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

RETURN TO INNOCENCE

More on my "Personal Declaration of Independence" next week. This week is a call for a "Return to Innocence."

ELEVATOR VERSION

Where did my baby Amy go? Yours? She is in such a hurry to be an adult. And the problems... Many self-inflicted through decisions made in an entire new culture of light-speed communications, and "good is bad, bad is good" media enticements--The hurt they bring to her tears me apart. Try as I might to show she doesn't need to give up on the child-like wonder and innocent joys of youth, (and what joy she once innocently bathed in) she is deaf to my call -- more interested in joining what appears to be the exciting masses of humanity being swept along in all the noises and clamour of modern adult living.

When did the little girl leave me? Where did the wonder and magic of her life and mine disappear to? Sure I'm over fifty and time stands still for no man or woman, but innocence isn't something managed by time. It's a matter of the heart and mind. How did I let her down? Did I?

STAIRCASE VERSION

Is society moving us so fast along the pipelines of connectivity and work and pleasures and demands from without, to leave us little time for the childlike wonder that caused so much exuberance in us a young men and women?

GOING BACK: My quarterback just died. Sure we're over fifty, but I'm still Simi Valley HS 1970 season most unlikely first string running back, in my heart anyway. We were the Pioneers but a "Titans" styled team --we played football the same years as the team from Virginia depicted in the Denzel Washington movie.

I took hand-offs from Phil Scattareggia for three years. I could anticipate the snap of the ball from the center, the one-half count Phil would need to get it in his hands, and how many steps to the left or right behind him I'd need to be when the ball was supposed to be slapped into my gut from him. And I remember being out in the open, waving for Phil to see me, pass me the ball -- end zone in site. Phil entered the end zone just days ago - ahead of me and most of our team mates.

We belonged to the school's government, Phil was Senior Class President, I was Student Body VP. We belonged to the exclusive Promethean Society, wore silly turn-of-the-century maroon & gold caps, sang the '60's and '70's love songs -- with soft melodies and corny lyrics (even the Doors was sedate compared to today's) and dreamed of good things, like love... Like meaning something, making a difference in the world -- you know the things of naive innocence -- and never wanted to really grow up.

We didn't expect hand outs, or entitlements. There was partying, new drugs (too many) and we were as sex hormone driven as any group of young men and women could be graduating from HS on the heels of the "free love" (sixties) but some of us actually thought sex was also about love -- the dreamy kind, the child-like type and for that special one -- and not just physical exercise done during the course of a date, or done "virtually" as so thoroughly promoted today through Internet chats,"My Space," "My Face," and "You Tube," -- places where everyone can be someone different. We had "real relationships," or we didn't, back then.

AH... Back then-- I sound like my father, but it was simpler, more innocent -- and that was saying alot because of the turbulent 1960's melodrama of Vietnam, political assassinations, sex, drugs, and rock & roll culture that had blossomed overnight. Even then the shine of the life we knew from Sunday's "The Wonderful World of Disney" seemed distant. But now? Disney owns the Playboy Channel.

I woke the next morning, after finding out about Phil passing on, with the words to one of the 1969-1970's songs we'd sing on the "quad" ringing in my ears: Betcha By Golly Wow!

"Betcha by golly wow... you're the one that I've been waiting for forever... and ever will my love for you, keep growing strong...keep growing strong.

"If I could I'd catch a falling star. To shine on you, so I'd know where you are. All the colors in your favorite shades, to show I love you...thinking of you--

"Write your name across the sky... Anything you ask I'll try...cause--

"Betcha by golly wow...you're the one that I've been waiting for forever...and ever will my love for you, keep growing strong--keep growing strong..."

While we still have time to live, we still have it for "innocence." Maybe it's time for you and I to retreat from all the vaunted sophistry of the world, the political maneuvering and posturings, and the hurried pace caused by a dozen new gadgets to make us more "efficient," and simply reignite child-like dreaming again. Live life again...love again, believe in possibilities again!

My wife came home from celebrating the 100 year birthday party of her last grandparent, grandma "Best" of Lamar, Colorado; she was gone for five days. I loved my wife that night, the night after learning about Phil... I loved with more tenderness, slowness, and adoration -- because of Phil's reminder that time waits for no one, and for young dreams, and BECAUSE...

"Betcha by golly wow!"

See you in the "End Zone," Phil!

Your thoughts and opinions on life, losses, innocence -- all welcome...

James Michael Pratt "Jim"
http://www.jmpratt.com/
http://www.powerthink.com/

Independance Day 2007

ELEVATOR VERSION

I now firmly believe politics cannot save our country or serve the people, but "public servants," who are American first, can. Today I formally "quit" as a member of a political party. Today begins a new effort for me toward public good. I begin doing my part with a Personal Declaration of Independence, using actual wording of the Jeffersonian 1776 DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE, inserting my own political beliefs (see below.)

As an author of stories where American courage and values save the day, I have, in the past, declared beliefs through characters in novels. Today I make a stand in another way; I have decided to become one of my "characters."

Today I declare "independence" from political parties due to the state of "politicking" and inaction by elected officials from the two major American political parties. I can no longer "filter" my beliefs through a corrupt and manipulated pipeline of party rhetoric serving the desires of the few over the needs of the many.

It's time to not simply put my words into the mouths of characters but announce them plainly and boldly inviting others to do so as well. Being "American" is more important than being Democrat, Republican, or other. These parties have lost what is at the heart of being American.

STAIRCASE VERSION

PRICE OF SILENCE: A subtle moral suicide is progressing through poisons of political piety coupled with a decay of so much reason often devoid of faith, common sense, and decency, by our elected officials. I care deeply about my loved ones -- and I care about other Americans, what is happening to them, and the land my family help build up from colonial days since 1639. So I remain silent at a cost -- literally and figuratively.

Because of what I have witnessed over the last forty years of political awareness, and especially this year, I no longer can believe in any political party as an answer nor support their narrow causes. I simply must declare my unwavering support for the "American Cause." I have supported candidates from one party more than the others, in the past. Now I feel I must enter the political dialogue, but in doing so also declare a "Personal Independence Day" from Republicans and Democrats entirely, with no interest to join any other party.

From this "Personal Declaration of Independence" all other blogs shall be born and posted. Now a few thoughts, taken from many, which stimulated this first post:

MEANING and PURPOSE: Without expressed heartfelt beliefs we may become mere ciphers willing ourselves to exist for pleasures as the entire raison d'être. There must be "meaning" in life to make even "pleasure" something worth seeking. I cannot belong to a club (political or otherwise) where we minimize the deeper "meanings" of life for "quick fixes" and payoffs to special interests. This band aid approach to solving challenges never works. Just a few problems our political world has allowed to flourish in favor of expediency are listed here:

• We watch the world in hunger and have the land and expertise to feed it, but grow "political dialogue" instead of food for the millions oppressed by famine, and other causes.
  
• We defend ourselves against foreign enemies, but patrol the borders of other lands more vigorously than our own. (We jail Border Patrol agents here, and patrol the Iraq and Iranian border to a greater degree of accuracy than our own.)


• The halls of Congress resound with blathering to soothe the public consciousness but in that guise of "public service to the people" politicians play us like the fools who actually "need them." As they amass more personal political power, we scream loudly: Tax reform? Border security? Welfare reform? Balanced budgets? Energy Independence? When?


• We bankroll some dictators, and "cruise missile" others. Courage to stand for what is right is sacrificed for "political necessity and expediency." And that attitude fosters...?


• We create a Center For Disease Control but lack the will to create Centers for Disease Cures. (Example: Offering prophylactics instead of promoting "abstinence" -- this to cover the problem of STDs while we search for cures to diseases often spread by unchallenged, self-destructive behaviors.)
  
• Politically correct? We worry about offending in use of speech more than concern for correcting a moral dilemma. Speaking "politically correct" occupies 100% attention while "doing politically correct" is given attention when the public can't take it any more.


• In the name of the "freedom of speech and religion" the perverse win the "twist words debates" seeking to ban personal religious thought from the public walk and talk, as they really promote their cause of "freedom from religion."

The list is long, and could go on. This is just my brain and heart speaking, and I remember responding this way to topics with some political relevance since I first picked up a newspaper.

SO "Independence" from government has become something I'm comfortable with. I am NOT "dependent" upon the elected (or appointed) government. Are you? I ask them simply to protect our freedoms, not restrict them, protect our future, not squander it. I am an American first and last. How do you feel about government dependency?

I feel strongly that America's political parties can no longer operate government with the American people's best interest at heart. They spend more time fighting each other than fighting American enemies and challenges.

I declare independence from them, but will vote the best candidates who have American interests first and foremost in their hearts. I invite you to do the same. So now to my:

"Personal Declaration of Independence"

I have used words from the American 1776 Declaration of Independence in black and inserted my personal declaration to it in bold color blue. I thought it would be a fun way to illustrate my departure from a political party system and also illustrate personal moral persuasions and bedrock beliefs which I firmly plant my Pratt flag upon.

I only begin my "declaration" process today. I leave plenty for future blogs, as a good author should do. I invite you to also visit my personal website from time to time: http://www.jmpratt.com/.

James Michael Pratt Personal

DECLARATION of INDEPENDENCE

July 4, 2007

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one person to dissolve the political bands which have connected him with an American political party, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle him, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that he should declare the causes which impel him to the separation.

I hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator, with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is my Right to seek to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, through political dissent, discourse, election processes per the Constitution of The United States, and through moral and ethical persuasions, laying my beliefs on foundations of such principles as to my personal belief which will seem most likely to effect my countryman's Safety and Happiness.

Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, such as a Legislative or Executive or Judicial Branch shall impose, it is my right, it is my duty, to throw off such political parties disguised as Government through deliberate persuasive arguments and the election process, and to provide new citizen-servants willing to sacrifice their time, reputation, honor, and security, for their future security.--Such has been my patient sufferance and that of these Colonies of American thinkers spread throughout the fifty states; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to go to the polls, the election booths, the blogs, the airwaves, and alter the former Systems of Government power players who play us as fools. The history of the present Kings of United States power is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States filled with loyal and truly moral thinking Americans. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

MORE on its way... Until next week. Signing off as an "American" brother -- James Michael Pratt http://www.jmpratt.com/.