HAPPY NEW YEAR

HAPPY New Year 2008 and Beyond!

Wishing you a "HAPPY" New Year: This caused me to pause and think about what causes the state of happiness in the first place. So a few of my musings are offered.

Science of happiness? Meaning is the key: I’m a co-owner in a publishing and event start-up; PowerThink Publishing, LLC. It’s taken two years, no income generated, but I have never been happier in my chosen profession. See, being “happy” is all about a bottom line in life. For me that bottom line is found in living a meaning-filled life. Creating uplifting literature is a challenge, and to touch another person through it, drives me and is directly linked to my "personal meaning" in life.

There is a science to being happy: A state of happiness exists when we are engaged in that which we value most. “Meaning” gives purpose and energy to our values. Our highest "motives" are derived from our highest "meanings." Motives drive action, and so... you are focused and happily engaged on that which matters most if you make "meaning" and "purpose" the key to your activities. For example, I have a belief system governed by a set of moral guidelines. These guidelines are influenced by what I have come to believe are true and meaningful principles. I've tested them over time. I am satisfied that they work for me. When I obey the principles, governing my personal conduct, I am happy. So it is with those governing my work; I am most happy then... When I follow the guidelines for the work I love doing, positive results occur. When I treat others as I like to be treated I am happy. When I live and love within "meanings" I really believe in, being HAPPY results. Establish meaning, establish happiness and satisfaction...

I have put to paper a personal "meaning and purpose statement" for all the important areas of life: relationships, social behavior, civic beliefs, parenting, spirituality, marriage, service, profession, education, etc. What makes me happy, might not do the same for you. That is because, whether written or not, our individual "meanings" and "purposes" are so strong within us, and customized to our personalities, that we either flow with them or fight them. Nurtured over time our personal likes and dislikes also add to a mental paradigm of what is meaningful to us. Add to that habits. Some people find habits hard to balance, break or otherwise prune as a gardener might on overgrown shrub.

Such habits or compulsive behaviors cultivated in socializing, substance over-use, or just playing, creating wealth, working a profession, a relationship, and so on, may hold the highest present meaning in life. Like a comfort zone, we tend to gravitate back to whatever feels safe and useful to us at the time. The expectation is, of course, that what holds meaning to me, good or bad, if I engage in it more, will make me happy. Pleasure and happiness get confused: There is nothing wrong with pleasure, as long as it isn't the end game. Remember the kind of seed you plant determines the kind of fruit you pick. Good... or bad. More on that as I continue.

Money = Happiness? This is a big one for all of us. Money is necessary and can do much good. In fact your purchase of Internet service enables you to read this, and your earnings often go to buy a good book (thank you!) or other recreation and pleasurable pursuit. But is money the thing that generates or purchases happiness? It helps to illustrate. I mentioned earlier working on building my company, PowerThink Publishing, and not earning anything from it over two years... (And by the way, to make it even more of a challenge, there have been no reserves to work from. Just reputation, a computer and some office space.)

Question: What about the money then? The money I haven’t earned over two years? You might ask, “How can Pratt claim to be so happy if he is building a dream without money?”

Answer: I know that what I am working on builds more value than I could be paid for. In fact, I will be paid, and handsomely so. I am working under the principle of “deferred compensation” which means I understand that for others to value my work and pay me for it, it had better be well-invested in by myself first, and please them second.

Besides, I have a track record of living like this and understand intuitively how valuable money could be during my creative work process, yet also how valuable my work under pecuniary strain makes compensation when it finally arrives. (I know... sounds weird, but temporary insanity is often a companion to those of us welded to this happy writing life. If I am delusional about my happiness, please "do not disturb.")

Working for others makes me happy: The entire process of targeting my audience, seeing in my mind’s eye who they are and what they want, makes me happy. What I get paid, may be great or small, but with persistent work in the inspiration and self-improvement field I become a better man, others become better people, and the rewards finally include monetary benefits, flowing in to sustain us in a current of creative and meaning-filled energy.

I believe happiness, in degrees, can be automatically induced, every time we attach a valued “meaning” to what we are doing. Ask people who value serving others how they feel after coming back from a project to help someone, whether near or far across the seas. They spent money. They expended great energy. They never lacked for inconvenience, and they probably enjoyed no common luxuries while engaged. Some got so sick physically that they thought they couldn't take anymore, (I prayed, “God just take me,” three times over two years in South America from absolute physical illness and misery) yet at the end of the adventure ask him or her “How do you feel?” I know how I felt.

“Happy” is the first emotion expressed. Why? Because in that person’s life they were engaged in something deeply meaningful to them. They connected with the ancient wisdom of their soul and through their hearts worked selflessly to love others. Pleasurable, this euphoric feeling of accomplishment is anyone’s for the “doing,” and...it is REAL.

Guess what – science will also confirm, that pleasure causing and immune system building chemicals are released in high doses into your nervous system when you are engaged in service, giving, loving others, getting outside of yourself, and that area of life which gives you the most meaning!

Yes! Pleasure is chemically induced, and your personal “meaning” has everything to do with it. Being a mother—what woman has not found an inexplicable joy at nurturing her child from the womb through life. So much meaning is attached to that child that a mother will sacrifice almost anything, including her life, for the welfare and happiness of her offspring.

Researchers have recently discovered the oxytocin hormone release link between service and euphoria. Oxytocin is known to be released from the brain in females when nurturing their child, during sex, and is also induced through social stimuli for both genders, according to a report found in USA TODAY, Dec. 2007 (link: http://www.usatoday.com/news/health/2007-12-17-generosity-hormone_N.htm)

SERVING: Not unlike the rush of a runner’s high, when serving those who cannot serve themselves, immense feelings of compassion produce a satisfying warmth, and the world just feels right. I have tested this many times over thirty-five years and guarantee, though service may be inconvenient at times, it produces a “happy” feeling and state of being.

Wow—so before science, why did I engage in altruistic, service, non-monetary rewarded, opportunities? Meaning is the answer. Attaching a high priority and meaning to certain compartments of my life including; work, family, love, character, use of financial resources, health… it all comes back to one like a boomerang. And "happiness" is the instantaneous emotion, just like the feeling I have had at working for two years with zero income.

I won't lie. Working on pure belief without promise of financial reward has its miserable moments and serious doubting from time to time. My choices have been limited to some degree. But... my happiness is not caused by funds, but the "fun" found in the creative arts that hold so much "meaning" for me. (In spite of my temporary lapses from "reality" of earning mucho dinero to that of dreaming of greater things, my wife still loves and trusts me... Thank heavens.)

SEX & Happiness -- The world is drowning in its promotion: Soooo, when it is love making, and not love taking: Talking about “love making”and oxytocin, the "sex hormone"— My opinion: If you really really want to be happy during sexual intimacy make sure you love that person. REAL love is tied to deep meanings about the value of the other person and serving their needs. That's why the contract of marriage may strengthen intimacy, and why intimacy may strengthen marriage. There is a contract, an agreement to serve each other. Sex is either just physical romping around without response – ability, (taking) or the pleasure-filled union that two committed “givers” have for each other (making.) Sex may be pleasurable, but empty. Or it may be pleasurable and FULL-feeling. Loving, in a selfless way, makes the sex better and cup of love filled. Just thought you’d like to know my take on what society seems to make the biggest, most talked about, joked of, imagined, maligned, and referred to topic of our time.

Want more happiness? Find “meaning” in every area of your life. Don't hold back. Go for it!

(Added a week later) For a great read on "Happiness" see the ABC 20/20 Jan. 11th 2008 show or click on this link. Page 2 validates the "meaning" quotient. http://abcnews.go.com/2020/Story?id=4087250&page=2

"HAPPY" New Year 2008 and beyond!

PS: Free book offer still available at the end of the Christmas post.

CHRISTMAS GREETINGS and HOLIDAYS 2007

I really love Christmas. I love the religious significance, but Santa Claus, sleighs, carols, trees, presents, and just the general spirit of kindness that pervades the season. I have never grown up. I still believe. In fact, I look for Santa, I think, as much as I do for Jesus. He is, after all, so pleasant, and seems to "get" the "naughty and nice" thing just like Jesus so I don't have to sort it out. All I got to do is be "nice."

I like that. Besides, he wears red. He's an equal-opportunity "good guy." The cheery color is used in America's, England's, and just about every other country's flag design on the planet -- including the "naughty" ones... aka communist, former commies, and so on.

And then there is baby Jesus. Isn't Santa really just one of the "wise men" bringing gifts to all the little princes and princesses of the world? And isn't each person, (especially a child) who gives gifts being taught the wonderful lessons that thinking about others creates? I think so. So we have this religious history and Santa Claus all thrown in together. And each of us, in a way becomes a "wise man" or wise woman bearing gifts for the baby Jesus. Nice. I can't help but see the magic in Christmas, and in my own mind can't help but see Jesus smiling on the result.

After all, isn't the result all about holidays? And who doesn't like those? We make too much about commercialism destroying the spirit of Christmas. Bring on the Frankincense, myrrh, and aloe vera too! (I get "Old Spice"in my stocking every year.) The clothes, the toys, the jewels... Bring it all on! Didn' t the baby in Bethlehem get treated that way? Why shouldn't His little lambs be treated in the same spirit of giving?

And the word "holiday?" I like that word. It rings of "surrender" to the spirit of the times when we "let go" of the hectic, fast-paced, and awful adult sophistication and just become "child-like." Kind of like getting a ticket to enter Disney World. I think we should have one "holiday" every week. Just to relax and recover.

Oh yeah, we do. It's spelled a bit different though. Sunday in English. Domingo in Spanish. "Holy Day" is where the word is actually derived... "Dia Santo" in Spanish (Sacred Day) -- so that makes sense to have it cut out of the other 6 days -- a "day of rest." Kind of like Christmas. A time of rejuvenation, kindness, relaxing, giving, service, joy, singing choirs, angels, crosses, gifts, family...

I didn't really stop to think that Christmas was really already a weekly deal until I started writing this. Hummm... I like that to0. See what Christmas inspires? Just all the good, none of the bad.

And I still like Santa! Oh, speaking of Santa. I want to be like him when I grow up -- (minus the belly) and in a different sort of way than I want to be like Jesus. (I'll explain later.)

So I'm giving a book away. One chapter every "holy day" (Sunday) until finished. All you got to do is email me at http://www.jmpratt.com/ and request: "FINDING CHRIST, Chapter One." Then if you like it, keep requesting the next chapter. I'm ahead of the game on writing it, so I am sure we can work out giving this away before it gets published.

Once published in 2009 (by a small independent press, by the way) I am using 100% of the proceeds for humanitarian causes... I want to enjoy being Santa for as long as I can. And in the end the best way for me to do that is one holy day and one chapter at a time.

MERRY CHRISTMAS 2007 and many HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

James

PS: Go to my website and click "Email the Author" on the top menu bar when you request FINDING CHRIST Chapter One. http://www.jmpratt.com/.

CHRISTMAS POLITICS 2007

Christmas, Politicking, and the Bottom Line

The Christ, His day, and personal politics...

Christ wasn't Republican nor Democrat, and I wish I could write a different message -- one of pure hope, but I must openly offer my Christmas 2007 message through commentary on the politics of our time, as witnessed recently in the public debate over "who's" Christianity is "electable" in the presidential races now under way.

I will not bring up names of those running. But I will say immediate disqualification for my vote was attached to one whose purposefully planted remarks of, "Don't they believe Jesus and the devil are brothers?" were intentionally designed to foment bigotry against a formidable opponent, and thus hit a new low in American politics. Maybe this is just a "shot over the bow" using Latter-Day Saints (Mormons) as the target, but the last time they were shot at by other Americans they crossed into Iowa over a frozen Mississippi from Illinois in February 1846 to escape government sanctioned murder and mobbings. Now Iowa 2007... Odd to see faith used to attack a political opponent so close to the geographical location that the opponents ancestor's were physically driven from.

BOTTOM LINE: The bottom line on Christmas and personal religion as relates to this political debate? Believers are supposed to be brothers. Religious theology and politics are not good partners; history is replete with disaster when this kind of whispering and hints of "politically incorrect" religion are put forth. See if it sounds reasonable to you... (This should be obvious.)

Christianity celebrates its founder's day on one date more than any other day -- but promotes the idea that every day could be like it. Christmas is a time of celebration of the birth of a peace-giver. According to Wikipedia the term comes from the "...contraction of Christ's mass. It is derived from the Middle English Christemasse and Old English Cristes mæsse, a phrase first recorded in 1038.[1]"

Literally a celebration of union to the Christ, whatever the adherent's sect, faith, or derived dogma from his/her link to a church, the December 25th celebration does in fact engender kindness, a sense of peace, love, and harmony for all believers. People give more, criticize less, love through gifts. There is a palpable joy and I believe it is because of the billions world wide who project positive energy to each other; the billions who take the "day off" from the business of life, the political maneuvering, and the posturings to just be child-like as is our historic peace-maker, Jesus of Nazareth.

THE CHRIST I KNOW: The Jesus Christ I know and revere asks me to be a better man regardless of a religious affiliation, politics, privately held ideology... He asks me to be a moral man, a gentler and kinder person. In the end this Jesus asks me to be like him of whom John said in final definition of his persona: "God is love."

This "love" is inclusive, not exclusive. I can love Jews, Protestants, Catholics, Hindus, Buddhists, Moslems, Baptists, Latter-Day Saints, Jehovah's Witnesses, Scientologists, and the list goes on.

I can in fact, "be" for Him what he was for us; the succoring and helpful hands to the ill, the weak, the lost, the poor, the wealthy, the black, white, red, and in-between colors of humanity.

When all is said in done in politics and life, the Jesus I have come to know and love asks me to examine WHO I AM, not WHO YOU ARE.

The character of a man is loud enough when it comes to electability to the office of President of our great land where freedom of religion is an expressed right and privilege, and the cost of which has been so nobly borne by the millions of all faiths from the very founding of our "union." And so, it is with this message for Christmas 2007, to "be like Christ" is to love...become inclusive, and finally as a "Christ Mass" would do, continually offer "peace, good will and tidings of great joy" to all.

The "Peace Maker" I know asks me to be a better man. His accusers used convenient politics and the faith card of his being from "the devil" to seek to turn public opinion against him before crucifying him. You be the judge if a candidate is with Him or associating with the counter to his persona as planted in this week's political rhetoric. There is one thing that is true -- the bad guys always use religion when their argument is weak and when convenient. I prefer not to think of the candidate, slipping in theological nonsense about his opponent's faith, as a "bad guy." However, it puts a question mark on one claiming to be of the nature found in "Christ's Mass." Well... this much is true, "peace-making" and brotherhood it is not.

James Michael Pratt, Dec. 15, 2007

NEW BOOKS by PRATT & CO.

NEW TITLES COMING THIS FALL

Coming Soon to Amazon.Com and Stores Nationwide

Hope you have enjoyed the letter from Iraq: BURY MY HEART IN THE UNITED STATES as still offered on this column by scrolling down. Because I have been busy the months of August, September, and now October polishing the following books to be released in Paperback, E, and Audio formats by PowerThink Publishing, I have felt compelled to allow my nephew's well crafted words to linger at the top of my postings. (see his blog in September Archive.)

My new list of "Inspirational Fiction" category writings:

• AS a MAN THINKETH, In His Heart - Inspired by the beloved 1902 perennial bestseller written by James Allen.


• THE CHRIST REPORT - A journey back in time to the birth and passion of the Christ as witnessed by a modern day television and radio interview show host.

For more on these and other wroks in prgress please visit my websites:

http://www.jmpratt.com/

http://www.powerthink.com/

"Bury My Heart in the United States"

An Iraqi, a tired American Soldier and...A MUST READ!

A Letter Home by Sergeant Grant L. Pratt III, 1st Cav. Baghdad, Sept. 2007

Sergeant Grant Pratt, III is on his second tour of duty in Iraq. He is a Platoon Sergeant with the 1s Cavalry and supervises 23 other medics and an aid station in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods of Baghdad. This letter home was sent September 11, 2007. In his own words he describes how one Iraqi has given him hope:

I wanted to take this opportunity to let everyone know of an experience I had here that really affected me.

I have wondered over the last seven months of my deployment if this war can be won militarily, or if there is any hope that this country can embrace a democratic government. In my eyes the people seem more intent on themselves and their contempt for other each other than making things work here.

With the things I have seen, experiences, and watching friends die I kind of believe that our endeavor here is pointless. I did not believe that there was a single Iraqi in this country that really cared if the violence stopped or that there were any that did not want to kill every American they see. Then I had something happen the other day that (did not change my mind necessarily) gave me some hope.

About a month ago an Iraqi came to my aid station; he is one of the Iraqis that works with us as an interpreter. His name is Sam and he is 20 years old. He came to my aid station with a severely broken and lacerated finger after it was shut in the 300 pound door of an armored vehicle. I spent about two hours cleaning his finger and suturing it, all the while making small talk. He continually told me how he wanted to come to America and join our Army so he could come back and do more for Iraq. He told me of how he loved Americans and all he wants is to become one.

I listened and talked with him until I was finished with my procedure and wished him well, and in my mind dismissed most of what he said as just words and never thought much else of it.

On September 9th it came across the radio that one of our vehicles had been hit by an explosion and we had one soldier killed, two wounded, as well as the interpreter that was with them. I put my gear on and went with the squadron commander to the hospital to check on our injured men.

It was quite a gruesome sight. First I saw my medic, who had minor wounds, then went to the young man who had served as the gunner. He had received blast wounds to the leg which had torn away a majority of his outer thigh. I then went to view the body of our fallen brother who died due to a head injury. We helped console the other members of the platoon as this was the second Soldier they had lost in five days. Overwhelmed by the experience, we walked in to see the interpreter, which turned out to be Sam.

Sam had suffered severe lacerations to the head, resulting in over 40 sutures and staples. He had a small skull fracture and a small brain hemorrhage. Despite his severe injuries he would only ask how the others were doing. He was covered in blood and in extreme pain and just wanted to be sure that the soldiers he was with were okay.

Once satisfied they would be taken care of, he took my commanders hand and said, "If I die please take my heart to the United States and bury it there." We assured him his injuries were not mortal and left him in the care of the doctors at the hospital and told him we would be back the next day to see him.

The next morning I received a call from the hospital telling me that Sam was going to be released to an Iraqi hospital, but that he did not want to go. He feared that because of his ethnic background that he would be denied treatment and sent away. I told them I would call back in a few minutes and that we would come and get him and continue his care at my aid station. After 20 minutes of talking to the commander and making arrangements, I called the hospital and told them we would be there shortly to pick him up when they informed me that they had already released him, and had given him money to get to the Iraqi hospital. Needless to say, we were a little upset.

We began searching the area around the hospital and could not locate Sam. We were worried that he would fall into the wrong hands as any Iraqi that works with the Americans are often killed because they are aiding the enemy.

Three hours later we got a call from the gate to our base that Sam was there. He had walked from the hospital to our base, about seven miles in flip flops and pajamas, despite fairly significant injuries. My medics brought him to the aid station and as we laid him on the bed I looked at him and said "You are a pretty tough guy." He grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes and said, "I knew if I got here you would take care of me, Sergeant."

Tears filled the corner of my eyes and I replied "You bet I will." He then said, "I had to get back here for two reasons. First the memorial service for Johnson (the soldier we had lost a few days prior) is tonight and I cannot miss that. We also have an important mission tomorrow and they need me." I informed him he would make it to the service, but would not be going on patrol anytime soon. He argued for a short time then agreed that it would be in his best interest to relax for a couple of weeks before going outside the wire, but still insisted his guys (the U.S. Soldiers from his platoon) needed him.

Later that night I sat two rows behind Sam as we paid tribute to our fallen brother and watched as he mourned and cried with the rest of us. I realized he is as committed as the rest of us and is considered a brother to us.

I just got done rechecking his wounds and talking with him. He still insists on going back out with his guys because they need him. He talked about his dreams of living in California some day. I have to say I admire this guy. He displays courage like no other Iraqi I have seen and in some ways made me think again of my views.

Despite what you see and hear on the news, there are Iraqis like Sam that are dedicated to seeing their country succeed. There may not be many, but some sacrifice along side us with a simple dream of their country being better off, or like Sam of being an American citizen. It gives me some hope that things will eventually work out here, and that someday Sam will be an American citizen, because he has earned that right.

Grant

COURAGE IN THE FACE OF DEATH

One-In-a-Million Mike Moore, Fighter Pilot

I still see Mike as I last saw him... that moon-lit night in conversation with me, heroic, willing himself to live and love his family until he died. He was imbued with the "fighting spirit" and seemed born to fly. I didn't believe then, nor could I know, how soon the final flight of his would be.

I first met Michael Moore, former Navy Fighter Pilot, one year younger, (30) married man with a son, Mikie, the same age as my son, in the Spring of 1984. Mike was a strong, wiry, tough man, my height, mustache sporting, same age, and married with two children.

We each accepted a request from our church sponsored Boy Scouts to be adult leaders. I had recently trained as a police officer for Simi Valley, California. Mike had just been grounded from flying fighter jets off carriers for the United States Navy. A routine physical exam discovered leukemia.It was hard for me to imagine that this no-nonsense energetic former fighter pilot was suffering from a form of leukemia that required frequent blood transfusions at UCLA Medical with no known cure.

Mike Moore was equal to any task, hard charging, and living an apparent normal healthy life. Leukemia didn’t stop him from enjoying hearty outdoor adventures that year. Devoted to his two children Teresa and Michael, Jr. he loved his wife Marilyn with an uncommon devotion. "I loved her from the first moment my eyes laid sight on her," he once told me on a camping trip, then shared their meeting and romance. It was as if Mike was sorting through every memory in search for "meaning" and purpose in his face off with mortality.

“God and guns” types, we tried to avoid talking finalitys. But the reality was that Mike needed to live like life couldn't end, and yet daily consider what an "end" really meant to not just himself, but in every way to a young wife and kids. I watched him in moments of quiet frustration and struggle; the fighter pilot couldn’t give in to a killer without a weapon to fight back with. Like boxing shadows he balanced anger with humor as he seemed to take swings at the phsyical evil robbing him of youthful love and a bright future. I thought that with prayers, Mike would be the one-in-a-million who beat the odds. I regularly offered friendship and the devil-may-care attitude he enjoyed, as I watched real courage confront one word youth can’t process well; “terminal.”

Mike simply lived fully, laughed as hard as he played, and took life one day at a time, without regrets. Once in-awhile, he hinted to his mortality and I would hint back at his immortality.“You’ll probably outlive me!” I often assured. “Well, maybe so – you’re such a wimp, Pratt,” he’d reply grinning. I was observing a man humbled as he found himself powerless to stop the enemy fighting him from within. I also witnessed a man “really living” that year.

Marilyn and her love meant the world to him. He once told me wistfully, “I never get tired of looking at her.” Mike spent all the time he could with her and the kids as he also taught the boys we led to be men. Mike never surrendered to his enemy, not even the last night we talked.

I called ahead to borrow Mike's truck for a move we were making. At dusk I arrived to his pleasant home amid orange trees. A light out back soon revealed Mike stumbling from growing darkness. “Now I know I’m gonna die!” he grumbled. “I can’t even pull the engine out of my car!” he angrily reacted, holding his grease covered hands and arms up in disgust. I was tempted to say, “You’re not going to die, Mike,” but an inner voice whispered to me, “Yes he will. Let him talk.”

I peeled an orange from a tree. We ate the sweet fruit and talked for a half hour. My heart was heavy. I’d never seen Mike so down. “I want to raise my kids! I don’t want someone else to do it!” he insisted. He looked at his hands again, shook his head, and tossed me the truck keys. “Taking my wife to an air show Saturday with a student pilot,” he said. “Should be fun.”

At a stoplight the next afternoon I heard, “Hey, I like your truck! Ugly driver though!” Mike laughed as he passed by taking the family out to the local Sizzler for dinner. “See you Monday!” I chuckled and waved. Twenty-four hours later he hemorrhaged and bled to death in Marilyn’s arms, a student pilot flying them to an air show in central California. He lived with love and passion up to his last breath, and in that Mike never stopped teaching a lesson to others.

From Micheal Moore, I learned to “really live” and love that year. I also learned how a "real man" dies. There are different kinds of courage. Michael Moore would have rather gone down in combat against a fighting opponent, but then he did, didn’t he? Yes, real men can fight, but Mike showed that real men can also love deeply and fully. His wife knew that, so did his now grown kids.

I've been to the children's weddings. I see Marilyn now and then, and realize Mike would still be saying, "I never get tired of looking at her." And once in awhile I wonder if Mike Moore isn't really assigned to missions after all, whether trying to get through to a young fighter pilot today, or whispering in his loved one's ear -- "I'm here. It will be okay. Be strong. Love, laugh, and believe. God is there, and so am I."

I miss Mike. I don't understand why God takes men of courage, skill, and love -- the kind the world really needs when it's in a tough pinch as we are today. All I know is that we haven't seen the last of him. His influence lives. And my faith teaches me he'll be back to hold Marilyn in his arms again, and be the father to his children again, and be once again, the friend every man can count on.

Because Mike isn't with us, let me offer this written memorial: “HOORAH! Mike --your one-in-a-million story of courage and love lives! This last hoorah is for you -- LT. Michael Moore, fighter pilot!*

*When I wrote The Last Valentine in 1997 I dedicated the story to Mike Moore and the love of his life Marilyn. It is a story of a WWII Navy Fighter pilot and the wife he left behind. See http://www.jmpratt.com/ go to "Published Works" and click The Last Valentine.

FOOTBALL, LIFE, AND "HEART"

In Football and Life, It Takes "Heart"

The "Slight Edge" for Individual Success

ELEVATOR VERSION

I love football. I love how a little guy gets away with clobbering a bigger guy and no offense is taken. If it is, I love how teammates flood a zone to help you out in the legal brawl. I love the strategy of moves and counter moves where 11 men do their job anticipating 11 other trained players doing their job to stop them. The grace under pressure of a QB or running-back making it look so simple...the connection of ball to man to end zone -- though hundreds of hours of practice have gotten ball to man to end zone... I love the camaraderie, the execution of plays, and in the end I love the "heart" it takes to be your best, and win. In it resides what might be called "the slight edge" for individual success.

It's "pre-season" again. It has me thinking about all that football taught me. I have to say that it may have been the three years in Simi Valley's High School football program that set the course for the rest of my life of achievements where excellence is a factor. Any former player reading this knows what I'm talking about. Similar to a Soldier or Marine who learns discipline as a team player to get the job done, and has too much honor to "quit" ... well, you'll have to read the rest of the story to know where I'm going.

It was 1970 and I desperately wanted to “start” as running back for the Varsity football team, my final season at Simi Valley High School. I had worked hard the previous three years, had a couple of “lucky breaks” where I scored, but I was not the biggest, nor fastest runner on our team. I was as determined as anyone, willing to take the hits, but besides loving the game, that was about the extent of my talents.

The “heir-apparent” to Joe Gonzalez, the all league standout from the previous years was a tough, stocky, but even shorter than I was, Bobby Hernandez. The thing I liked about Bobby is that fullbacks “open” up holes for the less bulky half-backs to run through. Bobby wouldn’t let me or another starter running-back down. He would launch into a well placed block on any one any size without hesitation. I watched him during the August “two-a-days” when I knew we were all being judged for the “starting roster.” Eleven men on offense, eleven on defense, and the same for “specialty teams,” I came in second team to the fastest kid in Ventura County, Eddie Martinez, a junior. Bobby had two things: determination and "heart..."

STAIRCASE VERSION

There was a big difference between Bobby and Eddie, and it became apparent when Eddie would show up late, be found out about his drinking, and generally display an attitude that really fast guys sometimes have – it is a, “you need me coach” mentality that causes them to push the limits of a coach’s patience where rule breaking is concerned. Bobby Hernandez, on the other hand taught me a big lesson on how I could work on “catching up” with a more nimble, quick half-back, the open field speedster Eddie.

The lesson came on a day when a lot of us lacked the “hustle” that Coaches Meinke, Paris, and Cratty knew we would need to be competitive. I was exhausted; we all were. During drills Coach Paris stopped the practice with his whistle and chewed us out, and then added, “Bobby Hernandez seems to be the only player on this field who will do what I ask, not mouth off, slack off, or make excuses for himself. Bobby is steady. Bobby has heart. If the rest of you sorry excuses for offensive players were like Bobby, you’d be guaranteed the starting line-up and probably win every game! Now let’s get some wind sprints done!” Coach Cratty added, “Not only does this boy have heart, but he gives 150%. Time for wind sprints!” Bobby was not exempted from the group punishment.

The coaches ran us until we all dropped, but I kept my eye on Bobby. I finally had the key to winning my starting position. I would whittle away at speedster Eddie’s heels by being not only on time, but first to show hustle, keep the rules with exactness, never slacking off, saying “yes sir” with no excuses, and doing 150%. From that moment on (and I never told Bobby this) fullback Bobby Hernandez was my example. Bobby wasn’t faster than Eddie or me; but he was “steady” and he had “heart.”

It wasn’t long in to the season when Eddie showed up late for practice, having gotten drunk the night before. The coaches knew they were going to hurt their chances of getting those glorious touchdowns that simply come from faster foot work by a field-and-track sprinting star like Eddie. Eddie got "luckier" at scoring than I did, and more often because of "speed," but lacked the "red-hot" desire; the heart, to be number #1.

It took a lot for them to need “number 21 Pratt.” The reward for my efforts finally came in the third game of that season. For the next four games I started. I played with all my heart, but couldn’t match the speed of former running back Martinez and everyone knew it. Yet, with each carry I gained confidence. Bobby and I were a pair of running-backs on the same train going from one end-zone to another. He'd blow open a "hole" and I'd follow him through. Two hearts willing their way to the common goal beats one "lucky" primadonna anyday.

See--There is no "luck" involved with heart power. The “will to win" is more than a mental attitude; it is desire actualized. When "internalized" deep enough, this desire to suceed turns into a "white-hot imperative" helping the determined soul to perform feats that a weaker-willed, but talented person, will not do. Many have called this "the slight edge."

I was going to grow into the position and not let my team mates down. Maybe even play college ball! The night of the biggest game of my life, against number #1 ranked Newbury Park High School where one of my best friends was team captain, came. It was big for me because this good friend, Michael Carlisle, bragged about how they knew I was good at the "27 and 28 Sweep" and were going to “nail me” as he put it. It was also big because it was "Father and Son Night," and my Dad would be lined up on the field with the other Dads and then sit in the stand with Number 21 pinned to his shirt to let everyone known who his son was.

Long story short, it had rained, the field was a mud bowl, and I was playing my heart out. I recall hearing my name announced and cheers from the crowd as often as I ran with the ball, and was making good on my promise to make the "28 Sweep" work. I wanted my Dad to be proud. I knew it would take all the heart and soul in me to win ground against a superior ranked team. I took a lot of guff from my friend Mike Carlisle* team captain for Newbury Park High, and it now was “put up or shut up time.” We met several times on the muddy field that night. In fact, I was laughing my way to the end zone the last time he took a crack at me.

I couldn't know it, but it would be my final game, and the last time I wore pads when the final moment of glory came. Near the end of the first half, I could see pure “end zone” through my laser focused eye-sight, encased in home school maroon and gold helmet, but couldn’t see one of Mike Carlisle’s team mates about to cream me – blindside left. With full extension, my left knee was hit. I sailed for a few more yards, and then tried to stand up, yards away from the goal. Two things happened that stand out in my mind. My opponent eagerly offered a generous, “Come on man. Stand up. Stand up.” Then two teammates rushed to help me off the field; Mike Myers and Bobby Hernandez, both 150% “heart” players.

My season over, Dad came into the locker room at half-time, having seen his son for the first time play varsity ball, and my football glory days came to an abrupt end – or did they? I had made my Dad proud – and had wanted that. I had earned “first team” and had wanted that. I learned more than a little about playing life with “all your heart.” How could the 17 year-old ever know what Coach Paris word's about Bobby Hernandez’s example and hustle would mean? Those words still serve me each and every day of my life. When life knocks me down, "Bobby has heart" rings in my ears and I see myself getting up once more, having self-respect, doing my best, and having the heart to live up to any task.

Whereever I have been in life since, and whatever tough life circumstance I have been asked to deal with, I recall those glory days knowing having a lot of “heart” worked for Bobby, and worked for me – Having heart makes all the difference in personal success and will take you through to the "end zone."*

* Mike Carlisle would lose his life in San Salvador on May 29, 1973 serving others as a Mormon Missionary. Others who played on Simi's field served with honor giving their lives for country. The "end zone" just came for my quarterback one month ago. SEE July 11th post,"RETURN TO INNOCENCE."

YOUR LEGACY MATTERS

A Social Commentary

Your life matters. Who you are matters. And as each day goes by we add one more block to the building called “legacy.” A man or woman cannot live without offering some sort of legacy to his or her family, friends, and society. We live and affect for good or ill every life we touch. We give or take, and in all that is called life we pass on to others something of who and what we are. What will my legacy be; what will yours be?

I keep it simple as I seek to gaze beyond my mortal probation. I imagine little children, grandchildren, asking my son and daughter what grandpa was like. “Oh he was a fine man. He loved other people and they loved him,” they will say. Then they may add things such as he was a builder, a speaker, an author, a businessman, a father, and a husband.

As I ponder on the singular vision into the future I realize that I will have no power to come to the little ones and influence them directly except for legacy; those thoughts spoken of me, and the good name I bequeath to them. But just maybe if I do it right, now while I live and breathe, I will yet live in their hearts. So I concentrate my energies, thoughts, and power on writing to influence those around me to take a fresh look at love. It is there where that true legacy I wish to leave behind, resides.

Why consider thinking about legacy? I believe the answer is found in a basic human need to “matter.” What matters most to us is signaled for all to see in the kinds of activities we participate in one day at a time. Building a legacy that matters is found in enjoying both the present moment in a state of gratitude, and finding confidence in having our name linked to a legacy we may be proud of after we are gone. Rabbi Harold K. Kushner, author of Living a Life That Matters put it this way:

“In my forty years as a rabbi, I have tended to many people in the last moment of their lives. Most of them were not afraid of dying… The people who had the most trouble with death were those who felt that they had never done anything worthwhile in their lives, and if God would only give them another two or three years, maybe they would finally get it right. It was not death that frightened them; it was insignificance, the fear that they would die and leave no mark on the world.” (Page 6, Living a Life That Matters, Kushner)

Building a “legacy” is happening even now for me as I write these words, and for you as you read them. Why not consider what can be done today? Perhaps what you can do is simply cheer someone up, give an unexpected kiss or hug. Do the unexpected for the neighbor next door. Mend a broken relationship. In time, these kinds of actions will add up to thousands of days of goodness, and you will have mattered beyond your wildest dreams!

Just as “…the brain is for getting, and the heart is for giving” as Pastor Caine in my novel The Good Heart said, use the heart to motivate you and in the end you will look back with joy knowing yours is a legacy of love and a life that really mattered.

BARBER ANSWER for GITMO

NATIONAL SECURITY UPDATE

Gitmo Al-Qaeda & Taliban Either Talk or They See Gary

ELEVATOR VERSION

It’s come to my attention that the Guantanamo Military Prison for terrorists is probably going to shut down and ship off the prisoners to foreign jails. On inmate is suing to stay IN prison for fear of what will happen to him if sent to his home country, Algeria. There has been some whining about the unfair treatment of the Caribbean located Taliban and Al Qaeda suspects; and the complaining has to do with possible American “torture” tactics.

Let’s see… they are gaining weight at an average of 25 pounds per year, eat three square meals a day. They get prayer rites, worship books, exercise… year round good weather… They are alive and before they got there they wanted to die trying to kill Americans… Hmmm. They have clean running water and flushing toilets, unlike their caves in Afghanistan, and the tactics said to cause them to break? They have included daily vanilla ice cream servings in portions to choke a horse and being subjected to listening to the rock music enjoyed by their US Marine guards.

I admit, the music would get to me too. But then, they'd probably lose their minds if I was their guard. They'd be listening to Barry Manilow. So I can sort of see why the ACLU and international groups scream "torture." So... I have the answer to the flap about US involvement in “questionable” interrogation of Al Qaeda, Taliban, et al. I’m certain it will work. Besides it could save their lives – they wouldn’t have to be sent back to their home countries!

I’ve tested the system myself hundreds of times over the years. We don’t need to torture them we just need to send them to a friend of mine.

The answer is in “Gary’s Chair of Truth.”

STAIRCASE VERSION

Gary is now retired, but might be persuaded to get “back in the game” for the right amount of money. Gary, like all good barbers, does two things well. He cuts your hair, makes you feel comfortable while he is doing it, and extracts information you wouldn’t give at a polygraph test.

Essentially, Gary, the capable manipulator of the scalp sculpturing tools, has had forty years of this asking questions stuff and has heard it all. He can detect the truth, and knows how to reframe a question if you give him an answer that seems to fudge a bit. In fact, you might have a hard time getting out of his chair if he doesn’t hear what he wants to hear. He uses tactics like scalp massage, the rapid clipper snap, the “little more off the top?” question, that makes you feel he really is in control for those fifteen minutes.

See… Just like millions of other men, I like going to someone who will shave my balding head with skill, and is time-tested trustworthy. I go to Gary’s shop because he is courteous and always makes me feel like I’m the only person who he cares about when the clippers or razor are in his skilled hands.

I have been going off and on to Gary since I was 19 years old (1972.) He has never hurt me, nor let my gradually thinning head down. But, when I’m in his chair I lose control. He’s got the scissors, razors, and clippers, and I am at his mercy. The risk of bloodshed isn't far away, yet somehow I know Gary will not let it happen to me.

GARY’S CHAIR OF TRUTH: And here’s the rub – why I know Gary can get information from anyone. I’ve raised my hand three times to defend the Constitution, worked right out of High School with a high level security clearance at a federal job, and have never “broken down” on sworn to secrecy with anyone else, but Gary.

I never mean to “spill the beans” when I go there. In fact, I always remind myself to force Gary to wonder about what I’m doing in my life, how my kids are, what they are doing, what my wife thinks about something, how my business is going, if I still believe in God, and what I think about upcoming elections, football games, or the military situation from Vietnam to the present day. Each time I go there, I recall the prior visit and how uncomfortable I felt about myself running off at the mouth, as if Gary had some control over my mind as he runs the electric clippers close to my ears.

Not that I don’t like Gary, just that I like to keep my secrets, “secret.” So is it the “Chair of Truth” or Gary that “makes me talk?”

He has a way about getting information, and I suppose he learned it in Barber School, (or maybe it is how he holds the shaving razor in his hand and uses a leather strap to sharpen it before he trims the neck hair.) I swear that I will never speak, after the last session. I mean, I ask myself as I walked to my car after the last haircut, “Who does Gary think he is? A shrink? A psychologist? An analyst? Why should I tell my entire life story to a barber?” Well, the truth is, I shouldn’t… But I do.

So… If we are going to surrender to the ACLU types, or whiners who ring their hands over the mistreated weight-gaining enemy sworn to our destruction down in the Caribbean, we give the prisoners at Gitmo one of two options:

Option 1:

They can go to a prison in their country of origin (any Arab country will do) where the notorious prison interrogators apply different methods of “extracting” information than three square meals a day, ice cream, the sun, sea, and US rock music... OR…

Option 2:

They get haircuts from Gary everyday for the rest of their lives until they talk. Then they get the ice cream.

CONDUCT MATTERS

“Ripple Effect” of Behavior Good & Bad


CULTURE UPDATE!

ELEVATOR VERSION

"It looked like others were getting away with it. I thought I could too." Words from a son who came minutes away from death, and whose train wrecked young life is just now pulling into the "smart car" station.

Does self-destructive behavior matter when cumulative effect is considered? A former President's personal conduct? Politicians of any party or stripe? Paris, Lindsey, Jessica, Brittany, and their male celeb counter parts—all in need of attention, publicity at any price and all looking for a quick and constant fix to pleasure addictions—all innocent children once, and all redeemable, are only the latest crop of brats on steroids that the public attention is turned to.

In an age where media broadcasts personal conduct, good or bad, for 6 billion eyes world-wide to see, the exponential effect and potential for one’s conduct to have an immediate ripple effect is over-whelming and incalculable.

Immoral behavior is expensive. Law breaking is expensive. Stories combining this with “bimboism,” – news worthy? I didn’t think so until I took my parental and hard-earned magnifying glass of expanding wisdom and examined the “bimbo out breaks” along with the media’s apparent fascination, more seriously. Let me "pitch” some examples of how serious a topic and unfortunately “news worthy” “bimbo-mania” is, and then you may decide if my argument has been worth your time…

PREMISE: Does amoral or immoral conduct have a ripple affect into society and what are those consequences?

STAIRCASE VERSION

Would distracting a President— the leader, and arguably the most powerful man in the “free world” – from his duties be considered harmless? Have no ripple effect upon citizens of his country and the world? If he were judged “improper” at the least in his behavior, using valuable national security time to do so, and then lied about it, covered it up, broke a few laws (even if minor) would it matter? How much distraction from the most important job in the free world is too much distraction? Does conduct really matter?

And what about “Bimbo Behavior?”— How does that tie in? Here’s how I get there.

Why Pay Attention: The “Ripple Effect.”

Why does self-indulgent, brat-like, permissive personal behavior intrigue us? Like a story where you want to know if the “bad guy” can really win, we hope for the best but prepare for the worst. We are a story driven culture. And it’s not about casting judgments, unless there is usefulness to it – and the only useful element is to determine if there exists a societal “ripple effect.”

I can tell you that with my two maturing children the effects of celeb appearances winning at bad behavior has had devastating ripple-down consequences. They aren’t out of the darkness or woods of immaturity and poor personal judgment calls on behavior yet. Picking my son up from an unfortunate and expensive (for him and family) legal event, one year after he almost died from a drug overdose, I asked him the big question again, “Why?”

His answer was simple and direct. “Because it looked like fun and that others were getting away with it. I thought I could too.” Now the truth is he has had marvelous role models and training in moral behavior and acknowledges that. He has a good heart but has allowed so many public influences to translate to "personal conduct." So has my daughter, very disappointed that she isn’t succeeding at becoming a “princess of privilege.” It breaks a parent’s heart to see such destroyed character, such lost and wasted potential. Youth sees consequences as something “others” suffer from. If they survive to 25 years old, they just might make something of themselves. But leaving behind a trail of disaster, pain, expense, disappointment, and poor influences upon others from amoral or immoral conduct is real; it does have an accumulated societal cost. It is expensive for all of us.

A parent in society today must battle against dragons never before sent out to defeat them in their quest to safeguard the sanctity of their castle. With so much multi-media attention focused on "girls gone wild" and a plethora of seedy entertainment choices, the effort to monitor encroaching communications becomes nearly over-whelming for parents. And for the youth without great experience or judgement? Enticements at steroid and speed of light levels of influence over immature minds and developing hormones find their ways into young lives along with the implied, "a little won't hurt," and "others are getting away with it, you can too."

On another blog the question of morality of “bimbos” and their effect upon us was questioned as to whether it is “news worthy.” Several bloggers, as tired as I am of talking about or hearing about bleach blond trouble makers and their dangerous shenanigans, offered alternative stories or “real news.”

My knee-jerk reaction was, “Yes, they are right. Enough of this.” My analytical mind went to work on the larger issue of “morals” and questioned if these temporarily insane over-paid youth do have an impact on society. As I connected the dots which included my insecure daughter and thousands like her who want to imitate these princesses of excess, the feigning of happiness cloaked in glamour, the attention and privilege seemingly given them, I realized that society is at stake, and things which lead to disaster, even wars, or declining economies are all inter-connected to “moral” or “immoral” decision making, ( a la, The Fall of Rome?)

Pop Culture effect: “Bimboismo” is just an“in-your-face” warning sign. It begs us to connect the dots of behavior judging if a society can withstand amoral and immoral behavior without consequence. I lived through the “Sexual Revolution" of the 1960’s. Did “free love” have no cost? Did, “If it feels good do it” have no ripple effect? Is “free speech” really free?

Ask the dead or physically handicapped – like some of my friends, Lenny Hernandez, Paul Rosenberg, Marty Miller, Carol Kennedy… the list could go on. These were not “privileged” youth but from blue-collar America buying in to the lies of a pop-culture amoral society.

Personal Costs: Every reader of this and other blogs can analyze the results of unchecked personal behavior. For me it ranges from dead friends and family to the hospitalized. From expensive treatments, to loss of jobs, family, homes. Impact on the economy? Only a blind person would disagree. Impact on society? The cumulative effect of amoral and immoral behavior (even if temporarily so and later converted to moral conduct) is expensive in terms of personal and societal health, welfare, finances, family structure, and national security.

National Security? I hesitate to share or dig it up again. I don’t really like discussing the seedy side of public figures. But let me answer the question of National Security compromise with one scenario alone. When an Arkansas Governor became President his main job was to protect and serve us, the citizenry. IF, for the slightest of moments he found himself otherwise engaged in a supposedly “private” or “closet behavior,” with another person where passion overcame reason, and then found the need to get his hands off one “thing” and onto another, let’s say the “football” – that black briefcase with the nuclear codes –

Would anyone argue that private amoral or immoral conduct does not matter? That it does not have a direct effect to “readiness” for national defense? That it could not be a recipe for national disaster? That it should not be a topic for national interest or debate?

Conduct does matter: Yours ultimately affects me. It ripples across the pond of society and creates a wave for civilization in one of many directions. Waves of compassion, love, humanitarianism, good conduct create peace, prosperity, and safety in society. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to show where waves of narcissism, self-serving needs, and law breaking behaviors lead to.

Debate if you wish… But “free love” always has a price. “Breaking laws” doesn’t work either – As our current list of “bimbo brats” find – you can’t “break laws" but you can "break yourself" against them.

And the cost of bad conduct? For several of my friends it has ended in tragically lived and short lives. For others lingering illness and expensive addictions. For those around them the pain and suffering of loving them but not being able to do anything about it is real. For society in general?

Ask yourself? “Is individual “bad conduct” news worthy?” Individual conduct ripples out into the lives of others. Ultimately, the destruction of society is just “one person” at a time. A very news worthy topic, and expensive, at the very least.

“Jim”
http://www.jmpratt.com/

"SPECIAL CONGRESS"

"Special Congress" for One Week with Downs Syndrome Adults

ELEVATOR VERSION

Thanks to the many friends and readers for the kind words about "Jim" in the, "Handicapped Bag Boy and Congress" blog of July 19th. This entry will only make sense if you read that preceding blog with reference to the complete honesty and total devotion to common sense with which Jim the grocer with Downs Syndrome lives his life. In fact, all of the adults who I have met with Downs Syndrome possess that same child-like candor and to-the-point-clarity that Jim of Days Market possesses. So, what if we sent them to Congress? We celebrate overcoming challenges with the "SPECIAL OLYMPICS." What about having a "SPECIAL CONGRESS?"

STAIRCASE VERSION

Here's my suggestion to straighten out all the garbage, obfuscation, politicking, and chicanery existing in Congress. We the people invite "Honorary Special Congress Persons" from the ranks of the mentally challenged Downs Syndrome population in each congressional district to take over Capitol Hill one week each year. The elected Congress can get the bonus of another two weeks of paid vacation with the enthusiastic support of the American people. (We'd only need the Downs Syndrome folks for 1 week, but their time is worth at least 2 weeks of real elected officials.)

We take the most pressing items in the areas of:

• National Defense


• Education, Welfare, and Health


• Tax Reform


• Border Security


• Federal Spending

We would make sure each "substitute" for a real congressman or woman is well attended to by their legal guardian and paid double the daily rate of Congress -- just for the stress of straightening things out.

The case for each of the most pressing items would be made and determined by a simple "up and down" vote after presented in the most elementary way by non-partisan school teachers. The American people would have the nightly news coverage of this "Special Congress" and be given a chance to submit their voice by "polls" based upon the issue of the day. After votes are taken and the "Honorary Special Congress Persons" were thanked and sent home to their respective districts, we could take a look at this "pilot program" and consider whether or not the same might work for the Executive and Judicial branches.

The vacationing politicos then would be invited back and have the chance to take what the honest and pure-minded "Special Congress" decided upon -- and then we get to the bottom line. We'd know who the common power mongers and scoundrels were by their double-speak, and we'd be able to identify the honest congressmen and women by their talk and walk. The bonus? We the American people would feel refreshed knowing we actually had, for one week each year, complete honesty coming from Capitol Hill.

Sooo. If "Special Olympics" teaches team spirit, cooperation, finishing what you started, honor, integrity, and supreme effort... while making everyone a winner, why not try a SPECIAL CONGRESS? Could it hurt?

I'M JUST SAYING...

Handicapped Bag Boy and Congress

POLITICAL CULTURE UPDATE

AUGUST 2008 Congress on Vacation

Not much has changed in a year. The Democratically controlled Congress blames the Republicans for the energy mess and wants us to inflate our tires and ask for oil from the Strategic Oil Reserve to mitigate price at the pump....

The Republicans want to drill for oil at home, become energy independent in an age of terrorist sympathizers controlling the world oil supply...

There is alot of blame to go around but LEAVING WASHINGTON FOR A VACATION during a war and energy crisis? Sorry that is a "Majority" House and Senate decision. Nancy Pelosi actually turned the lights and power off last Friday during an energy debate.

Kind of like your Mom telling you, "Go to bed. I'm tired!" Well, what's a blogger to do? I decided that "common sense" is the answer, so I pulled last July 19ths (2007) blog about a man with alot of it, back up and present it to you for your enjoyment!

JIM, the Mentally Challenged Grocer and Congress

Sometimes it takes the mentally challenged to point out the truth and enlighten the lost. I was standing in the checkout line of my favorite “Mom and Pop” grocery store here in my hometown. I often go there just to support it over the larger “brand” supermarkets. At Day’s Market you get a clean environment, old-fashioned service, and fair prices. You also get Jim.

Jim was born with Downs Syndrome and is a man I would judge to be in his thirties. Jim is a bag-boy and general “go to” person for simple things needing done at the store. The owner, Steve Day, told me that a sitcom could be written around Jim alone. Jim has served faithfully for nearly two decades, and frankly the store just wouldn’t be as fun to go to without him. So there I was today. I didn’t need anything really. I just wanted a dose of “Life at Days,” (the title for Steve’s sitcom idea.)

A tall lanky boy with jet bleached-black hair, (intentionally “un-combed,”) a tight black T-Shirt with some death rock group symbol emblazoned upon the front, and tighter than tight black pants with the silver studded belt-buckle, bare footed (it’s July and 102 degrees today) came up behind me in the check-out counter. He had a “Sangria” (means “blood” in Spanish) drink, and I smiled (the new me) as he neared.

“Why don’t you go ahead,” I said. He was pleased, and once ahead of me I saw what no one wants to see. I wanted to scream, “And pull your pants up!” or ask the direct question I’ve always wanted to ask members of the color deficient teen cult, “How do you keep the pants up in front, but below the bottom of the bottom in the back?”

This boy’s presentation of a non-muscular buttocks and immature physical development left me wondering about his mental stability. I knew that his intention was to attract attention, and also “fit in” – no matter how weird the societal element. I have a daughter suffering from insecurities, and so I really really work at holding my honest opinions in check and just “loving” the nearly unlovable.

So, I let the boy off the hook, desperately wanting to tell him that his pants would fall down at the lightest brushing up against a door, wall, person, whatever. If that happened he would no doubt fall on his face, require some medical treatment, feel more stupid than he looks, and get angrier at society. In short, the best option for his skinny, ugly derrière, was to pull his pants up near his waist and get on with life “safely” and without incident.

I didn’t have the courage to do so. Besides, I look like a Dad and therefore have no credibility. I walked out of the store, shaking my head, holding my tongue, wanting to act decent about the scrawny in-your-face- buttock-indecency strolling to his car just ahead of me. Here’s where justice, humanity, and honest voices join together for “the rest of the story.”

Another Jim, one more bold than I, took control. See, Jim looks out for customers. He was busy making sure the parking lot was clear of shopping carts and otherwise on patrol for customer needs. He was near the car (parents SUV) as this boy was attempting to lift his leg (hard to do when the pants are wrapped tight around your knees) into the driver’s seat. Jim saw the dilemma and loudly let the young customer know. It went like this:

“HEY! HEY YOU!” (of course everyone in the parking lot turned) “YOUR PANTS ARE COMING OFF!” he shouted.

Now my self-loathing for not having courage to be fatherly turned to pure joy. This was a parent’s dream come true – the young man HAD TO listen to the mentally challenged person filled with pure light and truth. Besides, the teen probably grew up knowing Jim, when as an innocent pre-teen child-customer he came in the store with Mom -- and the teen no doubt liked him, as all Days customers do. No decent human (the real teen underneath the outlandish clothes) would brush off such a truly pure individual who, with child-like candor, was only trying to help. If only this boy’s parents and world decision makers were there to witness the exchange where simple truth met social belligerence head on.

The boy hurried (best he could) to get into the SUV driver's seat and take off. Jim, worried about the teen's struggle to get into the car, came over to the passenger side window and wrapped his fist on it. “HEY YOU! OPEN UP! I want to tell you something!”

I cannot even describe the delight coursing through my skin. This was one more magic moment at Day’s I could have missed had I not shown courtesy to this culturally handicapped boy in the check-out line, now being challenged by the mentally handicapped man in the parking lot.

“You should never walk around like that,” I heard Jim counsel. “You could fall down and hurt your face, and then I would have to pick you up and call an ambulance!” Jim counseled. The boy, who having rolled the window down, now nodded vigorously in agreement. I last saw the boy in the rear-view mirror, still trying to get away from Jim as I pulled away from Day’s.

Well, to make a long story short I felt that God had sent the correct Jim, the Day's employee with no sense of anything but right and wrong, to the rescue. Perhaps the lanky kid will listen and save himself some grief. Or perhaps he will go on to embarrass himself, and his poor parents as he continues to expose his sorry under-developed behind to the rest of us.

But for a moment at least, justice and truth combined today. Jim, the slow thinking grocer, can teach us all a lesson. As hard as honesty may be to accept, and even harder sometimes to announce to another, there is nothing quite like the simple and child-like truths to straighten out a culturally sensitive situation, like not tripping over pants hanging below the bottom of one's bottom.

Now if the members of the US Congress could meet Jim.

"Jim" www.jmpratt.com.

MEN WHO SAVED the PLANET

SPECIAL REPORT

ELEVATOR VERSION

I was privileged to freelance report on an event to never be repeated, the 60th anniversary of the World War Two D-Day landings at Normandy. The few remaining American, British, and French warriors in attendance were boys again. You could see it in their eyes. My own father, Grant Pratt had already fought with the 1st Armored Division in North Africa and was entering Rome, Italy on June 4, 1944, that "day of days," after spending four months being shelled by German guns at a beach-death trap called Anzio.

Hundreds of thousands had died and were yet to sacrifice their lives in the clear fight of good over evil, as the black cloud of Hitler's tyranny hanging over Europe was gradually becoming dispelled by freedom-fighters paid under $50.00 per month. Freedom wasn't "free" then, and it isn't today. Now over 4,000 men from those uniform wearing years of World War Two pass on every day. I thought you might enjoy what I witnessed on the beaches of Normandy, France, and with me pay homage to those who saved the planet 60 some years ago.

STAIRCASE VERSION

Remembering the Soldiers Who Saved The Planet

James Michael Pratt – Official US Press Pool

From the American Military Cemetery, Normandy June 6, 2004

As a member of the official US Press Pool to the multi-national sixtieth anniversary ceremonies commemorating the Allied D-Day invasion of June 6, 1944, I had the privilege of witnessing a never-to-be-repeated celebration of honor and courage at the battlefield locations in Normandy, France. The gathering of old warriors in their eighties and nineties said it all. They came because they knew this would be the last time in their lives such a large congregation of nations and people would pay them and their fallen comrades homage. We, the sons and daughters, came for the same reason. The speeches of the French and American Presidents, contained solemn and spiritual tones while at the same time spoke to the ideals of the common-man-soldier who made it all possible for us to enjoy what we have.

• My father’s age of old-young men, are leaving us at more than 3,500 veterans a day and soon will take their history of war, love, and bravery with them. I miss Dad, and am growing in awareness at how much I will miss all of them. So I stumble a bit at conveying the depth of reverence and awe I felt among the 10,000 crosses so elegantly and poignantly witnessing to us of young men's sacrifice.

• Equally in wonder at the historic review were hundreds of the aged veterans, like Howie Beech, 79 years old, from La Habra, Cailifornia. I was privileged to receive an oral history lesson of his experience of coming ashore and then 11 months of fighting hell that followed. In childlike candor he seemed the young soldier asking me, the gray haired wise old man, this question: “Do you think I can find them?”

He teared up, and I got a lump in my throat as he added, "I lost seven good friends in France and Belgium and I want to find them. Do you think I can find where they are buried?"

“Yes,” I answered. “There are seven American Cemeteries throughout Europe. The Cemetery at Colleville overlooking the invasion beaches is the biggest and most famous with over 10,000 American crosses. Your friends can be found, Howie.”

“Oh,” was his simple reply as he searched the meaning of sixty years having passed.

“You are 19 years old again, aren't you?” I asked.

“What?” he asked with moist eyes.

“You aren’t 79 today. You are 19.”

“How do you know that…how I feel?” he responded with surprise.

“Everyone feels the same way. We are eternally young inside, like the young soldier friends of yours. They haven’t aged, and in some ways, neither have you,” I replied.

“That’s right! It is just like it was all yesterday. I don’t understand it. I shut it out for so many years and now it’s as if I am there again and it is all fresh; fresh in my mind, I mean.”

This was Howie’s moment to teach and my opportunity to learn. Howie opened up and I took notes on the spontaneous oral history lesson. I didn't need a movie screen; his eyes shared the scenes of comradeship and horror of battle as if it played out just days ago.

Howie Beach was one of many men, American, British, French, and Canadian who I met on travels for one week in June to honor on film and in the written word American Dads who stormed on to these beaches in an effort to save the planet from self-created demons and evil. These men had a call, and all recounted how they felt quite ordinary then, but part of something bigger.

“It was a mission,” Howie reminded us. “We were part of millions in uniform. Most of us figured it was a matter of time before we were dead men anyway, so we fought like mad.”

Norman Akers, a British soldier traveling to Normandy to be at a reunion of fellow British D-Day survivors was with his daughter, when I met him. He showed us an original photo of his brother’s shrapnel torn helmet lying upon a fresh mound of earth where he lay buried. The custom of the British was to immediately bury their soldiers where they fell. Later he was crossing into Belgium and then Holland during Operation Market Garden and came upon a bridge named “Akers Bridge.” He inquired and found out from a British officer, “Oh yes. That would be named for your brother. He was quite the hero, you know.”

Norman Akers looked proud, wistful, and sad all at the same time as his 83 year-old eyes strained at the graying photo of the bridge he was sharing with us; the sign posted as “Akers Bridge,” and what it meant to him to “carry on” as the surviving Akers brother of a war that consumed so many hundreds of thousands of British sons. “It seems like yesterday now,” he whispered. “I can’t understand why, but it is all so clear again.”

I thanked him for his service for us. Our British allies fought hard and lost nearly one million sons beside our American forces in bringing victory to the cause.

These two men both testified that they were not uncommon of other men of their time. They think of their dead brothers and comrades as the true heroes. But they survived to remind us of the cost. And now those “common men” of yesterday seem so extraordinary to us. Their heroics remind us of just how much one good man can do to make a difference in the world.

Our French hosts were generous in their regard for their American friends who gave their lives to liberate their country. American flags hung from the windows of Normandy countryside homes along with French, British, and Canadian flags. A proud people, sometimes with disputes regarding American foreign policy, they lacked no gratitude for their hero “soldats Americain” who waded from chest deep water into withering enemy fire on D- Day beaches. More than 50,000 French civilians would also end up surrendering their lives to bombs made by Germans, and the Allies as they lived in the midst of warfare during those first terrible summer months of 1944.

The city I stayed in, Caen, France, is as charitable today in her regard for American, British, and Canadian sacrifice as it was 60 years before when nearly 95% of the buildings were destroyed and thousands of inhabitants were killed or wounded during the several weeks of fighting there between Allied and German forces.

Somehow everyone gathering during the week ending June 6th 2004 to honor our dead and living veterans of the great conflict understood that with the sacrifice, with something given up and lost, the pendulum of justice swung fully to the opposite direction offering a precious but sacred blood-stained gain in return. In Howie Beach’s life the loss was friends and the innocence he had known as a teenager when he was called upon to become a killer of men. What he gained was a profound depth of appreciation for freedom, a love beyond measure for comrades, and a decency he would live the remainder of his life in spite of carnage and terror he experienced. In Norman Aker’s life it was the same, plus the sacrifice of his beloved older brother. For French men and woman it was often their homes being destroyed along with family members being sacrificed for their final freedom.

One week earlier I had the honor of speaking to thirty wounded Marine’s at the invitation of personal friend, Chaplain Ronald Ringo, USN stationed at Camp Lejeune, NC. Now home from Iraq and Afghanistan’s battle fields, these men had gathered to listen to the Chaplain’s instructions on how to transform from warrior to peace-time dad and husband.

The Marines wondered aloud if we, the American citizen, appreciated them; if we cared. Many are husbands and dads, doing simply what they know their fathers and grandfathers did in World War Two, Korea, Vietnam and other conflicts.

“Will the American people be grateful?” one asked. “Will they let us finish our job?” another questioned. “I used to take my family for granted,” added a young staff sergeant. “I used to act like a drill sergeant to my young son. But when I got back from Iraq, and some of my friends didn’t, I just looked into his eyes and when he said ‘Daddy…and I…’” His throat closed tight on his own words. He wiped at the tears. “I’m not the same man,” he began once more. “I’ll never be the same man. I will never take my family or this country for granted again.”

Gratitude, love, honor. I witnessed these with our current crop of heroes, some Marines who want nothing from us but understanding and respect. And then on June 6th 2004, in an overflowing abundance of appreciation on French soil, hallowed and made sacred by men who died and also lived to tell their tales, I understood what soldiers of every time and conflict may have wondered when they asked themselves, “Will they remember me back home?”
I imagined in my mind’s eye a beneficent Creator offering an approval for a collective gathering of the spirits of the fallen whose bodies lay buried in the Normandy sod. Dads, sons, brothers, heroes all – I imagined another cerebration taking place near us; the dead among the ten thousand crosses, witnessing an earnest heartfelt homage being paid to them.

The thoughtful question, as if posed by a silenced warrior asked again, “Will they remember me back home?”

I knew the answer and whispered back: “Yes soldier, we do remember. We haven’t forgotten you. And we never will.”

James Michael Pratt -- June 6, 2004