I really think that probably everybody is tired of Tiger and his travails. Of course, everyone knew something was afoot when it was reported that he had run into a fireplug and then a tree right outside his gate, together with something about windows being smashed with golf clubs. Apparently, his wife said she broke the window to get him out of the car. Maybe she wanted him out of the car so she could beat him to death, but that is the sheerest speculation.
At first, I felt sorry for the guy; and in a way, I still do. I heard Bryant Gumbel say that it was the worst of luck, because nothing, nothing happens in December. He cited the case of the wandering South Carolina Governor whose sachet to South America was discovered and announced and discussed for only a day, because Michael Jackson died the next day and soon the chatter in Michael's case turned to murder, causing the nation to forget the traveling amorous governor! Not so in Tiger's case; he has been and probably will remain in the hot spotlight until after the first of the year.
Tiger Woods has been a phenomenon almost since the first day he played in the pros. He not only has won almost every championship there is in golf, he has won many of them several times. He was a nice looking young man, with an apparently great personality - a man who took his sport very seriously but didn't seem to take himself too seriously. "Clean cut," your name is Tiger, or at least was. And so, now, Gillette is having second thoughts as are a number of other big names who together have paid Tiger up to about $100 million a year to endorse their products. Nike seems to be holding on, but they've got a three year inventory of shoes and other stuff with his name on it.
Seriously, America loves its athletes; their salaries and perks tell you so. And maybe their excessive earnings contribute to their feeling of invincibility. Most of you know that I am no sports fan, but it doesn't make any difference what these professional athletes do, they don't seem to suffer many long-term consequences. Whether you raise and fight killer dogs, fight in restaurants and bars, are caught with dope and narcotics, nothing much ever happens. I don't know that I can think of anything much more despicable than training and fighting dogs to the death, but Michael Vick hadn't been out of prison fifteen minutes before some team was after him to play, offering him millions. And I would almost guarantee that, should he start getting three or more touch downs a game, nobody would remember what a real jerk he is. I don't keep up with professional athletes, but it seemed to me that the Cincinnati news, before the Bengals started winning, was full of rough-neck football players being arrested for this crime and that; and apparently, only a jail sentence (and few of those were meted out) kept any of them from playing football.
Some say Tiger is such a phenomenal golfter that none of this will matter in six months. And, heaven knows, he is an unequaled golfer. But maybe, just maybe the day has arrived when conduct and character will have a bearing on the rewards we bestowe on our stars. I hope so!
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Thanksgiving Day
I love Thanksgiving Day. Of course, I never had to do the cooking or watch my handiwork consumed in the space of twenty minutes. Nevertheless, there are some foods with which we stuff ourselves that are more comforting than others. Can you ever get too much mashed potatoes and gravy to be seriously uncomfortable? Naw! It can't happen! I hope all of you will have a really nice day.
While you're enjoying it, take a little serious time to quietly think about how fortunate you are. Try thinking a little outside the box for a change.
This past week, I went to Shirley Toncray's funeral. It was unique in that it was held at the Opera Theatre, a place she truly loved. Shirley's casket was in the orchestra pit, adorned and surrounded with perfectly lovely flowers. Favorite passages from the bible were read and a number of family members and friends eulogized Shirley, as emotionally difficult as it was. The recurring theme of each was laughter and fun.
As I listened, I thought about my first encounter with Shirley. You know, her daughter, Carla, was in and out of our house because of her friendship with my younger sister, Mary. I didn't pay too much attention then, as I was about twelve years older than they were and thought of them, primarily, as a bother. I don't know that I remember associating Carla with Shirley, even though they were mother and daughter. Anyway, I first met Shirley in the play Annie, staged in 1984. With her slightly gravelly voice, she played the part of Miss Hannigan, the matron of the orphanage from which Annie escaped. She, together with Greg Brock (as "Rooster," Miss Hannigan's con-artist brother) simply stole the show. They were both hysterically funny.
From that time forward, I really do believe that every time I saw Shirley, she was in the company of her best friend, Rose Leo; and every time I saw them, there was something to laugh about. I couldn't tell you a single subject that we talked about, but it was just always funny as it could be. The laughter was infectious, contagious and wonderful. Made no difference what sort of day you were having, troubles vanished for a moment, and if you were not careful, you would forget them, the troubles, that is, altogether. And so it can honestly be said that Shirley Toncray and Rose Leo were rays of sunshine wherever they went and into whose ever life they so joyously intruded.
While I stood there listening as the assemblage sang Amazing Grace, I thought to myself that if any hymn ever described a deceased person more aptly, I don't know what it could possibly be. Shirley Toncray and her pal Rose, left behind for awhile, were not only amazing, they were and are embued with a grace the likes of which few of us will ever achieve. They were the grace of laughter and fun and light heartedness; and of that grace, there is not nearly enough!
And so, for Thanksgiving, one of the things I will thank God for is my aquaintance with Shirley and Rose. They made my life so much better.
While you're enjoying it, take a little serious time to quietly think about how fortunate you are. Try thinking a little outside the box for a change.
This past week, I went to Shirley Toncray's funeral. It was unique in that it was held at the Opera Theatre, a place she truly loved. Shirley's casket was in the orchestra pit, adorned and surrounded with perfectly lovely flowers. Favorite passages from the bible were read and a number of family members and friends eulogized Shirley, as emotionally difficult as it was. The recurring theme of each was laughter and fun.
As I listened, I thought about my first encounter with Shirley. You know, her daughter, Carla, was in and out of our house because of her friendship with my younger sister, Mary. I didn't pay too much attention then, as I was about twelve years older than they were and thought of them, primarily, as a bother. I don't know that I remember associating Carla with Shirley, even though they were mother and daughter. Anyway, I first met Shirley in the play Annie, staged in 1984. With her slightly gravelly voice, she played the part of Miss Hannigan, the matron of the orphanage from which Annie escaped. She, together with Greg Brock (as "Rooster," Miss Hannigan's con-artist brother) simply stole the show. They were both hysterically funny.
From that time forward, I really do believe that every time I saw Shirley, she was in the company of her best friend, Rose Leo; and every time I saw them, there was something to laugh about. I couldn't tell you a single subject that we talked about, but it was just always funny as it could be. The laughter was infectious, contagious and wonderful. Made no difference what sort of day you were having, troubles vanished for a moment, and if you were not careful, you would forget them, the troubles, that is, altogether. And so it can honestly be said that Shirley Toncray and Rose Leo were rays of sunshine wherever they went and into whose ever life they so joyously intruded.
While I stood there listening as the assemblage sang Amazing Grace, I thought to myself that if any hymn ever described a deceased person more aptly, I don't know what it could possibly be. Shirley Toncray and her pal Rose, left behind for awhile, were not only amazing, they were and are embued with a grace the likes of which few of us will ever achieve. They were the grace of laughter and fun and light heartedness; and of that grace, there is not nearly enough!
And so, for Thanksgiving, one of the things I will thank God for is my aquaintance with Shirley and Rose. They made my life so much better.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
A Cup of Coffee and a Look at the River
We have a lovely view from our kitchen window. It seems that it's almost different every day. This morning, there were thin grey clouds overhead, trimmed in gold by the sun. The river was ruffled by breezes near the surface and, when the sun is at the right angle, the water looks like a blanket of diamonds, shimmering and sparkling for all to see. As I sipped my coffee, I wondered to myself, "With a picture this perfect, how can this country be in such a damned mess?"
America has been on a binge of sorts. We have all spent more money than we should, and some have spent money they didn't have. The other day, I asked Jerry Rains how the lumber business was. He replied that it was better than you would think. He said that in the next two weeks, there were 5-6 new houses starting, all of which were over 5,000 square feet; one was 6,500 square feet. I said, "Jerry, how much does a house like that cost? He answered, "It doesn't make any difference. All they want to know is the amount of the payment." And the beat goes on!
The other morning after breakfast, I was washing dishes and reached in the drawer to get a dishrag. It happened that this dishrag was new and sewn into the cloth at the edge was a tag, much like you find inside of a shirt. It said Made in China. A dishrag! President Obama is in China right now, talking to the leaders of that government. Our most serious problem with them is their refusal to let their currency "float." I'm not sure I know what that means, but I do know that their failure to do so underprices their export products. This results in the their accumulation of unbelievable amounts of U.S. money because we buy so much of their cheap stuff.
They don't buy much of our stuff. They're smarter than we are, I think. They use their dollars to loan to the U. S. Government financing our deficit. They probably also loan their dollars to credit card issuing banks so we can all carry balances of $10,000 to $20,000. And so, what happens? All of sudden, our greedy Wall Street bankers get stung by sub-prime mortgages, those same bankers stop loaning money to Americans, and the economy goes into a tail spin and damn near fell off the table. All the while, China watches.
Before going to China, the President stopped in Japan where they have recently elected a new prime minister. He's decided Japan is better off cozying up to the Pacific nations for their trading partners. He also thinks Japan should refuse access to our Navy for refueling purposes. Wonder what he'll think when that nut in North Korea launches its missiles aimed at him. Where, oh where, is the U. S. Navy and the U. S. Air Force and all those soldiers who used to protect us?
Sometimes I think that the United States of America has been played for a fool. That war in Iraq was totally unnecessary and yet, we undertook it at a cost of over $300 billion a year for seven years. We're getting ready to do the same thing in Afghanistan, and who's with us. Well, the Brits always try to help; there are a few Germans over there, but very few. We have a standing army in Germany to protect Germany which costs a fortune. We have a standing army in Korea to protect South Korea, another fortune. And Germany and Korea are two of the most prosperous nations on earth, after the U.S. and, now, China. We maintain a Navy and an Air Force the likes of which has never before been seen on this planet, mostly for the purpose of defending foreign nations.
One day soon, maybe the President should walk out of his office and announce to the world that we have some serious problems here at home which need our undivided attention; that we are recalling our armed forces from around the world; that we are imposing import tarriffs on all goods, except raw materials, imported into this country, using the revenue to pay off our debt; and finally, that we will again enter the manufacturing economy and start making what we need for ourselves. Maybe we'll get back in the game we have played someday, but right now, it's about us. We should remind the powers of the world that we will maintain sufficient military strength to obliterate any nation committing agression toward us, but the rest of the world will have to look after itself. Be really interesting to see what would happen! Lots of weeping and wailing and gnashing to teeth.
I know it won't happen, but it feels good saying it!
America has been on a binge of sorts. We have all spent more money than we should, and some have spent money they didn't have. The other day, I asked Jerry Rains how the lumber business was. He replied that it was better than you would think. He said that in the next two weeks, there were 5-6 new houses starting, all of which were over 5,000 square feet; one was 6,500 square feet. I said, "Jerry, how much does a house like that cost? He answered, "It doesn't make any difference. All they want to know is the amount of the payment." And the beat goes on!
The other morning after breakfast, I was washing dishes and reached in the drawer to get a dishrag. It happened that this dishrag was new and sewn into the cloth at the edge was a tag, much like you find inside of a shirt. It said Made in China. A dishrag! President Obama is in China right now, talking to the leaders of that government. Our most serious problem with them is their refusal to let their currency "float." I'm not sure I know what that means, but I do know that their failure to do so underprices their export products. This results in the their accumulation of unbelievable amounts of U.S. money because we buy so much of their cheap stuff.
They don't buy much of our stuff. They're smarter than we are, I think. They use their dollars to loan to the U. S. Government financing our deficit. They probably also loan their dollars to credit card issuing banks so we can all carry balances of $10,000 to $20,000. And so, what happens? All of sudden, our greedy Wall Street bankers get stung by sub-prime mortgages, those same bankers stop loaning money to Americans, and the economy goes into a tail spin and damn near fell off the table. All the while, China watches.
Before going to China, the President stopped in Japan where they have recently elected a new prime minister. He's decided Japan is better off cozying up to the Pacific nations for their trading partners. He also thinks Japan should refuse access to our Navy for refueling purposes. Wonder what he'll think when that nut in North Korea launches its missiles aimed at him. Where, oh where, is the U. S. Navy and the U. S. Air Force and all those soldiers who used to protect us?
Sometimes I think that the United States of America has been played for a fool. That war in Iraq was totally unnecessary and yet, we undertook it at a cost of over $300 billion a year for seven years. We're getting ready to do the same thing in Afghanistan, and who's with us. Well, the Brits always try to help; there are a few Germans over there, but very few. We have a standing army in Germany to protect Germany which costs a fortune. We have a standing army in Korea to protect South Korea, another fortune. And Germany and Korea are two of the most prosperous nations on earth, after the U.S. and, now, China. We maintain a Navy and an Air Force the likes of which has never before been seen on this planet, mostly for the purpose of defending foreign nations.
One day soon, maybe the President should walk out of his office and announce to the world that we have some serious problems here at home which need our undivided attention; that we are recalling our armed forces from around the world; that we are imposing import tarriffs on all goods, except raw materials, imported into this country, using the revenue to pay off our debt; and finally, that we will again enter the manufacturing economy and start making what we need for ourselves. Maybe we'll get back in the game we have played someday, but right now, it's about us. We should remind the powers of the world that we will maintain sufficient military strength to obliterate any nation committing agression toward us, but the rest of the world will have to look after itself. Be really interesting to see what would happen! Lots of weeping and wailing and gnashing to teeth.
I know it won't happen, but it feels good saying it!
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Passing of Time.
It frankly always amazes me when I think of my age. It's trite, I know, but I don't know where the years have flown. For many of them, I was having a very good time; but now the sun is moving toward the low gradient and, like it or not, it comes with the territory.
I really was not cocky in high school, though I achieved a measure of success there. My grades were not as good as those of some of my friends, but they were good enough to get me admitted to a good college. At college, I got along reasonably well, except for French, which I thought would be my undoing. I know there is nothing wrong with the French, except that it takes a really exceptional foreigner to understand their language. It all sounds (or did to me) like thick pudding, lacking definition completely. God bless the professor, who understood that I tried, but knew me (and announced to the class one day) to be one of the dumbest students she ever taught. Despite her and the subject matter, I was on the Dean's list every semester after I finally slipped ignominiously from French II with a C ( and that was a gift!!).
Law school was anguish. Rarely did I understand what they were talking about, which meant that I was a lost soul. Any professor at the University of Virginia who failed to answer a question with anything other than another question was taken up to Monticello and hanged that very afternoon. The whole time, not one explanation of anything other than a question, much harder than any of us ever asked. So, as the admission's risk of "63, I finally emerged in very average status in the spring of 1966, a graduate lawyer.
Viet Nam was boiling and deferments for graduate school put you at the front of the draft line. Nothing to do but join the Navy. Well, training for fat boys was anything but fun. Sweating profusely through Officer Candidate School, freezing on the parade ground every Saturday while the wind whipped in from Naragannsett Bay in Rhode Island, and in general finding the training much to my total dislike, somehow I managed to slither out of there at the end of December, on my way to a new naval communications station in Okinawa. Okinawa?? Where the hell is Okinawa? For those of you who don't know, it's one half the way around the whole world and just a little south of Japan. It took me two weeks to get over jet lag, though I should tell you that I didn't fly over on a jet. It was an airplane, in 1967, that had been used to haul coal in the Berlin Airlift in 1948. Propellor driven, it took thirty six hours to cross the Pacific Ocean; and no one met me at the terminal.
I'm not going into all this stuff about my naval career. Suffice it to say that I learned things that I never would have dreamed of in all the schooling I had endured. And so, I returned to Maysville to begin my real career in the practice of law.
The lawyers of the local bar association met sporadically each year when there was something to discuss. At the beginning, there were about 14 or 15 of us. Chuck Kirk, Jim Clarke, Bob Gallenstein, Bernard Hargett, Bill Sewell and I were the youngest of the bunch. Most of us were under 30. At the bar meetings, the topic of conversation varied from heavy to lite, and so some of us younger members occasionally thought we could contribute. Thus, every now and again, we would make a comment. The older people, Gene Royse, John Clarke and Andrew Fox would turn and look with complete disdain at the poor young sap who deigned to speak out. That's really not fair: They were not rude, but neither were they too interested in our thoughts on the subject of conversation either.
Time passed, and our status did not improve much. Our views were generally ignored, although we didn't stop speaking up when the spirit moved us. And then, all of a sudden, when we got to be about 40, the bar members seemed to pay more attention to what we said. There were some younger members by that time, who were, as were we at their age, ignored when they tried to contribute. Nevertheless, forty seemed to be the magic number. The group seemed to instinctively feel that people 40 years of age or more were worth listening to; and from that time on, our voices were heard in the Maysville councils of the law.
As time went by, what we said in those meeting commanded more and more respect. Where disagreements arose, it was the "middle age" people who carried the day, often at the expense of some of the more senior members, believe it or not. Well, time did go by, and all of a sudden, those of us who survived arrived at the age of 60. Some of us were even a couple of years older. And as we looked about the table, we noticed our total numbers had swelled from 14 to 25 and 30. And, more to the point, it was the 40 and 45 year olds who held sway in the discussions. The wisdom of the old (if there was any) was outshone by the pragmatists in their early to middle forties and fifties. How the hell did this happen? We used to make reasonably good sense in what we said, and, I thought, we still did. But the group wasn't buying our packages. There was a new day. It was frustrating, and I can honestly say that I didn't really comprehend what was happening at first.
When I was 62, I ran for judge and was on the bench for four years. I wanted to stay, but was defeated for re-election and was bitterly disappointed. When you're in the middle of something like that (or, really, any personal defeat in life), you don't understand much about what happened to you, because you're too personally involved. I shall never forget asking my friend, Scotty Hilterbrand, what he thought about the outcome of the election. He said, "Judge, I'll tell you, people between the age of 40 and 60 run the world."
When the election smoke cleared, and it took a while, I realized he was right. As a matter of fact, it was one of the most astute observations I ever heard. It's not, of course, true for everybody, but for the vast majority, it tells the story unequivocably.
And so, I have accepted the fact that younger people are now in charge. They will make the decisions; they will call the shots. And it is as it should be. For we have had our turn. We hope we did our best, and, there is some evidence that a lot of what we did was first rate; on the other hand, a lot of it was pretty damn sorry.
Post Scriptum. People our age, 65-75, tend to think the world has gone to hell in a handbasket. I recall, when I was middle-aged, Milton I. "Shorty" Tolle and A. J. Toncray would meet almost every morning for breakfast at Jim's Donut Shop. I don't know how old they were at the time, but they were at that stage in life where the current generation was running the world into the ground and ruining all that they and their generation had worked for. Listening to them would color your day the darkest of gray, if not black. The military wasn't worth a damn any more; Americans had forgotten how to work! Government existed to feed, clothe and money people who wouldn't take care of themselves. And it taxed people like Shorty and A.J. to do it. The City couldn't do anything right; and nobody went to church anymore. The country was wobbling next to an abyss, the bottom of which was no where in sight.
That's old men for you. 180 degrees out from the optimism and energy they both enjoyed in their twenties.
I don't know where in the Bible it talks about old men shall dream dreams and young men shall see visions; nor do I know what it takes to accomplish that, but wouldn't it be nice?
I really was not cocky in high school, though I achieved a measure of success there. My grades were not as good as those of some of my friends, but they were good enough to get me admitted to a good college. At college, I got along reasonably well, except for French, which I thought would be my undoing. I know there is nothing wrong with the French, except that it takes a really exceptional foreigner to understand their language. It all sounds (or did to me) like thick pudding, lacking definition completely. God bless the professor, who understood that I tried, but knew me (and announced to the class one day) to be one of the dumbest students she ever taught. Despite her and the subject matter, I was on the Dean's list every semester after I finally slipped ignominiously from French II with a C ( and that was a gift!!).
Law school was anguish. Rarely did I understand what they were talking about, which meant that I was a lost soul. Any professor at the University of Virginia who failed to answer a question with anything other than another question was taken up to Monticello and hanged that very afternoon. The whole time, not one explanation of anything other than a question, much harder than any of us ever asked. So, as the admission's risk of "63, I finally emerged in very average status in the spring of 1966, a graduate lawyer.
Viet Nam was boiling and deferments for graduate school put you at the front of the draft line. Nothing to do but join the Navy. Well, training for fat boys was anything but fun. Sweating profusely through Officer Candidate School, freezing on the parade ground every Saturday while the wind whipped in from Naragannsett Bay in Rhode Island, and in general finding the training much to my total dislike, somehow I managed to slither out of there at the end of December, on my way to a new naval communications station in Okinawa. Okinawa?? Where the hell is Okinawa? For those of you who don't know, it's one half the way around the whole world and just a little south of Japan. It took me two weeks to get over jet lag, though I should tell you that I didn't fly over on a jet. It was an airplane, in 1967, that had been used to haul coal in the Berlin Airlift in 1948. Propellor driven, it took thirty six hours to cross the Pacific Ocean; and no one met me at the terminal.
I'm not going into all this stuff about my naval career. Suffice it to say that I learned things that I never would have dreamed of in all the schooling I had endured. And so, I returned to Maysville to begin my real career in the practice of law.
The lawyers of the local bar association met sporadically each year when there was something to discuss. At the beginning, there were about 14 or 15 of us. Chuck Kirk, Jim Clarke, Bob Gallenstein, Bernard Hargett, Bill Sewell and I were the youngest of the bunch. Most of us were under 30. At the bar meetings, the topic of conversation varied from heavy to lite, and so some of us younger members occasionally thought we could contribute. Thus, every now and again, we would make a comment. The older people, Gene Royse, John Clarke and Andrew Fox would turn and look with complete disdain at the poor young sap who deigned to speak out. That's really not fair: They were not rude, but neither were they too interested in our thoughts on the subject of conversation either.
Time passed, and our status did not improve much. Our views were generally ignored, although we didn't stop speaking up when the spirit moved us. And then, all of a sudden, when we got to be about 40, the bar members seemed to pay more attention to what we said. There were some younger members by that time, who were, as were we at their age, ignored when they tried to contribute. Nevertheless, forty seemed to be the magic number. The group seemed to instinctively feel that people 40 years of age or more were worth listening to; and from that time on, our voices were heard in the Maysville councils of the law.
As time went by, what we said in those meeting commanded more and more respect. Where disagreements arose, it was the "middle age" people who carried the day, often at the expense of some of the more senior members, believe it or not. Well, time did go by, and all of a sudden, those of us who survived arrived at the age of 60. Some of us were even a couple of years older. And as we looked about the table, we noticed our total numbers had swelled from 14 to 25 and 30. And, more to the point, it was the 40 and 45 year olds who held sway in the discussions. The wisdom of the old (if there was any) was outshone by the pragmatists in their early to middle forties and fifties. How the hell did this happen? We used to make reasonably good sense in what we said, and, I thought, we still did. But the group wasn't buying our packages. There was a new day. It was frustrating, and I can honestly say that I didn't really comprehend what was happening at first.
When I was 62, I ran for judge and was on the bench for four years. I wanted to stay, but was defeated for re-election and was bitterly disappointed. When you're in the middle of something like that (or, really, any personal defeat in life), you don't understand much about what happened to you, because you're too personally involved. I shall never forget asking my friend, Scotty Hilterbrand, what he thought about the outcome of the election. He said, "Judge, I'll tell you, people between the age of 40 and 60 run the world."
When the election smoke cleared, and it took a while, I realized he was right. As a matter of fact, it was one of the most astute observations I ever heard. It's not, of course, true for everybody, but for the vast majority, it tells the story unequivocably.
And so, I have accepted the fact that younger people are now in charge. They will make the decisions; they will call the shots. And it is as it should be. For we have had our turn. We hope we did our best, and, there is some evidence that a lot of what we did was first rate; on the other hand, a lot of it was pretty damn sorry.
Post Scriptum. People our age, 65-75, tend to think the world has gone to hell in a handbasket. I recall, when I was middle-aged, Milton I. "Shorty" Tolle and A. J. Toncray would meet almost every morning for breakfast at Jim's Donut Shop. I don't know how old they were at the time, but they were at that stage in life where the current generation was running the world into the ground and ruining all that they and their generation had worked for. Listening to them would color your day the darkest of gray, if not black. The military wasn't worth a damn any more; Americans had forgotten how to work! Government existed to feed, clothe and money people who wouldn't take care of themselves. And it taxed people like Shorty and A.J. to do it. The City couldn't do anything right; and nobody went to church anymore. The country was wobbling next to an abyss, the bottom of which was no where in sight.
That's old men for you. 180 degrees out from the optimism and energy they both enjoyed in their twenties.
I don't know where in the Bible it talks about old men shall dream dreams and young men shall see visions; nor do I know what it takes to accomplish that, but wouldn't it be nice?
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Coralie
Among the brightest and most sparkling jewels of all is Coralie Runyon Jones. I guess it is no surprise that I would include her among people who have made remarkable contributions to the town where we live. And indeed, she certainly has.
Coralie was born in western Kentucky. Her father was a lawyer and a Presbyterian Minister (curious combination) and her mother, a concert pianist. Coralie would play under the grand piano while her mother practiced, which was a daily routine. Somehow, the proximity of all that music infected Coralie's soul, and she has been one of music's most ardent missionaries.
Coralie came to Maysville around 1940 as a freshly college-graduated teacher. She went to work for the Mason County school board and her assignment was to teach music, of all things, at Orangeburg school. In Orangeburg, at the time, singing was relegated, privately, to the shower, and publicly, to church on Sunday morning. That state of affairs was not long to be.
One of the things which has distinguished Coralie Runyon Jones is that she is very assertive and she brought that quality with her when she first arrived on our scene. Almost all of the boys at Orangeburg hoped to be a basketball star; few of them ever thought they'd wind up in a choral group under the direction of the newest staff/teacher in the school. But wind up they did. And soon, they, along with the girls, were loving every minute. There was no slacking off. The music was classical and difficult. And the execution, precise. She would have it no other way.
It wasn't long until her choir was noticed by the Maysville School System, always thought to be the superior educational opportunity in our area. Shortly, Coralie was recruited to preside over the music program of the Maysville schools. Here, she worked wonders with students at all levels. She had met John Farris in college and prevailed on the administration to offer him a job directing the high school band. They worked together for years and Maysville's band was the envy of the state. Coralie always took groups of singers to the Morehead contest and consistently received superior ratings with almost every entry. In short, Coralie and John Farris introduced Maysville to good music and it has thrived ever since.
I can't remember what grade I was in, but it was announced that any student who wanted to go to the Good Friday service would be excused from school for the afternoon. Well, you know, any excuse to get out of school, particularly on a lazy spring afternoon. I left the school and went down town to the Presbyterian Church for the service. Everything had been removed from the chancel, including the pulpit, the lecturn, the altar and the organ. Filling the organ and choir loft, as well as the chancel were the members of the Maysville Civic Chorus, an organization created and directed by Coralie Runyon. There was a lady named Mrs. Calvert, Charlie Calvert's great aunt, who played the organ and another lady, brought in by Coralie, who played the harp. The sanctuary was full to overflowing, but I had a seat where my grandmother had always sat. The music was The Seven Last Words by a French composer, duBois. And it began. . . .
I sat there mesmerized. I didn't stir. And what started as an excuse to skip school became an experience so enlightening that I have never forgotten that day. It was the beginning of my lifelong love affair with classical music and with the phenomenon of Coralie Runyon, not yet Jones. The music lasted maybe 45 minutes to an hour, maybe not that long, but I don't remember breathing once from beginning to end. It was sublime.
Actually, I was frightened of Coralie for years and years after that experience. I loved music, but I regarded her as so far superior to anything I could ever achieve that I simply couldn't approach her. By this time, she was no longer teaching at Maysville; perhaps she was teaching at Ripley, wherever.
One evening at a cocktail party given by Bill and Zoe Chamness, I, with the aid of libation, got up my nerve to talk to Coralie, and found her delightful; still powerful and demanding, but simply delightful. I asked her if she could teach me to play Schubert's Ave Maria and she looked at me and said, "Of course I can. That wouldn't be any trouble at all." And so, during the next four to five years, with a piano lesson every week, I learned the Ave Maria and some other pieces as well, as you might imagine.
What Coralie did with the Maysville Civic Chorus, she did years later with the Maysville Community College Choir. The first time I heard them was at a practice session, again at the Presbyterian Church. This time, Jim Clarke was playing the organ, and the sound of the music was etherial. The acoustics in that church are superb, and the music she made there was better. She took the group to Lexington to sing in the Singletary Center, and the chairman of the UK music department required his faculty to attend so that they would know what could be done with a local choir under the right direction.
Coralie Runyon Jones continues, at 87 years of age, to present quality music, both vocal and string, to the public on a regular basis. Her next undertaking will involve the melding of the Limestone Chorale (her singers) with the UK Symphony Orchestra, an event you should be looking forward to.
So, how should we sum up this most sparkling jewel of Maysville? Each of you remembers a few exceptional teachers in high school, and, perhaps, college. I remember Flossie Jones, Dean Turnipseed, Bob Hellard, Bob Wilcox and Orville Hayes, every one of them now dead. But they, like Coralie, were gifted teachers, endowed with the ability to teach and explain in a way students didn't forget. Each brought a certain moral authority, a self confidence and a love of what they did to their respective jobs. Coralie always exemplified these rarest of qualities and, like the others, went beyond the job description in everything she undertook. If you will allow me one more anecdote, Coralie, when she taught at Mason County High School, took her choir to Europe during the summer on several occasions. Prior to the trips, there was music to be learned (perfectly); there was money to be raised to help choir members whose families were struggling; there were travel arrangements to be made, including transportation, hotels and singing engagements. These trips were monumental undertakings. And, as always, Coralie went the extra mile; she set formal dinner place-settings in the cafeteria, showing every student what each fork, spoon and knife were for, and when to use them. She discussed appropriate dress. She prepared lesson plans regarding the sites the students would see and explained why those sites were significant. The trip was a learning experience in every sense, and she did not want any of her students to be embarrassed, nor did she want the group as a whole to be embarrassed by what might appear to be a lack of polish. And those kids, long since adults, always reflected a bright light on their teacher and their home. And, but for their singing for Coralie, they learned things that they would never have conceived.
God richly bless Coralie Runyon Jones for her light held high these many years; we, ourselves, have already been blessed by her presence and work in the home we call Maysville.
Coralie was born in western Kentucky. Her father was a lawyer and a Presbyterian Minister (curious combination) and her mother, a concert pianist. Coralie would play under the grand piano while her mother practiced, which was a daily routine. Somehow, the proximity of all that music infected Coralie's soul, and she has been one of music's most ardent missionaries.
Coralie came to Maysville around 1940 as a freshly college-graduated teacher. She went to work for the Mason County school board and her assignment was to teach music, of all things, at Orangeburg school. In Orangeburg, at the time, singing was relegated, privately, to the shower, and publicly, to church on Sunday morning. That state of affairs was not long to be.
One of the things which has distinguished Coralie Runyon Jones is that she is very assertive and she brought that quality with her when she first arrived on our scene. Almost all of the boys at Orangeburg hoped to be a basketball star; few of them ever thought they'd wind up in a choral group under the direction of the newest staff/teacher in the school. But wind up they did. And soon, they, along with the girls, were loving every minute. There was no slacking off. The music was classical and difficult. And the execution, precise. She would have it no other way.
It wasn't long until her choir was noticed by the Maysville School System, always thought to be the superior educational opportunity in our area. Shortly, Coralie was recruited to preside over the music program of the Maysville schools. Here, she worked wonders with students at all levels. She had met John Farris in college and prevailed on the administration to offer him a job directing the high school band. They worked together for years and Maysville's band was the envy of the state. Coralie always took groups of singers to the Morehead contest and consistently received superior ratings with almost every entry. In short, Coralie and John Farris introduced Maysville to good music and it has thrived ever since.
I can't remember what grade I was in, but it was announced that any student who wanted to go to the Good Friday service would be excused from school for the afternoon. Well, you know, any excuse to get out of school, particularly on a lazy spring afternoon. I left the school and went down town to the Presbyterian Church for the service. Everything had been removed from the chancel, including the pulpit, the lecturn, the altar and the organ. Filling the organ and choir loft, as well as the chancel were the members of the Maysville Civic Chorus, an organization created and directed by Coralie Runyon. There was a lady named Mrs. Calvert, Charlie Calvert's great aunt, who played the organ and another lady, brought in by Coralie, who played the harp. The sanctuary was full to overflowing, but I had a seat where my grandmother had always sat. The music was The Seven Last Words by a French composer, duBois. And it began. . . .
I sat there mesmerized. I didn't stir. And what started as an excuse to skip school became an experience so enlightening that I have never forgotten that day. It was the beginning of my lifelong love affair with classical music and with the phenomenon of Coralie Runyon, not yet Jones. The music lasted maybe 45 minutes to an hour, maybe not that long, but I don't remember breathing once from beginning to end. It was sublime.
Actually, I was frightened of Coralie for years and years after that experience. I loved music, but I regarded her as so far superior to anything I could ever achieve that I simply couldn't approach her. By this time, she was no longer teaching at Maysville; perhaps she was teaching at Ripley, wherever.
One evening at a cocktail party given by Bill and Zoe Chamness, I, with the aid of libation, got up my nerve to talk to Coralie, and found her delightful; still powerful and demanding, but simply delightful. I asked her if she could teach me to play Schubert's Ave Maria and she looked at me and said, "Of course I can. That wouldn't be any trouble at all." And so, during the next four to five years, with a piano lesson every week, I learned the Ave Maria and some other pieces as well, as you might imagine.
What Coralie did with the Maysville Civic Chorus, she did years later with the Maysville Community College Choir. The first time I heard them was at a practice session, again at the Presbyterian Church. This time, Jim Clarke was playing the organ, and the sound of the music was etherial. The acoustics in that church are superb, and the music she made there was better. She took the group to Lexington to sing in the Singletary Center, and the chairman of the UK music department required his faculty to attend so that they would know what could be done with a local choir under the right direction.
Coralie Runyon Jones continues, at 87 years of age, to present quality music, both vocal and string, to the public on a regular basis. Her next undertaking will involve the melding of the Limestone Chorale (her singers) with the UK Symphony Orchestra, an event you should be looking forward to.
So, how should we sum up this most sparkling jewel of Maysville? Each of you remembers a few exceptional teachers in high school, and, perhaps, college. I remember Flossie Jones, Dean Turnipseed, Bob Hellard, Bob Wilcox and Orville Hayes, every one of them now dead. But they, like Coralie, were gifted teachers, endowed with the ability to teach and explain in a way students didn't forget. Each brought a certain moral authority, a self confidence and a love of what they did to their respective jobs. Coralie always exemplified these rarest of qualities and, like the others, went beyond the job description in everything she undertook. If you will allow me one more anecdote, Coralie, when she taught at Mason County High School, took her choir to Europe during the summer on several occasions. Prior to the trips, there was music to be learned (perfectly); there was money to be raised to help choir members whose families were struggling; there were travel arrangements to be made, including transportation, hotels and singing engagements. These trips were monumental undertakings. And, as always, Coralie went the extra mile; she set formal dinner place-settings in the cafeteria, showing every student what each fork, spoon and knife were for, and when to use them. She discussed appropriate dress. She prepared lesson plans regarding the sites the students would see and explained why those sites were significant. The trip was a learning experience in every sense, and she did not want any of her students to be embarrassed, nor did she want the group as a whole to be embarrassed by what might appear to be a lack of polish. And those kids, long since adults, always reflected a bright light on their teacher and their home. And, but for their singing for Coralie, they learned things that they would never have conceived.
God richly bless Coralie Runyon Jones for her light held high these many years; we, ourselves, have already been blessed by her presence and work in the home we call Maysville.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Expanding the Sin to Collect the $$$
Cincinnati television is saturated with ads regarding Issue No. 3. Some favor establishing casinos in Cincinnati and Columbus; some oppose. Regardless, lots of money is being spent! In Kentucky, there are proposals to permit video gambling at the racetracks. When the current House Speaker, Greg Stumbo, was Attorney General, he opined that the Kentucky Constitution permitted the Legislature to enact gambling legislation to help the thoroughbred industry and the racetracks. The republican-controlled Senate has thus far refused to cooperate in passing such a law. Now, Senate republicans are proposing a vote at the next general election amending the Constitution to permit such gambling, primarily because polls show that no such amendment would pass.
Much of the advertising in Ohio is deceptive. One ad depicts a bus load of people taking a trip "out of state" to a casino destination and reasoning that, if casinos were allowed at home, all that money would stay in Ohio. Another ploy is the creation of jobs, while still another ad says that casinos actually kill jobs. Who's right? I don't really know.
What I do wonder is who is putting up the money for these very expensive ads. I suspect most of it paying for the "pro" ads is coming from out of state; I have no idea where it's coming from to pay for the "anti" ads.
In the 1960's, the United States had (and probably still has) a huge Airforce base in Guam. Most of the B-52 bombing raids over Viet Nam were staged from there. Guam is a U. S. possession. When the commanding general decided to permit slot machines in the officer and enlisted clubs, during the first week, sales in the commissary (military term for grocery store) dropped $800,000. That was (and is) a huge amount of money. The Navy rules did permit slot machines in Navy O and enlisted clubs, but required that the machines return 96 cents of every dollar gambled. The navy was the smallest service on Okinawa and the O club there was in a quonset hut. Mixed drinks were $0.15 each and, during happy hour (everyday from 4 to 6:30) they were a nickle. Steak dinners were $2.50 and lobster was slightly higher. The slot machines, returning 96% to the gambler, paid the expenses and subsidized the food and drink costs.
The point is that there is phenomenal money involved with gambling. Those huge hotels in Las Vegas didn't just drop out of the sky. Casino profits paid for them in a very short time, and the rest is profit.
In Kentucky, any adult is free to gamble. Poker games are legal if played by a group of friends, all taking the same risk. The general rule is that gambling is illegal only when the "house" takes a cut. Exceptions to that general rule are racetracks (pari-mutuel betting) and licensed charitable gaming (bingo games). In both cases, the gambling is sponsored and the sponsor takes a cut. The biggest exception is, of course, the "Lottery."
As a rule, I think people should be reasonably free to do what they want; to make the choices they want to make. That said, both the federal and state governments have always taxed "sin." There are taxes on cigarettes, liquor, beer, wine and, in Kentucky, gambling on the ponies. The state of Nevada lives on its taxes derived from Las Vegas and Reno and is joined, more recently, by New Jersey. These are traditions imbedded in the governmental philosophy of America.
I guess gambling, smoking and drinking are characterized as "sins" because, as some believe, they are prohibited by the Bible. More likely these days, it involves the social injury done to self and family from excessive practices involving those things. Regardless of your viewpoint, there is no doubt that gambling can have a deleterious effect on a parent's ability to provide for his or her children, a husband for his wife, and a debtor for his creditor. When grocery store sales drop $800,000 because, all of a sudden, slot machines are permitted, that has to say something about misplaced priorities. And, these sins fall with disproportionate weight on people with limited means. A wealthy person can afford to lose several hundred dollars a week without affecting lifestyle; a poor person cannot and he, along with his dependents suffer for it. Another trusim is, unfortunately, that there are many, many more poor people than rich.
I have a problem with the government, state or federal, initiating or expanding "sin" for the purpose of collecting more revenue. Other than teen-agers, who do you suppose would favor dropping the legal drinking age in order to collect more money for the government? What if we allowed children 12 and over to smoke? These questions are absurd, of course, but the effects of gambling can be just as devasting and all of the effort to legalize casinos and add slots to racetracks clearly are aimed at starting or expanding gambling.
In the final analysis, government-permitted and sponsored gambling (the Lottery for schools) are just an exercise in the abdication of responsibility of legislators who will do anything to get re-elected and, thus, anything to avoid raising taxes. Under our system, government operates no program, provides no benefit, nor spends any money unless approved by the legislators we elect. It is their responsibility to raise the money to pay the cost; and, in my opinion, increasing the "sin" is a damned poor way of doing it.
Much of the advertising in Ohio is deceptive. One ad depicts a bus load of people taking a trip "out of state" to a casino destination and reasoning that, if casinos were allowed at home, all that money would stay in Ohio. Another ploy is the creation of jobs, while still another ad says that casinos actually kill jobs. Who's right? I don't really know.
What I do wonder is who is putting up the money for these very expensive ads. I suspect most of it paying for the "pro" ads is coming from out of state; I have no idea where it's coming from to pay for the "anti" ads.
In the 1960's, the United States had (and probably still has) a huge Airforce base in Guam. Most of the B-52 bombing raids over Viet Nam were staged from there. Guam is a U. S. possession. When the commanding general decided to permit slot machines in the officer and enlisted clubs, during the first week, sales in the commissary (military term for grocery store) dropped $800,000. That was (and is) a huge amount of money. The Navy rules did permit slot machines in Navy O and enlisted clubs, but required that the machines return 96 cents of every dollar gambled. The navy was the smallest service on Okinawa and the O club there was in a quonset hut. Mixed drinks were $0.15 each and, during happy hour (everyday from 4 to 6:30) they were a nickle. Steak dinners were $2.50 and lobster was slightly higher. The slot machines, returning 96% to the gambler, paid the expenses and subsidized the food and drink costs.
The point is that there is phenomenal money involved with gambling. Those huge hotels in Las Vegas didn't just drop out of the sky. Casino profits paid for them in a very short time, and the rest is profit.
In Kentucky, any adult is free to gamble. Poker games are legal if played by a group of friends, all taking the same risk. The general rule is that gambling is illegal only when the "house" takes a cut. Exceptions to that general rule are racetracks (pari-mutuel betting) and licensed charitable gaming (bingo games). In both cases, the gambling is sponsored and the sponsor takes a cut. The biggest exception is, of course, the "Lottery."
As a rule, I think people should be reasonably free to do what they want; to make the choices they want to make. That said, both the federal and state governments have always taxed "sin." There are taxes on cigarettes, liquor, beer, wine and, in Kentucky, gambling on the ponies. The state of Nevada lives on its taxes derived from Las Vegas and Reno and is joined, more recently, by New Jersey. These are traditions imbedded in the governmental philosophy of America.
I guess gambling, smoking and drinking are characterized as "sins" because, as some believe, they are prohibited by the Bible. More likely these days, it involves the social injury done to self and family from excessive practices involving those things. Regardless of your viewpoint, there is no doubt that gambling can have a deleterious effect on a parent's ability to provide for his or her children, a husband for his wife, and a debtor for his creditor. When grocery store sales drop $800,000 because, all of a sudden, slot machines are permitted, that has to say something about misplaced priorities. And, these sins fall with disproportionate weight on people with limited means. A wealthy person can afford to lose several hundred dollars a week without affecting lifestyle; a poor person cannot and he, along with his dependents suffer for it. Another trusim is, unfortunately, that there are many, many more poor people than rich.
I have a problem with the government, state or federal, initiating or expanding "sin" for the purpose of collecting more revenue. Other than teen-agers, who do you suppose would favor dropping the legal drinking age in order to collect more money for the government? What if we allowed children 12 and over to smoke? These questions are absurd, of course, but the effects of gambling can be just as devasting and all of the effort to legalize casinos and add slots to racetracks clearly are aimed at starting or expanding gambling.
In the final analysis, government-permitted and sponsored gambling (the Lottery for schools) are just an exercise in the abdication of responsibility of legislators who will do anything to get re-elected and, thus, anything to avoid raising taxes. Under our system, government operates no program, provides no benefit, nor spends any money unless approved by the legislators we elect. It is their responsibility to raise the money to pay the cost; and, in my opinion, increasing the "sin" is a damned poor way of doing it.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Nobel Peace Prize and Barack Obama
(Perhaps an explanatory note. I began this comment last Monday, October 12, so if it seems somewhat dated, it is.)
The Talking Heads went wild this past week-end over the news that the Committee had awarded Barack Obama the Nobel Peace Prize. The almost universal reaction was why. Obama has certainly achieved some notable accomplishments , e.g. becoming the first African American to be elected President, but being elected president has not heretofore qualified anyone else for the prize. Thomas Friedman, of the New York Times said in his column this morning that perhaps relief by Obama of the angst caused in European capitals by his predecessor was primary in the committee's thinking. In any event, if there is any fault in the award, it is certainly not that of Obama, who was as surprised as anyone by the news.
I don't know why we are so concerned with this matter. The prize is not an American one. I don't think we have a representative on the committee. Neither do I know for sure if there are binding regulations or rules prescribing what must characterize the award. It is simply nice on occasion to hear our Chief Magistrate, whoever he or she might be, complimented and appreciated, rather than denigrated and held in derision.
On the subject of Obama, I have thought him as charismatic as any president we have had since John Kennedy. His victories in the primaries, his nomination, his rhetoric and his overwhelming defeat of his opponent in the general election were all astounding. Most astounding was (and is) his appeal to people who have not heretofore really participated in the political process. It has been a very long time since five and ten dollar political contributions turned into millions, indeed, a sufficient amount to finance a presidential bid. Oh, I'm sure when it began to be obvious that he was going to get the nomination, Barack then began to garner some gifts from the heavy hitters. But until that time, he was the candidate of the little fellow, and I don't think he has changed.
But there is a hugh difference between the politics of election and the politics of governance. Even though the polls say he has dropped in popularity with the people in this country, I suspect those ratings will rise again after the negative ballyhoo subsides regarding health reform. But it is in conjunction with the effort to accomplish his priorities that Obama will ultimately be judged when the history of the early 21st century is penned. In the politics of governance, whether in Washington, the state capitals or on the local scene, the arena is ugly and the stakes are high. Figuratively, those arenas are just as fierce as those of the Colisseum in Rome 2000 years ago. There are lions and tigers everywhere; toga draped men carry long daggers in the folds of their garments, and delight in the swift plunge at the jugular. This is, no less, the political game which always surfaces after the election and the one with which Obama finds himself surrounded.
The test of Obama's presidency will depend on his ability to get his way. That's a very simple statement of a profound truth and it is, in fact, the measure of the success of presidents from the first to the last. If Obama can prevail in fashioning a health care bill which truly reforms the system; if he can drag out of Congress a bill which provides real change regarding our enviromental habits; and, finally, if he can get his way by reforming the Wall Street does business, then his presidency will be a profound success. If he can't, he's wasting our time. There are an awful lot of very powerful people who have a large stake in the status quo and they won't give up easily. Most of them hate what he stands for and will fight him with every weapon in their armory. It remains to be seen who'll come out on top!
You will remember, perhaps, that President Kennedy was a charismatic person, young, very bright, loved sparring with the press, and they with him. And most people liked and looked up to him. But Jack Kennedy accomplished very little, actually. His main feat was to make us feel good about ourselves and about the New Frontier. But on the day he was murdered, his lasting contributions were very few. His death assured his prominent place in history.
We, who listened to Obama's inaugural address, felt the same optimism for the country's future. God forbid his murder merely to obtain a chair next to Jack Kennedy! God forbid it for any reason!
God speed, Barack Obama!
The Talking Heads went wild this past week-end over the news that the Committee had awarded Barack Obama the Nobel Peace Prize. The almost universal reaction was why. Obama has certainly achieved some notable accomplishments , e.g. becoming the first African American to be elected President, but being elected president has not heretofore qualified anyone else for the prize. Thomas Friedman, of the New York Times said in his column this morning that perhaps relief by Obama of the angst caused in European capitals by his predecessor was primary in the committee's thinking. In any event, if there is any fault in the award, it is certainly not that of Obama, who was as surprised as anyone by the news.
I don't know why we are so concerned with this matter. The prize is not an American one. I don't think we have a representative on the committee. Neither do I know for sure if there are binding regulations or rules prescribing what must characterize the award. It is simply nice on occasion to hear our Chief Magistrate, whoever he or she might be, complimented and appreciated, rather than denigrated and held in derision.
On the subject of Obama, I have thought him as charismatic as any president we have had since John Kennedy. His victories in the primaries, his nomination, his rhetoric and his overwhelming defeat of his opponent in the general election were all astounding. Most astounding was (and is) his appeal to people who have not heretofore really participated in the political process. It has been a very long time since five and ten dollar political contributions turned into millions, indeed, a sufficient amount to finance a presidential bid. Oh, I'm sure when it began to be obvious that he was going to get the nomination, Barack then began to garner some gifts from the heavy hitters. But until that time, he was the candidate of the little fellow, and I don't think he has changed.
But there is a hugh difference between the politics of election and the politics of governance. Even though the polls say he has dropped in popularity with the people in this country, I suspect those ratings will rise again after the negative ballyhoo subsides regarding health reform. But it is in conjunction with the effort to accomplish his priorities that Obama will ultimately be judged when the history of the early 21st century is penned. In the politics of governance, whether in Washington, the state capitals or on the local scene, the arena is ugly and the stakes are high. Figuratively, those arenas are just as fierce as those of the Colisseum in Rome 2000 years ago. There are lions and tigers everywhere; toga draped men carry long daggers in the folds of their garments, and delight in the swift plunge at the jugular. This is, no less, the political game which always surfaces after the election and the one with which Obama finds himself surrounded.
The test of Obama's presidency will depend on his ability to get his way. That's a very simple statement of a profound truth and it is, in fact, the measure of the success of presidents from the first to the last. If Obama can prevail in fashioning a health care bill which truly reforms the system; if he can drag out of Congress a bill which provides real change regarding our enviromental habits; and, finally, if he can get his way by reforming the Wall Street does business, then his presidency will be a profound success. If he can't, he's wasting our time. There are an awful lot of very powerful people who have a large stake in the status quo and they won't give up easily. Most of them hate what he stands for and will fight him with every weapon in their armory. It remains to be seen who'll come out on top!
You will remember, perhaps, that President Kennedy was a charismatic person, young, very bright, loved sparring with the press, and they with him. And most people liked and looked up to him. But Jack Kennedy accomplished very little, actually. His main feat was to make us feel good about ourselves and about the New Frontier. But on the day he was murdered, his lasting contributions were very few. His death assured his prominent place in history.
We, who listened to Obama's inaugural address, felt the same optimism for the country's future. God forbid his murder merely to obtain a chair next to Jack Kennedy! God forbid it for any reason!
God speed, Barack Obama!
Friday, October 9, 2009
Hot Button Issues and Elective Office
When Bernard Hargett and I began practicing law together, his father, Newell Hargett, then Postmaster, would drop by the office once in a while. He gave us a lot of good advice (which we sorely needed) and among the things he said, never to be forgotten, was, "Boys, don't ever get involved in a school fight or a church fight!" He simply meant that, regardless of the outcome, the lawyer(s) involved will make a ton of people mad as hell!
I didn't worry a whole lot about things when I was circuit judge, but there was one thing that kept me awake at night. Oh, not every night, of course, but I did spend a good deal of time thinking about what I would do if somebody filed a suit in my court challenging the hanging of the Ten Commandments in some government building, mayble the courthouse. It never happened and I was very grateful that the cup passed me by.
I remember when I first heard about the Supreme Court banning prayer in school. At first, I thought it was a terribly wrong ruling. After all, when I was in school, we all began the day with a short prayer, the Pledge of Allegiance and roll call. Bob Wilcox, one of Maysville's very best teachers, always wrote a different Bible verse on his black board every day, and he read it to us, in case we hadn't noticed it. People were always praying at ball games, in club meetings and at almost every other school activity you could name. And so, I wondered what those justices were thinking about.
When I found out a little bit more about it, it turned out that the case arose in a large metropolitan area where the majority of people were Christian, but there were substantial numbers of followers of other religions. Apparently, the saying of Christian prayers or New Testament Bible readings in school offended some of the children of the Jewish persuasion. In that context, the ruling made a little more sense to me.
It's now been thirty-five or forty years since the Supreme Court decided the landmark decision in this area of the law, but the passage of time has in no way quelled the rancor that has sprung up around the case. For many people, the Supreme Court was and remains a Godless den of heathens and infidels, bent on destroying the nation and depriving us of God's merciful beneficence. You might be interested that I have recently heard, although I cannot vouch for its truthfulness, that the ACLU is suing to have all religious symbols in national cemeteries (tombstone Crosses and Stars of David) removed. I doubt they'll get very far with that, but who knows.
Most people really don't understand exactly what the rationale of the decisions is. It all begins with the First Amendment to the Constitution which, where religion is concerned, bans both (a) the interference of the private practice of religion, and (b) the establishment of any religion by the government. These court opinions, of course, go on for page after page after page, but they always come back to these two clauses of the first amendment. I can't quote them exactly, and it's not important for these purposes; but all they really require is that the government cannot regulate, close, or in any way impede your church or your worship, if you choose to worship. By the same token, the government cannot endorse, promote or establish any religion whatever. When these things were written, the memory of the European and English wars over religion were much fresher in people's minds than today. Mary Queen of Scots, a Roman Catholic, was executed by her cousin, Queen Elizabeth I, an Anglican; and while the latter was afraid that the former was after her throne, it all had its roots in religious swells. Henry VIII executed lots of people over religion, his versus theirs. And, if you will remember, the Colony of Maryland was populated principally by people who wanted to be free to practice Roman Catholicism without the interference and prejudice they had suffered in England.
So, in the United States after the Bill of Rights passed the Congress, the Marylanders could continue to practice their religion freely, as could any other American, regardless of the brand.
But it is the other clause, the "Establishment" clause that is causing the trouble today. When the Ten Commandments are posted in the Courthouse, the Judeo-Christian religious tradition is being promoted. Somebody in that government building wants the world to know that this or that county believes in God and follows God's laws. And it's not that God is being promoted above other religious traditions or faiths, it is that He is being promoted at all in the courthouse. The Constitution forbids it, and it always has!
Again, the government, state, local, or federal, cannot prohibit anyone from posting the Ten Commandments on the front of his or her home; nor can it stop Ford Motor, GE, Du Pont or any other private company from endorsing the Ten Commandments. All of that is permissible as long as it doesn't appear on public, government property or promoted by government agencies of any kind.
Now, having said that, do religious values come into play in the halls of government, the Congress, the Supreme Court or the local courthouse. Of course they do. Name a couple of the Ten Commandments.
"Thou shalt not steal." "Thou shalt not murder." "Thou shalt not bear false witness." These written commandments become our values, our sign posts of life. They teach and instruct our forebears, just as they do ourselves. And so, I submit that when you enter the courthouse as a juror, you're not required to check your values at the door. If you enter as a witness, you know what "false witness" means when you take the stand and swear to tell the truth.
The populace becomes so upset and vengeful at the idea that the Ten Commandments may not, under law, be posted in the Courthouse. But every person who subscribes to the Ten Commandments can carry them in his mind and heart into the courthouse; and no one, no one will stop him. Why this doesn't seem to be understood is a mystery to me.
If the case had come up while I was judge, I think I know what I would have done; but it would have taken one hell of a lot of courage.
I didn't worry a whole lot about things when I was circuit judge, but there was one thing that kept me awake at night. Oh, not every night, of course, but I did spend a good deal of time thinking about what I would do if somebody filed a suit in my court challenging the hanging of the Ten Commandments in some government building, mayble the courthouse. It never happened and I was very grateful that the cup passed me by.
I remember when I first heard about the Supreme Court banning prayer in school. At first, I thought it was a terribly wrong ruling. After all, when I was in school, we all began the day with a short prayer, the Pledge of Allegiance and roll call. Bob Wilcox, one of Maysville's very best teachers, always wrote a different Bible verse on his black board every day, and he read it to us, in case we hadn't noticed it. People were always praying at ball games, in club meetings and at almost every other school activity you could name. And so, I wondered what those justices were thinking about.
When I found out a little bit more about it, it turned out that the case arose in a large metropolitan area where the majority of people were Christian, but there were substantial numbers of followers of other religions. Apparently, the saying of Christian prayers or New Testament Bible readings in school offended some of the children of the Jewish persuasion. In that context, the ruling made a little more sense to me.
It's now been thirty-five or forty years since the Supreme Court decided the landmark decision in this area of the law, but the passage of time has in no way quelled the rancor that has sprung up around the case. For many people, the Supreme Court was and remains a Godless den of heathens and infidels, bent on destroying the nation and depriving us of God's merciful beneficence. You might be interested that I have recently heard, although I cannot vouch for its truthfulness, that the ACLU is suing to have all religious symbols in national cemeteries (tombstone Crosses and Stars of David) removed. I doubt they'll get very far with that, but who knows.
Most people really don't understand exactly what the rationale of the decisions is. It all begins with the First Amendment to the Constitution which, where religion is concerned, bans both (a) the interference of the private practice of religion, and (b) the establishment of any religion by the government. These court opinions, of course, go on for page after page after page, but they always come back to these two clauses of the first amendment. I can't quote them exactly, and it's not important for these purposes; but all they really require is that the government cannot regulate, close, or in any way impede your church or your worship, if you choose to worship. By the same token, the government cannot endorse, promote or establish any religion whatever. When these things were written, the memory of the European and English wars over religion were much fresher in people's minds than today. Mary Queen of Scots, a Roman Catholic, was executed by her cousin, Queen Elizabeth I, an Anglican; and while the latter was afraid that the former was after her throne, it all had its roots in religious swells. Henry VIII executed lots of people over religion, his versus theirs. And, if you will remember, the Colony of Maryland was populated principally by people who wanted to be free to practice Roman Catholicism without the interference and prejudice they had suffered in England.
So, in the United States after the Bill of Rights passed the Congress, the Marylanders could continue to practice their religion freely, as could any other American, regardless of the brand.
But it is the other clause, the "Establishment" clause that is causing the trouble today. When the Ten Commandments are posted in the Courthouse, the Judeo-Christian religious tradition is being promoted. Somebody in that government building wants the world to know that this or that county believes in God and follows God's laws. And it's not that God is being promoted above other religious traditions or faiths, it is that He is being promoted at all in the courthouse. The Constitution forbids it, and it always has!
Again, the government, state, local, or federal, cannot prohibit anyone from posting the Ten Commandments on the front of his or her home; nor can it stop Ford Motor, GE, Du Pont or any other private company from endorsing the Ten Commandments. All of that is permissible as long as it doesn't appear on public, government property or promoted by government agencies of any kind.
Now, having said that, do religious values come into play in the halls of government, the Congress, the Supreme Court or the local courthouse. Of course they do. Name a couple of the Ten Commandments.
"Thou shalt not steal." "Thou shalt not murder." "Thou shalt not bear false witness." These written commandments become our values, our sign posts of life. They teach and instruct our forebears, just as they do ourselves. And so, I submit that when you enter the courthouse as a juror, you're not required to check your values at the door. If you enter as a witness, you know what "false witness" means when you take the stand and swear to tell the truth.
The populace becomes so upset and vengeful at the idea that the Ten Commandments may not, under law, be posted in the Courthouse. But every person who subscribes to the Ten Commandments can carry them in his mind and heart into the courthouse; and no one, no one will stop him. Why this doesn't seem to be understood is a mystery to me.
If the case had come up while I was judge, I think I know what I would have done; but it would have taken one hell of a lot of courage.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Maysville JEWEL - Robert D. Vance
Well over twenty-five years ago, I met Bob Vance when he first arrived in town. I think it was 1972. When he first got here, Bob had an old blue Chevrolet car and otherwise, as he later told me, barely enough money to pay his first month's rent. He was married and had a very young child. He had attended and graduated from the University of Kentucky, sold Ford cars for Paul Miller in Lexington, had been trained as a stock broker for Bache & Company, and worked in the Cleveland Federal Reserve District as a Bank Examiner of trust departments. At one time or another, he had examined the trust department at the State National Bank, where he met Trust Officer Viola Owens and Bank President Douglas P. Newell.
Mr. Newell was getting along in years, and although his mind was very acute, he was beginning to have some physical problems. Even so, he worked like a mad man in his massive vegetable garden for 12 hours every Wednesday and Saturday and 8 hours most other days. Anyway, Mr. Newell and Mrs. Owens sought out and hired Bob Vance as Vice President of the bank.
For the first several years he lived here, Bob worked assiduously at his job. He got to know every bank employee and what they did and almost every bank customer, particularly if they banked in the downtown bank lobby. In two or three years, Mr.Newell and Bob had differences over some bank matter, and Mr. Newell threatened to fire him, indeed was fully intent on doing so. I never knew exactly what happened, but the firing was called off and Bob Vance, then Executive Vice President, became President of the State National Bank and Mr. Newell, the Chairman of its Board. By whatever title, Mr. Newell remained the boss until his death on January 1, 1976.
Bob was named a director of the Hayswood Hospital in about 1974, and he and Bob Zweigart carried the lion's share of the fight against the Steelworker's Union (I think) which was trying to unionize the hospital. There had earlier been union activity at various manufacturing companies in Maysville, so that the fight wasn't brand new to the area. But basically, in a union fight, management seeks to convince the labor force that they would be better off without a union. Some ugly things can happen during union organizing and many wouldn't have the gumption for the fight. Not so with Bob Vance or Bob Zweigart. They spent hours and hours a week talking to employees and determining their grievances. Finally, when the vote was taken, the union lost the election, not by a whole lot, but nonetheless, it was a loss. Then the Board of Directors began addressing the employees' grievances and fired the administrator; there was never another attempt to organize the hospital.
It wasn't long after that the idea of a local YMCA began to percolate through the community. This project became a cause celebre for Bob Vance, Bob Zweigart and Bob Blake. The three Bobs, as the fundraisers knew them, met daily before work at Bob Zweigart's office strategizing the fund raising effort. Those three men, with a little help from other volunteers, raised $3 million and the YMCA, once a dream, became a reality. The facility remains one of the most outstanding in the state, and is an incredible accomplishment for a community this size.
Continuing his career vector, Bob Vance decided to attend Rutger's University working toward a Masters Degree in Banking. It was one of those schools where you were given assignments, one per month, and you had to send in your work product by a certain date. My description might make it sound easy, but it certainly wasn't. The assignments entailed vast amounts of work after work, so to speak, and the submission of the work was often voluminous. Then for about two weeks every year, the student traveled to Rutgers for lectures, labs and whatever else you study at banking school. It's my recollection that the effort lasted three years. I do know that a final thesis was required, as well as a defense of the thesis before a jury of professors at the school.
While Bob Vance went through this rigorous training, he learned several things. First, he could read and interpret financial statements of individuals and corporations, a skill which few people possess. He could also assess a loan application and, from the information furnished by the prospective debtor, could analyze the prospects of re-paying the loan if made. Finally, Bob Vance learned to analyze a bank, using very sophisticated financial formulae and ratios, so that he could accurately assess the health of the bank he worked for as well as the health of his competitors, not to mention banks which might be purchased. Finally, and most important, Bob Vance understood debt and how to use it to his advantage.
Things went along pretty smoothly for several years after Mr. Newell died. The bank countined to prosper and to pay dividends. Deposits grew substantially, and everything was going well. It was then that Bob Vance noticed the Farmers and Traders Bank in Mt. Olivet. Using the knowledge he had gained at Rutgers, he first studied bank's financial statements, which are available at the Federal Reserve. He then arranged financing with a Lexington Bank and approached the president of the bank about selling it to him. His name has escaped me for the moment, but he apparently agreed to help Bob convince the bank's board of directors. With the help of Larry Banks, a Lexington corporate lawyer, Bob completed the purchase of the bank and immediately re-organized it. In this process, he met Norma Linville, then the cashier at Farmers and Traders, and they formed an association in the banking business which has lasted to this day. Norma was put in charge of the Mt. Olivet bank.
In those days, and perhaps today as well, the method by which one acquires a bank or, for that matter, any company, is to buy the bank and let the bank's profits pay off the acquisition loan to the financing bank. Because of the tax code, it is infinitely better to have the purchased bank restructure its capital into stock and bonds. The bonds pay interest, which the bank can deduct for tax purposes, and the holder of the bonds uses the interest to pay his debt to the financing bank. Since Bob held almost all of the bonds (and, for that matter, the stock) of the bank, the bank's profits were paid to him as interest so that the bank paid almost no income tax. Of course, Bob had to pay tax on the interest, but there was still enough left over to pay on his loan to the Lexington bank. This worked so well that Bob used the strategy to buy several other banks.
One of the reasons that his strategies worked so well was because of his attitude toward the regulators. The State National Bank was a bank chartered by the federal government (a national bank). All national banks were examined by the federal reserve bank as well as the FDIC. Most bankers despise bank examiners because they are looking for bankers' mistakes. Some mistakes are small infractions; some are major problems and all can be dealt with by the examiners with the most draconian means, should they be necessary. Bob always welcomed examiners, believing them to present learning opportunities. He forged a wonderful relationship with the Cleveland Federal Reserve, which proved most beneficial to his later banking acquisitions.
All the while, Bob had been accumulating State National Bank stock and became its largest shareholder.
He did not, however, own enough stock to control the bank. When Bob tried to utilize some synergies to cut costs both for the State National and the Farmers and Traders Bank (which he largely owned), some of the directors at State got very upset and thought he was scheming to have State pay expenses which would inure to the benefit of Farmers and Traders. None of this was true, but a real rift developed between those directors and the directors who supported Bob. And so, as the Annual Meeting of Stockholders date approached, the anti-Vance group was gathering proxies from shareholders everywhere. They were successful in keeping these activities a secret, so that when the day for the meeting arrived, they had almost enough proxies to elect a majority on the board, that majority being committed to firing Vance; and Bob entered the building that morning completely unaware.
The meeting was a furious event; the judges were deciding which proxies were valid and which weren't. Adding machines were clacking as each entry moved the score a little closer to "for Vance" or "against Vance." Telephone calls were received cancelling proxies and granting proxies. Attorneys were baring their teeth at one another. It was the ugliest business conflict I have ever seen in Maysville, Ky. As I recall, there were about 120,000 shares to be voted. Late in the day, the final talley favored Vance by only a few votes, but it was nonetheless a triumph and victory for him..
Perhaps a month later, Bob, nevertheless, resigned as President of the Bank, realizing that a split board was inimical to the bank's best interest. It became one of the most fortunate days of his life. With the changes in state and federal banking laws, bank were allowed to have branches across county lines and, ultimately, across state lines. Bob and Steve Beshear, the greatest of friends and compatible in every respect, began to slowly expand their bank activities. Banks in Warsaw, Kentucky, May's Lick, Kentucky, Ripley, Ohio and other small communities around the state were acquired. Bob Vance became literally famous among Kentucky bankers as the most agressive and smartest banker in the state. Bob may have once been President of the Kentucky Banker's Association, but was definitely involved in its most important activities. He began a banking school, not unlike the one he attended at Rutgers, teaching there frequently.
The association between Bob and Steve Beshear, now Governor of Kentucky, propelled Bob into the limelight once more. He had decided to retire about the same time Beshear decided to run. Beshear was elected by a large majority, defeating Ernie Fletcher who ran for a second term. Steve asked his friend to come along and nominated him as Secretary of the largest cabinet in state government. Later, under Bob's leadership, the cabinet was reduced in size and responsibility, and is now called the Cabinet for Public Protection. Maybe that's not the full name, but it's close. Anyway, Bob supervises the Department of Insurance, the Department of Banking, the Horse Racing Commission, and lots of other things all of you would recognize. By all accounts, he has done a superior job and continues to do so. He comes home to Maysville each week-end. If you didn't know him and met him on the street, you would have no idea of how important this man is!
Why a jewel? Well, Bob Vance started at the bottom rung in Maysville, Kentucky. He worked very hard and, more importantly, very smart. I would argue that he, on his own, has been far more successful in the business world than anybody else living in Maysville, Ky. today. And finally, his success was obtained honestly and honorably. Bob Vance has lived the American dream; he's played the American game -- and won!
Mr. Newell was getting along in years, and although his mind was very acute, he was beginning to have some physical problems. Even so, he worked like a mad man in his massive vegetable garden for 12 hours every Wednesday and Saturday and 8 hours most other days. Anyway, Mr. Newell and Mrs. Owens sought out and hired Bob Vance as Vice President of the bank.
For the first several years he lived here, Bob worked assiduously at his job. He got to know every bank employee and what they did and almost every bank customer, particularly if they banked in the downtown bank lobby. In two or three years, Mr.Newell and Bob had differences over some bank matter, and Mr. Newell threatened to fire him, indeed was fully intent on doing so. I never knew exactly what happened, but the firing was called off and Bob Vance, then Executive Vice President, became President of the State National Bank and Mr. Newell, the Chairman of its Board. By whatever title, Mr. Newell remained the boss until his death on January 1, 1976.
Bob was named a director of the Hayswood Hospital in about 1974, and he and Bob Zweigart carried the lion's share of the fight against the Steelworker's Union (I think) which was trying to unionize the hospital. There had earlier been union activity at various manufacturing companies in Maysville, so that the fight wasn't brand new to the area. But basically, in a union fight, management seeks to convince the labor force that they would be better off without a union. Some ugly things can happen during union organizing and many wouldn't have the gumption for the fight. Not so with Bob Vance or Bob Zweigart. They spent hours and hours a week talking to employees and determining their grievances. Finally, when the vote was taken, the union lost the election, not by a whole lot, but nonetheless, it was a loss. Then the Board of Directors began addressing the employees' grievances and fired the administrator; there was never another attempt to organize the hospital.
It wasn't long after that the idea of a local YMCA began to percolate through the community. This project became a cause celebre for Bob Vance, Bob Zweigart and Bob Blake. The three Bobs, as the fundraisers knew them, met daily before work at Bob Zweigart's office strategizing the fund raising effort. Those three men, with a little help from other volunteers, raised $3 million and the YMCA, once a dream, became a reality. The facility remains one of the most outstanding in the state, and is an incredible accomplishment for a community this size.
Continuing his career vector, Bob Vance decided to attend Rutger's University working toward a Masters Degree in Banking. It was one of those schools where you were given assignments, one per month, and you had to send in your work product by a certain date. My description might make it sound easy, but it certainly wasn't. The assignments entailed vast amounts of work after work, so to speak, and the submission of the work was often voluminous. Then for about two weeks every year, the student traveled to Rutgers for lectures, labs and whatever else you study at banking school. It's my recollection that the effort lasted three years. I do know that a final thesis was required, as well as a defense of the thesis before a jury of professors at the school.
While Bob Vance went through this rigorous training, he learned several things. First, he could read and interpret financial statements of individuals and corporations, a skill which few people possess. He could also assess a loan application and, from the information furnished by the prospective debtor, could analyze the prospects of re-paying the loan if made. Finally, Bob Vance learned to analyze a bank, using very sophisticated financial formulae and ratios, so that he could accurately assess the health of the bank he worked for as well as the health of his competitors, not to mention banks which might be purchased. Finally, and most important, Bob Vance understood debt and how to use it to his advantage.
Things went along pretty smoothly for several years after Mr. Newell died. The bank countined to prosper and to pay dividends. Deposits grew substantially, and everything was going well. It was then that Bob Vance noticed the Farmers and Traders Bank in Mt. Olivet. Using the knowledge he had gained at Rutgers, he first studied bank's financial statements, which are available at the Federal Reserve. He then arranged financing with a Lexington Bank and approached the president of the bank about selling it to him. His name has escaped me for the moment, but he apparently agreed to help Bob convince the bank's board of directors. With the help of Larry Banks, a Lexington corporate lawyer, Bob completed the purchase of the bank and immediately re-organized it. In this process, he met Norma Linville, then the cashier at Farmers and Traders, and they formed an association in the banking business which has lasted to this day. Norma was put in charge of the Mt. Olivet bank.
In those days, and perhaps today as well, the method by which one acquires a bank or, for that matter, any company, is to buy the bank and let the bank's profits pay off the acquisition loan to the financing bank. Because of the tax code, it is infinitely better to have the purchased bank restructure its capital into stock and bonds. The bonds pay interest, which the bank can deduct for tax purposes, and the holder of the bonds uses the interest to pay his debt to the financing bank. Since Bob held almost all of the bonds (and, for that matter, the stock) of the bank, the bank's profits were paid to him as interest so that the bank paid almost no income tax. Of course, Bob had to pay tax on the interest, but there was still enough left over to pay on his loan to the Lexington bank. This worked so well that Bob used the strategy to buy several other banks.
One of the reasons that his strategies worked so well was because of his attitude toward the regulators. The State National Bank was a bank chartered by the federal government (a national bank). All national banks were examined by the federal reserve bank as well as the FDIC. Most bankers despise bank examiners because they are looking for bankers' mistakes. Some mistakes are small infractions; some are major problems and all can be dealt with by the examiners with the most draconian means, should they be necessary. Bob always welcomed examiners, believing them to present learning opportunities. He forged a wonderful relationship with the Cleveland Federal Reserve, which proved most beneficial to his later banking acquisitions.
All the while, Bob had been accumulating State National Bank stock and became its largest shareholder.
He did not, however, own enough stock to control the bank. When Bob tried to utilize some synergies to cut costs both for the State National and the Farmers and Traders Bank (which he largely owned), some of the directors at State got very upset and thought he was scheming to have State pay expenses which would inure to the benefit of Farmers and Traders. None of this was true, but a real rift developed between those directors and the directors who supported Bob. And so, as the Annual Meeting of Stockholders date approached, the anti-Vance group was gathering proxies from shareholders everywhere. They were successful in keeping these activities a secret, so that when the day for the meeting arrived, they had almost enough proxies to elect a majority on the board, that majority being committed to firing Vance; and Bob entered the building that morning completely unaware.
The meeting was a furious event; the judges were deciding which proxies were valid and which weren't. Adding machines were clacking as each entry moved the score a little closer to "for Vance" or "against Vance." Telephone calls were received cancelling proxies and granting proxies. Attorneys were baring their teeth at one another. It was the ugliest business conflict I have ever seen in Maysville, Ky. As I recall, there were about 120,000 shares to be voted. Late in the day, the final talley favored Vance by only a few votes, but it was nonetheless a triumph and victory for him..
Perhaps a month later, Bob, nevertheless, resigned as President of the Bank, realizing that a split board was inimical to the bank's best interest. It became one of the most fortunate days of his life. With the changes in state and federal banking laws, bank were allowed to have branches across county lines and, ultimately, across state lines. Bob and Steve Beshear, the greatest of friends and compatible in every respect, began to slowly expand their bank activities. Banks in Warsaw, Kentucky, May's Lick, Kentucky, Ripley, Ohio and other small communities around the state were acquired. Bob Vance became literally famous among Kentucky bankers as the most agressive and smartest banker in the state. Bob may have once been President of the Kentucky Banker's Association, but was definitely involved in its most important activities. He began a banking school, not unlike the one he attended at Rutgers, teaching there frequently.
The association between Bob and Steve Beshear, now Governor of Kentucky, propelled Bob into the limelight once more. He had decided to retire about the same time Beshear decided to run. Beshear was elected by a large majority, defeating Ernie Fletcher who ran for a second term. Steve asked his friend to come along and nominated him as Secretary of the largest cabinet in state government. Later, under Bob's leadership, the cabinet was reduced in size and responsibility, and is now called the Cabinet for Public Protection. Maybe that's not the full name, but it's close. Anyway, Bob supervises the Department of Insurance, the Department of Banking, the Horse Racing Commission, and lots of other things all of you would recognize. By all accounts, he has done a superior job and continues to do so. He comes home to Maysville each week-end. If you didn't know him and met him on the street, you would have no idea of how important this man is!
Why a jewel? Well, Bob Vance started at the bottom rung in Maysville, Kentucky. He worked very hard and, more importantly, very smart. I would argue that he, on his own, has been far more successful in the business world than anybody else living in Maysville, Ky. today. And finally, his success was obtained honestly and honorably. Bob Vance has lived the American dream; he's played the American game -- and won!
Sunday, September 27, 2009
What do you Think?
"You'll get your reward in heaven." "Oh, he's gone to a better place." "And I saw all kinds of bright lights, different colors, through a tunnel of sorts; but then, I came back and that's all I remember." "In my Father's house are many mansions." Have you noticed that there are all kinds of references to heaven made by churchmen, but none of them ever talk about it very much? When was the last time you heard a preacher preach a sermon about heaven? "Oh, dem golden slippers." "St. Peter at the pearly gates." "Streets of gold." "Swing low, sweet chariot!"
While I am no authority, I think most of the world's religions promise a better life after death, provided you try to live a better life before death. But I don't think I have ever heard the after-life discussed from the pulpit in any serious detail. I suppose that that's because no one can attest to the details of heaven. That doesn't mean, however, that most of us have not wondered about it. Truly, faith in God and belief in an after-life are comforting when things aren't going very well. It was said that Albert Einstein was certain in his own mind that there is a God. He, better than most, understood how perfectly the universe and all that comprised it worked together; he said that there is no way that creation could have occurred by chance and for him, the complexity of all things was proof of a "higher intelligence." When asked about a life after death, he replied that he didn't believe in that. "One life is quite enough," he said.
For those of us who do subscribe to Heaven, there are surely a thousand questions. Where is it? Is it over-crowded? Are the streets gold and is the gate made of a pearly substance. Does God really sit on a marble throne (like Lincoln at the Lincoln monument in Washington, D.C.)? Does Jesus sit at the right hand of God? Do you ever run in to them on the street? What happens when you marry a widow and you and she run in to her first husband? How the hell's all that going to work? Do we all stay in the ground until the "last trumpet" or do we make the trip as soon as we die?
I guess it's generally accepted that our bodies will not be making the trip. Our souls, our spirits are what's thought to be immortal. If that's true, there will be no more physical pain; nor any hunger, nor any need to eat food as we know it. If our bodies remain behind, how do you suppose we'll recognize each other? For that matter, without bodies, will there be any male or female. One would suppose there'll be no need for children being born to populate the place; and if that's true, what about sex? Will there be any? Almost sounds like some of my favorite things are going to be left to poor miserable humans on earth. Any dogs? Cats? Horses?
A lot of this has been tongue-in-cheek. A guy named Mitch Albom wrote a book, The Five People You Meet in Heaven. It doesn't take very long to read. The story is about an ordinary man who begins life with the same dreams we all have. The world will be his oyster. As time goes by, he meets the love of his life, and soon is blest with a child. These things mean he has to "bring home the bacon" and so he gets a hum-drum job, the best he can find, at an amusement park. Life marches on and he feels that he is a failure because he cannot earn enough money to give his wife and child the life he thinks they deserve. Lots of days, he feels his work is not nearly so personally rewarding as the work others do. There are many things he doesn't understand about life, causing him to be dissatisfied with things as they are. He meets his demise in old age when one of the park rides malfunctions and he tries to rescue a little girl from certain death.
Almost all of our trouble comes from lack of understanding. We don't understand other people, we don't understand disease, we don't understand other nations and religions. Life is full of misunderstandings which lead to hard feelings, disagreements, strife, violence and war. We suffer from horrible diseases because we don't know what causes them.
Whatever and wherever heaven is, it may be nothing more than a universe of perfect understanding. It may be a question of having our eyes and minds opened, so that whites no longer misunderstand blacks. Men, women. Protestants, Catholics, and vice-versa. Jews, Muslims. Americans, Russians and Chinese. Greeks, Turks. Cancer, researchers. And on and on. And if you think about it, if we all understood all things perfectly, it might be heaven on earth, even if it does keep raining.
While I am no authority, I think most of the world's religions promise a better life after death, provided you try to live a better life before death. But I don't think I have ever heard the after-life discussed from the pulpit in any serious detail. I suppose that that's because no one can attest to the details of heaven. That doesn't mean, however, that most of us have not wondered about it. Truly, faith in God and belief in an after-life are comforting when things aren't going very well. It was said that Albert Einstein was certain in his own mind that there is a God. He, better than most, understood how perfectly the universe and all that comprised it worked together; he said that there is no way that creation could have occurred by chance and for him, the complexity of all things was proof of a "higher intelligence." When asked about a life after death, he replied that he didn't believe in that. "One life is quite enough," he said.
For those of us who do subscribe to Heaven, there are surely a thousand questions. Where is it? Is it over-crowded? Are the streets gold and is the gate made of a pearly substance. Does God really sit on a marble throne (like Lincoln at the Lincoln monument in Washington, D.C.)? Does Jesus sit at the right hand of God? Do you ever run in to them on the street? What happens when you marry a widow and you and she run in to her first husband? How the hell's all that going to work? Do we all stay in the ground until the "last trumpet" or do we make the trip as soon as we die?
I guess it's generally accepted that our bodies will not be making the trip. Our souls, our spirits are what's thought to be immortal. If that's true, there will be no more physical pain; nor any hunger, nor any need to eat food as we know it. If our bodies remain behind, how do you suppose we'll recognize each other? For that matter, without bodies, will there be any male or female. One would suppose there'll be no need for children being born to populate the place; and if that's true, what about sex? Will there be any? Almost sounds like some of my favorite things are going to be left to poor miserable humans on earth. Any dogs? Cats? Horses?
A lot of this has been tongue-in-cheek. A guy named Mitch Albom wrote a book, The Five People You Meet in Heaven. It doesn't take very long to read. The story is about an ordinary man who begins life with the same dreams we all have. The world will be his oyster. As time goes by, he meets the love of his life, and soon is blest with a child. These things mean he has to "bring home the bacon" and so he gets a hum-drum job, the best he can find, at an amusement park. Life marches on and he feels that he is a failure because he cannot earn enough money to give his wife and child the life he thinks they deserve. Lots of days, he feels his work is not nearly so personally rewarding as the work others do. There are many things he doesn't understand about life, causing him to be dissatisfied with things as they are. He meets his demise in old age when one of the park rides malfunctions and he tries to rescue a little girl from certain death.
Almost all of our trouble comes from lack of understanding. We don't understand other people, we don't understand disease, we don't understand other nations and religions. Life is full of misunderstandings which lead to hard feelings, disagreements, strife, violence and war. We suffer from horrible diseases because we don't know what causes them.
Whatever and wherever heaven is, it may be nothing more than a universe of perfect understanding. It may be a question of having our eyes and minds opened, so that whites no longer misunderstand blacks. Men, women. Protestants, Catholics, and vice-versa. Jews, Muslims. Americans, Russians and Chinese. Greeks, Turks. Cancer, researchers. And on and on. And if you think about it, if we all understood all things perfectly, it might be heaven on earth, even if it does keep raining.
Monday, September 21, 2009
A Serious Matter
A lot of people who live here don't know what a wonderful place Bracken County is. Of course, as always, it's the people who character a place. In Bracken, you can paint a description of the folks there with a broad brush: They work hard. They buy what they need, take care of it, wear it out and buy another. They pay their bills on time. They save their money. They hold their friends in high regard and seem willing always to extend a helping hand. I never met a frivolous person in Bracken County. In short, what you see is what you get, and what you see looks really good on the inside!
Not very long ago, a house lying fairly close to the North Fork of the Licking River burned in the middle of the night. The owners, a couple residing there, barely escaped. Neil Brumley and his second wife, Linda, had built the house just a very few years before the fire and designed it to their completely liking. Earlier, Neil had lost his first wife after a long and happy marriage. He is a farmer and also works in town at a Brooksville grocery. He's the meatcutter. He walks with a slight limp and is a Republican, the magistrate for his magisterial district of the county. There may not be a more popular person living in Bracken County today. Neil is always ready with a broad smile and a twinkle in his eye, and when he's talking to you, you get the impression that you are the most important person in his life.
The Fiscal Court of Bracken County is made up differently from the Mason County Fiscal Court. Here, we elect three Commissioner and they all run county-wide. In Bracken (and in many other Kentucky counties), the county is divided into districts and each district elects a magistrate to the fiscal court. Neil Brumley has represented the Milford District for a long, long time. Altogether, there are seven or eight commissioners, I think, though I'm not sure about the number. The Bracken Fiscal Court seems to address the weightier governmental issues in the county.
If you ask most people in Bracken County what they believe the county's greatest need is, almost to a man they will tell you jobs. There are, of course, some service jobs in Brooksville and Clopay Corp. employs a number of people in Augusta. Other than those, and seasonal farm labor, there aren't many jobs to be had. So, a lot of people drive to Northern Kentucky or Cincinnati to work. Like any other area, most folks would prefer to work closer to home, if good jobs were available.
For several years, the Fiscal Court has been considering the issue of county-wide zoning. There have been meetings on top of meetings, and the closer the Court came to addressing the issue, the hotter it became on both sides. As a rule, country people (and a lot of town peole) don't like zoning because it restricts what one can do with his property. Nonetheless, zoning is an incident of modern life everywhere, and it is the conventional wisdom that Bracken County will never attract outside investment in plant and equipment without it.
On the first reading of the zoning ordinance, the magistrates divided evenly until Neil Brumley cast his vote in favor. I suspect Neil didn't really like the idea very well, but he probably was convinced that without it, there could be no new factory in the Bracken County Industrial Park, no matter what the incentives. Whatever else might be said, it had to be a hard matter for him to decide.
That night, Neil Brumley's home burned and with it, all of his and Linda' possessions, things which may have had significant monetary value, but undoubtedly things which are irreplaceable. The FBI and the State Police, finding accelerant among the ashes at the home site, declared the fire to be arson. No arrests have been made, although as is often the case, authorities probably know who did it; they just don't yet have enough proof to take the case to the Grand Jury.
William Faulkner, famed Mississippi author, wrote a short story called The Barn Burner. It is a tale of a person or people who burn other people's property to settle differences, to settle scores. Faulkner's acclaim probably arises most from his uncanny ability to shine a light on the souls of his characters, illuminating their most basic framework and revealing in clear and compelling style their shortcomings. The barnburner character was the lowest of the low, because he is a coward and lacks the backbone to face his opponent. Instead, he sneaks under cover of darkness, does his spitework and pathetically slips off into the night back to his lair, there reveling in his "victory."
This is exactly what happened in Bracken County. A man, simple yet strong, does what he believes to be best, and another man, a coward, cringing under the daylight, slithers after dark to where he can hurt the first man, and then slips away, steals away without ever summoning the courage to confront him.
Arson is a very serious matter. Bracken County will want a serious penalty imposed when the offender is caught. Indeed, a serious penalty is absolutely apapropriate and called for.
Not very long ago, a house lying fairly close to the North Fork of the Licking River burned in the middle of the night. The owners, a couple residing there, barely escaped. Neil Brumley and his second wife, Linda, had built the house just a very few years before the fire and designed it to their completely liking. Earlier, Neil had lost his first wife after a long and happy marriage. He is a farmer and also works in town at a Brooksville grocery. He's the meatcutter. He walks with a slight limp and is a Republican, the magistrate for his magisterial district of the county. There may not be a more popular person living in Bracken County today. Neil is always ready with a broad smile and a twinkle in his eye, and when he's talking to you, you get the impression that you are the most important person in his life.
The Fiscal Court of Bracken County is made up differently from the Mason County Fiscal Court. Here, we elect three Commissioner and they all run county-wide. In Bracken (and in many other Kentucky counties), the county is divided into districts and each district elects a magistrate to the fiscal court. Neil Brumley has represented the Milford District for a long, long time. Altogether, there are seven or eight commissioners, I think, though I'm not sure about the number. The Bracken Fiscal Court seems to address the weightier governmental issues in the county.
If you ask most people in Bracken County what they believe the county's greatest need is, almost to a man they will tell you jobs. There are, of course, some service jobs in Brooksville and Clopay Corp. employs a number of people in Augusta. Other than those, and seasonal farm labor, there aren't many jobs to be had. So, a lot of people drive to Northern Kentucky or Cincinnati to work. Like any other area, most folks would prefer to work closer to home, if good jobs were available.
For several years, the Fiscal Court has been considering the issue of county-wide zoning. There have been meetings on top of meetings, and the closer the Court came to addressing the issue, the hotter it became on both sides. As a rule, country people (and a lot of town peole) don't like zoning because it restricts what one can do with his property. Nonetheless, zoning is an incident of modern life everywhere, and it is the conventional wisdom that Bracken County will never attract outside investment in plant and equipment without it.
On the first reading of the zoning ordinance, the magistrates divided evenly until Neil Brumley cast his vote in favor. I suspect Neil didn't really like the idea very well, but he probably was convinced that without it, there could be no new factory in the Bracken County Industrial Park, no matter what the incentives. Whatever else might be said, it had to be a hard matter for him to decide.
That night, Neil Brumley's home burned and with it, all of his and Linda' possessions, things which may have had significant monetary value, but undoubtedly things which are irreplaceable. The FBI and the State Police, finding accelerant among the ashes at the home site, declared the fire to be arson. No arrests have been made, although as is often the case, authorities probably know who did it; they just don't yet have enough proof to take the case to the Grand Jury.
William Faulkner, famed Mississippi author, wrote a short story called The Barn Burner. It is a tale of a person or people who burn other people's property to settle differences, to settle scores. Faulkner's acclaim probably arises most from his uncanny ability to shine a light on the souls of his characters, illuminating their most basic framework and revealing in clear and compelling style their shortcomings. The barnburner character was the lowest of the low, because he is a coward and lacks the backbone to face his opponent. Instead, he sneaks under cover of darkness, does his spitework and pathetically slips off into the night back to his lair, there reveling in his "victory."
This is exactly what happened in Bracken County. A man, simple yet strong, does what he believes to be best, and another man, a coward, cringing under the daylight, slithers after dark to where he can hurt the first man, and then slips away, steals away without ever summoning the courage to confront him.
Arson is a very serious matter. Bracken County will want a serious penalty imposed when the offender is caught. Indeed, a serious penalty is absolutely apapropriate and called for.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Lang Lang
Cincinnati really is a wonderful city for the arts. Major wealthy people and corporations generously support the off-broadway theatre in its quality productions, the Cincinnati Symphony and Pops, the May Festival, art museums and many other cultural activities. These activities are loved and very well attended by people of all economic strata. Some say it is because of the Germanic extraction, knowing how Germans love music and dance; however, there are a lot of names which sound other than German supporting and attending the functions.
Last Thursday evening, a Chinese fellow 27 years old played the piano with the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra on the stage of Cincinnati Music Hall. If you've never seen the building, it's worth buying a ticket simply to see the inside. Hanging from the ceiling is a huge chandelier that give off enough light to illuminate the whole place. Before any performance begins, the chandelier is pulled up toward the ceiling and all the while, the lights are dimming until they are completely extinguished. I don't know how many people the hall will hold on the main floor (orchestra seating) and the two balconies, but I am sure that the number far exceeds the capacity of the Mason County Field House. And on Thursday night, there wasn't a vacant seat in the place.
The name of the pianist is Lang Lang. That's it. Nothing more. I assume his first name is Lang, and his last name is Lang. Strange, but true. Anyway, this young man has been called the "hottest artist on the classical music planet" by the New York Times. He has played in every major city in the world and was featured at the opening of the Biejing Olympic Games, seen by over 9 Billion people, worldwide. He is short, shorter than most American men, and smaller in stature. He has very black hair which reminds me of a buzz cut gone awry. He walks with a bounce in his step, and from the moment he appeared on stage, you could tell he was brimming with confidence.
His confidence was utterly justified. His selection was a Beethoven concerto for piano and orchestra. Beethoven's music is not the hardest music written, but it is, nevertheless, very demanding. With the backing of the Cincinnati Symphony, Lang Lang played the music as if, somehow, the piano and the orchestra were one. It was seamless. Like a great piece of ornate silk. Even musical amateurs would recognize the performance as extraordinary.
There is a nice feature at the Music Hall. My seat was on the right hand side of the first balcony, which means that you cannot see the key board nor the pianist's hands. You can, however, see his facial expression. At the beginning of the performance on the piano, a large movie screen of sorts drops down from the ceiling above the stage, and cameras mounted above the artist can capture both his hand movements and his facial and body expressions as he plays. At first, I thought this was distracting, but during the encore, subsequently described, it let you get the real feeling of the music and the artist, at the same time.
As the sound of the last note of the Beethoven faded away, there was an eerie silence, utter silence, in the hall, lasting maybe one or two seconds. And then, jumping to their feet, the audience's applause was deafening, and continued for several minutes. Lang Lang took his bow, and left the stage; he returned, took a second bow and left. The applause continued unabated. Finally, he returned, took a third bow, and sat down at the piano again. This time, instead of the bombastic Beethoven, he played a Chopin piece in such a way that you felt like he was gently making love to the piano. Most of the music was soft, a light touch, and rarely did a passage suggest urgency. His hands moved above the keyboard and he never looked at where they came down, but his fingers were invariably on the right note at the right time. There were notes, so soft and yet distinct, that made me marvel to think a human being could touch something, anything, with that much tender feeling. It was simply the very best piano playing I have ever heard.
Thank you, Cincinnati; may Maysville take notice.
Last Thursday evening, a Chinese fellow 27 years old played the piano with the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra on the stage of Cincinnati Music Hall. If you've never seen the building, it's worth buying a ticket simply to see the inside. Hanging from the ceiling is a huge chandelier that give off enough light to illuminate the whole place. Before any performance begins, the chandelier is pulled up toward the ceiling and all the while, the lights are dimming until they are completely extinguished. I don't know how many people the hall will hold on the main floor (orchestra seating) and the two balconies, but I am sure that the number far exceeds the capacity of the Mason County Field House. And on Thursday night, there wasn't a vacant seat in the place.
The name of the pianist is Lang Lang. That's it. Nothing more. I assume his first name is Lang, and his last name is Lang. Strange, but true. Anyway, this young man has been called the "hottest artist on the classical music planet" by the New York Times. He has played in every major city in the world and was featured at the opening of the Biejing Olympic Games, seen by over 9 Billion people, worldwide. He is short, shorter than most American men, and smaller in stature. He has very black hair which reminds me of a buzz cut gone awry. He walks with a bounce in his step, and from the moment he appeared on stage, you could tell he was brimming with confidence.
His confidence was utterly justified. His selection was a Beethoven concerto for piano and orchestra. Beethoven's music is not the hardest music written, but it is, nevertheless, very demanding. With the backing of the Cincinnati Symphony, Lang Lang played the music as if, somehow, the piano and the orchestra were one. It was seamless. Like a great piece of ornate silk. Even musical amateurs would recognize the performance as extraordinary.
There is a nice feature at the Music Hall. My seat was on the right hand side of the first balcony, which means that you cannot see the key board nor the pianist's hands. You can, however, see his facial expression. At the beginning of the performance on the piano, a large movie screen of sorts drops down from the ceiling above the stage, and cameras mounted above the artist can capture both his hand movements and his facial and body expressions as he plays. At first, I thought this was distracting, but during the encore, subsequently described, it let you get the real feeling of the music and the artist, at the same time.
As the sound of the last note of the Beethoven faded away, there was an eerie silence, utter silence, in the hall, lasting maybe one or two seconds. And then, jumping to their feet, the audience's applause was deafening, and continued for several minutes. Lang Lang took his bow, and left the stage; he returned, took a second bow and left. The applause continued unabated. Finally, he returned, took a third bow, and sat down at the piano again. This time, instead of the bombastic Beethoven, he played a Chopin piece in such a way that you felt like he was gently making love to the piano. Most of the music was soft, a light touch, and rarely did a passage suggest urgency. His hands moved above the keyboard and he never looked at where they came down, but his fingers were invariably on the right note at the right time. There were notes, so soft and yet distinct, that made me marvel to think a human being could touch something, anything, with that much tender feeling. It was simply the very best piano playing I have ever heard.
Thank you, Cincinnati; may Maysville take notice.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Last Few Days
Last week-end started out with a bang! The Maysville High School Class of 1959 held its 50th reunion in Maysville. On Friday night, about 50 people gathered at our house on Jersey Ridge for drinks and hor d'ouerves (I know that isn't spelled right, but I can't find it in the dictionary)and had a really relaxed and enjoyable evening. Being exclusively limited to old people, the party broke up about 10:30 and everybody went home.
The next day, the committee had organized a tour so that out-of-towners could see for themselves what changes had come over our quaint little burg. Leonard Hendrickson, a classmate who has lived in Maysville all his life said he saw things on the tour he had never seen before and was very enthusiastic. The tour was followed by a picnic lunch at the Riverpark; the weather could not have been more accommodating. Now that none of us have children at home, we can have our reunions in the fall of the year, when the weather is more to everyone's liking, instead of the brutally hot days of August we used to endure.
Saturday night at Caproni's was wonderful. Food was plain and simple and tasted good. After supper, the program consisted of the roll call and, when your name was called, you were to stand and tell everyone about your life since 1959 and your fondest memory of dear old MHS. Some of it was hysterically funny, some of it was confessional and a lot of it, tongue in cheek. For instance, I remembered how I played on the championship team that went to the state tournament in 1959. Any of you who know me know that I have never been able to walk and chew gum at the same time, much less play basketball. Incredibly, you could see the looks on some faces as they tried to remember me on the team. Finally, Billy Rex Parker stood up and asked if anyone remembered McNeill playing basketball in high school. Of course, no one did.
The next part of the program was the awarding of gifts to those who were chosen because of the distance traveled to get here, the number of grandchildren, and so on. Finally, when the door prize was awarded, Patsy Aldridge drew her own name. Everyone howled.
To Amy: Dear, your father was a beloved member of the 1959 graduating class. In school, he was called Gus and I don't think he ever escaped it. He was born, I think, in November, 1941. That may not be right, but it seems like it is. His mother was a second grade teacher at Sixth Ward School (now a parking lot on Broadway St.) for years and years. She did not teach us, having started there the year we went into the third grade. She was just a lovely person.
As I was celebrating my fiftieth reunion, my daughter, Laura, was celebrating her twentieth. Sort of a neat coincidence.
On Monday morning, a group of classmates, including Jimmy Hart, came to my house to help return tables and chairs borrowed for the Friday evening gathering. He reached down to pat my dog, Earl, and Earl bit Jimmy on the arm, tearing skin and causing a lot of bleeding. We put peroxide on the wound and covered it with two large band-aids. We took the tables and chairs back, and all the while, I was absolutely dreading what I knew I had to do. After lunch, I took Earl to the vet and asked that he be put to sleep.
The process is burned into my mind. Earl and I were taken to a small room that has a chair and a stool. A staff member came in and took Earl to, one, give him a calming shot and, two, to insert a IV in his front leg. When that was done, they brought him back to me and I held him on my lap. Dr. Biddle, son of Bob Biddle came in, explained what he was going to do, and with tremendous empathy, said he would wait as long as I wanted. The shot they had given Earl had made him sleepy so that he wasn't struggling or scared; he just had his head down on my leg, lying there. Finally, I nodded and Dr. Biddle inserted the needle in the IV receptacle. Earl never moved and died almost instantaneously. I cried uncontrolably.
This was the second time I had been through this. The first time was with my dog Sam. My children gave Sam to me for my birthday in 1995 and he lived with us until 2008. He was a wonderful little dog and my wife and I loved him so much that our children got jealous, we think. Anyway, after thirteen years with us, he got to the point where he could barely see and, Dr. Biddle told us, that his heart was very weak. We always went for a morning walk, and toward the end, he would walk very slowly and without any sign of the pep which had so characterized his life. And so, we finally decided that the kindest thing to do for Sam was to let him go. Under those circumstances, euthanasia for pets is wonderful, because there is no pain or fear.
Anyway, when Sam died, we got another dog, whose name is Fred. Fred is a good dog, but he's not the brightest pooch on the planet. He did want me to play with him all the time, and so I thought it would be a good idea to get him a canine playmate, which met with some serious opposition in the hosuehold. Nevertheless, I found a dog on line in a shelter in Dayton, Ohio, and in almost no time, Earl was residing with us. Really cute, scruffy dog, resembling the terrier breed. You can tell, their noses and mouths are a little long for the rest of their body. Earl loved to jump off the ground while walking or standing by your side, and he would usually give you a playful little nip with his teeth. It never hurt and you knew he didn't intend it to hurt. After I got used to this, I happened to look in the dictionary or on-line for a definition of a terrier dog. It said terriers are frequently small dogs, used for routing out rodents like rats and other vermin. The dogs are fiesty and fearless. This certainly was Earl's mantra; he wasn't afraid of anything, nothing!
And he greeted everyone who came to the house with a fierce barrage of barking and jumping and had the poor laundry man scared out of his wits. Earl finally made up with him, but he never failed to announce his arrival.
Thinking about it, it may have been an accident that Earl hurt Jim, but you cannot have a dog who reacts and injures another person. You just can't do it. I am incredibly sad about Earl and will miss him for a very long time.
Pardon all this stuff. I just thought I'd tell you why I haven't been here in the past few days. Fred is Ok, but I think he's lonesome.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Next Week, Dear Reader
I know that thousands of readers have noticed the lack of any activity on the blog. To explain, I have been heavily involved in preparing for the 50th Reunion of the Maysville High School Graduating Class of 1959. About fifty to sixty people gathered here last night for fun and frolic (to the extent any of us have any frolic left) and it was a good time.
Today, the class is meeting at the Riverpark for a lunch gathering, then naps, then Caproni's for the final convocation. While I'm not exactly feeling my best this morning, I can tell you very honestly that I behaved very much better this time than I did five years ago at these affairs.
Well, enough excuses! I shall be back with a vengeance after the first of the week. Tootle-oooo, as my grandmother used to say.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Television and Fear
Over the years, television has provided the American public with a lot of entertainment, some of it of high quality. It's ubiquitous, but it has changed our country in some ways which are most unfortunate.
The story about East Second Street sixty five years ago brings to mind certain unwritten rules in effect then. Children in our neighborhood who could be trusted not to run into the path of an automobile were otherwise free to do just about anything. From the early spring to the very late fall, children played with each other outdoors. Most of the mothers then were stay-at-home women who kept house, raised children, cooked and cleaned and generally worked awfully hard. So, they kept an eye on what was going on in the neighborhood and seemed to have a sixth sense when we were up to something we shouldn't be.
I mentioned rules. When breakfast was over, children were free to leave the house and go anywhere we wanted in the neighborhood. And we could stay all morning. The signal for lunch was the whistle at the Pulley Factory, a sound that could be heard all over east Maysville. We were to be home within a very few minutes after the whistle sounded. And lunch was served. For a long time, we had our main meal in the middle of the day, as was the country custom. We called it dinner, while the last meal of the day was denominated supper.
After lunch (dinner), some of us were made to take naps early in life, but later, the afternoon was totally free for play. I guess our stomachs told us when it was suppertime, because there was no whistle to announce that meal. There were, however, mothers all over the neighborhood calling their children to come home, wash up, and get ready for supper. After supper, it was back outside where we could remain until the street lights came on. In July, they didn't light up until nine or nine-thirty. And so, with brief interruptions for food and sustenance, our summer days were frequently thirteen hours outside.
It's not that way anymore. Parents these days seem to be terrified, really frightened about bad things which could befall their children. There seems to be constant supervision, planned activities and almost no spontaneous creativity on the part of children. Mothers or fathers almost always accompany their children to parks and other places which might interest a child. If you talk to a mom about what she allows her nine year old to do, it's completely different these days and it arises out of her fear for the child's safety.
I think this is an unfortunate result of the television set. Recently, the tv news has been flooded with coverage about the 11 year old girl abducted and held incommunicada for years by a perverted child molester. The story is the stuff of a horror novel and is undoubtedly true. But television makes it seem like the story arose in the next block down the street. When this type of news was reported in the newspaper, the effect was not nearly so sensational and there wasn't repetitive coverage all day long and from day to day.
There is another story on television which implied that a child's grandmother had hidden her grandchild in a two foot wide room for two years, thereby shielding the child from one of its parents as a result of a custody fight. It's true she hid the child when someone she thought was a threat visited her home, but in those custody circumstances, this isn't all that unusual. But it is the intention of television, I think, to make such stories as sensational as possible.
The point of all of this is that television has been extremely effective in scaring our population of things that are almost totally unlikely to happen to their children. You may not agree, and if you don't, I think the television has gotten to you. I know it's gotten to me. Maybe there's nothing we can do about it, but it is a damned shame that kids can't grow with a little more spontaneity, learning as they go.
Not everything modern is necessarily good. And television is a first class example!
Comments
If you would like to comment on any of these posts, simply click on the title. That particular post will appear in a new window and if you look carefully at the bottom of the post, you will see a darkened place to click which will then allow you to write what you wish. Next, there is a drop-down menu. Click on anonymous and then click Post. If you want to sign your comment, please feel free to do so in the body of the comment. If you don't want to sign it, that's fine too. I'd like to know what you think even if I don't know who you are.
I hope this works!!!
A Merry Christmas Eve
A long time ago, a man named Bud lived in the 1100 block of East Second Street. Bud was never very successful at anything. At one time, he was the appointed dog warden of the county. Various citizens accused Bud of picking up hunting dogs and selling them; one of those people, T. T. Barnett, loved rabbit hunting and had a good beagle hound. Mr. Barnett threatened to kill Bud over that dog and apparently was packing the means with which to get the job done. The threat produced the dog, tied to a dog box in Bud's back yard. Shortly thereafter, Bud was no longer the dog warden.
But, I digress. Bud stuttered badly! One Christmas Eve, there was a knock on Bud's door. He answered and there stood Mr. Harold Willett, Bud's landlord. Perhpas you don't remember Harold Willett, but he was a very tall, slim man, with bushy eyebrows. He was a mainstay in the Lions Club annual minstrel show.
C-c-c-come in, M-m-m-mr. Willett, Bud said. Harold walked in and Bud offered him a seat in the living room. Bud's wife, Bernice, who had a good job at Browning and wholly supported the couple, was off on Christmas Eve and was in the kitchen, cooking.
Bud and Harold exhanged pleasantries and greetings of the season, whereupon Bud said, B-b-b-b-bernice, get M-m-m-mr. Willett one of those c-c-c-chocolate-covered c-c-c-cherries. Bernice did as she was instructed and Harold put the candy in his mouth. It was tasty.
Finally, Mr. Willett said that he had just come over to tell Bud that he was raising the rent. Bud looked at Bernice and said, B-b-b-b-bernice, put the d-d-d-damned candy a-a-away! Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
But, I digress. Bud stuttered badly! One Christmas Eve, there was a knock on Bud's door. He answered and there stood Mr. Harold Willett, Bud's landlord. Perhpas you don't remember Harold Willett, but he was a very tall, slim man, with bushy eyebrows. He was a mainstay in the Lions Club annual minstrel show.
C-c-c-come in, M-m-m-mr. Willett, Bud said. Harold walked in and Bud offered him a seat in the living room. Bud's wife, Bernice, who had a good job at Browning and wholly supported the couple, was off on Christmas Eve and was in the kitchen, cooking.
Bud and Harold exhanged pleasantries and greetings of the season, whereupon Bud said, B-b-b-b-bernice, get M-m-m-mr. Willett one of those c-c-c-chocolate-covered c-c-c-cherries. Bernice did as she was instructed and Harold put the candy in his mouth. It was tasty.
Finally, Mr. Willett said that he had just come over to tell Bud that he was raising the rent. Bud looked at Bernice and said, B-b-b-b-bernice, put the d-d-d-damned candy a-a-away! Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Health Reform Briefly Revisited
Our senator, Mitch McConnell, was in town the other day, bringing a check for $2-1/2 million from the stimulus bill he voted against. I don't really like Senator McConnell very well. I don't think he feels the same way about me; he doesn't know who I am. Anyway, the Ledger-Independent published a photograph of the senator and the crowd. At the rear stood Ann Johnson holding a sign deriding McConnell's stance on health care reform. Later, a Comment Line caller said Ann should not have done that because it was offensive to Senator McConnell and, after all, he was bringing a check to help restore the Cox Building. We should be (and are) grateful for the check. But I think our senator is a little out of touch. Last week, he said that tax deductions for health insurance and tax-exempt health savings accounts would fix everything. I thought that, by and large, the people without health insurance were poor people, people who frequently have to choose between buying medicine or food. Those people don't pay taxes and so tax deductions won't help them much. Oh, and Senator, if you have to choose between buying food or medicine, you haven't really got any money to put in a health savings account. So much for health reform.
Jewels of Maysville - Robert Zweigart
We are accustomed to hallmarking community leaders by the speeches they give, the letters they write, their accomplishments noted in the newspaper and so on. But we all know that some leaders go about their business in a very quiet and unassuming way. While they may not spurn publicity, neither do they seek it nor derive much satisfaction from it. These people, without fanfare or pomp, work toward a goal and not only achieve that goal, but confer a substantial benefit on the community as a whole.
Bob Zweigart is one of these people.
If you're acquainted with Bob, you know that he gets to work before eight o'clock in the morning, before anyone else arrives at the office. He is usually the last to leave in the evening; and typically, he works all day Saturday and Sunday afternoon (except when the Bengals are playing football). He has followed this routine for at least 40 years, because I have observed it for that long. If you visit his office, you will find numerous files piled high on his desk, but in a very organized fashion. He is no Strawberry Collins, by any means. Strawberry's desk was piled high with assorted papers, books and other items and, it was said that he could lay his hand on anything he was looking for. That may have been true, but no one else could find anything on his desk. Bob can locate anything on his desk, because everything has a place and it is in its place.
I have been privileged to observe several of the things Bob has been involved with. He, with Bob Blake and Bob Vance, were the leaders of the effort that built the YMCA in Maysville, a facility the likes of which almost no other town of our size can boast. Bob Zweigart not only played a prominent role in raising approximately $3,000,000, but he quietly prepared most of the legal documents relating to the tax exempt incorporation of the Y as well as the contract documents for its construction. As a board member of Hayswood Hospital, he and Bob Vance did most of the work, spending not days, but weeks defeating the union which tried to unionize the hospital workers. In both of these efforts, an incredible amount of time was consumed, and for a lawyer, the giving of time without compensation is the ultimate professional sacrifice.
I drove through the William R. Shugars Industrial Park on the A-A highway not long ago. If you haven't done so, you should go out there and look at the investment out-of-town companies have made in our area. Stober Drives, Mitsubishi, Green Tokai have huge plants there, some of which are expanding. The businesses operating in the Pope warehouses also employ Maysville people, not to mention TRW (now ) and the former Johnson Controls operation at the seatcover factory.
I think Bob Zweigart has been involved in all of the efforts on the part of the community to attract those companies. He has represented the Industrial Authority in the financing and building of the buildings, and he has drawn the leases between the Authority and the companies to ensure the recovery of Authority's investment.
One of the most complex and difficult projects ever undertaken in Maysville was the financing and construction of the French Quarter Inn in downtown Maysville. The City had made a downtown hotel a priority, and was willing to invest public funds to see that it happened. Buffalo Trace was instrumental in supplying funds, as well, from various grants awarded by the state and federal governments. In addition to the owner, a large private investor put money into the project. Bob filed a lawsuit in the Circuit Court to determine the legality under the Kentucky Consitution of investing municipal funds in what was essentially a private enterprize, using the Toyota case as precedent. The court not only had to review the case law and applicable statutes, it had to examine the doumentation, as prepared by Bob, to be sure that the law fit the financing and investments of the various parties. Ultimately, the court approved the package, all of the parties agreed to its terms, and the hotel became a reality.
Very few people realize how difficult this sort of effort is. On the levels I've been talking about, almost all of the work is done in huge, metropolitan lawfirms and at incredible expense. While Bob's charges have always been most reasonable, the quality and completeness of his work product is every bit the equal of anything generated in Cincinnati, Lexington, Louisville or St. Louis. Out-of-town attorneys are amazed and dumbfounded at the quality of his work, considering he lives and works in what they believe to be a back-water town.
The things I have mentioned above are but a few of Bob's contributions. The list could go on and on! The point that I make is that his work ethic, knowledge, skill and patience, all applied in and through his profession, have profoundly inured to the betterment of our community. It is a better place for us to live because of the work he has done over the years and will continue to do. Bob Zweigart exemplifies the very best qualities a lawyer can possess, and he has used them for our benefit.
Monday, August 31, 2009
East End of Town - 65 years ago
Speaking of the East End of Maysville, it was a wonderful place in which to grow up. In the years between 1944 and 1964, there was little, if any, fear in the minds of parents who lived along that street, other than a child being hit by a car on the street. Growing up there during those years, it was as if the world was our oyster; nothing frightened us, other than Billy Dice, who lived in the next block up.
From day 2, almost all of us walked to school everyday. It was three or four blocks from my house to the Sixth Ward school. I walked, rode my bicycle, and skated to school. I was a Patrol Boy in the fifth grade (high honor) and wore my belt and held my sign with pride. I will admit, however, that I usually stopped at Bill Kenton's house on the way to school because, first, they always had sweet rolls from Magee's Bakery and next, Mrs. Kenton always drove Bill (and me) to school in that great long dark blue Buick.
Coming home was another story. We could walk down Second Street or we could walk down Williams Street. Bill Kenton's house was in the ten hundred block, so he would peel off there. I lived in the eight hundred block, which meant that I had to get through, you guessed it, the nine hundred block. Billy Dice lived on the river side of Second Street, but there was an open lot across the street from his house so he could see Williams Street plainly. I don't know what time that damned kid got home from school, but he was always waiting for me and for any other little kids who were walking with me. We were totally terrified of Billy and he did everything he could think of to amplify that fear. He would chase us, jump out from behind cars or bushes in front of us, threaten to cut our heads off with a knife. He always had a big hunting knife strapped on his belt. And you know, I never had sense enough to tell my parents what mortal danger I was in coming home from school. I don't know whether they could have done anything about it or not because Billy was a pretty bad kid, or at least we thought so. Anyway, the afternoons we got by that point in our journey without any encounter of the dreaded Billy was simply a great, great day, no matter what the weather. He really never actually did anything to us, but I was scared to death of him.
Otherwise, East Second Street was just like the Garden of Eden. Before the floodwall, the houses along the street had long, long back yards, stretching from the house down to the "first bank." When you got to the first bank, the land dropped off about eight to ten feet. When you got to the bottom of the first bank, you were in the garden area, the spot where people raised wonderful vegetables, flowers and what have you. This garden area was problaby about 200 to 300 feet wide and its soil was replenished every year by spring floods. The next bank was the actual river bank. River willow trees (wild, stumpy and not pretty) grew on this bank and kept the river from washing the bank away. The bank sloped very gently down, through the willows, to the river shore, which was sandy. And then, of course, the river.
For many years after we moved to Second Street, there was no municipal trash service. Everyone was expected to take care of that problem by themselves. I remember my mother carefully separating the trash from the garbage. The garbage she would wrap in newspaper and place in a separate can. The trash went into another for burning in a large barrel with holes in the bottom so air could enter. The garbage, however, wouldn't burn, so everybody took their garbage and threw it over the first bank. If that situation was objectionable, I never knew it. Of course, this was long before the days of the EPA. One of the really fun neighborhood social events was usually held in the spring time when the weather was nice. Every year, the river flooded to some degree or another, but most years, it got up near the top of the first bank. Because of the garbage, there were some monumental rats on the riverbank. So, at cocktail time, we all gathered down there, the adults with their drinks and .22 calibre rifles; the men shot at rats that were swimming in the flood waters. This was a great celebration and a way to reduce the rat population on the riverbank. My father was a good shot, but the more he drank, the fewer rats he hit. That seemed to be true of all the men who had guns; and the more they missed, the funnier they thought it was. Memorable!
All Second Street children were told all sorts of things about how dangerous the river was. The biggest danger were the step-offs. Such things do exist, but they aren't a significant danger to those who can swim well. Most of us couldn't! To re-inforce the fear factor, we were told that you could walk out into the river until the water was up to your knees and, without any warning, the next step would take you over the step-off, whereupon under water currents would suck you under and that would be the end of you. Occasionally, someone would drown or jump off the bridge and the police would be out in boats with grappling hooks trying to find the body. Sometimes they found them and sometimes they didn't. Whenever this happened, it was a learning experience and an opportunity to reinforce the danger we would be in if we went into the water.
There was another reason we didn't go into the water much. About every three blocks along the street, a sewer emptied into the river. It was raw sewage; as fourth and fifth graders, we were most interested in the condoms that emerged, and would spend serious time speculating about whose house "that" came from. We all knew it didn't come from one of our houses, because our parents didn't do that stuff. Anyway, the sewers were a considerable deterrent to getting into the water. Those locations were, however, the prime fishing spots because the fish seemed to be attracted to the sewage. Parenthetically, we didn't catch many and we certainly didn't eat them.
We sat on the river shore, prop up our poles on a forked stick, and wait for the end of the pole to quiver. That meant that a fish was interested in the bait. We used chopped pork liver (the older, the better) to fish for cat fish, worms to fish for other fish and some kids used wheatie balls, particularly for carp. I remember trying to make wheatie balls one time. I took what was left of the wheatie cereal to the river bank and mixed them with water and tried to roll the result into a ball. I got that far, but everytime I tried to put one on the hook, it disintegrated into a sloppy mess. No one ever told me that you had to make them a day or two before and let them dry before they would hold together on the hook. So, I never caught any carp.
The fishing was a wonderful pastime. The catch was not so good, but looking back on it, we certainly didn't think we were wasting our time. In any event, the "river bank" was a magical place. We had our Army Club on the river bank, where eight to ten little boys would take their army guns, hide behind trees and stumps, and shoot at the enemy. We played cowboys and Indians some, but mostly cowboys chasing bad guys who were either cattle rustlers or bank robbers. If the garden plots had not been plowed in the spring, a plant called a horseweed would grow densely everywhere. Indeed, they grew to be ten feet tall and perhaps an inch to two inches thick. If you went into the horseweeds, they were so close together that there was no way anybody could find you, making it a perfect place for an ambush. The stalk of the weed was slightly prickly and they were hard to pull up. When the autumn came, though, these weeds turned to gray stalks of cellulose and the head of the weed just withered up! This was when they were really fun. After the first frost, they became much easier to pull up. By this time, they were very dry and would burn like tinder. Well, by this time, the floodwall was pretty much finished and we built fires on the river bank all the time. We used the horseweed to start the fire and would gather drift wood or fallen rotten limbs and would keep the fire going for hours.
When the floodwall was completed, field fescue was planted on it. When this fescue dies with the oncoming cold weather, it turns brown and will burn. One day, our riverbank fire got out of control and set the floodwall on fire. It was a pretty good blaze. We tried to stamp it out, but we couldn't. So, what did we do? We vanished into the wilds of the riverbank, and traveled several blocks downstream before re-surfacing on Second Street. We heard the fire engine go by; fortunately nothing of consequence was burned, and we were not asked about the matter. Nor did we mention it.
When I was in the sixth grade, almost all adults that I knew smoked cigarettes. My grandmothers didn't, but they were the only people I knew who refrained. Mr. Buck Atkinson lived a few door up the street from us and he and his wife were great friends with my parents. Mr. Atkinson worked for R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company and had scads of four-pack cigarettes. These four packs were paper, usually light cardboard, with the brand printed just as on full package, and contained four cigarettes. R. J. Reynolds made Camel, Winston, Salem and my mother's brand, Cavalier. Cavalier were king-size Camels and, if anything, they were stronger. Dad smoked Camels and Mr. Atkinson brought them carton after carton of these sample cigarettes. Sometime in the spring of my sixth grade year, I stole two sample packs of Cavalier and my friend, David, and I climbed the floodwall enroute to the river bank. We had matches and decided to build a fire so that should be smell of smoke when we got home, we could blame it on the bon fire. From that time on, until I was fifty years old, I was an ardent smoker and loved everyone of the cigarettes I smoked.
Enough of this rambling. I will revisit this tale on a subject that is a little more serious, one of these days.
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