MEMORIAL DAY SPECIAL TRIBUTE

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 Beach, 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.” I knew that the recognition of this first trip back to France - one totally done in peace, and not carrying a rifle - was slowly dawning on Howie, and confusion of 60 years of time so compressed now mixed with memories so startlingly fresh.

“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

MOM, The Woman Who Made Oatmeal Stick to My Ribs

APPRECIATION for EVERYDAY MOMS

When I awoke today, realizing it would be "Mother's Day" on Sunday, my instinct was to go to the computer and tell Mom how much I loved her, and let her know I still think she was the "World's Best Mom." But a day before her 85th Birthday this year, she left to go be with Dad. May I share a MOTHER'S DAY tribute to her. FROM the book:

MOM, The Woman Who Made Oatmeal Stick to My Ribs

CHAPTER ONE:

I figure my Mom was normal in almost every respect regarding basic mores and teaching her children the standards of conduct, faith, and values passed on to her from her mother who was born in the late 1800’s.

Mom did her best to instill in her boys born in the ‘40’s, 50’s and ‘60’s, virtues that would bring them success, happiness, and well being. Mom had seven sons, two daughters, and adopted an adult, my third sister, later in her life. She qualifies, in my mind, to remind us of what really matters most. She represents the best effort of millions of Moms who as children grew up in the milieu of the Great Depression of the 1930’s, waited for their soldier boyfriends and husbands of the world’s greatest military conflict of all time – World War Two – and denied herself comforts unknown to previous generations in favor of her children having the best she could give.
With that alone, Mom merits Sainthood. And I believe the reader will also agree that “Mom” is a sacred and affectionate title given to the woman we know the best, one who always put our needs above her own.

The themes portrayed here are also appreciations for Moms. I am sure my stories are, by in large, representative of most experiences the reader will have known in growing up under the care of a good mother. But my Mom is, after all, the only Mom I have had experience with. So for fun I will refer to those days and experiences that showed me a way of living I give gratitude for now.

If by chance you did not have a positive experience, missed growing up under the protective wings of an angel mother, I offer you mine, with the hopes you may feel the guiding love, and use it from this time on to influence those in your care and all others around you.

Mom, we can never say “thank you” enough. These words pay tribute to you and are in appreciation for everyday mothers who build the world, one soul at a time!

From CHAPTER THREE

“Do Unto Others As You Would Have Them Do Unto You.”

Charles Dickens said, "I think it must somewhere be written, that the virtues of mothers shall be visited upon their children.” without a doubt, I can say that the virtue of the Golden rule is the one Mom hoped all her children would adopt.

The Golden Rule is perhaps the most widely accepted maxim and standard for personal behavior that exists on the planet. This value of “treating others as you would like to be treated” is the foundation to every moral and law-abiding civilization known. A planet alive with such a denouement to cap off all other laws would be an antidote to war, crime, famine, disease, and a host of other ills.

It might sound simplistic, and it might seem a cliché but the best policy is and always has been to consider how you would like to be treated before dealing with another. Nature abhors a vacuum. It must be filled with something. Mom intuited that as the boys grew, and possibly even witnessed war, devastating hunger, illness, and privations, that the Golden Rule would be the best medicine for negative circumstances they encountered.

We are faced with daily situations that don’t seem quite right or even fair. Life offers no guarantee of evenhanded treatment. Moms worry about this, and rightly so. In the event a bully shows up, or an opportunity to cheat, fib, slip from the light into the dark and forbidden paths comes our way, Mom’s concern always was that a morally prepared son is the best answer to the challenge.

It was 1965 and I was late for school. “Remember Jimmy, do unto others…” she called as I raced out the door and started my run to Knolls Elementary School. “…as you would have them do unto you!”...

“Yeah, sure Mom,” I mumbled as I waved her off. "Whatever… " I answered under my breath.
Why does she always have to say that? As if I don’t understand or something? I posed silently as I ran up Christine Avenue five blocks to see if I could squeeze under the tardy bell.

I liked to run. I enjoyed sports. I was always competing and loved the challenge to my sixth grade body to see if I could go all the way without giving in to walking. I’m pretty sure I made it to school just before the bell for starting classes rang.

It was the early 1960’s, and our somewhat rural town just over the hills and the northern Los Angeles County line, was starting to sprout suburban neighborhoods. It was not unusual for a new kid to move in every couple of weeks. I always enjoyed learning where the new kid was from, and generally making friends.

I remembered what it was like moving to this new town three years earlier during my third grade year. Being uprooted from friends and familiar playgrounds was and still is not an easy thing for a child. Without going through any mental gyration of why having more friends was better than less, I usually tried to make friends the first day a new boy or girl would show up. I didn’t know it at the time, but looking back I can clearly see that Mom’s daily admonition was having a subconscious effect.

So, when I noticed the new kid, Phil Piraino, I decided to make a friend, make him feel comfortable. Besides, he could come in handy after school when we chose up teams for games, or playing war in the wide-open fields and rocky hills that surrounded our home. I had another friend at Knolls who didn’t have the same idea about how to greet the newcomer. I recalled three years earlier when he had first bullied me; had given me arm burns, twisted my right arm behind my back to see how much I could take. This was a friend made more by necessity than by desire. Mark May was tough. He liked it that way and would probably test my new friend his first day at school.

Come morning recess, I was standing in the ball line—the line that was formed outside the sports equipment room where all kinds of balls were checked out. Footballs, basketballs, those big red bouncy rubber balls that the girls really liked in four square games, softballs and bats, and by the time I finally got the last basketball a crowd had gathered near the hoops.

“Hey! Stop it!” I heard Phil groan.
“Uh oh,” I thought, stopping dead in my tracks. The crowd grew noisier.
“Punch him Mark,” one said.
“Fight back,” another called.

If I just walk away, pretend I didn’t see this. If I just let it go and not get involved I won’t end up with a bloody nose or worse. The problem was Mom’s words kept ringing in my ears: Jimmy, do unto others..."

Yeah, but Mom, this is not me doing anything wrong, it’s Mark May, I protested to the voice inside. “…as you would have them do unto you,” she finished. “Ohhh…” I moaned as I moved forward.

“Hey! Mark!”
“Hey what Pratt!” he called back as I broke through the crowd. Mark had Phil in the familiar arm lock and was twisting him to the ground. Tears were starting to form in his eyes.
“Leave him alone!” I mustered with all the courage I could.
“You gonna make me?”
“Yeah. Maybe I will."

Now by this time I didn’t have a clue as to what I was doing or why I was saying this. Mark was grinning ear to ear with a look that said: “Oh boy! Two people to beat up. This is my lucky day.” He still had Phil in the arm lock.

I moved forward. “Let him go Mark!” Mark’s face turned from grin to questioning expression.
I moved forward again. “I mean it. You’re gonna have to fight me too!” I said, as I put up my fists. I could tell Mark was weighing the consequences. Maybe two scrawny kids could take him on and then he’d lose face with everyone else. If he lost face, then he’d lose power. Or worse, he’d lose face and have to answer to the principle and the long wooden paddle he had become familiar with.

“Oh go on!” he huffed letting Phil go. “I’ll get you later Pratt!” he barked as the recess bell chimed for it to end...

That day I made a new friend and reinforced the bond with Mark May that lasts until today. I don’t quite understand what it is about Mark that I like. Maybe it is because once you were his friend he was truly loyal to the core. We had good clean fun in years to come, and while admittedly on the wild side with other types of friends, Mark paid me one of the ultimate compliments a few months after my twenty-first birthday.

I had just returned home to Simi Valley, California from South America where I had been for two years doing volunteer service and had just spoken to our local church congregation. I was standing outside the chapel now in the foyer. I was greeting well-wishers when out of the corner of my eye I saw a familiar and sturdy young man in blue jeans and T-shirt come busting through the double pane glass doors that led to the foyer.

“Jim! I heard that you were home!” Mark said as he burst through the crowd and gave me an American style “abrazo,” the customary Latin but manly hug I had become so accustomed to by now. “Man it’s good to see you! You are the only friend that never let me down. You know that?”

I was stunned. I muttered something like, “Thanks Mark.” Then we caught up on old times. Before he left the building, and I went my way in life and he his, he smiled and said, “I still wish you would have let me beat up Phil Piraino.” We laughed and had our little secret. Mutual respect had been earned years before. I both treated Mark and Phil how they would have wanted on that spring day in early ’65 and Mom was to blame.

I was given a payday that Sunday morning that I have never forgotten. Over the years, I had remained friends with both Phil, the Italian kid whose parents had immigrated to the United States after World War Two, and with Mark, the bully.

Maybe Mom was right after all. Maybe when you do unto others as you’d like done to you life pays you back in kind. Like medicine that Moms spoon-feed their kids to keep them well, this simple remedy to relationship building was given in doses I could swallow.

"Thanks Mom – my world is a better place because of a simple prescription you reminded me to take and it has worked from the inside out. "

Now, as I consider those days of youth I understand that one of the finest things Mom ever did after the oatmeal was finished was to remind me: “Remember son, do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

MOM DIED February 5th, 2008. for the Tribute and her final lesson to me, see February 5th post.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull

ONE OF THOSE RARE BOOKS...Helping inspire a new course for life

I write this blog listening to Niel Diamond's musical score for the 1970's film based upon the book by Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull. The book and music are equally inspirational and I recommend them as a timeless return to dreams, values, and joys found in achieving the best in us. I first read the book in 1973 while in Lima, Peru. I was a young idealist on a mission to change lives, and the harder I tried to bring a message of change to others, I found my own life and mission in the process.

Another young American loaned the book to me, and I was immediately carried away to a place of vivid imagery; knowing what I wanted my life's work to be. I wanted to become part of what this writer had contributed to; inspirational storytelling, an art form I had appreciated since my earliest recollections of boyhood viewing Disney classics, and reading fairy tales of heroics and honor.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull tells of one gulls attempt to break from the crowd of fighting between other gulls upon the seashore over daily scraps of food washed up, or cast off by others. While other gulls were satisfied with flights designed to bring them an advantage over their fellow gulls, Jonathan had the idea that perfecting flight would become his ambition.

He had heard of fairy tales of the "Great Gull" and thought if he flew high enough, soared well enough, at speeds fast enough, perhaps he too could reach a perfection few other gulls ever thought about. Instead of fighting over cast offs Jonathan soon learned his ideas made him a loner and a literal cultural cast off from his society of gulls.

Jonathan was soon formally banished to live outside the society as a non-conformist. I won't spoil the tale, but you get the idea. Sometimes following a dream makes us feel alone. It perhaps sets us apart from others. It even has the potential to make others feel uncomfortable around us.

I am taking a break from editing, AS A MAN THINKETH...In His Heart, to add to my blogs. A novel I began in August 2006, it is now timed to go to the printer in one week, yet the discoveries I made two weeks ago, on a trip alone to the novel's setting, Ilfracombe, England, needs to be included in this final revision.

I have ventured into a life of no security, a dreamer's life where seeking to be like Jonathan, all I care about is how high I can reach, and from time to time, like now, am able to look back and see the view. It isn't easy to separate oneself from the flock, trying to justify a risky life-pursuit, such as novel writing. Not easy to go without the scraps (money) of what feeds us in hopes of finding the great goal an even better reward.

If you ever seek to break from the routine, and feel like finding your place "in the lonely looking sky" as Niel Diamond sings of, I recommend the read by Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull as a good place to begin.

James Michael Pratt

http://www.powerthink.com/

ARROGANCE & PRIDE and a Peanut Farmer

WHAT DOES ARROGANCE, PRIDE AND A PEANUT FARMING EX-PRESIDENT HAVE IN COMMON?

I don't like getting involved in political rhetoric which attacks the character of an Ex-President of the United States, but Mr. Carter has crossed the line from self-appointed peace-maker to self-appointed international policy designer, IN A TIME OF WAR.

Mr. James Carter is going to consult with Iranian backed HAMAS terror leader Khaled Meshaal in Damascus, killer of US, Israeli, Lebanese troops and civilians, AGAINST THE ADVICE of our sitting US President and State Department.

When this was pointed out by today's Sunday News wonks he shrugged it of, and suggested he was, "quite at ease" about meeting with Hamas because they were an important player in the Israeli Palestinian peace movement.

HELLO! Mr. CARTER? YOU WHOOOO! ??? You aint' the President. You are a few decades removed and a few marbles shy! It isn't your turn, sir! You aren't appointed to the "peace process." YOU SIR, SMACK OF "ARROGANT." And arrogance in self-appointed missions of peace to sworn enemies of our country is as dangerous as it gets. Remember the Biblical injunction: "Pride cometh before the fall." Well it isn't your "fall" alone at stake! It is our country's!

Webster's Arrogance: "That species of pride which consists in exorbitant claims of rank, dignity, estimation, or power, or which exalts the worth or importance of the person to an undue degree: proud contempt of others; lordiness, haughtiness; self-assumption; presumption."

YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE, MR. CARTER. We had an embassy taken over by Iranian thugs under your watch. Rescuers were killed in an ill-advised attempt at saving your reputation. Energy crisis and gas lines, the spread of Soviet aggression, one chaos creating economic policy after another. Yes - you got Mr. Sadat and Mr. Begin together. Good for you! NOW LET GO!

UNDERMINING: This is really about you, isn't it? Come on, you can't get over the fact that the American people would like to know you are in Plains, a dignified ex-President, writing occasional advice pieces but staying put where a "former head of state" belongs... Past tense!

• 
  
  Teach Sunday School! You are good at that! It makes you like-able.


• 
  
  Write a book or two. They out last us all and add luster to a personal legacy of service.


• 
  
  Plant peanuts. Who knows? You may produce a viable fuel alternative from them... make up for gasoline lines we endured under your Presidency 30 years ago.

Ex President Jimmy Carter -- The super smiling, harmless appearing man who ACTS the self-effacing patriarch of goodness and American correctness, is a wolf in sheep's clothing in this mis-guided "peace-making" romp to the Middle East. His pride won't allow him to take the lead from those legally and morally obligated to create and administer policy with regards to fighting the war on terror, with the clear stated policy of NO NEGOTIATIONS WITH TERRORISTS!

Shame on you Jimmy Carter! You are ending your life-time of "public service" in "private service" by snubbing those directly involved in our country's policy making. Can't you give it a rest and just let us like you? You were President once... or has age caught up and you forget what it means to have the burden to make final decisions, hard decisions, based upon information you alone and a few others trusted by you, possessed?

YOU SIR ARE pride-filled, and have the civic intellect the size of the nuts you so proudly produce. Do us a favor, and be a true servant of all Americans. Yield your proud heart to the voices of those whose stewardship it is to deal with our enemies.

James Pratt

April 13, 2008

HAPPY MEALS & VIAGRA

Have a HAPPY MEAL

&

Learn How Viagra Can Change Your Life!

I was traveling to Nashville, Tennessee last week. I pulled off I-40 west bound during a drenching the area was receiving from the recent storms. It was near 10:30 and I hadn't eaten breakfast. I knew if I went to McDonalds what to expect in the way of a quick but satisfying egg and sausage BIG BREAKFAST, and easily found the franchise location just off the exit in Lebanon.

I must say, the franchise in Lebanon, Tennessee has to be the most impressive McDonald's I have ever seen. From the landscaping outside, to the very clean and modern interior (bathroom as well) I was immediately and favorably impressed. I had just returned from a writing research trip in England, and had trusted the scrambled eggs there, as well as enjoyed an English made BIG MAC, but still there is "no place like home."

I grew up with McDonald's. While I don't eat there often any more due to age, cholesterol, and calorie concerns, I still trust the people and the reliable menu. I got my BIG BREAKFAST for half the English McDonald's price (1 Brit pound = $2.00 and a Big Breakfast is 3.99 British) and headed to one of the fanciest settings I have ever seen in a fast food restaurant.

Booths and bar stool seating with personal television monitors, video game controls, one choice of channels. My immediate reaction was "WOW!" then moral judgement kicked in and I suddenly shifted to realize the huge disservice and negative factors... even though it is a fun new idea for the giant of fast food marketing.

WHY? Because to our continuing social denigration and possible cultural demise CONSTANT STREAMING OF INFORMATION doesn't give the brain a break. FAMILIES ALREADY AREN'T TALKING TO EACH OTHER!

But, I'm calming myself down, readying my BIG BREAKFAST as I try to ignore the fact that commercials are being run, and, "...this slick new addition to 'captive audience' marketing is, after all, under the roof of a family enterprise," I say in self-talk.

While applying the ketchup to my hash browns I saw the first and last commercial I intend to ever see in any food establishment. I was so angry and frustrated I had a hard time downing my meal. And besides, the coffee drinking seniors the commercial was aimed at were leaving as the menu board changed to HAPPY MEALS and BIG MACS!

ALL The television monitors at every seat were showing a healthy attractive older couple touting the increased joy of taking a pill designed to enlarge the anatomical male organ necessary for pleasure giving to the overly eager female... FOR SUFFICIENT HOURS AND DURATION THAT WOULD MAKE ANY MAN FROM ANOTHER GENERATION BLUSH!

What's going on in our society? Can't we take a break and eat our HAPPY MEALS without being presented commercials designed to enhance sexual gratification? Can't we just have Bambi (oops, that depends) playing or some innocent and fun-loving commercial ads if advertising is necessary?

NAW... Life's all about pleasure and profit, not responsible commercialism. Let's get everyone hooked to male organ enhancement. The female actors seem to suggest it makes their day... There isn't enough sex going on in other programming venues. Let's take over the family-friendly environments too. Maybe Disneyland can start offering commercial interruptions to our innocent joys and pleasures. Condoms and libido enhancing formulas can be advertised next to the Fantasy Land Sleeping Beauty ride...

VIAGRA commercials...and McDonalds.

Now this gives BIG MACS a whole new meaning.

James Michael Pratt

http://www.jmpratt.com/

http://www.powerthink.com/

EASTER 2008

This link to an Easter "You Tube" message says it all...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9m5GIXfPjIs

Wishing you a joy filled Easter and Spring 2008.

James Michael Pratt
www.powerthink.com

DUPLICITY and REAL POWER

A Power Think Paradigm

The Dangerous Dance of Duplicity and Personal Integrity

REAL POWER: Real power comes from carefully guarded thoughts guided by our hearts. "Thoughts are things," James Allen said in his ground-breaking book written in 1902. That truth learned in 1972, my 19th year, has had profound impact on me and directly influences choices in personal behavior and what my life is all about, since then until this day.

Thought is power, for good or bad. "He thinks in secret and it comes to pass. Environment is but his looking glass," the English philosopher stated. His multi-million copy bestselling book, AS A MAN THINKETH, still sells world-wide to this day. See, the truth about character and conduct is a stubborn thing; it clings to us as an outward garment woven from the inside out. Hard to run from that...

Good seeds yield good fruit. It's that simple. The code of the fruit is in the seed. The code of character is in the thought, persisted in over time. Why people seek some different outcome from the mental seeds sown and then cultivated over time is a matter of "duplicity." Duplicitous behavior is the killer of every good desire, hope, and aspiration.

PURPOSE and MEANING: Real personal power comes from developing real personal purpose or meaning in life. With that "meaning" we become known through the development of "character." Integrity and living congruent with personal values and society standards offers not only the development of character strengths, but delivers the precious gift of personal trust from others to us. "It is better to be trusted than to be loved," I heard a speaker say when I was young. I never forgot that axiom and it has proven invaluable to me in growing the opportunities that have come my way into a meaningful and lasting lifetime of benefit.

Everyone wants to “matter”and “mean” something to others. The danger lies not in wanting to “matter” but in what we might delude ourselves into believing really “matters.” Sometimes we want two opposing things of value. One has higher meaning than the other and, in what I will refer to for this blog which deals with personal integrity, I call this "wanting to matter" in such a way as to "short cut" integrity, “The Dangerous Dance of Duplicity.”

As I write this a scandal brews with a NY politician who's personal dark side of life collided with a public duty and trust. He wanted it all. He danced to a tune of personal wants in places the public would never be allowed to follow him to, only to find the civic dance floor empty when he was found out to be duplicitous by an eager media and press.

Personal integrity is the glue which bonds us in trusting ways to others. Without it the fabric of society is one strand weaker. Collectively, the loss of integrity impacts us all through the success of our economy, business, and indeed is the cause of every ill or crime known to man. "Be true to thyself" the Shakespearean line goes, "and as night follows day, thou canst be false to no man."

Duplicity means wanting two things out of harmony with each other. It means "dual" in one sense, just as it means "duel" -- where we literally fight with our better half -- in another sense. The dance of duplicity begins with seductive music which sings of “things” of an outward nature. "I can have this in exchange for that." Perhaps cheating on a test in school begins the character weakening dance. And when a few successes at it are presumed, "My cheating won't hurt anyone," reinforces the duplicitous belief. After all "I am a good guy. Moral, and wouldn't hurt anyone," we might add to the disarming voice of conscious which is ever becoming more faint.

"I can make up for it later," becomes the lie we believe out of convenience. For with the crumbling walls of character we sooner or later become exposed for who we really are. When "things" become “symbols” of who we are, "why" we matter, and "what" we want others to see in us, we are tip-toeing onto the dance floor where duality becomes a "break dance." It begins to occur to us that we cannot do two different dance steps at once. What we are inside becomes clear for everyone to see, through our ever growing number of "mis-steps." After all, the drunkard knows it is hard to be sober. The thief believes it is hard to be honest. And the liar knows that the web must continue to build or he will be ultimately "found out."

We only delude ourselves, weaken the relationships of trust that we might otherwise enjoy. We impact our society, and there is a real cost to that. Selective honesty disables trust as fast as complete dishonesty does. Studies are done annually on employee theft, padding government contracts...these seem so innocent to the protagonist at the time. Collectively we are talking of billions of dollars in lost productivity, stolen goods, and out-right theft.

Trust? Ask the Governor who retires in disgrace today. Ask the thousands of former millionaires now in State or Federal prisons. They sure looked good for awhile. They mattered and meant something to others. Now they are a number awaiting parole.

"He who dies with the most toys wins," the humorist and bumper sticker creator of the 1980's said. A dual reality is implied here, whether the bumper sticker was found on a Mercedes-Benz or a Ford Pinto. In living, and seeking the best of life and things, the external circumstance may be most important...of course until one dies, which will happen to everyone. Then what will be is a memory in the minds of others, and a legacy both real and eternal.

Why we want to be honest, should never be subordinated or compromised to “what to be honest” about. So much more could be said about the dangerous dance of duplicity - being "two people" at once, but I will save some interesting side-notes and facts for another blog. Back to "meaning" and "what matters" most:

Duplicity is cerebral. It is heartless. It is rationalization at its best. The human "brain is for getting and the heart is for giving." This line comes from my less read novel of 2005, THE GOOD HEART (to be released in paperback Fall 2008.) Our brains constantly want more stuff. Our hearts constantly give life and love. Together they can offer "two" seats of power and wisdom for the price of one, and integrity need not be compromised. The heart and head really can act as a combined force if we "power think." That is allow the heart to dictate wisdom -- guard our actions -- over rationalization which so easily creates a partnership in our ever addictive information striving brain; partnerships with greed, lust, avarice, lies... These need not be. The heart can guide us if we will stop, slow down, listen.

The heart dances to a rhythm which is elegant, steady, reliable. It nourishes with life-sustaining blood, every cell of the body and brain. It is eager to matter and "mean" something but is quieter than the noisy brain. It requires careful listening to insure we tune in to its softer voice. It is intelligent and intuitive. It also seems to be filled with ancient wisdom. Wisdom, as we all know, is the non-tangible essence of truths which seem to give us a sound moral compass, and a sure map to destinations of good for all; not just self. The heart seems to place things of intrinsic moral value ahead of the more expensive material stuff of life.

In life, as in Power Thinking, it really is a matter of the heart being right, and the brain doing its job within the bounds of personal integrity. What I hope is an entertaining look at personal growth and inner integrity, is my latest inspirational novel, AS a MAN THINKETH...In His Heart.

We really must decide what we want. Duplicity is a sure-fire formula for failure in personal relationships and in society at large. With the heart in the lead and brain collaborating at its best, the dance of real personal power, like a good waltz, replaces the weaker dance of duplicity. In the end we really are what our heart thinks about.

More about the novel and these musings can be found at: http://www.powerthink.com/.

--James Michael Pratt

INFORMATION, SPEED, AND PERFORMANCE

Speed is Good, Information Important, but Performance is King

JAPAN just launched a satellite today that as CNN states:

(CNN) -- "Japan launched a rocket Saturday carrying a satellite that will test new technology that promises to deliver "super high-speed Internet" service to homes and businesses around the world. " 2/22/2008.

Ah the wonders. Now an 80 hour work week can become a 100 hour work week as more is expected of you by the employer. Nothing short of heaven sent! AND, welcome rural China and other places that could never have sped up with the rest of us! All you need is a satellite dish and voila! You can have all we have faster than blinking your eyelids! (You should probably buy a refrigerator over a satellite dish first though. Keeping food longer in dishes you now own will help you live longer than dishes placed upon your roof.)

THE WORLD IS FLAT: Now we can sell anything to anyone! And, there are benefits. Information to enhance life such as medical, intellectual, spiritual, and in commerce will definitely be a plus for the deprived masses who do not live, as we do, 24/7 with the Internet.

The speed and output of the new satellite up-link connection is estimated at 1.2 gigabytes per second. One hundred years ago, a person connecting their Alexander Graham Bell talking device (phone) to another used "Mabel." (That would be a person with a wire and switchboard. ) A few minutes would go by, as you pondered upon the message and talking to a friend, loved one, or business associate. In fact, communicating across town or around the world was a treat!

Now it is an entitlement. In fact, now a person connects in real time faster than the time it takes to type in a telephone number on their keyboard.

Meaning? Time to access information is immediate. Speed to request it takes longer. If we expect performance to increase just because access to information does, we may be in for an anxiety-riddled reality check.

Those were the days -- rotary dial telephone. Our home number in a Southern California area code was 526-3104. Had that number forever. And when you asked a girl out for date you had enough time with the rotary dial to back out, or practice how you were going to ask her to go out. The nerves it took with all that time lapsing. How did we ever get anything done?

DRUGS: I can tell you we did it "all" without Prozac, other anti-depressants, and performance in personal areas of life didn't require "enhancing." (We had libraries, exercised through playing, walking, running, and adults who wished for intimate moments didn't need two bath tubs; aka the "Cialis" RX television commercial.) Information is like a drug for a brain constantly crying out for a faster way to connect, do, experience...

This is a shorter piece -- on purpose. My partner Mark Kastleman at http://www.powerthink.com/ and I are engaged in writing and creating audio on surviving and thriving in the modern age of mass communications, high speed demands, instant gratification, stimulation, and information overload; all creating more stress and anxiety than any other generation could have imagined.

"Power thinking" is introduced in my upcoming novel, "As a Man Thinketh...In His Heart." It is about a "heart-mind" alliance that maximizes the body's potential for using the right information in a high-tech world. The heart needs time, while the brain begs for more information in less time. With two competing vital organs, the human spirit needs some time as well, for meditative reflection just to sort things out. Life is coming at us fast and furious whether we want it to or not. If we simply absorb speed, information, and try to keep up in a performance mode, we will be headed for a super-cardiac arrest, not to mention spending more on RED BULL drinks and its competitors over food, just for the extra "kick" we want in order to "keep up."

Personal performance is what life really is all about. With the heart in the lead, and the brain obeying, the quality of life does not require the quantity of connections we have available to us now. We simply need to access information "use-full" to us. And, to make the point, "Mabel" down at the local telephone company, was a "new" invention a mere ten decades ago. Before that the telegram had it's day in the sun for fifty years, and before that there was the horse.

When personal performance is at stake, it isn't how much in gigabytes you get in a second, but which information available is most important and useful. The "right" information, the right use of it, will always enhance life, bring peace in high stress times, and focus attention on the "best" in personal performance. Power Thinking is an answer. More on its way...

"MOM, I'M HOME!"

MOM Passed Away Today... Super Tuesday Feb. 5, 2008.

I've been a bit worried about Mom. She's been lonely without Dad. Been 14 years now. Readers of my books heralding their teachings and strengths know I owe DAD's final words to me, and MOM's final words to him for creating the writer.

The winter has been cold and brutal in Idaho. Thankfully my older sister, Karen lives next door and checks on her. We also email quite abit. She's been deaf for forty years, so emailing has been like a blessing from heaven. We talked about "passing on" twice this week. She was turning 86, and yet didn't seem to comprehend it. She was as much the girl and Mom with all the cares, insecurities, and yet faith, love, and mix of baggage that she'd shouldered her entire life. But she expressed saddness that others she knew were leaving, and that she was stuck in a painfilled body; and though grateful for adult children and their children who kept in touch, felt she was missing another kind of "home" - the kind one finds in the care and comfort of familiar love of husband and others of her generation.

The morning of her death I opened my email and read about her confusion of a dream she had where she had missed a bus that Dad was on. The bus station attendant had told her, "The next bus arrives at 5-12," he said.

"What do you think 5-12 means, Jim?" I replied with a tease, "I guess the bus is coming in 2012, when the Mayan calendar ends." She replied, "Oh well, I guess I can wait that long."

"Time Tested Values -- Oatmeal It Sticks to Your Ribs" -- my post of Jan. 21st, 2008 means more to me now. I hope you will read it and share with others, who, through my words, knew MOM and loved her. It's hard to pay tribute more than I have in the book I dedicated to her while she lived: MOM, The Woman Who Made Oatmeal Stick to My Ribs, so I think I'll live the rest of my life like she wanted me to; like she trusted me to, right up to the last time we shared "I love yous" in our last emails.

Back to the email. I'd like to share her last one with you. See what you read, between the lines:

Dear Jim and Jeanne:
Did i sound sad in my letter? i suppose maybe a little, when we are here and able to still do--------it is hard to give up and let go, so i sense this bit of sadness, but i do not feel a regret at all about going when it is truly, my time. Honestly, I think I can see the handwriting on the wall, already. My children are all going to make it, i will go when the lord says, it's enough.

Jim, did you think I don't believe in the resurrection? Of course, I do. If Dad had not had the promise of choosing his time to go, and had gone that same weekend, I would have known somehow that he had chosen, simply because it became such an overpowering experience for me.

For myself, i still think that dream I had a couple weeks after Dad died could be valid as for when I might go. "The next bus from the Genealogy library would not be back until 5-12????I don't think about that a whole lot and I don't dream such explicite dates either or times.

Then she ended with some personal words and "Love you lots, MOM."

I got a call on my cell from my older sister Janean around 6:00 pm, while waiting for an ordered pizza, (taking it to share with friends who are rather political -- Super Tuesday in full swing, like a good football game, you know.) Janean had just gotten a call from Karen in Idaho. She had found Mom, on the floor, barely breathing. She lifted her into the bed and she took a few more breaths and then passed on.

The next day I talked again to Janean. I asked her, "Do you remember the time Mom passed away?" She answered, "Oh yes. Karen called me at 5:12 pm."

I guess Mom was right in the beginning when she counseled me about the "oatmeal sticking to my ribs" and in the end about timing when she said that she had, "no regret at all about going when it is truly, my time."

Good bye Mom. I love you. And wherever I am, there you are in my heart. Just like I used to say as a kid busting though the front door on Christine Ave. in Simi Valley, I know, with you I can still say, "Mom! I'm home!"

IN LOVE and ROMANCE...I'm Hopeless.

ABOUT LOVE, HOLLYWOOD, and Well…LOVE

The Culture of Hollywood and Why Love Stories Become Twisted When Translated to Screen:

I’m hopeless. AND, I refuse to yeild...

This personal review of a ten year journey to get a film made, once promised to a publisher one year after the book came out, is a typical journey for stories where “love” is defined by those with the money, but perhaps not the heart for it.

In Hollywood it is a battle of, “Hard Love vs. Soft Love…” Case in point: “Jim, Hollywood isn’t really doing your kind of stories. They just aren’t hard enough.”

Suspicions confirmed, the sale of my “soft love” story, New York Times best selling The Last Valentine, was what thousands of fans had been asking about for years, and now ten years later it is where it belonged… Hallmark Hall of Fame and CBS. I never believed that “Hollywood” didn’t have interest in “soft love.” The list of enjoyable hits, even blockbusters is too long.

When it comes to love being “hard,” I realized too late, that he was speaking of the “head contrived love” stories but not the kind that comes from the heart. As long as his mental perspective was fixed, I wasn’t going to shift enthusiasm to area perceived as “not” profitable or at least “interesting” to Hollywood film making contacts.

The truth is, he and I are still friends, but live in different worlds. We come at romance from different experiences and paradigms. His world includes a lot of “Noir” (French word for “black” and meaning cynical, rough, violent, dark, etc. class of novels and film.) I refuse to allow any noir into my world. I mean ZERO. What that comes down to is differing views on “reality.” I’m in love with real love; the warm-hearted journey a man or woman makes in winning at it and…

I’m hopeless.

I’m just not interested in noir; aka “hard love.” Something is wrong with me. I want to understand (therefore explore) a love found in the most gentlemanly and heroic of characters… the kind that makes a woman swoon (and stay swooned) – a love that doesn’t demand, but gives, and then receives through no compulsion, obligation, or manipulated feelings – the soft, gentle, kind, filled to the brim with emotion that comes after the effort. It is a culture full of “we and thee,” not the Hollywood view that portrays movie after movie of a narcissist’s “about me and mine.”

Am I missing something here, Hollywood? Am I all alone on this? I don’t think so. In fact, I know Hollywood is losing money from those who WANT to enjoy a great movie filled with realism – the reality of “how love works” not “how it does not.” Even the Soaps acknowledge love affairs they portray as built upon moral quick sand leading to personal and collective destruction.

I’m hopeless, and that seems to be the bottom line to my romantic notions.

To me LOVE, “amore,” the stuff of true passion, is not the knocking around of bodies flailing away in fits of myopically narrow-minded and so-called “love-making” by the literati of cheap noir novels and film at large – but it is the committed touching of the breath and soul of a partner through willingness to believe in, and cherish her. THEN let the holding, touching, and being one with her begin. I like marriage, for example. I mean, to me that kind of commitment is romantic. If I failed at it, I would try again until I got it right. It is in the EFFORT that the reward of ROMANCE is achieved. It is in loving (the verb synonymous with giving) that loving (the verb synonymous with feeling) is received. Where am I going wrong here?

I learned late that I was dealing with one kind of producer in trying to get a beloved “soft” love story produced. The 1,000’s of pieces of fan mail can’t touch a mind whose heart is not in it. The idea of a gentle love that isn’t believed in cannot be written by even an Academy Award winning film-script writer given 2 chances (true event in the epic journey of The Last Valentine to screen) if his heart isn’t in it. The truth about love in Hollywood often is, “hard is hot” and “soft is cold.” In terms of the heart “soft” is very hot to those of us who like great story lines and don’t want orgasmic gratuity or cynicism to interrupt it.

The exception is CBS and their fabulous alliance with Hallmark Hall of Fame; a realization of what makes a great love story. Stories that have heart are remembered forever and a good story line with “heart” is what it is all about with those producers. We can all be grateful for that.

I believe Hollywood at large is missing out on huge revenue potential from those of us who have “given up” in search of something to “watch” and often just “opt out.” (Hopefully good news for publishers.) Ever said, “There’s nothing on!” or “I can’t find a decent movie!” That is really saying something when there are over 100 channels to choose from vs. the four we had when I was young.

Though I feel friendly toward them, my past book-to-film making team have a different view of what a “good love story” is made of. That’s why it took ten years. They see “hard” and I see “soft.”

Finally, years after the promises, I was able to encourage a script written by a lovely person who is now a dear friend, and she found the perfect production partner to create the long hoped for Hallmark Hall of Fame production, The Last Valentine, becoming a CBS movie of the week in 2009.

I recount this for one simple reason. I’M HOPELESS… and VALENTINE’S DAY is coming up. I’m not giving up on writing gentle love stories for book and film, nor giving up on an audience I believe in and who daily continue to express their belief in me. Love is soft… It was never supposed to be “hard.” The world in its splendor wasn’t created with tunnel vision in mind. Neither was love.

Though 4 years old now, this well thought-out news article bears review – IF Hollywood wants to thrive and enjoy our business and confidence once again.

ON FILM AND TELEVISION AUDIENCE TUNING OUT


Spring 2004 USA Today in “LIFE” section with heading CAN TV BE SAVED? 12 Ways, by Robert Bianco.

The Audience

We can find the answer, I believe, in what happened at the last Super Bowl. The Super Bowl at its height attracted 140 million U.S. viewers. On any given night, only 35 to 40 million people watch network television. That is a differential of approximately 100 million people who don’t watch. And it was, in my opinion, those people who were most offended by what they saw and it was those people who spoke out and were heard.

Therefore, network television panders and caters to the base tastes of a minority of people, the lowest common denominator. It is this minority that keeps the networks and their affiliates in business. If the networks and affiliates gave the people what they really want and not what a perverse minority demands, based on the numbers alone, their ratings would almost triple.

TIME TESTED VALUES

OATMEAL…It Sticks to Your Ribs


“Jimmy, eat your oatmeal. It will stick to your ribs,” she promised. I never doubted Mom, just wondered how oatmeal took a trip other food didn’t.

That was over 40 years ago. Mom is still with us, and I guess I still believe her. Everything else she taught has proven of great value in my life. So I’d like to share a bit of Mom’s wisdom this year with you. Some will be from the book I wrote which highlights her instructive philosophies to us nine Pratt kids.

The world is in dire need of simple, straightforward medicine of the moral kind; time-tested values. Mom was right about the oatmeal, and she is still right about what works for a person seeking to be happy. Now an excerpt from: MOM, The Woman Who Made Oatmeal Stick to My Ribs.

“M’m, m’m, good!” That famous jingle originating in 1931 still rings in my ears after all these years. In fact, if life on earth were snuffed out, and travelers from a ­distant planet arrived seeking to understand how we had lived and what caused our demise, they might draw a conclusion or two from what they would find in America’s ­pantries.

There they would doubtless discover several cans of Campbell’s Soup, a brand that could be called “America’s Official Soup” because it is so ubiquitous. The other item most likely to be discovered would be round, cardboard canisters of ­oatmeal.

An alien arriving from deep outer space, landing on an earth devoid of living human beings, might radio these initial findings back to his ­superiors on the mother ship:

“It would seem that the American humans subsisted mainly on two foods. One of them is a liquid mixed with a variety of plant and animal parts. The other is a dry, dusty meal that one can only assume would be hard to swallow. In fact, if eaten in the quantities it appears to have been consumed, it might well be one of the chief killers of this ­civilization.”

“Explain your conclusion.”

“The dusty meal appears to be almost inedible, due to its dry nature. One would almost certainly choke and die from asphyxiation, unless the meal were mixed with some form of liquid, perhaps the soupy liquid found in the cans.”

“And you say this dry meal is to be found in almost every dwelling?”

“Yes, Commander. And it appears to come from a single, central source.”

“Explain.”

“Each of the containers of this flat, grainy substance displays the likeness of a ­round-­faced, rosy cheeked, ­white-­haired, and ­cheerful-­looking male, wearing a black cloak and a broad brimmed head covering of some type. A hat, I believe the former inhabitants called it.”
“And this hat would signify leadership of the American tribe?”

“It appears so. No doubt they respected him greatly, for his image is always found on these containers of what they called ‘Quaker Oats.’”

“We shall call it oatmeal, for the record,” the commander responds. “Is there any way of knowing what may have induced the inhabitants to consume this dry meal in such large amounts?”

“Perhaps. In one habitation, we found a written message next to the carton containing the dry food.”
“A communication?” the commander in the mother ship responds excitedly. “It might contain valuable, even secret information—perhaps from the happy male himself—their leader,” he ­adds.

“Yes, Commander. Or might I suggest this message comes from the feminine side of the race. Everywhere, we find images of these American females preparing foodstuffs.”

“Then a message from a female American to the happy man you described?”

“That may be so. Shall I send the message to you through our portable translation screen?”

“Proceed.”

“Scanning.” The alien on the ground passes the note through the ­handheld device, beaming it up to the command ­ship.

The words pop up on the screen before the alien commander, seated at the control console of the command ship. He ­reads: “Jimmy. Don’t forget to eat your oatmeal. It will stick to your ribs. Love, Mom.”

In illustrating a truth, sometimes it is useful to take something to the absurd. Mom was not sophisticated, but she had the knack of unconsciously using metaphors to communicate her teachings. The oatmeal speech she frequently gave us is one such example. In her desire to fortify us against the day ahead, Mom would often say, just as the imaginary mother above, “Eat your oatmeal, children. It will stick to your ribs.”

My younger brother, Rex, the brother I grew up closest to—you know, the one you blame for the mischief you get into, cheat at board games, take advantage of and ask to test the cold water of the swimming pool first—was in the hospital a few years back, awaiting major surgery that would take the surgeon through his rib ­cage.

I had promised that our family would pray for him, and I called him to let him know I was aware of his needs the hour before the surgery was to take place. He was in a ­well-­known Los Angeles hospital, and I had expected merely to leave a message for him. Somewhat sedated from the effects of prep drugs, my brother personally picked up the phone in his private room. Our conversation went something like ­this:

“So, Rex, you worried?”
“No . . . not . . . really . . .”
“I’m praying for you.”
“Oh . . . well, uh, I’m . . . kinda . . . drug . . . ged . . . right now.”
“Well, I know everything will go well.”
“Oh . . . O . . . kay . . .” he slurred as the drugs took greater effect. “I’d . . . bet . . . ter . . . go . . . now,” he added, drifting away from the ­conversation.
“Can you do something for me?” I ­asked.
“What?” he demanded, but as kindly as he could under the ­circumstances.
“Ask the doctors a question when you come out of recovery.”
“What?”
“Ask them if they found any oatmeal.”
“What?” he squeaked out. “I got . . . ta . . . go . . . ’Bye . . .”
“’Bye. Love you, Brother.”
Click.
The surgery was a success, and when I called Rex the next day to check on him, I just assumed he would remember our ­pre­-operation conversation of the day ­before.
“So,” I said. “The prayers worked.”
“Yeah. Guess so,” he ­answered.
“You ask the doctors the question?”
“What question?”
“You know. They cut through your ribs to get to that gland and fix it, right?”
“Yeah . . . so?”
“So did they find what I asked you to have them look for?”
“Jim, what are you talking about?”
“Oatmeal. Did they find any oatmeal stuck to your ribs?”
Silence.
Rex was still under the influence of the drugs he had been given and wasn’t yet thinking clearly, so I let him off the ­hook.
“Talk to you later,” I said. “We are remembering you in our prayers. But ask the doctors for me, will you?”
“Yeah . . . sure. ’Bye.”
Click.

See, Mom never lied. Unlike our Dad, who lied to get into World Ward II so he could save the planet, Mom always told the truth. I’m not sure if she ever mentioned it to any of her other children, but Mom definitely had always told me when I lived at home: “Jimmy, eat your oatmeal, it’ll stick to your ribs . . .”

Today my own kitchen cabinets are full of oatmeal—all flavors. I still eat the stuff regularly. But I never quite understood what Mom meant by it “sticking to my ribs.” I have never asked either; I just assumed if she said it would stick, then it ­would.

I recall as a boy feeling around my ribcage after eating my oatmeal and wondering if it took a trip other foods didn’t. Maybe oatmeal really did hang out down ­there. “ . . . and it’ll keep you warm,” Mom would add, an assurance that eating the entire bowl would be good for ­me.

See, I trust Mom. So I had never in my life, not even to this day, in my fifth decade, asked why she thought oatmeal, above all other foods, would adhere to my ribs instead of becoming digested in the normal ­way. The idea that I took from Mom, especially when I was living thousands of miles away from home in South America, and eating almost daily a soupy gruel of ­watered-­down, cooked oats for breakfast (consumed as a drink rather than a thick porridge) was that oatmeal was good for me and that it would also somehow keep me safe. It was a comforting thing. Whenever I brought the cup of warm, soupy oat drink to my lips, Mom was there with ­me.

As I think on it now, the oatmeal must have comforted Mom too. She just needed to know that something she did would stick to us away from home, when we seven boys and two girls ventured out into the cold, hard ­world.

Oatmeal might not literally stick to ribs, but I never, ever, eat it without hearing Mom’s voice. So it wasn’t just the oatmeal that stuck to this boy. The porridge was a symbol of something else that would stay with me—her love and pride in me and the ­time-­tested values she taught, which provided real warmth and a shield against the punches life would deliver. Obeying Mom by eating the hot cereal was a way of assuring myself that I could ­succeed.

Mom always got it right, because she always gave the best. There are no perfect moms or dads, any more than there are perfect children; but some moms come pretty close. After all is said and done, knowing Mom cares makes a boy feel ­safe.

And as for the oatmeal, every time I eat it I smile and think about it sticking to my ribs in a special way, a way that causes me to silently ­say:

“Thanks, Mom. Your warmth and caring has stuck where it matters most, and it still is protecting my heart!”

HEART MATTERS FOR A NEW YEAR

New Heart Resolutions!

New Year's resolutions invite us to challenge our brain in a behavioral contest of change; a sort of "mind over matter" thing where we determine to begin new habits, unload old ones, and become a better person. My recomendation for the New Year is to examine some of what I call "Heart Matters." I will be sharing one weekly blog per month on the topic for 2008.

After all, if your heart works well, so does your brain. Your body can live "brain dead" (not that you would want to) but your body is "dead, dead" if the heart quits. So I begin...

The Steady and Reliable Heart

Your heart is about the same size as your fist. It beats without instruction from the brain. It has intelligent and intuitive capacity. It knows its job and its job is nothing less than assuring your survival. Here are some stunning statistics revealing what your heart actually does to insure you keep on the go each and every day.

• 
  
  An average adult body contains about five and one half quarts of blood.


• 
  
  All the blood vessels in the body joined end to end would stretch 62,000 miles or two and one half times around the earth.


• 
  
  The heart circulates the body's blood supply about 1,000 times each day.


• 
  
  The heart pumps the equivalent of 2,000 gallons each day.


• 
  
  Heart beats per minute range from an average 70 to 120 and over an average life span of 70 years the heart will beat more than 2 billion times.

How important is the human heart? You can lose a kidney, a lung, have paralysis affect various regions of the body, lose parts of mental capacity, or even be “brain-dead,” but if you lose your heart you become dead-dead.I am the lucky survivor of two near death causing internal injuries where life-saving blood transfusions were given me within a space of two years.

Both life-saving events occurred while I was writing my first novel The Last Valentine. In fact I used that singular experience of near death from blood loss to describe the final moments of one of the main characters who had been fatally wounded in the plot’s World War Two battle. See, I understood first hand a stomach wound with blood draining from me at a dangerous rate. I could describe how our hero felt, minute by life draining minute.

Here is what it fells like to be dying from sudden blood loss. You get cold as the blood moves first from the extremities to the vital organs. What decides this blood transfer for you? Your brain? No, the heart decides. It just knows what to do as it furiously picks up speed to send blood where it needs to go to keep the body alive.

As the blood continues to seep out of you, the vital organs are prioritized, and those most vital have the blood rushed to support them. You begin to get the chills even in July. Your heart is racing yet you can barely keep your eyes open – the oxygenated blood that feeds your brain is needed elsewhere. Doctors race to stop the flow of blood and you will be given someone else’s blood while they patch you up. But dying from blood loss doesn’t hurt. As you lose consciousness you also lose concern. A strange surrender envelopes you as you drift into unconsciousness.

Because of my concern for HIV possible tainted blood supplies, which had occurred in the 1990’s, I begged my friend, Dr. Neil Whitaker to find any other way to save me but by transfusion. He answered. “Jim, I don’t think you understand. This could be the ‘Big Adios.’” I recall weakly asking, “You mean as in ‘hasta la vista baby?’ That ‘Big Adios?’” He nodded. “Okay. Send the blood in,” I strained in answer.

It is no wonder my thoughts have turned to the miraculous and moving feeling concerning heart matters as I turned out such titles as, The Last Valentine, Ticket Home, The Good Heart, Paradise Bay, and As A Man Thinketh…In His Heart. The gift of life, the receipt of blood donated anonymously by another, is humbling and causes one to pause in gratitude and wonder at the preciousness of life. Someone with a very good heart offered me the life sustaining blood to carry on, not once but twice. I think about that every time I see the American Red Cross symbol, or “Blood Drive” signs around town.

We often are tempted to extol the human mind as the most brilliant of all God’s creations, the most magnificent computer, unlike anything man can create in all its capacities to compute and process commands and thoughts in real time.

Interestingly, no matter how much the brain demands and begs for our attention, the gentle and forgiving heart just moves on, doing what it does a thousand times each day – sustaining your life, giving you mortality, offering you another chance at life—a tomorrow.

Take time to thank your heart, and to share your heart-felt feelings with others. I’m glad someone unknown to me donated what had once passed through the most magnificent of God’s creations –the human heart!

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.