically increasing the production of ethanol to be used in fuel. </b>Not that it will lower the cost of fuel any. What it will do is mess up internal combustion engines, fail to cut emission and, more importantly, it will cut corn supplies. </p><p><b>IT COULD LEAD TO A MASSIVE CORN TORTILLA SHORTAGE.</b></p><p><b>What next?</b> We've already got a beef and chicken shortage building. Next thing you know it'll be cheese and then where will we be.</p><p><b>SO LONG MEXICAN FOOD!</b></p><p><b>That will be the point at which Texas and probably Florida will leave the Union.</b> And it will be with the full support of cowboys, Hispanic folks and people everywhere who love Tex-Mex, Whataburger, Dr. Pepper, Chuy's, Taco Bell and those little authentic Mexican taco stands at the Annual Tomatofest, Black-eyed Pea Festival, State Fair, Yamboree, Onionfest, Azalea Festival, Rose Festival and Fat Stock Show.</p><p><b>And don't forget this China Joe.</b> Lockheed makes fighter planes in Ft. Worth. We know how to build ships and the know-how to run a navy. We have a SpaceX Launch base in Corpus Christi, another couple of commercial space companies in West Texas, several Army bases, Air bases, Navy Bases, massive oil refineries and reservoirs of untapped oil. We also make nuclear weapons in Texas and the NASA launch control center is in Houston. We have a massive airline hub in Dallas-Ft. Worth, two NFL teams, three basketball teams, two pro baseball teams, and no income tax. <br /></p><p><b>We also have something like the 5th largest economy in the world and out from under the shackles of Washington's over-regulation, it's liable to rank even higher. </b>With the loss of Texas, as the United States loses Texas' massive power grid with nuclear power plants which have been forced to supply juice all the way up into the northern states. If those states stop sucking power from Texas, we have plenty of fuel for our gas fired power plants. We've even got our own coal, a massive wind farm facility for when the wind blows, offshore oil fields Biden won't let us drill in, and Gulf Coast ports a plenty. We have Halliburton.and dozens of other large construction companies to keep our infrastructure kept up. Halliburton, by the way builds oil platforms. </p><p><b>So go ahead Joe. Makes us mad</b>. I'm betting Oklahoma and most of the heartland would go with us along with Alaska much of the South and Southwest including Tennessee. We'd be an oil producing, food producing, hard-working country. Well-armed and ready. The US Army already has a majority of sergeants who curse fluently in Southern and Texas accents. </p><p><b>We could make Donald Trump the press secretary for the new nation. </b>Just turn him loose on Twitter in case DC isn't paying attention. We also own massive media companies, TV, music and movie production resources. We even have Chuck Norris and the actual Texas Rangers so don't think we're going to put up with Yankee agitators. And we do remember how schools are supposed to be run and what to do with people who commit crimes.<br /></p><p><b>Our national motto could be, "Let's Go Brandon!"</b> Texas already has experience being a stand-alone Republic and we know how to build walls and control borders, so if you Yankees are thinking about swimming the Red River, better check in at the consulate to get permission to enter and a green card because you'll need to work when you get here.<br /><br /><b>Now all we need is a name. Any suggestions?</b></p><p><b> © 2022 <i>by Tom King</i><br /></b></p><p><b> </b></p><p><b> </b><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-18874216589038203682022-06-06T20:23:00.022-05:002022-06-08T19:58:16.964-05:00Life on the Edge: Childhood Adventures of The Flying Dingbat Brothers<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiBlZwx3gY8ly3-ju8jAihBp7xoipjfix3JSO7HgCH9jBXbR9vVZRPpkE9iCyyslzo4r1eevwbI3yFVOG958ZGSbuul7oJYIos0-XH0ElpUgat_TjBLqHr_65igZAvz6g7uUIRv2J3OT6Llh2-Gm4PnLdo3wN5shAxcQ9M534SFY5omye_vQ/s1980/1969%20Donnie%20on%20the%20Mispah%20Gate.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1626" data-original-width="1980" height="406" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiBlZwx3gY8ly3-ju8jAihBp7xoipjfix3JSO7HgCH9jBXbR9vVZRPpkE9iCyyslzo4r1eevwbI3yFVOG958ZGSbuul7oJYIos0-XH0ElpUgat_TjBLqHr_65igZAvz6g7uUIRv2J3OT6Llh2-Gm4PnLdo3wN5shAxcQ9M534SFY5omye_vQ/w493-h406/1969%20Donnie%20on%20the%20Mispah%20Gate.jpg" width="493" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My brother Donnie atop the Mizpah Gate at SW Junior College 1969.<br />Campus security was not amused!<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>We always liked high places.</b> We lived in the treetops in our yard - big oaks with brittle branches. Mom finally quit looking out the kitchen window. The view must have been worrying for a mother. Her two sons, who seemed to believe they were either Tarzan or Cheetah, would inevitably be swinging from the branches of the brittle old post oaks in our back yard or making like a gibbon, swinging arm over arm from branch to branch of the Chinaberry trees. We were pretty good at it too, though Donnie was somewhat better than me. My mom one day found one neighbor kid dangling from the Chinaberry with a broken bone (leg or arm, I don't remember). He had attemped the arm over arm trip round the Chinaberry that my brother and I used to do, only he was scared so he tied a rope around his leg in case he fell. <p></p><p><b>He did!</b></p><p><b>It's fortunate he didn't tie the rope round his neck.</b> Mom cut him down and called Edward's mom and he went off to the doctor. Nobody got sued for childhood stupidity fortunately. We were safe anyway as we were too poor to sue.<br /><b><br /></b></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAYeXu5FMGNdkGNFDppMPGy5UWV3xeRX4G0JT96iBaaJK5Zns-l7iAKViExa1zbAkhD5qBgwx9JD5yidAHfIjUy6qCDoxMoctb0OavlvSxmhs_94sTdaYrmP1UOOXSrUYpgk9MMcKbR-SL8yvXmfvbaAR1p3ur7yuh_ZUwP_Sjo1ijeNcZQ/s480/Tomzan%202.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="379" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAYeXu5FMGNdkGNFDppMPGy5UWV3xeRX4G0JT96iBaaJK5Zns-l7iAKViExa1zbAkhD5qBgwx9JD5yidAHfIjUy6qCDoxMoctb0OavlvSxmhs_94sTdaYrmP1UOOXSrUYpgk9MMcKbR-SL8yvXmfvbaAR1p3ur7yuh_ZUwP_Sjo1ijeNcZQ/s320/Tomzan%202.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is pretty much my youthful<br />self-image back then.</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><b>My kid brother, God rest his soul, and I made a ramp by our driveway on a little rise. </b>We would come tearing down the street on our bikes, hit the ramp and go flying. My brother, not the finest bicycle mechanic in the world followed me over the ramp. He sailed up into the air (we used to get a couple of feet in altitude our of a jump) and as he left the ramp, his front wheel came off. He hit the ground, forks first, but gymnast that he was he managed to tuck and roll up to his feet. He looked around and spied the front wheel rolling off across the neighbor's front yard and took off in hot pursuit, managing to catch it before it ran out into the cross street half a block away. <p></p><p><b>My brother was the epitome of cool, unlike his awkward older brother.</b> I have two pictures, one of me and one of him doing a hand spring over a heavy sawhorse we had purloined for the purpose. Donny's image was captured at the peak of the flip, perfect form, toes
pointed, back straight headed for a 3 point landing. I was better at
photography than gymnastics. The picture of me shows a gangling kid,
long torso, short legs, sort of a skinny flying troll look. I looked
like someone had flung a bag of loose bones over the sawhorse. I was
headed for a -5 point landing and a face plant. I told my brother his
looked so much better than mine because I was the better photographer. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><b></b></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj019Alxb209_V6WcwE1Zvp1H0UahbESorrjGl3-bUYNUv9dcazQTt20FpO3S_Gl8GWue-J56CLJvJ2MNo_JrOhmqF7OF33NlFNIlivF-GofBNZm0BlFTVU46LcCnvAW4hK4nrRNups81n9yYKZWWqW31r673ZThZ1sW5ZJB2TKWZdNAa81LA/s960/Donnie%20Mr.%20Muscles.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="633" data-original-width="960" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj019Alxb209_V6WcwE1Zvp1H0UahbESorrjGl3-bUYNUv9dcazQTt20FpO3S_Gl8GWue-J56CLJvJ2MNo_JrOhmqF7OF33NlFNIlivF-GofBNZm0BlFTVU46LcCnvAW4hK4nrRNups81n9yYKZWWqW31r673ZThZ1sW5ZJB2TKWZdNAa81LA/w477-h315/Donnie%20Mr.%20Muscles.jpg" width="477" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>How Donnie actually looked!<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><b>Life back then was high-risk and a ton of fun!</b><p></p><p><b>Our friend Leslie Gilley had a great long rope that hung from a huge tree overhanging a usually dry creekbed in the pasture behind his house.</b> I asked him how often he replaced it. Since his older brother had installed it years ago and the knot was above his climbing ceiling when he was 12, he told me, "When it breaks."<br /><b><br />We would climb out on another limb that over hung a bend in the creek, grab the rope and swing out over the creekbed, back and forth until it slowed down enough to slide to a stop in the gravel that filled the bed of the creek at that spot.</b> One day I climbed out on the limb with the rope, leaned back and launched myself out into space. As I approached the bottom of the swing where momentum reached its zenith, I heard a crack above as the rope parted. I hit the gravel in the creekbed butt first and at pretty good speed. Fortunately, I've been blessed with very tough bones and nothing was broken.</p><p><b>Leslie's comment was, "Hey man, you broke my rope!"</b></p><p><b>I answered, "I'd have been happy for you to break it."</b></p><p><b>My brother, the gymnast, decided he was going to do a triple flip on the trampoline.</b> He finally did it, but got a bunch of bruises and sprained his neck along the way. One day he was late for school on Monday. Mom flipped back the covers on his bed and found him sleeping in his skivvies and covered with bruises. Turns out he'd been motorcycle racing, had run off the track, through a barbed wire fence and crashed in a gully sans bike. I'm not sure Mom knew he'd been doing motocross or that he could ride a motorcycle for that matter.</p><p><b></b></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjhUtOY-JSSemzFoFclqzy43RqaMcXkMDIKf9FuJnlSO0BNMQobL1QfUEhB0pf58rPi8uR9-7XOiAvEhVOHEoIMakCxuyy9aAmwDjglreVXX77Q0j58YY9NMkO0mP4pBl-Oz-XAhxG35r9s71Aeh_2-wRMjpl_cpbPB7WRS2xFYDvb3RJbw/s834/pyramid%203.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="834" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjhUtOY-JSSemzFoFclqzy43RqaMcXkMDIKf9FuJnlSO0BNMQobL1QfUEhB0pf58rPi8uR9-7XOiAvEhVOHEoIMakCxuyy9aAmwDjglreVXX77Q0j58YY9NMkO0mP4pBl-Oz-XAhxG35r9s71Aeh_2-wRMjpl_cpbPB7WRS2xFYDvb3RJbw/w273-h176/pyramid%203.jpg" width="273" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the middle on the bottom,<br />where else would I be?<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><b>I thought I'd outgrown being stupid until I became a staff member at Lone Star Camp and was introduced to water skiing.</b> I got to do a lot of stunts in our weekly ski show, I think, mainly because I used to do such spectacular wipe-outs. Remember: not as coordinated as my gymnast brother.<br /><br /><b>I was once jerked off my skis (on purpose), but then lost my swimsuit while being dragged around the lake (not on purpose).</b> Though, I told the ministers wives watching from the doc that I had done that on purpose. We all laughed and laughed.<br /><br /><b>I've got so many stories about my brother and I and the disasters we suffered doing risky things.</b> I once <a href="https://twayneking.blogspot.com/2009/01/barefootin.html">kicked myself in the back of the head while trying to barefoot ski</a>. We did pyramids for ski shows. I was the center guy at the bottom. When the pyramid collapsed at the end, accidentally or on purpose, Guess who got fallen on?<p></p><p><b>The point of the story is that I look back on my misadventures fondly.</b> I've been almost run over by a motorboat, jerked off a lifeguard tower by a ski boat, and was nearly immolated during a campfire skit of Elijah and the Priests of Baal (Donny was in on that one.) My best friend kicked loose a 500 pound boulder that hit me square in the chest while we were free climbing a 40 foot cliff over the Brazos River. Not sure how, but when the stars cleared up I was hanging from a scrub of a tree 30 feet above a field of rocks.<br /></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDgYPrlOFN3NjGkZVGUgmMz34uv5uG865GjyX71BzYu0Iqg28_-PKHd3rqclsa9daSj2swnQlQK1l67bnQB8M15pcOwmOIinsUMnNHvSJElU_4jopeMU2GPqKVbmfR28JGJd6IMSebDPANIeHmqVJtlrcGYMR6LSRWUxhGs7lqlu5jZ5tXwA/s1151/Canoe%20trip%20Tom%20on%20a%20log.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="1151" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDgYPrlOFN3NjGkZVGUgmMz34uv5uG865GjyX71BzYu0Iqg28_-PKHd3rqclsa9daSj2swnQlQK1l67bnQB8M15pcOwmOIinsUMnNHvSJElU_4jopeMU2GPqKVbmfR28JGJd6IMSebDPANIeHmqVJtlrcGYMR6LSRWUxhGs7lqlu5jZ5tXwA/w265-h184/Canoe%20trip%20Tom%20on%20a%20log.jpg" width="265" /></a></b></div><b>As a grownup I risked 5 nonprofit startups, unpaid, wrote more than one million dollars in grants, became a nonprofit consultant, a freelance commercial writer and am working on publishing a novel (the sixth book I've done). </b>I taught self-defense for staff of a mental facility treating often violent kids from diminutive 3 year olds to 17 year old football players and one powerful 300 pound Samoan kid. I wrangled 20 horses, read a book on how to break horses and trained several to ride. I cut trails with emotionally disturbed kids and road 5 days a week, 5 hours a day and never lost a kid. I took youth groups camping and led canoe trips down Texas rivers. I taught canoeing and swimming and rescued a drowning steer from the overflowing Trinity River in a canoe with the help of a junior lifesaver girl I'd just graduated the day before. WE SAVED THE COW!<br /><br /><b><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOsWIe0DTib87LiZKxhKCRb0VlbjTLS3beLVgjbjTPlIM-Rz-Tb7vyKNGhaltpruHhFsGHCA-X1xB7F-0KSLPpPmP-M_LyQ5XVaGP0QNeRmti6zh8BENC_hIETiE91A3P1cL11wptzN0Ikaa7trFGXKKI-kU2LADQts6UY9OGuVjoTWIf3A/s2868/Horse%20Corral%20with%20Tom.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2136" data-original-width="2868" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOsWIe0DTib87LiZKxhKCRb0VlbjTLS3beLVgjbjTPlIM-Rz-Tb7vyKNGhaltpruHhFsGHCA-X1xB7F-0KSLPpPmP-M_LyQ5XVaGP0QNeRmti6zh8BENC_hIETiE91A3P1cL11wptzN0Ikaa7trFGXKKI-kU2LADQts6UY9OGuVjoTWIf3A/w281-h209/Horse%20Corral%20with%20Tom.jpg" width="281" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My wrangling days....</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>We made some memories and took some risks. </b>My Mom had two ADHD boys and she raised us just right. We were allowed to take risks and we took 'em. She didn't hover. We grew up to be good people with the right blend of courage and kindness. My brother and I once extricated the car of a church singer from stuck high centered on a curb with the front wheels dangling in a deep mudhole. After we leveraged his car from the mud, Donny and I then walked home in the freezing rain afterward. And no, he didn't offer us a ride (we were on foot) because we might get mud on his mother's car's upholstery. Walking home, wet and shivering across a pasture waist high in wet grass, my brother and I felt like we'd won a battle against evil. After all, Steve did make it in time to sing for vespers. We made it home to a hot shower. <p></p><p><b>I lost my brother his sophomore year in high school, killed by a stupid prank by a friend. </b>Christmas, the night before he died, we sat up late talking about how we would do Christmas when we grew up and had families. He talked about his plans to work on improving his grades so he could go back to church academy with his friends. We used to fight like cats and dogs. I can't remember why we wound up in wrestling matches. We quit doing it when things got too dangerous and chances of hurting each other became too real. </p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuKtTQ4jGs1w1BYzOpLNlpmw8uWNV14-A19hfY9AIHH2Hau_ZAqdV2Nb34LGKnOtjnhE5TBIl5KzT6defjSLIKhfVT1ItBrWoMs6fOVgeumoyZcj31XYwvRBRGN0BnVRnI225p4xxwpsMTSmtIMdnd-KW8gM6jBCniHHbsY1sBfW27Q1jYA/s2592/sailing%20away.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkuKtTQ4jGs1w1BYzOpLNlpmw8uWNV14-A19hfY9AIHH2Hau_ZAqdV2Nb34LGKnOtjnhE5TBIl5KzT6defjSLIKhfVT1ItBrWoMs6fOVgeumoyZcj31XYwvRBRGN0BnVRnI225p4xxwpsMTSmtIMdnd-KW8gM6jBCniHHbsY1sBfW27Q1jYA/w283-h212/sailing%20away.jpg" width="283" /></a></b></div><b>In that last day, however, my brother and I bonded as we never had before.</b> And when Christ comes to take us home, I'll be looking around for my brother. We're still not done swinging on ropes, skiing, climbing trees and sailing. I never got a chance to take him out on my Hobie Cat and catch a full breeze and tip her up on one pontoon. <p></p><p><b>Oh, the things we'll do once we have forever in which to do them.</b><br /><br />© 2022 by Tom King<br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Tom king</p><p> </p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-56710404161135557872022-06-06T20:22:00.004-05:002022-06-07T18:52:15.250-05:00Now, I know How Snow White Felt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAWFH44VeLKYBwXwYfHbecRthIPGkz7mkLvMMDH_J1rgB9OqDsUUgnTaF1N4gkqaSyLWjd-4QEJRn3FamvW7ytPp-iuJJ1FMksAyKtTGMGZa7HyyXRMcpwmEfzNz_ATw3Tcufd2RuW5fHqqWG6NttX2ETwW98Y8-cXR5uNmGjM0KfxQNxBBA/s582/Twofer%20the%20squirrel.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="582" data-original-width="547" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAWFH44VeLKYBwXwYfHbecRthIPGkz7mkLvMMDH_J1rgB9OqDsUUgnTaF1N4gkqaSyLWjd-4QEJRn3FamvW7ytPp-iuJJ1FMksAyKtTGMGZa7HyyXRMcpwmEfzNz_ATw3Tcufd2RuW5fHqqWG6NttX2ETwW98Y8-cXR5uNmGjM0KfxQNxBBA/s320/Twofer%20the%20squirrel.jpg" width="301" /></a></div><b>I love the woods and lakes and anywhere the wild things live and play. </b>Our next door neighbors have a beautiful patio that one service guy calls "Narnia". Squirrels drip from the trees and squadrons of birds hang from Dan and Suzanne's feeders. He buys peanuts in 50 pound bags for the squirrels. I've seen chickadees eat bird seed from Dan's hand. Squirrels climb up into his lap. He's like a hairy-chested Snow White. <br /><b><br />He's left me in charge of the squirrels on occasions when they go off on vacation. </b>The squirrels have come to accept my presence, but not to quite trust me close up. Imagine my disappointment when I went next door to find Suzanne and Sheila (my wife) sitting on the patio with a table full of squirrels next to them begging for peanuts. Sheila had one on her shoulder. It kept coming back, climbing up in her lap and plucking peanuts from her fingers. I wanted a squirrel to jump up in my lap too, but while she was there, they preferred her lap to mine. She won't let me post videos of her, so I have been waiting to talk Little Red into climbing up so I could show it to my grandson - perhaps to lure him to come visit us in Washington State with the promise of feeding wild squirrels.<br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGSE0FVE6vG1BYyXN3mqDVMHyCkVkzgzsZsMqoMBpAqbSjaPrr1B1r8Om0ijYXx1aG4EeMbB5Tert4iiYBcKm_2PwZP_DajU3M7KYNHTsJ4u3YR-NQHPKOuBfngr-daw9ZDlO83BlyywCg-ysDlo8V57LiFiRnrA8eOgUVSuvs_17y58DdA/s3008/Squirrel%20in%20the%20peanut%20bucket.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="3008" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVGSE0FVE6vG1BYyXN3mqDVMHyCkVkzgzsZsMqoMBpAqbSjaPrr1B1r8Om0ijYXx1aG4EeMbB5Tert4iiYBcKm_2PwZP_DajU3M7KYNHTsJ4u3YR-NQHPKOuBfngr-daw9ZDlO83BlyywCg-ysDlo8V57LiFiRnrA8eOgUVSuvs_17y58DdA/s320/Squirrel%20in%20the%20peanut%20bucket.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Today, after Dan and Suzanne left for Idaho, I went over to feed the squirrels. </b>The red squirrel I call "Little Red" approached me with a puzzled look. Deciding I was the only one around, he took a leap of faith and landed on my knee. After that he ran back and forth stashing peanuts and leaping up on my leg for another one for the rest of the afternoon. <p></p><p><b> The squirrels all have personalities.</b> Little Red won't take cracked or dirty peanuts. He prefers perfect peanuts. Two-fer, a gray squirrel won't leave without two peanuts tucked under his chin. If you're slow with that second one, he'll snatch it out of your hand. Cressie has a crescent shaped scar on her back and Lightning runs at full tilt wherever he goes. <br /><b><br />I was able to video Little Red's first jump onto my leg. </b>It may seem stupid but that has been the highlight of my week. Another little peek at heaven for me.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/l0CqfquR4_8" width="320" youtube-src-id="l0CqfquR4_8"></iframe></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>© <i>2021 by Tom King</i></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-66711634529230129122022-03-30T12:53:00.006-05:002022-03-30T13:06:30.706-05:00To Drink From a Trough - A 48 Year-Old Promise<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLmQ-bs2ouDUBnSCKDqBh2NoVoMVPVOQCVH9tRM0MRLEf50WelbrzkMlhpsYVDSHGBaP9oVjwJo-RE_Nl0UeHfgt_Ga1voKdQjrga6V3Ga5p3vk4iMO0JiThck1RVBlrr1dWkPAmFEqebigzrxbYmfL-XWeBsMy3U64i3i0Hw9th1GZy_-oA/s668/Mom%20and%20Dads%20Wedding%20w%20Elder%20Milton%20Reiber.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="668" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLmQ-bs2ouDUBnSCKDqBh2NoVoMVPVOQCVH9tRM0MRLEf50WelbrzkMlhpsYVDSHGBaP9oVjwJo-RE_Nl0UeHfgt_Ga1voKdQjrga6V3Ga5p3vk4iMO0JiThck1RVBlrr1dWkPAmFEqebigzrxbYmfL-XWeBsMy3U64i3i0Hw9th1GZy_-oA/w400-h267/Mom%20and%20Dads%20Wedding%20w%20Elder%20Milton%20Reiber.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The pictures, sadly, came out kind of dark, but <br />this is us 48 years ago in the PFA chapel.</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div data-contents="true"><div data-block="true" data-editor="equ76" data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><b><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span data-text="true">It's been 48 years since the Saturday night that I picked an azalea off the bush by the Pine Forest Academy chapel door, pinned it to my lapel and stepped inside for the ceremony in which I joined forces with the love of my life "for better or worse." </span></span></b><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span data-text="true">It was a moment that would certainly change our lives forever.<br /></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span data-text="true"> </span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>True story, Sheila was so nervous that day that she had trouble reciting the vows. </b>She's always suffered with stage fright, but was doing okay repeating the vows after Pastor Reiber*, who was using an older traditional set of wedding vows. However, when he prompted her to repeat, "Unto thee I plide my troth," my Sweet </span></span><span><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-1-0"><span data-text="true">Baboo, who has trouble with English accents and archaic words had no idea what he was saying and did the best she could.</span></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><b><span><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-1-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></span></b></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-1-0"><span data-text="true"><b>"<i>I promise to drink from a trough....</i>" she mumbled.</b> She tried to deny she'd said it later, but I had proof. This was 1974, well before the advent of VHS recorders, but someone had thoughtfully caught it all on a cassette audiotape. I played it for her several times over the years and it's undeniable that that's what she said. I no longer possess the evidence because, somehow, the tape mysteriously disappeared during one of our moves.</span></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><b><span><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-1-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></span></b></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-1-0"><span data-text="true"><b><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkiwSEe6eIH9AyPZP_3awSu_BjTMcUIFwSqlbdeLwsbV3Q5-svLG-nb_Eaw4-IehFVlu4UYIpJy5Qi-b15yFfUkyVlyknLCN0VwyDCAIX_to1p33hoL0ea1LdwywkdH0fwD5yqooNAjDxgQovKFoDyifrBco2TZ5muI0vPy4yNbytqoF70kg/s3015/wedding%20pic.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3015" data-original-width="2400" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkiwSEe6eIH9AyPZP_3awSu_BjTMcUIFwSqlbdeLwsbV3Q5-svLG-nb_Eaw4-IehFVlu4UYIpJy5Qi-b15yFfUkyVlyknLCN0VwyDCAIX_to1p33hoL0ea1LdwywkdH0fwD5yqooNAjDxgQovKFoDyifrBco2TZ5muI0vPy4yNbytqoF70kg/w244-h307/wedding%20pic.jpg" width="244" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Headed back down the aisle. Sheila looks a<br />little green around the gills. Me? I look like<br />the cat that swallowed the canary. But then<br />I hadn't just promised to drink from a trough</span>.</i><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>At any rate she's never kept that part of her vows.</b> I've asked her about it and all she'll say is, "I don't see any trough here!" Those horse (or cow) troughs are expensive and there's no way I'd hold her to it if all I could muster was a pig trough. A cow trough seems unnecessarily demeaning. The least I could do was provide something suitable for a beloved filly. Said trough would, of course, have to be clean and previously unused in any case. There's no way the woman is going to drink after farm animals. I wouldn't expect her to.<br /></span></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-1-0"><span data-text="true"> </span></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-1-0"><span data-text="true"><b>In the 48 years since, I have not been able to provide an appropriate trough, I've let her off the hook for all these years.</b> To this day, however, when we get into a fight and I'm losing, I comfort myself by visualizing a big old Farm and Ranch Supply delivery truck rolling up and offloading one of those big round steel horse troughs. <br /><b><br />I figure after she's completed her last vow, we could use the trough as an above-ground swimming pool. </b>It is, however, quite unlikely that in this world we'll ever own horses or that I'll ever have enough extra money to waste hundreds of dollars on an appropriate drinking vessel, so I suppose I'll let that vow slide. She's done quite well by all the other vows she's made. I can't complain.<br /><br /><b>She's a keeper and I intend to keep her around for billions of years after Jesus comes (with time off for good behavior).</b> And, since I do like horses, I may even come up with some sort of trough one day. Just to make her laugh. I'll drink from it first, of course.<br /></span></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-1-0"><span data-text="true"> </span></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bsu2c-0-0"><span><span data-offset-key="bsu2c-1-0"><span data-text="true">© 2022 <i>by Tom King</i><br /><br /><b>*Interesting note:</b> <i>Pastor Milton Reiber, who married us that day in the Academy chapel in Chunky, Mississippi, was pastor of the Meridian SDA church. He also served as pastor for the Pine Forest Academy Church where I was going to serve a year as boy's dean and Sheila was going to be a nurse. When I told her who the pastor was, my Mom recognized his name. It turns out that, decades before in Tucumcari, New Mexico, Elder Reiber, was also the pastor who baptized young Clara Bell (Mom) and her sister, Tilitha. It's funny how Adventists can go almost anywhere and find connections to other Adventists. </i><br /></span></span></span></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-24335852207570397982021-12-10T19:36:00.001-06:002021-12-10T19:38:06.208-06:00Amazon's Mistake - So Begins the Robot Apocalypse?<div data-contents="true"><div data-block="true" data-editor="d7p3j" data-offset-key="b2jor-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="b2jor-0-0"><span style="font-size: large;"><span data-offset-key="b2jor-0-0"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="382" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/cLVCGEmkJs0" width="460" youtube-src-id="cLVCGEmkJs0"></iframe></div><span data-text="true"> <span style="font-size: small;">Anyone else find this a little creepy?</span><br /><br /><b>Amazon must have hired a bunch of newbies.</b> Some stuff I've ordered this Christmas Season never arrived and I got my money back. Then, today I got a $40 portable cell phone charger instead of the $6.00 garage bike hooks I ordered. The same company provides both items. In both cases, when I went to reorder the items were "currently unavailable). <br /><b><br />I was going to get one of these portable charges anyway - for traveling (if we ever get to do that again).</b> The question is should I further confuse the newly minted $22 an hour warehouse drones by sending the charger back and asking for a refund. I don't want to upset their well-oiled machine over there. There's a new Amazon warehouse a few blocks from our house and they're probably still working out the kinks in the new warehouse. <br /><b><br />I'm afraid I might send one of their robots into a spasm and next thing your know there's a big AI/robot revolt that spreads throughout the nation through Alexa, Siri and Cortana and infects Roomba's and robot lawnmowers everywhere. </b>And I would feel all kinds of guilt because I had caused it.<br /></span></span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="d7p3j" data-offset-key="afo0a-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="afo0a-0-0"><i><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span data-offset-key="afo0a-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></span></b></i></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="d7p3j" data-offset-key="c0m9a-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="c0m9a-0-0"><span style="font-size: large;"><span data-offset-key="c0m9a-0-0"><span data-text="true"><i><b>And I'd hate to see it come to that.</b></i><br /><br />© 2021 by Tom King<br /></span></span></span></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-89318919557287402672021-11-04T03:38:00.001-05:002022-09-22T18:58:05.080-05:00My Brother's Birthday<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nzsMXWx5X24/YXRV7Fr0uvI/AAAAAAAAOZw/Bta48uM1nssV2vl4tUMgQ1sCW67K9_IhQCLcBGAsYHQ/s960/Donnie%2BMr.%2BMuscles.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="633" data-original-width="960" height="316" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nzsMXWx5X24/YXRV7Fr0uvI/AAAAAAAAOZw/Bta48uM1nssV2vl4tUMgQ1sCW67K9_IhQCLcBGAsYHQ/w479-h316/Donnie%2BMr.%2BMuscles.jpg" width="479" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Donald Lee King - HS Freshman, gymnast, athlete, musician, nice guy.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><div data-contents="true"><div data-block="true" data-editor="cs8s9" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>October 23rd would have been my brother, Donny's 65th Birthday.</b> He's been gone 49 years - close to half a century and I still think about things I want to talk to him about. I still remember him as the kid in the picture. We fought a lot - down on the ground wrestling matches; up into our teens. Then one day we realized that it was too dangerous to fight anymore because we were both strong enough to damage one another. So we quit.</span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"> </span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>We practically lived in the brittle old oak trees around our house on 4th Street, swinging from limb to limb in the treetops like a pair of apes. </b>We'd set up army men on the ground and then climb to the top of this one oak that had a great crotch up there you could sit in. It provided a stable platform for our bombing raids. With our paper route money we bought these small metal toy bombs that you would load a Greenie Stickum Cap into and then drop from a height. It would pop loudly when it hit the ground among the toy soldiers. Once you'd exhausted your bomb load, you'd climb down and reset the soldiers, reload your bombs and then it was back up the tree again.<br /><br /><b>There were two Chinaberry trees in our yard.</b> One by the house allowed us to climb up a limb and drop down on the roof. From there we would parachute behind German lines. Our "parachutes" consisted of one of Mom's old bedsheets. we'd tie two corners to the belt loops on the back of our pants and hold the other two corners over our heads and jump off the roof into a soft patch of thick grass that grew where the septic line ran out of the kitchen. It was sometimes squishy, especially if we'd been catching up on the dishes. Soft as the ground might be, that old house had a pretty high roof for an 80 plus year old one story house. My hips and knees are paying me back now for all of those parachute drops. Turns out, even if you only weigh 90 pounds sopping wet, hitting the ground from that height is going to be hard on your joints, even with the slowdown provided by a bedsheet parachute. It also turns out there's a reason the Army used other than bedsheet materials for parachutes.</span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>The other Chinaberry tree was in back along the edge of the property. </b> The limbs of Chinaberry trees are not very big, but they are flexible and tough enough to support a pair of would-be chimpanzees as we sung from limb to limb. The back Chinaberry had limbs spaced so that you could start on a limb at the back of the tree and swing on a series of 4 limbs and end up around by the front of the tree. Donny and I were very good at swing limb to limb with our arms. We were the envy of the neighborhood. Unfortunately, some of our friends were not as "gymnastic" as my brother and I. A friend of Donny's, Edward Black, wanted to try it. I wasn't in the yard when he tried it, so I'm fuzzy on details. Mom heard someone screaming out back and ran to the scene. There she found Edward hanging by one leg from a lower limb, head down, his hands <i>almost</i> touching the ground. His leg was broken and if I remember right, Donny was trying to hold him up or was hiding because he knew he was in trouble. You see, Edward had decided to try to swing from limb to limb like Donny did, but he was afraid he would fall, so as a safety measure, he decided to tie a rope to his leg to catch him if he fell. It did. Edward hobbled around for weeks in a leg cast that summer.</span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>Then there was the barrel incident! </b>My step-dad had brought home an empty 55 gallon barrel which had once contained varnish from Brandom's Kitchen Cabinets. It had a lid with an intact locking ring. So! Donny and I took turns locking each other in the barrel and rolling the barrel down the little hill in our backyard. My sister, Debbie, begged us to let her take a turn. Finally, against our better judgment, we gave her her wish. She crawled in the barrel, we put the lid on it, locked it down and gave it a shove. As the barrel rolled off down the hill, there began a wailing and screaming from within the barrel. "Let me out! Stop it!" Trouble was the barrel was already halfway down the hill and gaining speed. </span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>Donny and I caught up with the barrel as it reached the bottom of the hill.</b> From within the barrel there issued forth such shrieks and curses and threats that as Donny reached for the locking handle, gave us both pause. He stopped and looked up at me. <br /><br />"Should I open it or should we give her a second to calm down?" he asked.<br /><br />"I don't know," I responded. "She sounds pretty mad."</span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true">"She's going to go straight to Mama and tell on us!"</span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true">"What's she going to tell?</span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true">"I don't know but if we don't let her out the barrel's gonna explode!"</span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><b><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></b></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>"Okay, stand back," I said grabbing the release handle. </b>My sister exploded out of the barrel rather the way a recently water-doused hen we fly up in the face of whoever was holding the bucket! I never heard the end of it. Somehow Donny missed receiving the blame for the whole affair and he was the one that was most reluctant to open the barrel! My sister told the story of her abusive brother from one end of the state of Texas to the other. I finally resorted to telling my side of the story to her friends (all of whom knew my sister's penchant for artistic storytelling). When I took up my own defense, she finally stopped telling everybody how mean I was. <br /></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /><b>Our house was almost as old as the town of Keene where we grew up.</b> In the winter when the wind blew the linoleum floors would breathe up and down and sigh softly in the night. It was a bit creepy I can tell you. But we had a pretty good time of it. My brother and I roamed the local woods and creeks. Donny was more ambitious than me. He went along with friends who soaped the college fountain, climbed things they weren't supposed to climb and generally got into mischief. I was more the shy nerdy type, but still we had some adventures.<br /></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /> <b>The last time I talked to him was the night before his death.</b> We stayed up </span></span><span><span data-offset-key="enmiv-1-0"><span data-text="true">late Christmas Night talking about Christmases to come and how we would celebrate it with our families. He said he would make his kids wait till morning to open their presents. He was an old softy and I'm pretty sure he'd have given in and like me, let them open one on Christmas Eve. He told me he was going to get his grades up again and stay out of trouble. He wanted to go back to Chisholm Trail Academy again where his Adventist friends were. He'd gone back to public high school after his grades fell at CTA. He told me he wanted to get back to church again too. He used to play saxophone trios for church with his friend David and Mr. Schramm the band director. He missed it.<br /></span></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span><span data-offset-key="enmiv-1-0"><span data-text="true"> </span></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="enmiv-0-0"><span><span data-offset-key="enmiv-1-0"><span data-text="true"><b>Donny got up and left before I woke up the next morning.</b> He was headed for his friend's house to hang with his motorcycle enthusiast friends. That afternoon a couple of friends pulled up to the house and took my sister and me to the place Donny had gone. I walked into the back room and found him lying dead on his back on the bed, a bloody hole in his chest from a shotgun at close range. The cops didn't bother to warn us and no one told us he was dead. A friend playing a joke with a shotgun that wasn't supposed to be loaded had pulled the trigger at close range. My mom was already there. I can't imagine what she was going through. I went through 3 very dark days. I spent much of them aimlessly wandering the woods where Donny and I had roamed since we were small.<br /><br /><b>The guy who killed him later told me it was the worst day of his life.</b> I rather believe that. He'd killed a friend doing something careless and stupid. The police wanted to rain down the wrath of the law on the boys, but my family believed the boys that were there and didn't want to compound one tragedy with another. <br /><br /><b>Still, hardly a day goes by I do not miss him</b>. Jesus cannot come soon enough. I have two brothers and a son I need to spend some time with.<br /><br />© 2021 by Tom King<br /><br />Sorry about stopping the comments, but it appears a paid spammer has fallen in love with this post. I've had to delete 40 some-odd "comments". Thanks for your support.<br /><br /></span></span></span></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-55632774991962709172021-11-04T03:13:00.002-05:002021-11-04T03:48:44.696-05:00The Importance of Touching the Past<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LQ6y-aQmP5k/YYOTOcVD1-I/AAAAAAAAOak/WyKxItHoJggjn76YOFq4rlYqKH86oxOnwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1389/The%2BAlamo.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="1389" height="141" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LQ6y-aQmP5k/YYOTOcVD1-I/AAAAAAAAOak/WyKxItHoJggjn76YOFq4rlYqKH86oxOnwCLcBGAsYHQ/w432-h141/The%2BAlamo.jpeg" width="432" /></a></div><b><br /></b><p></p><p><b>As all good Texans do I made a pilgrimage to the Alamo.</b> I touched the bullet scarred walls. I walked the ground. Part of the old fort was across the street and stretched across a substantial area of downtown San Antonio. As a younger man I took my boys to San Jacinto, arguably one of the key battle grounds of the 19th century and walked the fields where the outnumbered Texans in their rage and fury thundered down on the surprised Mexican Army and destroyed it. I marveled at the courage it must have taken to cross that field knowing the army across the way was twice your army's size. And while they made that charge the immortal "Yellow Rose of Texas," a mulatto slave girl distracted Santa Anna and earned herself the title place in the battle hymn of Texas.</p><p><b>Then there was the Battleship Texas, a veteran of WWI and WWII, bombarding the landing grounds from the Atlantic to the Pacific.</b> It's still maintained as a sacred site to Texans. I roamed the decks upper and lower as a kid (I was there twice). I walked the battlefields at Vicksburg, Valley Forge and the dog run cabin of Cynthia Ann Parker who was abducted by Comanches and became the mother of the War Chief Quanah Parker.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2cyv1SRqfHA/YYOVyCJb_yI/AAAAAAAAOas/nxexazsEPuogo-hdkpc0ePCul9qd60HaQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Battleship%2BTexas.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1354" data-original-width="2048" height="269" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2cyv1SRqfHA/YYOVyCJb_yI/AAAAAAAAOas/nxexazsEPuogo-hdkpc0ePCul9qd60HaQCLcBGAsYHQ/w407-h269/Battleship%2BTexas.jpg" width="407" /></a></div><p></p><p><b>And every time I visit an historic place like that, I have to touch something that was there</b>. In Washington DC, I did a rubbing of the name of a neighbor kid I knew that died in Vietnam and had his name inscribed there. And there was there in DC at the Museum of Natural History the very skeleton of a T-Rex that I had seen so many times in the books on dinosaurs that I poured over when I was 6 and had just learned to say paleontologist correctly and thought I wanted to be one.</p><p><b>When I see a generation coming up that has no reverence for the past it makes me sad.</b> For those who forget the past, who have no respect for the lessons learned by our ancestors, are doomed to make far worse mistakes in the future. </p><p><b>Thank God not all young people have forgot.</b> Some have learned. Their parents taught them and like my wife and I did we hauled our kids every Saturday afternoon to every museum, state park, stopped for every historical marker and landmark whether historical or natural within 150 miles of our home. We taught those kids to wonder. To experience that sense of touching the past, of reverence for the lives that made our freedom and prosperity possible. </p><p><b>God will not allow those kind of people to be lost in the quagmire created by the totalitarian rulers who want to erase everything worthwhile, everything heroic, every trace of goodness we've learned through hard endeavor.</b>Those people seek a corruptible crown and by God we who each day continue to learn from the past - we shall oppose them!</p><p>© 2021 by Tom King</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-14833979601048706172021-06-12T16:10:00.005-05:002021-06-19T01:30:45.641-05:00Ten Reasons It's Great to Be an Old Man<div><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy0IVO2eATAiCBJc0v06p9V-5wxhKtEhQuU6jVSCb00hfRb1MFjnnZLy5hcMZxaPsDHKk9u7wyfzeDOCFWtIgjqOJAuh89lCnVPsBZYWAVro1du-MXRsmkoKTKPv1fDGkNNkKl/s2032/Tom+and+Sheila.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1354" data-original-width="2032" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy0IVO2eATAiCBJc0v06p9V-5wxhKtEhQuU6jVSCb00hfRb1MFjnnZLy5hcMZxaPsDHKk9u7wyfzeDOCFWtIgjqOJAuh89lCnVPsBZYWAVro1du-MXRsmkoKTKPv1fDGkNNkKl/w469-h312/Tom+and+Sheila.jpg" width="469" /></a></b></div><b><br />I have attained my grandfatherly years honestly.</b> I will admit I had hoped for a few more grandchildren than I wound up with, but my children have stubbornly refused to reproduce in the quantities I had in mind. I gave up my armada of boats, my ton of fishing gear, my sporting goods bag (in case a ball game broke out among my 18 grandchildren that, sadly, never materialized), my scuba diving equipment, my train sets, most of my game collection and all but a few of my young people oriented book collection (even "Mike Mulligan & His Steam Shovel" was passed along to the one grandkid we've determined to spoil rotten). I have two grandsons, one of whom is 2300 miles away is adopted and whom I love like one of my own children and visit weekly by Skype. My other grandson currently lives in Tennessee and moves around a lot, I've never met him and have only made tentative contact with him through Facebook recently so we don't know how that will go yet. </div><div> </div><div><b>So my dream gig as the fun grandpa has been abridged significantly.</b> I had a fleet of canoes and equipment all ready to lead family floats down the mighty (and fairly safe) rivers of Texas. I even trained as a Red Cross swimming and canoeing instructor. Man I was ready. Oh well. "The best laid plans o' mice and men oft times gang agly" as Scottish poet Bobby Burns once opined.<br /><p></p><p><b>Still there are some definite advantages to becoming an old geezer and a few disadvantages like arthritis to make you appreciate the good bits.</b> So let me list the good stuff that comes with being an old coot.</p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li><b>People don't expect you to dig ditches.</b> It surprises them if you do pick up a shovel and they are appreciative since they didn't think you were going to help. AND they keep offering you drinks and asking you if you need to sit down for a minute.</li><li><b>Your children and their spouses ask you if you want to take a nap and think it's funny when you snore.</b> You actually win points with your offspring, your spouse and your various descendants when you pile up in the recliner for an afternoon snooze.</li><li><b>You finally have accumulated an assortment of favorite things that don't get thrown out by your significant other because either they are ugly or you don't need them.</b> By the time you are eligible for social security you own some things like mugs, recliners, fishing gear, Hawaiian shirts, and books that your wife tolerates and won't slip into the Goodwill donation box when you aren't looking. Figuring out what you can keep is a process of elimination.</li><li><b>Arthritis is a great excuse for avoiding unpleasant tasks.</b> Conversely, when you actually get around to doing one of those honey-do projects, you get a brief respite from the admonishment to get-er-done!</li><li><b>You have a collection of favorite TV shows you really like.</b> Better still, because you've previewed and selected the good stuff you enjoy, you don't have to wade through the depressing post-modernist crap your kids and grandkids think is relevant. </li><li><b>You have a favorite music collection that is wonderfully eclectic</b>. I've got more than 500 songs in my phone's mp3 list and a pile of CDs, cassettes and vinyl that I'm gradually converting to digital mp3s. I defy anyone to look at my digital collection and find a bad song or at least one I don't like. I've got every thing from <i>Pearly Shells </i>(Don Ho) to <i>Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road, </i>from Doris Day to The First Highlanders Pipe Band playing <i>Amazing Grace</i>, from <i>I'm My Own Grandpa</i> to Brown-Eyed Girl, from Monkees, Beach Boys and Beatles to Placido Domingo, John Denver, Earl Scruggs, Burl Ives and Audio Adrenalin. My personal radio station never plays a song I don't want to hear or interrupt the music with a commercial for Honest Bob Vanderhoort's Used Cars.</li><li><b>You can sit on the back porch in the sun for 4 hours and it feels like you had a productive afternoon.</b> It is no longer necessary to tick off a list of things you need to meet your life goals. Sitting on the back porch playing your guitar and feeding the squirrels in the sunshine WAS one of your life goals.</li><li><b>You know how to do stuff that makes you happy.</b> You play the guitar, banjo, dulcimer or Irish bodhrain, You build model ships. You can make your own bookshelves. You have time to write that novel you always wanted to write. You can cook things you want to eat and you're pretty good at it because you have lots of practice.</li><li><b>People no longer ask you to help them move.</b> You can go over if you want, but you are participating in more of a supervisory role because you have a lot of experience in how to move and pack having done so many many times in your life.</li><li><b>Little things give you immense satisfaction</b>. A favorite restaurant, a walk down a country lane, a grandkid coming to visit, birds coming to your bird feeder outside your window and you can watch them from your easy chair. You, in fact, have an easy chair and people save it for you. </li></ol></div><p><b>There are other things I'm sure, but I just can't remember them now.</b> In fact, people don't expect you to get ten things pulled from memory in the first place, so when you do, you get credit for being kind of old, but still sharp as a tack.</p><p><b>Time for my obligatory Sabbath afternoon nap.</b><br /><br />© 2021 by Tom King<br /></p><div><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-87079395853274237922021-06-01T02:17:00.008-05:002021-06-01T03:13:09.874-05:00In Memory - Loyde "Snake" Arender<p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uvVY1TuFIVM/YLXefMmp2aI/AAAAAAAAN7k/F_-1BBVX_70knLIkpLKoRqTCtjtqi9DpgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/M60%2BGunner%2Bsketch.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="415" height="405" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uvVY1TuFIVM/YLXefMmp2aI/AAAAAAAAN7k/F_-1BBVX_70knLIkpLKoRqTCtjtqi9DpgCLcBGAsYHQ/w263-h405/M60%2BGunner%2Bsketch.jpg" width="263" /></a></b></div><b>My wife stayed with her cousin a couple of years ago to help her take care of her husband, Loyde in his final struggle against the effects of Agent Orange exposure in Vietnam. Loyde, known as "Snake" by his Marine buddies served in 'Nam and it eventually cost him his life</b>. Snake was a warrior and a poet. His work is even inscribed on a monument to soldiers from his county who died in Vietnam. His poetry is powerful and gives you an insight to what Vietnam vets experienced during and after the war.<br /><br />I wrote this book for his memorial. It includes stories, comments from friends and fellow soldiers, and his poetry. Snake was, in addition to being a poet, was a hero. When his platoon walked into a minefield, several of his buddies were wounded. With VC in the jungle nearby, Loyde knew they had to get out of the exposed position, but getting out of a mine field would be dangerous. Loyde tossed the first of his wounded comrades over his shoulder and picked his way out with his buddy. Then he went back again and again. His commanding officer wrote up a recommendation that Snake receive the Medal of Honor. <p></p><p>Unfortunately, his commanding officer was killed the next day and the MOH citation died going up the chain of command. Several of his fellow soldiers have worked on getting him the citation decades later. </p><p><a href="https://www.keepandshare.com/doc29/113322/loyde-p-snake-arender-pdf-4-3-meg?da=y">Here is the story in PDF format.</a><br /><br />God bless our soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines. We owe them so much!<br /></p><p>© <i>2021 by Tom King </i> <br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-80162916718353262712021-05-31T02:47:00.010-05:002021-07-18T16:39:31.187-05:00Greta's Bright New World<p><i><b>Borrowed from Bella B. on MeWe.com.</b></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sOqf3kFvhMc/YLSUTVV0m_I/AAAAAAAAN7M/LeKVEWqd_vsXq1q3RgdUIVnIWzcc_1XwgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1399/fact%2Bchecking%2BGreta.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1399" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sOqf3kFvhMc/YLSUTVV0m_I/AAAAAAAAN7M/LeKVEWqd_vsXq1q3RgdUIVnIWzcc_1XwgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/fact%2Bchecking%2BGreta.jpg" /></a></div><b>One crisp winter morning in Sweden, a cute little girl named Greta woke
up to a perfect world, one where there were no petroleum products
ruining the earth.</b> She tossed aside her cotton sheet and wool blanket
and stepped out onto a dirt floor covered with willow bark that had been
pulverized with rocks. <p></p><p>“What’s this?” she asked.<br /></p><p>“Pulverized willow bark,” replied her fairy godmother.</p><p>
“What happened to the carpet?” she asked.</p><p>
“The carpet was nylon, which is made from butadiene and hydrogen cyanide, both made from petroleum,” came the response.</p><p>Greta smiled, acknowledging that adjustments are necessary to save the
planet, and moved to the sink to brush her teeth where instead of a
toothbrush, she found a willow, mangled on one end to expose wood fibre
bristles.</p><p>“Your old toothbrush?” noted her godmother, “Also nylon.”</p><p>“Where’s the water?” asked Greta.</p><p>“Down the road in the canal,” replied her godmother, ‘Just make sure you avoid water with cholera in it. Greenpeace has successfully banned the production of chlorine.”</p><p>“Why’s there no running water?” Greta asked, becoming a little peevish.</p><p>“Well,” said her godmother, who happened to teach engineering at MIT,
“Where do we begin?” There followed a long monologue about how sink
valves need elastomer seats and how copper pipes contain copper, which
has to be mined and how it’s impossible to make all-electric
earth-moving equipment with no gear lubrication or tires and how ore has
to be smelted to a make metal, and that’s tough to do with only
electricity as a source of heat, and even if you use only electricity,
the wires need insulation, which is petroleum-based, and though most of
Sweden’s energy is produced in an environmentally friendly way because
of hydro and nuclear (however problematic that might be to you), if you do a mass and energy balance around the
whole system, you still need lots of petroleum products like lubricants
and nylon and rubber for tires and asphalt for filling potholes and wax
and iPhone plastic and elastic to hold your underwear up while operating
a copper smelting furnace and . . ."</p><p>“What’s for breakfast?” interjected Greta, whose head was hurting.</p><p>"Fresh, range-fed chicken eggs,” replied her godmother. “Raw.”</p><p>“Why raw?” inquired Greta.</p><p>“Well, . . .” And once again, Greta was told about the need for
petroleum products like transformer oil and scores of petroleum products
essential for producing metals for frying pans and in the end was
educated about how you can’t have a petroleum-free, zero carbon emissions world and then cook
eggs. Unless you rip your front fence up and start a fire and carefully
cook your egg in an orange peel like you do in Boy Scouts. or that you
can even find oranges in Sweden anymore (they tend to spoil on those long voyages on sailboats). Plus gas fires use petroleum byproducts like natural gas, electric stoves use petroleum in their materials and manufacture, and wood produces carbon when burned.<br /></p><p>“But I want poached eggs like my Aunt Tilda makes,” lamented Greta.</p><p>“Tilda died this morning,” the godmother explained. “Bacterial pneumonia.”</p><p>“What?!” interjected Greta. “No one dies of bacterial pneumonia! We have penicillin.”</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7EYWHfUg61o/YLSWk9DW6AI/AAAAAAAAN7U/sItwB3wxoJYzkU1wHOeJW1EYykt2boPXACLcBGAsYHQ/s225/Greta%2Band%2Bthe%2BGrinch.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="221" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7EYWHfUg61o/YLSWk9DW6AI/AAAAAAAAN7U/sItwB3wxoJYzkU1wHOeJW1EYykt2boPXACLcBGAsYHQ/s0/Greta%2Band%2Bthe%2BGrinch.jpg" /></a></div>“Not anymore,” explained godmother “The production of penicillin
requires chemical extraction using isobutyl acetate, which, if you know
your organic chemistry, is petroleum-based. Lots of people are dying,
which is problematic because there’s not any easy way of disposing of
the bodies since backhoes need hydraulic oil, millenials don't want to dig graves by hand and crematoriums can’t
really burn many bodies if all they have to use as fuel are Swedish picket fences and Ikea furniture,
which are rapidly disappearing - being used on the black market for
roasting eggs and staying warm despite the carbon pollution caused by burning wood.”<p></p><p>This represents only a fraction of Greta’s day, a day without
microphones to exclaim into, televisions, radios and the Internet to spread her message; even print media is gone due to the chemical pollutants required to make paper. It was a day without much food, and a day
without carbon-fibre boats to sail in, but a day that will save the
planet don't ya' know.</p><p><b>Tune in tomorrow when Greta needs a root canal and learns how Novocain is synthesized and is introduced to the dental tools of the stone age.<br /><br />*<i>Thanks to whoever the clever boots was that wrote this enlightening little fairy tale.<br /></i><br /><i>Tom</i><br /></b></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-1911277716566964992021-05-07T19:44:00.003-05:002022-12-10T00:25:12.975-06:00He Needed Killin’<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><b>When people have had enough.</b></i></span><br /></p><p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal;">
</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_jxlVU13_DU/YJWK7BMpvQI/AAAAAAAAN5U/ek7-argC7XM1dYf-GoTbZ-pdGQhT7p5wACLcBGAsYHQ/s672/Mackelroy%2B-%2Bhe%2Bneeded%2Bkilling.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="672" height="325" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_jxlVU13_DU/YJWK7BMpvQI/AAAAAAAAN5U/ek7-argC7XM1dYf-GoTbZ-pdGQhT7p5wACLcBGAsYHQ/w454-h325/Mackelroy%2B-%2Bhe%2Bneeded%2Bkilling.jpg" width="454" /></a></b></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Ken Rex McElroy<br /></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>In certain of the more, shall we say
conservative states, there is a little known and seldom talked about
legal defense that influences investigations, grand juries, juries
and judges to refuse to enforce the letter of the law.</b> In some places
in the country, there is a principle that justifies even murder. The
defense is, quite simply, “He needed killin’.”<br />
<br />
<b>And
this isn’t something that just existed in the Wild West of the late
1800s, although the principle may have derived from those rowdy days
when law enforcement was kind of thin on the ground.</b> It may have
gained favor in legal circles and community law enforcement in those
days, but as late as 1981, the community of Skidmore, Missouri with
this principle in mind invoked their collective judgment on one local
thug and bully, one Ken Rex McElroy. His list of crimes was lengthy:
assault, child molestation, statutory rape, burglary, and hog and
cattle rustling. Somehow, to the dismay of the citizens of Skidmore,
this hooligan avoided conviction for all of these crimes. Every time
he was arrested, he was soon released to once more terrorize the
community.<p></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal;"><b><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">At
the age of 12, his future 3rd</span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">
wife, </span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">T</span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">rena
McCloud, </span></span></b><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><b>had
the misfortune to cross McElroy’s path</b>. He</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
raped </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">her
repeatedly over the next couple of years. Now, statutory rape is a crime of the first order and
law enforcement should have ended McElroy’s career on the spot.
Instead McElroy proceeded to </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">burned
her </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">parents’</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
house down and sho</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">o</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">t
the family dog. </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">He
terrorized her family until he </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">force</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">d</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
her parents to </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">consent
</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">to
</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">his</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
marriage </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">to Trena</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.
This kept her from testifying against him in the rape. Thiss wasn't the first young girl he'd done this too. </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">At
the age of </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">14,
Trena</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">gave
birth to their child. </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Terrified,
</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">she
fled to her </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">unfortunate
</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">mother's
house. </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">In
short order, </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">McElroy
</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">came
for her, burning d</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">own
her parents house </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">AGAIN</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">,
</span></i></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">shooting</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
their dog </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">AGAIN</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.<br /><br /><b>McElroy was arrested and indited 21 times including robbery, property destruction and abuse of his first two wives Sharon and Alice.</b> </span></span></span>McElroy, shot a local farmer named Romaine Henry. McElroy shot Henry in the stomach for trying to chase him off of Henry's own
land.Next he shot a 70 year old grocer, Ernest "Bo" Bowenkamp, sitting outside his own store on a
smoke break. The grocer’s sin against McElroy? He had earlier
accused McElroy's children of shoplifting. It was 2 cents worth of
candy. The man had caught them in the act.</p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal;">
<b>The cops dutifully arrested McElroy for the shooting.</b> This time he
was convicted then turned loose on bond while waiting for an appeal.
With the legal system and the cops failing to do their jobs, the good
citizens of Skidmore were understandably frustrated. McElroy was once
more among them to prey upon the innocent and threaten the peace and
safety of the town. And, darn it, people liked that grocer. To this
point, McElroy had been arrested 21 times and released to continue
his wide range of antisocial behaviors. The man posed a severe threat
to the community.</p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal;">
<b>After McElroy was released on bond, he began cruising the grocery
store, harassing Bo, who was still recovering from his wounds.</b>
He was spotted near the grocery, with a rifle and bayonet. McElroy even openly threatened to kill the poor man while threatening
everyone that expressed any kind of sympathy for the grocer or
criticized McElroy himself. If he heard someone express any animosity
toward himself, he would park his pickup outside their houses for
long and terrifying hours. In a burst of massive hubris, McElroy even
threatened to kill a minister for expressing sympathy for the grocer.<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="js-subbuzz__title-text"> </span></span></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9mE_PKCdNOs/YJXd0wdkS1I/AAAAAAAAN50/Kjuw1cKSfIkMFEPtRHWBlLI0DepKYWlIwCLcBGAsYHQ/s576/McElroys%2Btruck.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="576" height="205" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9mE_PKCdNOs/YJXd0wdkS1I/AAAAAAAAN50/Kjuw1cKSfIkMFEPtRHWBlLI0DepKYWlIwCLcBGAsYHQ/w242-h205/McElroys%2Btruck.jpg" width="242" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j x1jfb8zj"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Don Shrubshell (July 1981)</span></i><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="js-subbuzz__title-text"><b>On
July 10, 1981, Skidmore residents held a meeting at town hall, down the street
from D&G Tavern, a known McElroy haunt.</b> Sixty some odd Skidmore
citizens showed up,
including the mayor and the sheriff. The consensus was that McElroy was a
menace to the community and that law enforcement was powerless to stop
him. Then someone brought word to the meeting that McElroy and Trena
were headed for the tavern. Three dozen folks promptly left the meeting
and reassembled at the D&G.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="js-subbuzz__title-text"> <br /></span></span></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal;"></p><p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="js-subbuzz__title-text"><b></b></span></span></span></p><p></p><p>
<b>One fateful day, McElroy loaded Trena into the truck and set off for
a local bar.</b> When they walked in, everyone in the bar turned to
look at the pair and went strangely silent. McElroy was kind of
creeped out, so, when the pair finished off their drinks, they left
the bar. and got in their pickup truck. Trena later said that when
she looked in the side view mirror, she saw 30–50 people gathered
in the parking lot behind them. Then the guns came up. In an instant,
the truck windows shattered amid a hail of gunfire that riddled the pickup. Trena ducked. When she looked up she could see that McElroy was dead. There was a
big hole in the back of his head. Trena, herself, was unharmed and
quickly bailed out of the passenger seat.</p><p style="text-align: right;"></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal;">
<b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b></b></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QbhG2HD-iq8/YJXdXXfy1BI/AAAAAAAAN5s/VossG_IsY5UELze0FyIE-rOyErYR80mUACLcBGAsYHQ/s672/McElroys%2Btruck%2B2.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="493" data-original-width="672" height="303" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QbhG2HD-iq8/YJXdXXfy1BI/AAAAAAAAN5s/VossG_IsY5UELze0FyIE-rOyErYR80mUACLcBGAsYHQ/w412-h303/McElroys%2Btruck%2B2.jpg" width="412" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="x4k7w5x x1h91t0o x1h9r5lt xv2umb2 x1beo9mf xaigb6o x12ejxvf x3igimt xarpa2k xedcshv x1lytzrv x1t2pt76 x7ja8zs x1qrby5j x1jfb8zj"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Don Shrubshell (July 1981)</span></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><b>When cops arrived at the scene, the parking lot, and indeed it
appeared the entire town was utterly deserted.</b> No crowd of
curious onlookers, no witnesses, only closed doors and an empty
street; nothing but a bullet-riddled pickup with McElroy dead in the
driver’s seat. The coroner determined that McElroy was struck by
bullets from at least 2 different guns. Oddly enough, the forensic
folk never got more specific than that.
<p></p>
<p><b><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">In
the aftermath, t</span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">he
police questioned </span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">virtually
everyone in town, </span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">but
no one </span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">seemed
to have witnessed the incident, nor could </span></span></b><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><b>say
who shot McElroy.</b> </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The
newly liberated Trena was of little help to cops and to </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">this
day, </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">more
than 40 years later, the crime is on the books as an “unsolved”
cold case. </span></span></span>
</p>
<p><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><b>The
Dixie Chicks’ hit song, “Goodbye Earl” has a line in it that
Earl turned out to be a missing person that nobody missed at all. </b>For
the town of Skidmore, Missouri, Ken Rex McElroy turned out to be one of those
folks that </span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">nobody
missed at all and an example of someone who</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, as we say in Texas,
“needed killin’”.<br />
<br />
</span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-family: Tahoma, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">©
</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-variant: normal;"><span style="font-family: Tahoma, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">2021
by Tom King</span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p> REFERENCES:</p><p>1. <a href="https://allthatsinteresting.com/ken-mcelroy">https://allthatsinteresting.com/ken-mcelroy</a> </p><p>2. <a href="https://www.buzzfeed.com/christopherhudspeth/18-facts-about-the-murder-of-ken-rex-mcelroy-one-of-the">https://www.buzzfeed.com/christopherhudspeth/18-facts-about-the-murder-of-ken-rex-mcelroy-one-of-the</a></p><p>3. <a href="https://patch.com/us/across-america/who-killed-ken-rex-mcelroy-town-keeps-its-secret-38-years">https://patch.com/us/across-america/who-killed-ken-rex-mcelroy-town-keeps-its-secret-38-years</a></p><p>4. <a href="https://www.talkmurderwithme.com/blog/2019/11/14/ken-rex-mcelroy">https://www.talkmurderwithme.com/blog/2019/11/14/ken-rex-mcelroy</a></p><p>5. <a href="https://www.aetv.com/real-crime/ken-rex-mcelroy-vigilante-murder-skidmore-unsolved">https://www.aetv.com/real-crime/ken-rex-mcelroy-vigilante-murder-skidmore-unsolved</a></p><p>6. <a href="https://www.historicmysteries.com/ken-mcelroy-skidmore-missouri/">https://www.historicmysteries.com/ken-mcelroy-skidmore-missouri/</a> </p><p>7. <a href="https://www.insideedition.com/the-unsolved-murder-of-missouri-town-bully-ken-rex-mcelroy-no-one-saw-a-thing-54856">https://www.insideedition.com/the-unsolved-murder-of-missouri-town-bully-ken-rex-mcelroy-no-one-saw-a-thing-54856</a> </p><p>8. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tZktTdGHaJY">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tZktTdGHaJY</a><br /><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-71085395517398646372021-05-01T18:33:00.000-05:002021-05-01T18:33:02.672-05:00Omnipotent, Omnipresent and Omniscient, Oh My!<p><span data-offset-key="cln4v-0-0"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fyK8loei3hM/YI3bkZsPQKI/AAAAAAAAN4s/NbmdNYvG9RwaNiCJ2VL--0KEatZ8GqZPwCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/CS%2BLewis%2B-%2BGod%2Boutside%2Btime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="640" height="218" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fyK8loei3hM/YI3bkZsPQKI/AAAAAAAAN4s/NbmdNYvG9RwaNiCJ2VL--0KEatZ8GqZPwCLcBGAsYHQ/w398-h218/CS%2BLewis%2B-%2BGod%2Boutside%2Btime.jpg" width="398" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b><span data-text="true"><b>One of the most stunning and revelatory things I have learned about God in my lifetime is the idea that God exist across all dimensions of time and space.</b> It explains so much if God exists outside of our 3 dimensional world and of the 4th dimensional world where the angels live (what Paul called the higher or spiritual plane). </span><p></p><p><span data-offset-key="cln4v-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b> If God is outside time and space then He sees the past and future at the same time.</b> He's not looking into the future, He's looking AT the future. It explains how he can hear ten million prayers at the same instance. If He is outside of time then he can attend to each prayer as though you were the only living thing in the universe in private audience with the Almighty. </span></span></p><p><span data-offset-key="cln4v-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>Now THAT is an understanding about God that will shake your world.</b> It explains how he can make all things work together for good on your behalf and why we don't always understand what God is doing. </span></span></p><p><span data-offset-key="cln4v-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>We can't see the end of a string of events and how the future will unfold as a result of something inexplicable that happens to us.</b> God on the other hand does see the utter ends of our histories, even as He is guiding events today in our best interest, even if what He causes or allows is uncomfortable for us in the here and now. He knows how it all turns out. <br /><b><br />God is basically writing the script of our lives (if we allow him to) and like a writer, He crafts the events of our lives to create a story and, in His case, one with a happy ending.</b>. If we don't allow Him to do that, then we inevitably write our own story or allow less kindly spirits to write that story. </span></span></p><p><span data-offset-key="cln4v-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>And I'm here to tell you those less than kindly spirits walking up and down the Earth are post-modernists to the core</b>. Essentially, post modernists believe that stuff happens and then you die. Life is meaningless and cruel and you can't do much about it. It's a hopeless philosophy and given the ending waiting for those spirits, it's little wonder that they would embrace and attempt to promote such a grim and hopeless sort of story-telling.<br /><br /><b>Romans 8:</b></span></span></p><p><span data-offset-key="cln4v-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span><span class="text Rom-8-27" id="en-NIV-28144"><sup class="versenum">27 </sup><i>And He who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God’s people in accordance with the will of God.</i></span></p><div class="std-text"> <p><span class="text Rom-8-28" id="en-NIV-28145"><sup class="versenum">28 </sup><i>And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.</i></span><i> <span class="text Rom-8-29" id="en-NIV-28146"><sup class="versenum"> </sup></span></i></p><p><span class="text Rom-8-29" id="en-NIV-28146"><sup class="versenum">29 </sup><i>For those God foreknew He also predestined to be conformed to the image of His Son, that He might be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters.</i></span></p><p><span class="text Rom-8-29" id="en-NIV-28146"><b>This passage doesn't mean God picks and chooses who He will save and who will be lost.</b> It means that if you choose to put your faith in God, He then, makes all things work together for good on your behalf. Nothing arbitrary about that. You choose. That God because of His pan-dimensional nature can see the consequences of your choosing does NOT mean you don't choose. Actually it means that choosing the path of faith is the only way you can choose a happy ending to your own story because the Almighty makes sure it all comes out right.</span></p><p><span class="text Rom-8-29" id="en-NIV-28146"><b>When we receive eternal life and evil is blotted out for all time, we will look back and wonder at the myriad ways God brought us through. </b><br /><br />Tom King<br />© 2021 <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></p><p><span class="text Rom-8-29" id="en-NIV-28146"> </span> </p></div><p><span data-offset-key="cln4v-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-15454849331579545772021-04-24T22:56:00.005-05:002021-04-25T12:44:19.599-05:00Paradigm Spectacles - How Culture Affects How You View Other Cultures<p style="text-align: center;"><b> </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b> <span style="font-size: large;"><i>And why that's not a bad thing....</i></span></b></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qtno2IPjHZ4/YITkHrqPuTI/AAAAAAAAN34/mBlVZ-SbXgcOaYQK5k72JOCRl7XmFG-dwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Bear%2Bon%2Ba%2Btree%2B1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="492" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qtno2IPjHZ4/YITkHrqPuTI/AAAAAAAAN34/mBlVZ-SbXgcOaYQK5k72JOCRl7XmFG-dwCLcBGAsYHQ/w368-h492/Bear%2Bon%2Ba%2Btree%2B1.jpg" width="368" /></a></b></div><b> </b><p></p><p><b>First a little story to show you what I mean. </b>For about a year our landlords who live across the catwalk from us, hosted a young Chinese exchange student named Kate. She had come to the United States to complete high school and to get a college education. Her father is a physician and helped her get permission to study outside of China. She was a very hard-working student and quite intelligent. She didn't just drop out of Chinese high school. She rejected Chinese high school and chose precisely where she wanted to be educated thanks to a class in Western Lit.<br /><br /><b>I had the privilege of helping her write her essay that went with her application to NYU so I got to know her story.</b> The fascinating thing about her educational journey was how she came to choose a U.S. education over a Chinese one. She told me that over the years in Chinese elementary, middle school and high school, she had become frustrated with how her teachers taught and evaluated their students. At first she didn't think anything unusual until she took a class in Western Literature - a subject liberal American universities have lately toyed with the idea of eliminating from their curriculuums. Having talked to Kate, I am beginning to see where the "Woke" Inquisition is going with the silencing of opinions not their own. China's politburo is expert at this sort of thought control.</p><p><b>Kate's teachers in Chinese schools taught a series of facts and statements of "acceptable" ideas to students she explained.</b> Tests were all multiple choice and there is only one "correct" answer. In a Western Literature class in one of her schools, Kate learned, while reading the classics of English lit, that there is not just one answer to every question. She discovered she liked open-ended questions. She liked being able to think about a set of facts and come to a conclusion that is the product of her own reason and not the edicts of a group of politicians intent on controlling every aspect of the lives of those they believed they had a right to rule over. </p><p></p><div data-contents="true"><div data-block="true" data-editor="7q5jq" data-offset-key="1q21k-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1q21k-0-0"><span data-offset-key="1q21k-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>We experience something called "cognitiive dissonance" when what we know or what we believe clashes with something we're being told.</b> It's a big part of why progressives have such a visceral reaction to conservative ideas and why conservatives don't understand how progressives can be so enamored with socialism when hundreds of millions of people died at the hands of socialist governments during the 20th century.The burgeoning information system has contributed heavily to the fracturing of American and world society into basically two warring camps. The bad news is that it's not likely to get better.</span></span><b> </b></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1q21k-0-0"><b> </b></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1q21k-0-0"><b>The picture above is of one of those decorative sculpture things you nail to a tree.</b> As you pass by, this one looks like a bear climbing a tree. It's on a tree beside our quarter mile long gravel driveway. You see it on the way out on the road that circles behind our houses. One day Kate noticed our little bear as she was on her way to school. She was puzzled that we Americans would attach an image of a bear to a tree.</div></div></div><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gebxerB4JZU/YITlQxjmsPI/AAAAAAAAN4A/9u9EonwbGt8fZcjONEhZu0bWvm2jAd06ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Bear%2Bon%2Ba%2Btree%2B4.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="356" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gebxerB4JZU/YITlQxjmsPI/AAAAAAAAN4A/9u9EonwbGt8fZcjONEhZu0bWvm2jAd06ACLcBGAsYHQ/w267-h356/Bear%2Bon%2Ba%2Btree%2B4.jpg" width="267" /></a></b></div><b>Curious she asked my landlady if the little bear were some sort of good luck talisman or some traditional thing Americans practiced. </b>We told Kate, "No, we just thought it was a cute thing to do. Kate told me later she didn't quite understand why Americans would do something like that if it had no meaning. For a Chinese person, from a land steeped in tradition, most things had some sort of ancient tradition behind it. The use of colors, styles of dress, types of poetry, painting techniques, and the preparation of food has ancient history behind all of it. That Americans do things without having any tradition behind them set of a kind of cultural dissonance for her.<br /><p></p><p><b>American cultural practice, unlike culture driven practices and tradition in nations with long histories, is the product of oura melting pot culture in which the cultural practices from all over the world were promiscuously poured into our new and increasingly blended, uniquely American culture.</b> It took Kate a while to get used to that about Americans. We do all sorts of odd things, some of which has tradition behind it that we liked and adopted (I'm thinking of the breakfast burrito and pizza parties here). Many of our habits and practices, though, are simply things that we do just because we want to or because we think a thing is fun to do. We saw 'em in the window and bought 'em so to speak.<br /></p><p> <b>Americans have always been cultural appropriators.</b> It's one of our great strengths. Our first Thanksgiving drew the menu from English cuisine and Native American cooking and some stuff the ladies made up from foodstuffs that were available in the new world. In the Southwest United States, the food, music, and cultural practices of Mexico seeped into the culture of the American settles. It's what gave us the glorious Tex-Mex tradition in cooking. Italians gave us pizza and pasta. Greeks gave us gyros and sub sandwiches. The Cajun French gave us Jambalaya and Zydeco. The Irish gave us Boston and the railroads. The Chinese gave us the other half of the railroad, Chinese food and the Americans in a kind of reverse cultural appropriation, gave chow mein back to Chinese food. </p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hgYFVNI-khg/YITnG7XHUaI/AAAAAAAAN4Q/RRUUuXUfaVE_05tgdoXUQYQ7sCUMoEnDgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1000/tree%2Bface.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="247" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hgYFVNI-khg/YITnG7XHUaI/AAAAAAAAN4Q/RRUUuXUfaVE_05tgdoXUQYQ7sCUMoEnDgCLcBGAsYHQ/w247-h247/tree%2Bface.jpg" width="247" /></a></b></div><b>Think of all the wonderful American things we wouldn't have if the recent anti-appropriation thing had happened long ago.</b> Half the stuff I wore back in my hippie days was appropriated from some other culture. I wore moccasins, stars and stripe bell bottoms (patriot/sailor), an Elizabethan poet shirt, a buckskin vest, a sombrero and carrying a banjo. If you had taken away all the culture I was appropriating, I'd have been left naked. Antifa would have me set on fire if I showed up dressed like that on a "woke" college campus in today's Puritanical leftist snowflake culture.<br /><p></p><p><b>The point is that much of the strife we see in our world is more about clashing cultural paradigms than good versus evil.</b> Not that there isn't good and evil, but much of our instinctive dissonance in our interaction with people we perceive as "other" is more about the fact that it doesn't feel right when we run up against something we are unfamiliar with. We see through the spectacles of our own culture and upbringing. This prism of culture we peer through affects how we see and do a lot of things we do. But sometimes, especially in the American melting pot, the point is, as with this tree "face" in the picture is to startle people walking in your hundred acre woods rather than about some ancient cultural imperative. <br /></p><p><b>To overcome the problems generated by this cognitive dissonance we experience on contact with another culture, we have to do what we Americans have always done when confronting this kind of feeling that something is off in our encounters with other cultures</b>. We see what we like about it and borrow it, weaving it skillfully into the fabric of American life. The more we adopt the best bits and bobs from one another's cultures, I think the better we'll understand each other. </p><p><span data-offset-key="1q21k-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span></p><div data-block="true" data-editor="7q5jq" data-offset-key="60lek-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="60lek-0-0"><span data-offset-key="60lek-0-0"></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="7q5jq" data-offset-key="5q3o-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5q3o-0-0"><span data-offset-key="5q3o-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>If we continue in the error of mistaking cultural differences for deliberate evil, we'll only continue to drive a wedge between the left and right, between city people and country folk, between church folk and the unchurched, and between Democrats and Republicans, liberals and conservatives, Americans and everybody else in the world.</b> The
good news is that Jesus warned us long ago that mankind would one day be divided into
sheep and goats just before time runs out for this world. You can argue all day long about who is in which group, but ultimately, Jesus will come with Earth-shattering suddenness
and answer that question once and for all.</span></span></div></div><p> <i><b>Just one man's opinion.</b></i><br /><br /> © 2021 by Tom King<br /><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-85889975204514259462021-03-24T16:38:00.006-05:002021-03-24T16:47:21.144-05:00I Have Found My Haberdashery!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoveJqJDkB5ZHsmZHR8VeFFjtP61bKP-sgF6aVgLtVT913rHVSVbV7msdLNafLTe291PORCiIg-Y2kymHipIFyuqr6nC6uZp1lnGUdZyGpkdWquZ0HiJ3DJHvFwpt-bIbIDwSg/s1331/Texas+Hawaiian+Shirt.webp" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1331" data-original-width="999" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoveJqJDkB5ZHsmZHR8VeFFjtP61bKP-sgF6aVgLtVT913rHVSVbV7msdLNafLTe291PORCiIg-Y2kymHipIFyuqr6nC6uZp1lnGUdZyGpkdWquZ0HiJ3DJHvFwpt-bIbIDwSg/w250-h333/Texas+Hawaiian+Shirt.webp" width="250" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>As a native Texan, I've gotta <br />have this one.</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><b>For some reason, my Sweet Baboo doesn't like my loud Hawaiian fat guy shirts.</b> I'm not sure why. I think they are quite fetching, but they do tend to disappear one by one over time. I've found a couple in the trash. I'm sure this was by accident. Anyway, I really love the shirts of the islands. I'm a bit colorblind, so I like my colors to be vibrant. I'm sure many of you enjoy vibrant colors, so in the interest of keeping my readers, many of who must share my taste in things like clothes, music, religion and politics, informed of cool things that might make them happy.<p></p><p><a href="https://www.hawalili.com/products/vintage-shirt-collar-shirts-tops-11590859"><b>Here's one!</b></a></p><p><b>I'm not being paid to advertise for these guys.</b> I just like these shirts. My birthday is coming up April 19, so I'm gonna buy one of these for me and try to wear it on special occasions when my wife doesn't want me to look like an overweight homeless guy. I don't think color is unpleasant. The trouble is, I married a superhero. She has super hearing, super vision, super touch, super smell and ESP for all I know. The woman can smell a gnat passing gas at 200 yards. We have to black out the windows in daylight because the light is too bright coming through the windows. Scentsies are everywhere to control the smells. She puts cotton in her ears to subdue the sound. And she knows what I'm doing or thinking even if she can't see me. <br /><br /><b></b></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTYx4PrjF2bWGowcBbGkkzo_5LWqVjgggDxgxWnQmp4yuhrHkVspZ9N8WWHNt95z-ygqwL6usfCrrUWI8i4eekzTd9HFjXgzBxJc5rsLy8_R6OSDRe_SMs9fY46VECoN8N0lre/s700/USA+dragon+Shirt.webp" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="524" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTYx4PrjF2bWGowcBbGkkzo_5LWqVjgggDxgxWnQmp4yuhrHkVspZ9N8WWHNt95z-ygqwL6usfCrrUWI8i4eekzTd9HFjXgzBxJc5rsLy8_R6OSDRe_SMs9fY46VECoN8N0lre/w243-h325/USA+dragon+Shirt.webp" width="243" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>As a conservative American I like <br />this one. The dinosaur will make <br />my grandson happy.<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><b>My wardrobe has always been a bone of contention.</b> I'm partially color blind. I have trouble with subtle pastel color differences and very dark colors like deep blue, dark purple, black, dark red and almost any very dark color. So my color matches are often very off. My hearing is relatively normal and with my allergies, my sense of smell is not very good. I love brightly lit spaces. <p></p><p><b>My favorite loud Hawaiian shirts stand out visually to my poor darling like flashbulbs going off.</b> The poor thing suffers from sensory overload most of the time. I try to save my loud shirts for when I'm going to be outside. If she's with me, I make sure she remembers to wear sunglasses.<br /><br /><b>Our home has mostly Earth tones with furniture, paint and decorations so far as colors go and it's pretty calming.</b> When we play music, it tends to be of the sort that puts me straight off to sleep. She used to create mix tapes for nap time at the day care center we operated. The kids tried to stay awake, but once the music started, they started dropping off as if they'd been gassed. The woman is an expert in how to create calmness.</p><p><b></b></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXZ4ec4vs0q3q6KM54zxS_IQlk1c4JUyFMx2R-g9fELULkbTdSkOR2dJVfk-OA5-anLMrdsdkK_pMG_AVyFAUmq21-Pm2gAl3oQTKDoF9JWkuiiQFIsBzKU3iM7C-AiBSkkz7/s1600/shark+shirt.webp" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXZ4ec4vs0q3q6KM54zxS_IQlk1c4JUyFMx2R-g9fELULkbTdSkOR2dJVfk-OA5-anLMrdsdkK_pMG_AVyFAUmq21-Pm2gAl3oQTKDoF9JWkuiiQFIsBzKU3iM7C-AiBSkkz7/w217-h265/shark+shirt.webp" width="217" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My grandson will really dig it when <br />Poppy shows up dressed in sharks. <br />The boy loves anything with <br />a lot of sharp teeth.<br /></i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><b>Unfortunately for my beloved superhero, she married a klutz whose unsuperhero skill is ADHD</b>.<br /> It takes loud sounds, loud colors, exciting action and smoke alarms to keep me focused. And don't ask me to do any housecleaning. My work does not, cannot and ever will meet superhero habitation standards. I can empathize with Lois Lane. I really can.<br /><br /> <b>I try to keep my shirts a little more low-key</b>. I like shirts with ocean/island themes but they tend to be a lot more loud and glaring in color, so I've quit buying them. I can get away with the patriotic ones above because they have a lot of Earth tones. The shark shirt has a lot of black and the sharks themselves tend to have more muted colors.<p></p><p>I picked two shirts (below) that have a favorite picture theme that we both love - lighthouses. These are pretty much black and white and gray, so the colors are calming. Good for my superhero sweetie. Good for her hyper hubbie.<br /><br />© 2021 by Tom King</p><p>PS: It's almost my birthday.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGXVZhp2HnUx0yLwmQwHcu2Q8HDIB1wuEwrX1zckA0ptun0z7VovmyhXTYzFcf9CD1F1U0tYM1azWUrVl_FtdXSJvAR3t88CS67rjUB5iG9vVxBrpU2emAL-Xv7NZjnqGM8YD/s1600/lighthouse+shirt.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGXVZhp2HnUx0yLwmQwHcu2Q8HDIB1wuEwrX1zckA0ptun0z7VovmyhXTYzFcf9CD1F1U0tYM1azWUrVl_FtdXSJvAR3t88CS67rjUB5iG9vVxBrpU2emAL-Xv7NZjnqGM8YD/w200-h267/lighthouse+shirt.webp" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim9LHWPagJ3QR4q8vKFYAoOBNYIKBBisWUrFGalfFVbMa3AUwKmrPLK5DOgE61pHRxUg0Ys2eaHQvdVspItBWi6iSPkuzG8U-l9zHp7Uzku9LRfTO63YFTkn0BM-CD7CA6wcvS/s1600/gray+lighthouse+shirt.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim9LHWPagJ3QR4q8vKFYAoOBNYIKBBisWUrFGalfFVbMa3AUwKmrPLK5DOgE61pHRxUg0Ys2eaHQvdVspItBWi6iSPkuzG8U-l9zHp7Uzku9LRfTO63YFTkn0BM-CD7CA6wcvS/w194-h259/gray+lighthouse+shirt.webp" width="194" /></a><br /><br /><p><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13625709.post-77516862184428508822021-03-07T05:02:00.004-06:002021-03-07T05:04:51.835-06:00Cancel Culture Goes After Thoreau<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tqYrOhBbyUg/YESycYllVfI/AAAAAAAANzI/ajEWdoPlGzYoosXtfVcdUYaxnVYMyiz9QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/Henry%2BDavid%2BThoreau.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="828" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tqYrOhBbyUg/YESycYllVfI/AAAAAAAANzI/ajEWdoPlGzYoosXtfVcdUYaxnVYMyiz9QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Henry%2BDavid%2BThoreau.jpg" /></a></div><p><span data-offset-key="3v35b-0-0"><span data-text="true"><b>It seems they're out to cancel Henry David Thoreau's Walden experiment now.</b> Evidently he came to the wrong conclusions, so he must not actually have done the experiment right. How else can you explain that he believed one should live simply and deliberately, self-sufficient and independent. Those are not "progressive" values. In today's "<a href="https://www.artofmanliness.com/articles/sunday-firesides-every-man-needs-his-own-waldens/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+TheArtOfManliness+%28The+Art+of+Manliness%29">Art of Manliness</a>", Brett and Kay McKay discuss Thoreau's landmark work and what it means for today's men (and women for that matter)." </span></span></p><p><i><span style="font-weight: 400;">Thoreau</span></i><span style="font-weight: 400;"><i>
wanted to demonstrate that it was possible to “live a primitive and
frontier life — though in the midst of an outward civilization.” He
wanted to show that recovering a bit of wildness didn’t require complete
separation from society. </i> - Brett & Kay McKay<br /><br /><b>Today's Progressive Marxist collectivists could never tolerate that sort of thinking among the proletariat.</b> People who live deliberately, who practice self-reliance and independence, don't make good socialist workers. So Thoreau must be sacrificed on the altar of post-modern collectivism.<br /><br /><b>I knew there was something I really liked about Thoreau, who was, by the way, an old school liberal like the founding fathers. </b>He believed in equality and all those pesky freedoms that gum up the works of the efficiently run collective state. If Marx had ever read Thoreau, he'd likely have been very unhappy with his work. <br /><br /><b>Look for Henry David on the library burn piles soon.</b><br /><br />© 2021 <i>by Tom King</i><br /></span></p><div data-contents="true"><div data-block="true" data-editor="flgrf" data-offset-key="bem8v-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="bem8v-0-0"><span data-offset-key="bem8v-0-0" spellcheck="false" start="0"><span data-offset-key="bem8v-0-0"><span data-text="true"><br /></span></span></span></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">(c) 2012 by Tom King</div>Tom Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16700342512275624543noreply@blogger.com2