Jim Ainsworth

Annie Golightly

2012-02-29T08:10:00.000-08:00

I had heard of her before, but the first time I saw her wasin my yard on a warm summer day. She walked around, casting a critical, but notjudgmental eye on our place in the country that we call Bar Nun Ranch. It’s notreally a ranch, of course. Not big enough. But I think Annie liked what she saw. I was expecting her and hailed her fromthe metal-roofed building I call my office. Jan calls it the White House.

She drove the few yards in her new bright-red Ford half-tonwith fancy wheels and all the accessories that cowboys tend to prefer. I foundout later that her hair had been jet black, but it was now white and pulledback in a severe pony-tail. Tall, but beginning to stoop slightly, she worejeans and a white western shirt and ivory ostrich boots with riding heels. Idon’t pay much attention to jewelry, but I recall she had on a lot ofturquoise. When she extended her hand and shook mine firmly and warmly with abright smile, I knew we would be friends, but I didn’t know the half of Annie’sstory. Still don’t, but I know more than some.

Her reputation preceded her. My in-laws knew her and a lotof folks just older than me remembered growing up with her around Fairlie,Yowell, and Commerce. The mere mention of her name to any of those peoplealways elicited a smile and a story or two of her young and wild days as AnnMilford (Anna Mac, Little Mac, etc..). Her brother was the famous Dallas weatherman and later congressman,Dale Milford. Everybody around here was proud that he was one of our own whenwe saw him on television every night. But five minutes into our conversation, Isuspected Annie was nothing like her gentlemanly brother.

Annie loved my rustic office because, of course, it is aboutas cowboy as I could make it. She handed me a business card that said “Painterof Portraits, Poet/Writer, Umbrella Fixer, Goat Roper, Fry Cook, Grandma,Bootlegger, Part Time Cab Driver, Full Time Texan. I thought it was a joke, butit wasn’t. I was particularly interested in that part about painting. The redpickup just happened to hold a couple of large portraits she had painted. Onewas of a 911 first-responder that would bring tears to a grown man’s eyes. I’mno art critic, but I knew she was talented. That first meeting planted theseeds of a friendship that has blossomed over the years. I knew she had ownedat least two night clubs, but did not know she had performed in “The BestLittle Whorehouse in Texas” at Casa Manana and that she was a nominee for theCowgirl Hall of Fame.

Annie was coming to see me about a manuscript she hadwritten. Terry Mathews, now Arts and Entertainment Editor for the SulphurSprings News Telegram, caused our paths to cross. Annie had participated (thatword is too lightweight) in what became known as the Great American CattleDrive of 1995. Her manuscript told of her adventures as the only woman droveron that drive. She had held her own with cowboys (all younger than her) all theway from Fort Worth, Texas to Miles City, Montana, a journey of some eighteenhundred miles and six months. As a veteran of my own horseback and coveredwagon trip across Texas, I was impressed. We had traveled less than a quarterof that distance and we didn’t have 300 head of longhorn cattle and over ahundred horses to keep moving. And Annie was nearly sixty-four when the drivebegan.

I suspected that her drive was well-financed and that theparticipants were borderline coddled on the trip. I learned better. Theyendured rain, sleet, hail, high winds, a tornado, extremes of both heat andcold, and lack of funds. Worse, they endured homesickness, frustration,disappointments, and dissension. We had none of the latter and few of theformer on our trip. Bad weather pales in comparison to dissension. But Anniepersevered.

Annie is an unabashed lover of cowboys and everything remotelyrelated to their lifestyle—makes no bones about it. She told me later that suchunconditional love had delivered a lot of joy but also more than a fewheartaches and trouble. I learned that she was once-divorced and twice-widowed.Done with changing her last name, she took the name Golightly on a dance-floorwhim. I don’t recall who her dance partner was when she made that decision. Shelost one house by flood, another by fire, but still managed to get all fivekids raised.

During the time that we worked together on her book, Ilearned that she was not only famous in our small corner of Northeast Texas,but it seemed that almost everyone in the town “Where the West Begins” knewher, too. Her father was Cherokee and the heritage is so evident she becameknown in Fort Worth as “The Singing Savage”. She had performed for two American Presidents and twoforeign ones, Governor and Ms. John Connally, Arnold Palmer, NelsonRockefeller, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Slim Pickens, Chuck Connors, to name afew. She had performed with Tom T. Hall,Rex Allen, Rosemary Clooney (for you young folks—that’s George’s aunt), AceReid, Arthur Duncan, among others. She completed her degree in English andCreative Writing at Texas Wesleyan University at age sixty-three.

She was also one of the most cooperative authors I everworked with. And she knew how to market her work. Her friend Mike Cochran wrotethe foreword to her book. Mike is a journalist retired from Associated Pressand the Fort Worth Star Telegram who has been nominated for the Pulitzer threetimes, authored five books, won six Headliner awards, and the Texas Instituteof Letters Stanley Walker Journalism Award (twice). Another friend of Annie’s andcolumnist for the Star Telegram, the late Jim Trinkle, said of Annie, “There isa happy, vibrant quality to songs as Annie sings them. Audiences . . . aremoved by her personal magnetism.”

When Dreams and A White Horse was publishedless than a year after that first meeting, I learned that Annie knew folks at BillyBob’s (world’s largest honky-tonk) and arranged a signing there. She generouslyrequested (make that insisted) that I bring along my own books to sell. Ineeded no persuading. I had listened to her CD’s, but finally cajoled her tosing a song or two that night in Billy Bob’s, a night I will never forget.

It was to be the last time I would hear her sing and play. Astroke stopped all that. It affected her peripheral vision and she had to stopdriving. She has trouble with one arm working like it used to. She had to giveup the pickup of her dreams and leave her beloved Fort Worth to be near herdaughter. She can no longer paint and has to hunt and peck on the keyboard.

I dropped by to see her in Corsicana a short while back andspent a terrific afternoon. She talks frankly about her health problems butrefuses to let them get her down. She’s filled with gratitude for the life shehad and the life she has left, for the love and support of family and friends. Shestill possesses that dogged determination that caused her to rise to thechallenge of participating in a long trail drive after being told that womenwould not be allowed to serve as drovers.

And did I mention she’s a good cook? I keep a jar of her plum jelly in my officerefrigerator, saving it only for special occasions because Annie told me therewould not be any more. I hope she’s wrong about that.

Postscript: I write my postings days, sometimes weeks, evenmonths, in advance of publication. I wrote the rough draft of this one onFebruary 24, 2012. I put the final touches on it at 3:30 PM February 28. Iplanned to called Annie and read it to her before posting the first week ofMarch. At 5:22 PM on February 28, I got an e-mail that appeared to be fromAnnie, a very rare occurrence. It was her address, but not from Annie. Thee-mail was from Annie’s family. She died at 3:23, seven minutes before Ifinished the final edits on the article. She insisted that there be no funeral,no memorial service, only to be remembered by family and friends. She will be. Shedonated her body to science. That’s so Annie. She knew, I expect, when she toldme there would be no more jelly.

Hosses and Bosses

2012-02-23T09:06:00.000-08:00

We all sat at booths and tables in the new trendy café in abuilding a few feet away from the campus of Texas A&M-Commerce (formerlyknown as ET). We were within sight of a multitude of memories for all of us.Most had frequented the same building when it housed different enterprisesduring college days decades ago. The occasion was a celebration of Dr. FredTarpley’s eightieth birthday. He had been a Tejas sponsor as far back as 1957.

We had difficulty deciding who should sit where, but finallysettled in. Music blared from two different sources (with two different songs) andwe had a little trouble hearing ourselves talk. Settled in, we perused ourmenus. I wondered if I was the only one basing my decision not on what I wanted,but what I would wear around my waist for how long after consumption. Welaughed when asked to produce drivers’ licenses in order to buy beer or wine.Jace asked the young waitress if she was joking.

Just about the time we finished placing our orders, theannoying recorded music suddenly changed. A real band scheduled to perform thatnight (we were there around five PM—yes, we do eat early) had arrived to “testthe sound system.” Their sound came through with perfect clarity and pitch. Wife Jan noticed the sudden change in thegathering of thirty or so lifelong friends before I did. Looking back, I thinkthe sudden change of atmosphere in the room was similar to a hypnoticregression without benefit of a hypnotist. We were just transported back intime without thinking about it. Fingers drummed on tabletops in time with thebeat, eyes brightened, feet tapped, heads nodded, and butts squirmed in timewith the music. The few still standing swayed with the rhythm. The jitterbug orthe push was definitely about to erupt. I wanted them to.

You got me runnin’, you got me hidin’

You got me run, hide, hide run

Anywayyou wanna let it roll

Yeah,Yeah, Yeah . . .

Yougot me doin’ what you want me

Ohbaby, why you wanna let go?

The tune-upfor the band with this 1959 Jimmy Reed classic didn’t last long, but it wasenough to refresh some memories of the way this fun-loving, caring group ofpeople used to be and still are. It brought a feeling. I came along only a fewyears behind them, but Jan and I felt we had caught a really good glimpse ofwhat it must have been like to have been part of this fine group of people weso much respect and admire during the fifties, a great decade. They remainyouthful in appearance and especially in manner, but time seemed to reverse aswe swayed to the beat of that old classic.

I started to title this The Brotherhood, but that would notgive due credit to the Bosses. I know in advance that I will get a fact or twowrong on this piece and I know that I will be quickly, but kindly, corrected.There were thirteen social clubs on the campus of ET during the forties andfifties. The Tejas Club was formed in 1946 and affiliated with Sigma PhiEpsilon Fraternity thirteen years later.

I never joined a fraternity or social club. I am reminded of what GrouchoMarx said, “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.”But that doesn’t explain why I was not a joiner. I had plenty of excuses: nomoney, part time job, I was a commuter, etc… But many of the Tejas guys had the samecircumstances. They didn’t let a few obstacles stand in the way of forming bondsthat have lasted a lifetime.

Many of the Hosses are country boys like me. Most had tostruggle to pay for tuition and books; many left college or enrolled for thefirst time after serving their country. Many would not have been in college hadit not been for the GI Bill. All have Tejas nicknames. At least, the ones Iknow do. I knew many by name and reputation but knew little about their groupuntil Jan started working with them through her campus job. We were honoredwith invitations to many of their social functions. As we left the home of Johnand Peggy Moss in Pecan Gap one evening a few years back, I asked Jan if shehad ever seen a finer, more fun-loving, successful, warm group of people in herlife. Both of us appreciated being included.

When my first novel (Inthe Rivers Flow) was published in 2003, Hoss Jace Carrington (another DeltaCounty boy) sent a copy to Kendall Wright (a Cooper native), a Hoss who livesin Alabama. Many scenes in the novel occur in Delta County. Jake Rivers, my protagonist,plays on a baseball team the first year Little League came to Northeast Texas.I did not know that Kendall, in college then, was an assistant coach for one ofthe teams. Even though I had changed character names, he sent me a letteridentifying every one of the characters (by their real names), which team theyplayed for, what positions they played, and even where they are today. He evenbrought me a photo of all the coaches during that wonderful era.

I am not only impressed with the kindness, generosity,warmth and friendliness of this group, but would be remiss if I failed tomention their leadership. There may be exceptions, but this group is made up ofsuccessful folks, not just in wealth, but in life. They formed an endowment forET and quickly grew it to one of the largest on campus. They served andcontinue to serve in leadership positions all over the country, and I am sure Idon’t know the half of it. I am privileged to be included as an honorarymember.

You say I didn’t explain who the bosses are? You must not bemarried.

Warning: Commercial break. Go Down Looking, my next novel, update—copy edits complete, contentedits approved, front cover approved, layout approved. Next step is spine andback cover. Then I will receive the first bound book for one last chance tochange anything.

A Funeral in the Country

2012-02-16T09:18:00.000-08:00

I attended a funeral a few weeks ago, an increasingly commonoccurrence in my life. I knew the deceased, but not well enough to reallyexpound on the quality of her life and legacy. I won’t even mention her name,because these are my private feelings and I’m just not qualified to speak withauthority about her or her family. Many things about death are public, but Ithink most of the most important things are private.

I knew all of her children (there are eight) and most oftheir spouses—some just by sight, some through business or social interaction. It’sfair to say I was friends with one or two. One once worked in my small westernwear store many years ago; another two or three were my clients when I had aCPA firm. I have bought goods and services or transacted business with a couplemore. I’m not sure the rest of the children would recognize me on the street. Istate all of these non-qualifications because they matter to what I am about tosay. These are thoughts more from an observer than a participant. I went to thefuneral expecting to pay my respects to the deceased and her family. But I received much more than I gave.

As the family filed into the Cowboy Church, I tried to get aglimpse of the children I knew but had not seen in a long time. Then somethingchanged in the big sanctuary. It wasn’t the music; I think it actually stopped;it wasn’t anything anybody said. For me at least, it was as if the familybrought not only their sorrow, but their shared memories of happiness, sadnessand hardship and it filled the big room with an aura that went to the ceiling,settled, and gently spread itself on all of us. Yes, I know that usuallyhappens for close friends when families enter at the beginning of a service. Butthat’s why I mentioned those non-qualifications before. It surprised me when thewarm feeling settled on me and I felt a sense of reverence and awe.

I don’t know how many were seated before the family entered,but I would guess there were at least three hundred, probably more. The familyfiled in for a long time, eight children, nineteen grandchildren and thirty-eightgreat grandchildren, the obituary read. With spouses, the immediate family hadto be close to a hundred. Now, the church was not only almost filled to capacitywith people, it was filled with memories.

The children and grandchildren told stories of a fun-lovingand just plain-loving wife, mother and grandmother. By the time the service wasdone, the family had succeeded in bringing together a Church of Christ pastor,a Mennonite choir, and the Cross Trails Cowboy Church, a Southern BaptistOutreach.

As I heard the eulogies and stories, I felt that a strongmessage was being conveyed, that there were many lessons to be learned fromthis woman’s life. Yes, I know there are lessons we can learn from every life,but something special was conveyed to me that day. Maybe it was because of mycountry upbringing and the culture I revere and love. I’ll bet my hardscrabble—toughtimes—raised in poverty upbringing with just about anybody and raise them aplate of red beans and cornbread. You can only beat me if you had parents whodid not love you. On that score, I was a rich boy. This woman’s childrenprobably also suffered more than their share of deprivations, but they werealso raised rich on love.

Another thing. I’m country and proud of it and this funeralmade me even prouder, because I think it’s fair to say that this woman, herhusband and most (or all) of their children were and are country, too. And theyare justifiably proud of it. I know at least one son is cowboy to the core. Ihardly recognized him without his hat. He’s figured out how to make a goodliving doing something he is good at and loves.

And look at what this country couple accomplished. Eightchildren. I have no way of knowing, but I’ll just bet they didn’t start out toraise eight. One was on the way or had just been born when the husband wasreported killed in the service of his country. That turned out not to be true, ofcourse, but he did lose an eye. Can you imagine the pain of loss she endureduntil he was discovered alive? And what about his sacrifice, loss and pain?

Those of us who have raised kids or are raising them knowthe financial burdens and the tremendous time involved in raising two or three(yes, the rewards are greater than any sacrifice), but eight? Times were tough,but they raised them all. That meant that the children all had to pitch in andhelp with their own upbringing and I’ll just bet that is one of the reasonsthis family is so close. After the kids were all grown, the family managed topull together a fun-filled family reunion every year, diligently attended bymost of the descendants and a few dozen of their closest friends. This coupleshowed that you don’t have to be rich or famous, urbane, or even sophisticatedto make your mark in this world, to have a positive impact. They showed that inthe beginning, during the process, and at the end, it’s all worth it. What alegacy and lesson for us all.

American Bloomsbury and Woods Burner

2012-02-09T11:35:00.000-08:00

I am reviewing two books because they are related, eventhough only one is fiction and they are by different authors. I first read Bloomsburythree years ago and was intrigued. If you have ever read or quoted RalphWaldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Nathaniel Hawthorne, or Louisa May Alcott (andalmost all of us have), this book should fascinate you. It’s not an academictreatise, but a fascinating story about their lives, loves and work.

Did you know that these transcendentalist folks lived andwere close friends in the small town of Concord, Massachusetts? They alsointeracted (in many interesting ways) with Herman Melville (MobyDick), Walt Whitman (Leaves of Grass), Margaret Fuller (knownas the best read person in New England) and other famous thinkers and writers,including former presidents. You won’t find, for example, from watching themovie Little Women that Alcott’sfather didn’t believe in owning property but had no reservations about living (usuallyrent-free) in houses owned by others. The Alcott family also lived in a communefor several years where Alcott failed to take on his share of the work. He wasdependent on others’ generosity most of his life until Louisa supported him andthe rest of the family through her writing.

Did you know that Thoreau sometimes went by another name? Thathe also was dependent on others (primarily Emerson) most of his life? That hemade pencils in his father’s pencil factory?

I enjoy biographies, especially when they are written incompelling narrative. Think David McCullough. But this book is more than abiography of famous folks. Susan Cheever masterfully weaves the relationshipsof these famous people into a fascinating tale. You will not just read abouthow brilliant they were, but how vulnerable, sometimes naïve, and yes, sometimesignorant in certain areas. Cheever neither disparages their weaknesses nor laudstheir brilliance; she just tells us about them. I was especially surprised andpleased by the balanced treatment she gave the period leading up to the CivilWar, especially since Cheever lives in New York. Did I come away thinking lessof these great people? No, I just see them as more human.

Speaking of naïve, did you know that Thoreau accidentally (andprobably negligently) set fire to the woods near Concord in 1844? The firedestroyed almost 300 acres of beautiful trees. “I once set fire to the woods .. . It was a glorious spectacle, and Iwas the only one there to enjoy it.” –Thoreau’s journal, 1850. John Pipkintakes this true tale and turns it into a very entertaining and informativenovel. When I met him at a book fest in Tyler, Texas and heard what his bookwas about, I thought of American Bloomsbury. After readingPipkin’s vibrant Woods Burner, I pulled my old friend American Bloomsbury offthe shelf and read it again. You won’t be disappointed by either book.

Pulling the Trigger on a Book

2012-02-02T11:36:00.001-08:00

As an author, I am intrigued by what causes readers to buyand read a book. The vast majority of authors, even those with big publishers,are responsible for marketing their own books. And the old 80/20 rule we oftenspoke of in business is closer to 90/10 in writing. That is, 90% of books aresold by 10% of the authors. Those of us in that lower echelon (way lower) arehandicapped (I am assuming here that I am not alone) in that we can’t figurewhat triggers the buying impulse. Even a few of my loyal readers often waitmonths, even years, after one of my books is released to buy it. That confusesme, but I have no right to complain because I can’t figure what triggers my ownbuying impulse when it comes to books. In my old financial planning days, Iused to tell clients that books were investments, not expenses. I still believethat to be very true.

I am a list keeper and always have been. I plead the fifthwhen asked how many books are on my list. Think “so many books, so little time”. And I honestly don’t know what makes me finally pull the trigger to buy.I know I buy when my stack of un-reads starts to get low, but I sometimes makestrange selections from the list. Even after I buy them, I sometimes read themin weird order, often giving preference to the newest ones.

Why? Age on a novel doesn’t take away its luster. I usuallyput books on my list because I have read about the books or authors somewhereelse. Sometimes, it is a referral from a friend or a stranger I admire or areview I have read. Often, they make my list after I read another book by theauthor that I enjoyed. I also buy many award winners, under the sometimes falseassumption that some committee of readers has vetted the book for me. Thatworks only about half the time. Sometimes, it is abundantly clear why the bookwas selected. Other times, I am confused as to how the book won an award. Someaward winners are really tough reads. If I feel that an author has made thebook needlessly difficult, I usually avoid his work in the future.

The embarrassing part is that I may not read all thebooks by an author that I sincerely admire. Why not? I should. If the author isgood once, chances are he will be good almost every time. Remember William Gay,the author I admired enough to travel across several states to spend anafternoon with him? When he asked me if I had read all of his books, I had toadmit that I had not. I rectified that as soon as I returned, but why had I notalready read everything this great writer had written? I think I did not wantto be disappointed in case his prior or subsequent work did not hold up to thehigh bar I had set for him.

I plead innocent to reading books because the author is ahousehold name and I want to be part of the “in” crowd. If fact, I read few best-sellers.Jealousy, you say? No, I admire best-selling authors and seek their counsel. Possibly,I am on an internal quest to find the great undiscovered author. More likely, Iprobably seek to find the author who really “speaks to me.”

I want to be friends with my books, so I follow Shakespeare’sadvice: Neither a borrower nor lender be. I have broken that rule a few times,but not too often. My friend and mentor Dr. Fred Tarpley does not hold books, hecaresses them. I look at the read books on my shelves as old friends that I canturn to on a moment’s notice, and the book I am reading now as an intimatefriend. My next post will offer a review of two of those friends. In themeantime, what causes you to pull the trigger on a book? Let me know.

Two Days in Albany

2012-01-26T09:54:00.000-08:00

Long before Lucas Black had his seven days in Utopia (seeprevious blog), I had my two days in Albany. One of the more memorable eventsin my life began in 1989 when I heard about WattMatthews of Lambshead by Laura Wilson. David McCullough (before he won thePulitzer and became world famous), wrote the introduction to the book.

Watt was ninety when the book was published, but still stoodat the branding chutes and applied his iron to 2000 calves during springroundup. But what really struck me was that this wealthy man still lived in asmall bunkhouse on the ranch with a concrete floor and no central A/C and onlya fireplace for heat; slept on an iron bed; took noontime naps on a woodenbench without benefit of a pillow; and ran his 45,000 acres from an open cornerin the cook shack.

Though Watt’s father feared that Princeton would be bad forhis character, his mother insisted that he attend. He graduated in 1921. Thefour years he spent there were the only four years he did not live on LambsheadRanch. The Princeton class directory listed him as “Rancher, Box 636, Albany,Texas”. And Princeton did not harm his character. Bill Cauble, a Lambshead cowboy,said, “To me, that’s the real character of a man, when he could have anythinghe wanted, but didn’t want anything.”

I made an entry on my goals list: “Meet Watt Matthews”. Icouldn’t really see how that would come about, but I wanted it to. Afterwriting that goal, Watt seemed to show up in about half the magazines andnewspapers I picked up—winner of Golden Spur Award, Charles GoodnightAward from National Cutting Horse Association, and many others. He was invitedto be inducted into the Cowboy Hall of Fame, but asked that his mother beinducted instead. She was, but he was inducted later.

Two years aftersetting my goal to meet Watt, I made a career change that took me in a directionI never imagined. I co-founded a small financial services firm. Our niche wasin training CPA’s to be financial planners. Four years later, one of our CPA’sinvited me to San Angelo, fairly close to Watt. I put him off. A family friendinvited me to Ranger. Too busy. A Sweetwater CPA invited me out. All close toAlbany, but the head-slapping moment came when an Albany CPA that I did notknow called me. A deep voice said, “How many hints do you need?”

I made business stops in Abilene, San Angelo, Sweetwater,and spent the night in little Albany, a town of about two thousand. The CPA Icame to visit sent me to the First National Bank, where Watt had been adirector for over sixty years. A pair of his old boots and spurs and a hat werein a glass display in the lobby. A teller gave me directions and I drovethirteen miles to the ranch, then fifteen more on a ranch road until I foundheadquarters. I checked the outbuildings and all seemed deserted. I just couldn’tbring myself to knock on the door to a small cottage in the middle ofheadquarters. What would I say to a mannow ninety-six? “Hi, I’m a tourist. Would you sign my books?” Blame Nadelle and Teadon for teaching me manners.

Tail between my legs, I returned to town. I visited theMatthews room in the Old Jail Art Museum. In the local bookstore, I bought Interwoven, a book written in 1936 bySally Reynolds Matthews, Watt’s mother. Watt was the youngest of her ninechildren. The bookstore owner laughed when I told her about my hapless trip tothe ranch. She called and got Watt’s caregiver on the phone. She invited me tocome back out.

Watt and his caregiver and about ten cowboys were in thecook shack when I arrived. “Get a plate,” he said. I politely declined,apologized for bothering the great man. When he repeated the invitation morefirmly, I got in line behind the last ranch hand, heaven for this wannabecowboy. The meal was great ranch fare, tasty and hearty. After an hour ofconversation, I presented my books. He asked the nurse for a pad and pen. Hewrote on the yellow pad and handed it to me.

Thanks to JimAinsworth for bringing this book to Lambshead for me to sign. Sincerely, a newfriend. Watt Matthews, 9-6-95.

Inodded humbly in appreciation and he wrote the same thing in my books. How Iwish I had asked for that yellow sheet of paper. I saw his open journal and hisbench in the corner that he called his office and asked if I could take a look.Found this entry:

Beautiful starlitmorning. Hope the wind doesn’t come up with the sun. We got the cows in,separated, vaccinated and dipped in time to get started with the branding atten.

Later, I got to see some of the buildings he had restored,the civic work he led and funded. Watt died less than two years later. There was a car wreckon the ranch, followed by a stroke and pneumonia. He asked to be brought homefrom the hospital and died the next morning.They put him in a plain pine box dressed in jeans and bootsand denim jacket. Family members nailed it shut and put the box in the bed of a faded yellow buckboard, and surroundedit with bales of hay. Two cowboys in white shirts and black hats sat in theseat and handled the horses. More walked behind and alongside to the familycemetery on the ranch. They laid him to rest on the ranch he loved. Over 700mourners attended and the burial was covered by news outlets nationwide.

They sang “America the Beautiful” and Watt’s favorite song, “PrairieLand”. A prairie plain, a bright bluesky, A now white cloud a sailin’ high, A wanton wind, a blowin’ free, This isthe land for men like me.

Yes it is.

Seven Days in Utopia

2012-01-19T10:03:00.000-08:00

Although Robert Duvall has never recaptured the magic ofAugustus McCrae, his portrayal of the old Texas Ranger in Lonesome Dove makesme want to watch any movie he is in. But this is about a movie and a book. Thebook was originally published as Golf’sSacred Journey, but republished using the movie title. Don’t stop readingif you are not a golfer. There are many more compelling reasons to read thebook and watch this movie. Lucas Black is just one of them. We watched him in Flash more than a dozen times with thegrandkids, and he was also great in Allthe Pretty Horses. Remember his line “Because I’m an American”?

Dr. David L. Cook has written a spiritual book that is notafraid of religion. If you a cynic, check out his credentials and the golfinggreats who endorse his message. It seems that Hollywood has stained religiousentertainment with a stigma worse than extreme profanity and borderlinepornography. I applaud everyone associated with the book and the film for theircourage in going against the entrenched ideologues in Sillywood.

And this is one of those rare cases where the movie isslightly better than the book. Although Lucas plays a pro golfer, the messageshere are applicable to our lives in many other ways. I felt a special affinityfor both because they explore more boldly the theme I tried to touch on in Rivers Flow, my first novel. Some may findSeven Days a little sentimental,possibly even hokey, but pay close attention to the message. That message isslimmed down to three letters: SFT. Inmy first novel, it’s one word: Flow. Here’san excerpt from Go Down Looking (duein May) where Jake looks back on earlier times: “And what had happened to theRivers’ flow, that high plane of experience my ancestors had told storiesabout? Flow is a mysterious power that many experience, but nobody can explain.If you believe in it, no explanation is necessary. If you don’t, no explanationis possible.”

Most of us inevitably ask ourselves the big question when wereach the age of maturity: “Why am I here and is this what I am supposed to bedoing with my life?” Some know the answer; most don’t. I didn’t, so I startedtrying to find out. In one of the many seminars, retreats, etc… I attendedtrying to learn the answer, I was given an assignment on the last day. “Listthe times in your life when you did something as well as it could be done,times when you performed above your loftiest expectations.” While fellowattendees scribbled away, my pen stayed still. But on the way home and forseveral days afterward, the memories came. In my case, a lot of the firstmemories had to do with sports—surprising for a mediocre athlete. But as Iwrote, I found that those experiences appeared in other areas of my life, andthat more importantly, they could be repeated. Seven Days illustrates that point in a well-told story.

Still skeptical? Read Flow:The Psychology of Optimal Experience from an author whose credentials farexceed mine.

More from Go Down Looking: “It was during one ofthose kicked-around occasions that I decided to ask for help, to try and findthe flow again and to finally understand it. It didn't come with thunder andlightning or as an immediate epiphany. It took hard work, lots of mentoring,lots of reading, lots of listening, and a lot of blind alleys, disappointmentsand confusion. Mostly, it took commitment. Lights finally began to come on. AndI knew that I was being guided. Things that I had learned began to make sense.The legend became scientific fact. Papa Griff and Rance became wiser. Thistime, I think I understood that flow was not just a gift for the Rivers, but aGod-given gift for anyone who would take it.”

And no, I did not forget to tell you what SFT stands for.Watch the movie. Read the book. And while you are at it, read mine, too. Find it here. Shameless self-promotion?Guilty.

Go Down Looking, Old Men Texting and New Year's

2012-01-12T09:15:00.000-08:00

An update on Go Down Looking

My fifth novel, Go Down Looking isin production and should be released in April or May. Here is the first ofseveral excerpts and progress updates. I welcome your questions and comments.

Rance clicked the knife blade back andforth with his thumb. “A few neighbors have told me that they have seen an oldman sitting on the porch of Papa’s old shack. Said the old man was playing afiddle.”

Jake stood down from the tailgate. “Was itPapa? How would he get out there?”

Rance swiped his knife blade across hisbrogans and closed it. “Not likely. No horse and no fiddle anymore. Probablyheard the wind and imagined they saw him.”

New Year and Seasoned Gentlemen Texting

Confession: I had never watched the Times Square celebration on NewYear’s Eve until this year. Resolution: I will never do it again (unless agrandchild talks me into it). Apologies to Dick Clark and all of you who wereor are fans of New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. When I was younger, it just seemeddepressing to be watching television at the annual witching hour unless youcould find a great old movie. I have now tried most of the alternatives—partiesetc… and being fast asleep at midnight has emerged as a clear winner. After ahearty breakfast, you’re ready for black-eyed peas to start the New Year. Soundold-fogey? Maybe, but seriously, what’s entertaining about watching a bunch ofrowdy revelers (most under the influence) wearing silly hats and screaming atthe top of their lungs? Yes, there were entertainers (mostly singers), but Iconfess I did not like a single one. I didn't even recognize most of theirnames. And the hosts? I tried ABC andFox cable. Kelly and Hemmer seemed ill at ease with each other and just plainran out of anything to say. The ABC guys (I did not and will not commit theirnames to memory) alternated between wild screams and silly antics. One lookedlike a cardboard cut-out of Dick Clark with a personality to match (thecardboard, not Clark).

So why did I not turn off the tube and go to bed? Because twograndsons (ages nine and fourteen) were determined to stay up. Granddaughter Hannah,eleven, wisely went to bed about ten. The older teen grandchildren haveoutgrown celebrating the New Year with us. Who could blame them? I admit abandoning ship while Jan stayed up a few years in the past. But this year, I figured ifGray Boy (the youngest) could do it, and Landon could support him, so could I.Maybe there was something to that apple or ball falling that would impress me.Nope. Pretty anti-climactic.

When I finally went off to bed a few seconds after midnight, I heardmy cell phone. A text from John Ray. I don’t recall exactly, but the text saidsomething like GBT. I think my friendsince boyhood set his alarm so that he could awaken and groggily send a text tohis friends to prove he could stay up past midnight, and hit the wrong keys. Ichuckled as I replaced the phone in its tiny beach chair (a story for anothertime). It rang again. John again. HNY.This I understood. I am sure he thought I would not see it until the nextmorning. So I texted him back at 12:10 AM. Same2U.I'm not sure if that qualifies as text lingo or tweet speak, but I thought itwas pretty cool. His reply? Go to bed.There are many, many John Ray stories. This has been one of them.

“You have to push back against the age as hard as it pushes againstyou.” Flannery O’
Connor.

Granny's Buttons

2012-01-04T09:41:00.000-08:00

My mother, like many women of her era, seldom disposed ofany garment. When it was no longer suitable for wear, she found use for thefabric. Some pieces were used as rags; some might have been stuffed under adoor to keep out the cold; some became quilt pieces. She also cut off thebuttons and saved them. My wife Jan spent a great deal of time caring for Motherin her final years. She cherishes the small things Mother left, things valuableonly to those who loved her. Jan is a quilter, and she especially lovedMother’s collection of buttons. ForChristmas this year, she decided others needed to share this legacy. This isthe note she wrote to the women and girls in our immediate family. The button bagswere given to Mother’s granddaughters and great-granddaughters.

“Granny” Button Bags

Granny was veryfrugal, as were most women of her era. As garments would wear out, Grannywould cut off the buttons before disposing of the garment, saving them forfuture use. The buttons on your bag are some that she saved. Shewould have thought it very special that they were placed on a bag made just foryou, her granddaughter, with special keepsakes inside. The recipes, inher handwriting, were in her recipe file box along with greeting cards she hadreceived, receipts for various things, dates she purchased a TV (September 23,1976), obituaries for family and friends and other importantdocuments.

Such a speciallady!

When I looked through those buttons and notes and recipeswritten in Mother’s distinctive hand, I noticed that she titled her recipes notKey Lime Pie, or Mince Meat Pie, but with the name of the person who gave therecipe to her. Guess she figured the ingredients spoke for themselves. Thenames brought back sweet memories of some of the most important women in mylife. Aunt Hildred, Aunt Jimmie Dee, Pauline Gervers, and many more. I wasstunned at the number of truly remarkable women in our rural community—womenwho helped to raise me. And I do mean remarkable, resilient, kind, loving,strong women.

I wrote and presented eulogies for Mother and AuntHildred. Some of the other ladies left instructions for me to be a pallbearerat their funerals. Can there be a greater honor? I made myself a note to writemore about them later. A short time before her death, Pauline got a message tome that she wanted one of my books. I was pleased to deliver it. The visit wasshort, and I don’t think I can properly express how it made me feel. Paulinewas the mother of my good friend, not my mother, of course, but as we sharedgood memories, I felt my mother’s presence. Pauline made me feel loved thatday, just like she had when I was a little boy. What a gift.

War Horse

2012-01-02T10:53:00.000-08:00

If your holiday plans did not include this flick, make it aNew Year’s resolution. When I heard that WarHorse was inspired by a London play where they used life-size puppets toplay the horses, I was skeptical. As a life-long horse owner and wannabecowboy, I often cringe when actors with little or no riding experience clumsilyclimb aboard an unsuspecting horse. Not to worry.

Spielberg and his DreamWorks brought in master trainer BobbyLovgren from South Africa to get horses to do things on a scale that even hehad never attempted. Lovgren is the final protégé of the legendary GlennRandall, Sr., who trained Roy Rogers’ horses (yes, there was more than one). Lovgrenflew from California with his favorite horse Finder (Finders Key) purchased on theset of Seabiscuit. Young actor Jeremy Irvine (Albert in the film) also gotriding tips, but the star of this movie is the horse Albert names Joey. And Findera.k.a. Joey requires no rider to thrill a movie audience. That’s a good thing,because Jeremy could still use a few more lessons.

Yes, for you nitpicking horse enthusiasts, they did use adozen horses to play Joey although Finder did most of the really tricky stuff;yes, you may notice the difference if you let such details worry you; yes, thebounds of credulity are occasionally stretched; and yes, heartstrings will betugged. But don’t get the idea that this is Furyor National Velvet. This is an epicdrama that starts in the period just before the First World War (some call itthe trench war) and takes us through a violent period that shakes the world toits core. Screenwriters Lee Hall and Richard Curtis let us see the great humanand animal toll that this war exacted through the experiences of Joey and hisequine companions. They get away with showing it from both sides because thehorses are simply victims; they have no stake in war other than survival. Thestory believably endows the horse heroes with the best of human traits. And thesegreat horses somehow do a better job of portraying the anguish and bloodshedthan humans ever could. And if you doubt that horses can form a bond with eachother like the one portrayed in this movie, I can tell you from experience thatyou are wrong.

If you are into special effects (and I am not), you probablywon’t be disappointed, because the horses in this film are better than specialeffects. There may be some trickery afoot in the scenes with Joey and the tank,and in the barbed wire area between battlefield trenches called No Man’s Land, butby this time, you will not care. This movie puts you on the battlefield and inthe hills of the European Continent with surround sound, a great musical score andamazing cinematography. And we haven’t even mentioned the great characteractors and minor players including Albert’s parents, a young French girl andher grandfather.

I even forgot that Lovgren’s last film was Cowboys and Aliens. Now that—that’s abridge too far.

His Dog Knows Me

2011-12-23T09:36:00.000-08:00

I have written before about the Cowhill Council, a group ofseasoned gentlemen who meet and enjoy gourmet coffee. We have returned fromdowntown to our winter home in a grain silo out in the country on Jerald’s fiveacres. We meet there most mornings, sitting in cozy comfort around a wood stove,coffee cups in hand, enjoying friendship and laughter. Almost every morning formore than a decade, my arrival greeting has always been a head nod andtongue-lolling smile from Nugget, Jerald’s yellow Lab. The dog knows me, knowsmy Jeep, recognizes it as soon as I turn off the highway. We have known eachother since he was a pup. Everyone who has ever had a pet knows that comfortingfeeling that comes when a dog, cat, or horse recognizes you and looks at youwith those friendly, welcoming eyes—eyes that say come over and put your handon my head—eyes that say “I’m glad to see you.” It starts the day out right.

This morning, on the eve of Christmas Eve, Nugget was not waitingfor me. I was late and had other things on my mind, including some repair workat my office, and regret that I did not think much about his absence. Nugget hasspent his life on a small acreage next to a state highway and had to be kept upfor his own safety. He was allowed to run free, but only under Jerald’ssupervision. Jerald had to be there to call him back when Nugget as much asglanced toward the highway.

But early this morning, Jerald was not there when Nuggetdecided to run like he had when he was young, free as the wind. When Jerald arrivedand found him gone, he tried to follow, but Nugget circled back and headed home,happy to have his master follow him in a playful game. But he was old and hisreflexes had slowed. He probably never saw the eighteen-wheeler.

As I turned the key in my Jeep to leave this morning, my recently acquired Tom T. Hall CD played "Old Dogs and Children and Watermelon Wine". Tom said, "Old dogs care about you, even when you make mistakes." So true. Jerald’s heart is broken over the loss of his loyalcompanion and I will certainly miss my old friend. I like to think that Nuggetwould have wanted to leave us this way, running free. He had serious healthproblems that were not going away. Maybe he knew it was time to go and wantedit to be on his own terms. Still, it’s hard to say goodbye.

A Christmas Star and Scar

2011-12-10T12:07:00.001-08:00

North wind whistled through thewarped pine boards of the old farm house. Shredded strips of stubbornlyclinging wallpaper shivered as if feeling the biting wind. Icicles bought fromthe five-and-dime trembled on the cedar Christmas tree that had been placeddangerously close to the wood stove. Outside by the dairy barn, twelve-year-oldGray Boy helped Rance and the driver load cans into the back of the milk truck.Jake, six, finished with his work in the dairy parlor, stood with his handsinside his coat pockets, too small to lift the milk cans, but too big to goinside before his brother and father did. He shuddered not only from the cold,but with the excitement of opening Christmas presents after supper. The driverthanked them, wished them a Merry Christmas, and drove away.

Using bowls of water warmed on thewoodstove, the men took sponge baths and put on clean clothes while Trish,fourteen, and her mother Mattie put strips of fresh tenderloin between biscuitsand boiled coffee on the kerosene kitchen stove. In the living room, Rance andhis sons scooted the worn couch and chairs closer to the fire. Everyone wrappedin quilts, ate their sandwiches and stared at the presents under the tree. Jakefinished his cobbler first and waited for a signal from his father that is wastime to open the presents.

A knock came at the front door. Jakeand his brother followed their father out into the open dogtrot and saw a blurredimage of the milk truck driver through the glass in the door. Rance sent theboys back to the living room and stepped out on the porch. The brothers knew something was wrong, sothey eavesdropped through a crack. The milkman’s voice quivered with cold andsadness, but the boys understood enough. A wreck on Jernigan Creek Bridge, ahorse lying by the creek with a white star just under its forelock. The littleblack horse they called Star, who could take a bow, be ridden without a bridle,rear on command, and untie knots, must have learned to open the lot gate.

Eyes filled with tears,Gray Boy threw on a coat and wool cap and headed out the back door, intent onrunning to the creek. Rance caught him in the yard, pulled him to his chest,let him have his cry. The horse was really Gray’s, but both boys claimed him,rode him and took care of him, so Rance relented when they begged to go withhim. The sight of the little horse, eyes full of surprise and pain, milk cansfloating in Jernigan Creek, was forever etched into their memories. Jakethought there could never be another merry Christmas. Gray Boy said he wouldnever own another horse.

Jake had never played with cars and trucks. Hepreferred his cowboy hat, six-shooter, boots and spurs, and the stick horse hecalled Chocolate. When Star came along, he stood Chocolate in the corner, neverto be ridden again. When Star was killed, he felt guilty, but he soon began todream of having his own horse. As another Christmas approached, times werereally tough, so a horse was out of the question. Temps in the seventies andfears of another ominous knock on the door ruined that Christmas.

The year Jake turned eight, he fearedthat there would be no money for Christmas presents at all. Rance had been sick for months. They had lost halftheir dairy herd to a devastating drought. On Christmas Eve, a cold mist seemedto tease that more rain might be coming. Christmas Eve opening of presents cameand went. Jake struggled to keep from crying when he only got warm socks. Ranceand Gray went outside and Rance returned with a hissing lantern and Jake’scoat. Mattie and Trish rose and followed Rance without a word being spoken.Jake reluctantly left the warmth of the fire and followed them into the mist,across the muddy dairy barn lot, and into the dark hall of the hay barn.

Amousy little bay filly with ribs showing seemed to be leaning against the barnwall for support. Gray held her lead rope. Bite and kick marks scarred herdull, mangled coat. Her forelock, mane and tail were tangled and full of straw.

Mattie propped her elbowwith her hand, dabbed at her eyes. Gray Boy handed Jake the rope and whisperedinto his ear, “If that horse dies tonight, and it looks like she will, don’tyou cry, cause it’ll ruin another Christmas.”

Rance put a hand on Jake’sshoulder. “Haven’t had her more than an hour or two. No time to clean her up.Figured you’d want to do that, anyway.”

Jake barely heard. He did not see a wormylittle filly. He saw Koko, Champion and Trigger in the sparse light provided bythat lantern. He namedher Scar, not for the bites and kick marks, but for his favorite horse on aradio program called Dr. Sixgun.

Delta County Literary Festival

2011-11-28T09:44:00.001-08:00

Dr. Tarpley called me in his early stages ofplanning for a literary festival in Cooper, Delta County, Northeast Texas. Heasked if I would join other Delta County native writers and read an excerptfrom one of my books or short stories. I said sure—just like I always do whenFred asks me to do something. But this retired college professor of Lit andLang and renowned linguist, grammarian, and researcher is full of enthusiasmand ideas and I was not confident he would actually pull this one together.

When I first started writing novels, peoplefrequently asked me what I did when I left the financial services profession.My answer: “I Write.” The next question was almost always, “Yes, but what doyou do the rest of the time?” or this one, “Yes, but what do you do for aliving?” I soon began to give this answer: “I wait each day for Dr. FredTarpley to give me an assignment.”

Using Fred’s famous name gave my writing legitimacy,somehow, and the answer was close to accurate. I seldom speak in front of a group of writers or readers that someonedoes not approach me and ask about Fred or send a greeting to him.

For the Delta County event at the library in Cooper,Fred planned to have his former student Charles Bailey, also a well-knownprofessor of English and literary critic, Susan Albright Hyde (AListing Wind), and Judy Miller Falls (Brush Men and Vigilantes)to read. When Fred told me that he planned on having it on Sunday at three, Ichecked the Cowboys’ football schedule. I told Dr. Tarpley that the footballgame would not be over and few would come. I had a vision of us Delta Countywriters reading to each other.

When Fred suddenly took ill, I expected the event wascancelled and sort of put it out of my mind. But when Charles Bailey called me from Houston on Saturday night to sayhe was coming, things changed. I could not reach Judy Falls, Carol Beth King(now Delta Chamber prez), or anyone who might know details, but if Charlie wasdriving from Houston, I could surely drive from Commerce. I called Susan andthe event was on. Then someone told me it had been advertised in the Cooper Review and Paris News. Fred would want his idea to come to fruition, even ifhe could not be there.

To my surprise, all of the seats filled (thank-youDelta County readers). Fred will be proud to learn this. I felt appropriatelychastised for my negativity and was once again reminded of how infectiousFred’s positive influence can be.

Judy Falls told some very personal and inspiring storiesabout people she has met and circumstances encountered as a result of herflawlessly researched book about this area of Texas and conflicting loyalties beforeand during the Civil War. Charlie read two short stories from the late Dr.Gaynor Janes, eldest son of Dr. Olen Janes. Charlie is related to this famousand revered Delta County family of physicians. Then Susan Hyde read from her soon to be released novel about a 1936murder trial in Delta County (and a poignant love story). Charlie followed witha story published in Memories of Old ET that brought backmemories of the ETSU campus during the period surrounding President Kennedy’sassassination and funeral.

I read two excerpts from my novel, GoDown Looking, to be released May 2012. I also wanted to talk about the interconnectedness not just of thereaders, but of the people who attended, but there just was not time. Forexample, Charlie and I graduated from Cooper High in the same year and attendedETSU in Commerce at the same time. Judy Falls was only a few years behind us.Judy and I have worked together on several writing and research projects and Ihave called on her for Delta County research on more than one occasion. Herbook and my Biscuits Across the Brazos came out the same year. And orcourse, Carol Beth (Berry) King served as emcee in Fred’s absence.

Growing up in Delta County, I knew of Gaynor Janesand revered his father, but had never met him until my first book was released.When he discovered that Dr. Olen Bartlett in the Rivers trilogy was based onhis father, we became fast friends. It was very poignant to hear Charles read thestories that Gaynor had shared with me. Gaynor’s wife D’ drove from Houston tohear her late husband’s stories read. As for Susan Hyde, I worked with her whenher book was in manuscript form and wrote a very early review. Also, the murdertrial that inspired her novel was a story I related to my grandchildren thatkept them entertained for years as we traveled the paths that two young girlsand their mother followed. They were mesmerized by that story more thananything I ever read them.

Fred is improving in a Fort Worth rehab center. Wishhe could have been there.

Searching for a Reclusive Author

2011-11-10T12:32:00.001-08:00

Left in Jeep withthe top down in July heat headed for Hohenwald, Tennessee. I hoped tomeet and visit with author William Gay. I read his Provinces of Night andwas mesmerized. When I saw a photo of the author beside a crude painted posterof Jimmie Rodgers, I knew that had to be some type of connection between us. Ihad heard he was somewhat reclusive, so my chances were doubtful. To give mypragmatic left brain an excuse for chasing such a wild goose, I told it that Iwas going to do some family history research. My maternal great grandparentscame from Maury, Tennessee.

Spent first night in a real fleabag motel. A driving overnightrainstorm (6 inches) filled the Jeep floorboards overnight. Yes, I had a cover,but it collected more water than it repelled. I pulled into a covered servicestation bay and managed to get the top up and Velcro the side windows in the pre-dawndark.

Jeep windows fogged up quite a bit as the temp dropped aboutthirty degrees when I headed into the mountains. Discovered ballpoint pens hadrolled off and blocked defroster. Smokeboiled out of tall trees as temperature dropped. Road very winding, up and downand I was constantly threatened with log trucks, but held my own. Jeep handledwell. Kudzu everywhere. Must have crossed six or seven riversincluding the Beech. Crossed the Tennessee River on Alvin York Bridge (hero of FirstWorld War) from Tennessee. Over CoonCreek, Rushing Creek, etc… Finally made it to Hohenwald and checked into onlymotel in town. Pretty crummy and worn out, but paradise compared to firstnight. Took the precaution of examiningthe room before I gave up my credit card this time. Also checked for ice machine, which wassecond only to cleanliness in importance. Don’t need chocolates on my pillow, but I require ice.

Next morning, I drove down to old home that had been madeinto coffee shop/bookstore just off the square. Looked for William Gay’s books and did not find a one. Asked owner abouthim and the guy turned up his nose and told me to ask his wife. When I did, she just said, “He’s ahermit.” They told me he had moved toanother part of the county. Hohenwald isin Lewis County (named for Explorer Meriwether Lewis, who is buried here).

Went to Chamber of Commerce and picked up some info. andmaps. Nice lady there said Gay comes tolibrary quite often, but is reclusive and strange. Of course, I already knew that from seeingpictures of him and from reading his stuff. Made me want to meet him even more. Said she would give my cell number to lady atlibrary when she returned. Maybe shecould help.

I drove up to Columbia, Tenn., county seat of Maury County,where my maternal grandmother was born. Had to almost strip and give up my pocket knife to get into courthousewhere county clerk (called by different title there) seemed unfamiliar with theconcept of marriage licenses and birth certificates. Finally, someone told me that archives werekept in the old jail across the street. Great old restored building and helpful people there. Found marriage license for greatgrandparents. Their old farm is now a state park in Maury County and inMarshall County, (Lewisberg County Seat), Nathan Bedford Forrest (Civil WarHero) memorial is also on their old farm.

Satisfied to have accomplished at least something, I headedback to Hohenwald, taking a little side trip on Natchez Trace Parkway. Very, very nice Jeep ride. Close to Choctaw country and moreancestors. I learned it’s commonpractice to name roads for residents, so I located William Gay Road in lateafternoon. Only one house on the road’s dead end. “Bewareof dog” and “Trespassers will be shot and survivors prosecuted”signs. Dogs would not let me get out andknock. They literally tried to chew the tires off my Jeep, so I turned aroundand came back disappointed. Wish I couldhave taken a picture, but camera was back in motel room. The house was built with rough-hewn timber,not logs, and had several different types of rusted sheet metal on the roof. Gay was a carpenter by trade, so I wonderedif he had built it. Interesting place. Would love to have seen the inside. I settled for a Jeep ride throughTennessee Hill Country and lucked on Grinders Creek, a place mentioned often inGay’s novels. Looks just like he described.

The next day, I walkeddowntown to the chamber again and found that the librarian had called Gay on mybehalf. The reclusive author told her that he might call me. Went to library and the librarian gave up hiscorrect number (after I gave her one of my own books.) I called. He confirmed that he had tried to call me but lady had given him onedigit wrong on number. Told me to driveon out to his house. Seems his wifedivorced him and took the house on William Gay Road.

Followed his directions to Little Swan Creek. His house isup a slight hill just before the bridge that crosses the creek. He shares a road with other folks that liveup the hill behind him. William looksjust like what he was most of his life, a drywall man who may have drunk andsmoked a little too much. However, thisdrywall man is brilliant. Hair hangs inringlets as if it had never seen a comb, over his collar but not as long as Ihave seen in pictures of him. House islogs with red tin roof. Nice enough, buthe has not abandoned his hillbilly heritage. An abandoned pickup sits in front of a small shop, the bed full of V-8cans and assorted trash. Think he wassipping V-8 the whole time I talked to him, alternating with puffs of hiscigarette. Said he and his son aretrying to quit. Interesting that I also consumea lot of V-8. End of his left indexfinger has been pinched off. Mine,too.

Room filled with books. Hundreds. Fireplace and woodstove in the room, but no overhead light. Room very dark. Paintingsscattered here and there. (Yes, hepaints, too.) A few guitars and a fewbooks on how to compose music. Big bookson Van Gogh art and lots of DVD’s and all kinds of books. While he talked on phone to his daughter, Iperused the shelves and found our tastes a lot alike, especially inmovies. (I offered to leave so he couldtalk in private, but he motioned for me to stay).

I kept offering to end my intrusion on his privacy, but heurged me to stay and talk. We talkedabout his writing and some funny stories. I told him that the scene with Albright and the hog was the funniest Iever read. Asked him about characters inProvinces of Night, Fleming, E. W. and Boyd, etc… Told me he was a little bitFleming (a seventeen year-old boy), a little bit Boyd (the boy’s father), and alittle bit E. W. (the grandfather). Sameanswer I give when people ask me if I am Jake in my books.

He had a director’s chair with the name of his book of shortstories on it. They made a movierecently based on one of the stories in Hate to see That Evening Sun GoDown. Hal Holbrook plays the old man. I have since seen the movie andreally enjoyed it.

He got a call from his movie agent while I was there aboutanother book Twilight. It has been optioned for a movie, also. Don’t like it was well as Provinces,but still a very good read. After myvisit, I learned that Provinces would be made into a moviestarring Kris Kristofferson called “Bloodworth”. I liked the movie, but notnearly as well as the book. I also learned that his publisher for TheLostCountry is having trouble and holding up its publication.

I told him I had written him in the first part of 2007 afterreading Provinces. Said that was about the time his wife kickedhim out and he never got the letter. Heseemed impressed that I brought along a copy. He’s won numerous prestigious awards, primarily for his magazine shortstories, but also for his books. He’s avisiting writing scholar at Sewanee, University of the South. Oxford-American magazine commissioned him towrite an article about his experiences going to a college campus as a scholarwhen he never attended college. He hasread himself into brilliance. Though Iexpect there was something genetic going on, too.

A lady in town asked him if he got help with hiswriting. He asked, “What kind of help?”

She said, “Well, your people was never very smart and youwasn’t either. Figured you got somehelp.”

Based on his stories, his family was both poor and violent,doing everything wrong to the excess. Although he had a huge appetite for books and magazines and regularlyentered writing contests, he followed the same path as the rest of the familyfor most of his life until he started winning competitions for hisstories. I was a reader as a kid, butalways felt guilty about it and never read any heavy stuff unless I hadto. Wish someone had told me reading wasnever a waste of time. I recall readinga comic book (we called them funny books) when Daddy ran a service station in Commerce. I was about ten and was supposed to watch thefront while daddy did some mechanic work in the garage behind. A customer went to get him because he couldnot get my attention to take his money. Daddy had to shake me I was so engrossed in reading what was probably acomic book. Don’t think that hashappened before or since, but I get the impression that William Gay lived hislife inside books because his outside life was so bad.

I praised him for the dialect in his writing because Iconsider it perfect. He said he listenedto folks around there a lot. Recently, aman on a construction job complained, “My old lady ain’t put a hot meal on thetable in weeks. The bitch will be laying on her ass when I get hometonight.” When asked what he would do ifhe she did have a hot meal, he replied. “I won’t eat a damn bite.” Ifound that hilarious and so typical.

I told him I had met Flannery O’Connor once when she came toET. He asked which year and knew exactlywhen she died. Asked if she was frailwhen I saw her. He said he had alwayswanted to meet her. He told me of manywriters who had influenced his writing and life, including a fellow who wrotestories for the Progressive Farmer magazine. He has an incredible memory for authors and book titles. Wish I did. I can remember details inside books, but have trouble with titles andauthors.

I left after a couple of hours and drove up the NatchezTrace toward Nashville. Got off a littleearly and headed toward Grinders Switch (home of Minnie Pearl). There is a water tower and an abandoneddepot, but little else there. Reallygreat Jeep riding though the winding hills and across winding railroad track. Back down through pretty mountain scenery andto Hohenwald by bedtime. A good day.

William Gay

William Gay first came to the Sewanee WritersConference in 1999 as a Tennessee Williams Scholar. Later that year, Gaypublished his first novel, The Long Home, which received the James A.Michener Memorial Prize. Gay returned to Sewanee in 2000 as a Walter A. DakinFellow and served as the Tennessee Williams Fellow for the 2000-2001 academicyear. Gay then published another novel, Provinces of Night, and acollection of stories, I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down, whichcontained stories that had been published in the Missouri Review, GeorgiaReview, Oxford American, Atlantic Monthly, and Harper's.His stories have also been anthologized in Best American Short Stories, NewStories from the South, O. Henry Awards Prize Stories, Best NewAmerican Voices, and Best American Mystery Stories. In 2006, hepublished his third novel, Twilight, and was named a USA Ford FoundationFellow by United States Artists. In 2010, MacAdam/Cage will publish his newnovel, The Lost Country.

News from the Rivers

2011-10-27T10:42:00.001-07:00

The last four months have been some of the best of the yearas far as writing is concerned. I was honored to be interviewed about RiversEbb by Jack Drucker of The Book Club program. The interview was airedby stations in Tampa Bay, Florida and Little Rock, Arkansas. Jack said that mythird novel does for the Texas Panhandle what How Green Was My Valleydid for the valleys of South Wales. Listento the interview by clicking the podcast on my website.

My fifth novel, Go Down Looking is deep into theediting phase at Tate Publishing, moving steadily forward toward a spring 2012 release.And I am approximately 90% done with the first draft of my sixth novel (stillunnamed).

During Bois d’arc Bash festivities in Commerce, I led a“literary tour” of the places mentioned in my Follow the RiversTrilogy. I had done this on a lessformal basis once before and the second time was even more fun because EmmettDay and his daughter came along. A. L. Day Elementary School in Commerce wasnamed for his father. Emmett recently celebrated his ninety-sixth birthday andhas maintained his lively wit and intelligence. He lives in Washington butflies back to Texas on a regular basis to visit his wife’s grave and otheracquaintances. He also has Delta County connections. Wife Roxey lived justinside the county. We visited the sites where characters in my novels lived anddied (including graves) and where significant scenes took place (like DadFlannigan’s store). I explained the small differences between what reallyhappened and how I fictionalized the people and events and why I chose to writeit the way I did. They were surprised, as most people are, to learn that twopeople (not just one) died on the day of a terrible tragedy described in RiversCrossing.

I also made a presentation to the Friends of the MineolaMemorial Library. What a terrific group. They were attentive and responsive. Theprimary key to such events is having at least one member of the audience who hasread some or all of my books and I was so pleased when one of the members stoodand gave me a ringing endorsement. Another key is to get questions, and thisfine group obliged. This was my first time to read from the prologue (I call itthe front bookend) to Go Down Looking. I am usually hesitant to do readings, becauseheads start to nod as soon as you open the book, but not this time. I hope itwas a combination of good audience, good reading and good writing.

I also had a once-in-a-lifetime (hopefully there will bemore) experience when the Friends of the Sulphur Springs Library arranged “AnEvening with Jim Ainsworth”. Trice and Pat Lawrence, Terry Mathews, and othersreally went beyond the call in making this a successful event. Terry, Arts andEntertainment Editor for the SulphurSprings News Telegram, asked me questions about all my books and asked meto read excerpts she had selected. Doesn’t get much better for an author thanto have someone else choose reading selections they like. At the end, I readfrom GoDown Looking again. In publicity leading up to the event, the grouparranged interviews with many media outlets including Enola Gay with KSST radio,County Line Magazine, Front Porch News and many others. My head got a littleswelled and I almost ran off I-30 when I saw my name on the huge billboardoutside of town. Headlines and articles described me as “An Authentic TexasCowboy” and “World Champion Team Roper”. If it were only so, my lifelong dreamswould have been realized.

At another event in Pittsburg, I realized that I was goingto have to open a Twitter account and start actually doing something onFacebook, and return to my old blog (abandoned since 2008). So here we go. In future postings, I plan to do some shortbook reviews on what I am reading, a few movie reviews, and a few shortstories. I am looking forward to telling readers of this blog about my trip tothe Tennessee Hills to meet one of my favorite authors. Stay with me and tellyour friends.

Papa Was A Conservative

2008-03-17T11:41:00.000-07:00

Papa Was a Conservative

One of my grandsons and two of my granddaughters came to spend the night with us recently. My ten-year-old-grandson was barely out of the car before he told me that his teacher had been telling his fifth grade class that Obama would be good for the country and that he was for Obama. I laughed and told him to get back in the car and go home with his father, prompting his thirteen-year-old sister to ask, “Papa Jim, are you a Democrat or a Republican?” A simple, direct question—the kind kids ask—the kind all of us should ask more often. My mind began to traverse the complications of that question and the vast store of knowledge awaiting her young mind, but I resisted the temptation to wander there.

I answered simply and directly, telling her that I was a Republican, but more importantly, I was a conservative rather than a liberal. That was a sentence more than she needed, but she thought a minute before asking, “What’s the difference?”

I told her that the essence of conservatism involved the acceptance of personal responsibility. Conservatives like to be responsible for our families and ourselves and want as little interference as possible from the government in our lives. Liberals believe that the government should take a more active role in our lives. I knew that the answer was woefully inadequate, but it was all she seemed to want at the time.

Her questions reminded me of a conversation I had with my sister about whether our father was Democrat or Republican. She remembered him as a supporter of Roosevelt and Truman. I knew that Ronald Reagan was his favorite politician, even though my daddy died a decade before Reagan would become president. I understand the confusion. The parties have switched sides more than once. Today, Democrats are definitely liberal and lean more left each day. Republicans are more conservative and lean right. (I avoided mentioning left vs. right to my curious granddaughter).

I have seven grandchildren. When I am gone, will they have to guess where I stood politically and philosophically? Forty or fifty years from now, conservatives could be called liberals and vice-versa. Democrats could be conservative and Republicans liberal. I want my children and grandchildren to know today’s labels, but more importantly, my beliefs and how I came to have them.

If today’s trends continue, my grandchildren will likely hear liberal college professors describe conservatives in unflattering terms. Conservatives are called warmongers, heartless, greedy, religious zealots, imperialists, racists and capitalists who get rich at the expense of the poor. The terms supply-siders, trickle-down economics, special interests, greedy corporations have been demagogued with so much fervor that their meanings have been distorted into something evil with no rational explanation as to why. Even free enterprise and capitalism have been associated with something sinister. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I believe that liberals are wrong about basic human needs and motivation. Conservatives believe that people want freedom—and we mean freedom to pursue our dreams with as little interference as possible from the government—to control our own destinies. We want and need some sense of empowerment over our own lives. We think this is a necessary ingredient to real happiness. We don’t want to be told how far we can reach or how high we can go. We won’t place those restrictions on you, please don’t place them on us. Failures and successes are our own responsibility and we’ll handle them very well, thank you.

We need and want regular infusions of a sense of accomplishment and self-worth—a sense that we are contributing something that makes our lives and our families’ lives better and yes, maybe even makes the world a better place. It makes us feel good about ourselves and empowers us to do more good things. Turning our great nation into a nanny state takes that away from us and gives it to the government. The comfortable feeling one gets from being taken care of is like taking a sick day when you are not sick. The coziness soon turns into self-loathing.

We want rewards received to have some relation to effort expended. We know that can never be perfect, but when you take it away, sloth is rewarded and effort is punished. Everybody, even the slothful, suffers when we do that. You get more of behavior that is rewarded. Reward slothfulness, you’ll get more of it, and a vibrant economy cannot abide slothfulness.

We believe that the most racist thing a society can do is to grant special privileges or benefits to a group of people based solely on skin color or race. It demeans them. It tarnishes every worthwhile achievement in their lives with the broad brush of unworthiness. It says that this group cannot advance on its own and turns them against their benefactors because they are beholden to them. It takes away their sense of accomplishment and self-worth, freedom, power, and the balance of rewards to achievement. It takes away dignity and replaces it with a sense of entitlement, powerlessness and victimization.

We believe peace is attained through strength and determination, not surrender and appeasement. Throughout history, there have always been despots and violent barbarians who thirst for power and who try to gain it through violent means. We abhor violence and war, but when America or Americans are attacked or threatened, the great American Eagle must sharpen its claws and fly to their defense. We believe that there is such a thing as evil and it must be confronted. That does not make us warmongers; it makes us peace protectors. Being weak and lacking resolve loses lives rather than saving them.

We believe that free enterprise and capitalism achieve these human needs more than any form of economic structure. We know that history proves our case. A lot of us have actually read the constitution and still admire our founding fathers. That constitution says that the federal government has very limited authority and that every authority not granted to the federal government though the constitution is reserved by the states and the people. We are, in other words, a republic.

I believe, however, that our founding fathers, though visionary, never envisioned that gluttonous politicians would spend their time creating power and influence for themselves instead of acting in the public interest. They never envisioned that they would feed at the public trough for their entire careers before retiring to live out their lives in luxury at taxpayer expense. Many, of course, become psychologically incapable of relinquishing power and only death rescues us from them. Our founding fathers saw serving in our capitol as sacrifice. They rendered public service without personal gain. They were happy to stay a term or two and go back to live under the laws they had created. We know that presidents and congresses do not create jobs. We do. We create their jobs, also, and get very little in return for our huge investment.

We believe that America should run its government the way we run our businesses and our personal lives. We pay our bills, keep our debt under control, and try to save as much as possible to take care of emergencies and retirement. We expect the government to do the same. We know that most of the money we send to the government is wasted, so we like to send as little as possible. We know that high taxes strangle us and thus, the economy. We are not mad at rich people and do not want them to be punished for being successful. Most rich people got that way by working hard and creating jobs. We don’t believe in punishing that behavior. You cannot help the poor by punishing the rich. A rising tide lifts all boats, except the ones with holes. When our boats spring leaks, we plug them; we don’t wait for the government to do it.

Conservatives love America. Liberals hate it. Their constant carping and complaining about how we are hated around the world damages the most generous country in the world. They talk surrender to our enemies when our soldiers are shedding blood on battlefields to protect our way of life. Liberals have the audacity to call themselves patriots while standing in front of cameras and shouting diatribes against America while our enemies cheer. America is not perfect, but can be judged by the number of people trying to get in vs. the number leaving. By that measure, we are far and away still the greatest country in the world.

Conservatives know that actions have consequences. When we make a mistake, we accept the consequences and make a note not to repeat that particular mistake. We know that money is made when we provide a product or service that someone else can use. When we do something well, we also expect the government to keep its hands off our rewards. We are generous, but like to make our own decisions about how our money is spent or donated. We know that certain people are unable to work and provide for themselves. We pay taxes so that these people can be helped and we are far more generous than liberals with our contributions to charitable causes.

Last, we believe that people need to believe in something greater than ourselves—that there is something purer than we are, something perfect that is watching over us, empowering us, but leaving us with the freedom to do better and strive for perfection. Most conservatives like to think that Someone in the Great Somewhere is pleased when we do good for our fellow man. We won’t interfere with your freedom to believe the way you do or to practice whatever religion, spirituality or atheism you choose; we expect the same from you. Prayer rugs do not frighten us, why are Liberals afraid of Christmas trees?

Is there a price for all this? Of course. Sometimes, it is paid in the blood of brave soldiers. All of us must pay the price of accepting personal responsibility for our lives and how we live them. As for the government, just protect us and then get out of the way. We will continue to keep America’s greatness and make it better.

So grandchildren, that is why your Papa is a conservative.

March 2008

A former registered investment advisor, CPA, CFP and CLU, Ainsworth has authored or co-authored five business books, a memoir, and three novels. He has also ridden horseback across Texas.

Things Dumb Voters Want to Know

2008-02-28T11:44:00.000-08:00

Things Dumb Voters Need to Know

I watched another debate between the two Senators last night. I don’t really understand why I did, but I did. My friends think I am crazy. I have been a political junkie most of my adult life, but until the last few years, I really never had the time to indulge my habit. This may not be a good thing. I was shocked when they said they had debated twenty times. Have I really watched all of those? Watching two people that basically agree on everything debate twenty times must indicate some type of mental illness. Oh yes, I watched all of the Republican debates, too. Why? I keep waiting for someone to answer the dumb questions I have. So far, I have been disappointed. These are things us dumb, mortal voters wonder about and would like to ask Senators Obama and Clinton if we could just be Brit Hume or Tim Russert for a day.

Special Interests

Who are they exactly? They are obviously evil, but I have not been able to find a living, breathing soul that does not have an agenda, … er… special interest. Does that mean that we are all evil? Senator Obama says he does not take any money or allow special interests any access to the mountaintop (or is it a cloud?) where he resides. So Senator …those labor unions that endorse and support you with cash and other favors … are they not special interests? I could go on and cherry-pick your list of donors and supporters, but you get my drift. Please explain why their interests are just ordinary, not special. (and maybe a few words about why they are good, while other special interests are evil.)

Evil, Greedy Corporations

Who are they exactly? How does corporate greed differ from the greed of say, slip-and-fall lawyers like John Edwards? Was it greedy when John took 40% of the settlement for his injured client instead of say, 10%? That would have been thirty million or so less for him, but the injured person would have probably appreciated it more and put it to better use. If he’s not greedy, why did he not just give all but what he needed to maintain a lifestyle befitting royalty to charity? Is this type of greed different than corporate greed because most lawyers are now called Limited Liability Companies? Is that what defines greed—the I-n-c. thing? Is greed inside an LLC ok? I have a friend that runs a small business and I know he is incorporated. Does that make him greedy and evil? Just dumb questions. I really hate to ask them ... but I wonder about these things. I care about America.

To avoid confusion by us dumb voters, let’s leave out drug and other companies and focus on oil for now. You both say that you are going to limit the obscene profits oil companies are making. I apologize for being dumb, but it seems that in order to do that, you would have to nationalize the oil companies. Are we taking a page from Hugo Chavez’s playbook here? Where in the constitution does a president have the authority to say how much profit a corporation can make? How much profit is allowed before we cross over into evil territory? Who gets to decide? (I think I know the answer to that one, but just the same…) Senator Clinton says gasoline will drop when she is elected. How much will a gallon of gasoline cost after you take office? What’s a fair price? Two dollars, three? How much will we be allowed to buy each week under this dictatorship? (Excuse me. It just slipped out.) Democrats have already stopped exploration in our own country and the building of refineries, but what happens when oil companies don’t like your profit number and decide to stop producing oil and go into something where profit is not limited? I have found that people do things that are in their own self-interest. What happens when people stop buying oil company stocks because there are no gains or dividends? Will the economy tank? I know you have thought these things through thoroughly, but us dumb voters are worried.

Evil Rich

You’ve convinced me. Let’s tax the hell out of them. Tax them all the way down to the middle class where they belong. Shame on them for being successful in America. We should all be the same, no matter how lazy we are or how hard we work. Look at China. Those people are really happy, right? And Cuba, where nine out of ten work for the government. Michael Moore has taught us that we need to model our system after theirs. We are just not so sure that Michael is that smart. We have sort of gotten used to something we used to call Free Enterprise. Those two words still sort of make me stand taller, but we don’t hear them much anymore. Think about it, Free and Enterprise. I looked up enterprise (just to be sure) and found boldness, readiness, adventurous spirit, ingenuity. Wow. You could use those in one of your speeches. Too bad you don’t buy into the concept. Having a nanny state sure sounds comforting, though. Who really wants to work that hard, anyway? I’m sure the benefit package is terrific.

Taxes

You both say you are going to end Bush’s tax cuts for the wealthy. I find the rhetoric here very confusing, because I am a CPA. (sorry) Of course, I don’t pretend to understand tax law. I have only prepared ten thousand tax returns. I need at least that many more to understand the arcane IRS code. Obviously, you have found something in the law that I did not. You say that only the rich will pay more when the Bush tax cuts expire (and you will make them expire). Since virtually everyone who pays taxes had their taxes reduced under these cuts, how does it work that only the rich will pay more when they expire? It’s confusing, but I know you can explain.

You say that America could not afford the Bush tax cuts. This is really confusing. What happened to tax revenue when the tax cuts were implemented? I am obviously misinformed, but I thought revenue actually went up by historic percentages. We certainly can’t afford that. I read in a book somewhere that history tells us that tax revenue goes up every time tax rates are cut. How can that be? Surely revenue won’t go up when rates are cut. The book, oops … books must have been wrong. Please explain. Maybe it’s revisionist history. By the way, what percentage of all taxes do rich people really pay? It can’t be as high as I was told. What happens when these evil people take steps to avoid paying taxes when rates go back up? Sorry, but I think the evil folks will (remember what I said about those ten thousand tax returns). Will the economy suffer when the evil rich fat cats stop buying and selling stocks and bonds and making investments in real estate and businesses and creating jobs? Jobs? That leads to my next question.

Jobs

I have never actually met anyone who worked in a job that was created by a president. What type of job is it that presidents create, exactly? What do these people do? Does the president pay them? Just curious, because I thought almost all jobs were created by small businesses. My coffee shop buddies and I might want to apply for one of those jobs. Do they pay well? What experience do we need? We bet the health insurance is better than what we have now. I am sure glad there will be so many millions more of them, but I just can’t figure out why I never met anybody who had one. Sorry, but dumb voters need to know.

Our Government and Foreign Policy

Try as I might, I just cannot understand your positions on Iraq and foreign policy in general. Senator Clinton, your last question in the debate was an opportunity to clarify this for us dumb voters, but you said you wanted to take back your vote to go to war in Iraq. You said you advised against it and thought it was a bad idea from the beginning. But you voted for it. Surely you can see how this confuses us mere mortals. Please explain.

Obama, who did not get to vote on the war, takes pride in having made a speech against it. Pretty clear. However, here is the question that keeps popping into my dumb mind. What exactly would you have done, Senator, after America was attacked on 9/11/2001 and three thousand innocent people were killed on American soil? I am sure you have explained this in your speeches, but I have a tendency to swoon and lose my train of thought when you speak. By the way, you need more EMT’s on hand when you speak from on high to rescue us fainters. In captivating rhetoric, you seem to indicate that you would have focused on Afghanistan. You also say that you would invade Pakistan if you had actionable intelligence. Those words sound familiar. Isn’t that exactly what we had when Hillary voted to go to war in Iraq and you said you were against it? Probably just my bad memory again.

So, as I understand it, we had three countries to consider after 9/11 since the terrorists were Muslim and came from the Middle East (Saudi). The four countries were Iraq, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, and Afghanistan. Two are allies, though shaky. (Saudi and Pakistan). All suppress women and freedom. One has a greedy and corrupt royal family that pays false homage to America while sucking up our money in exchange for oil (Saudi). One has nuclear weapons and we know it for sure but has a pseudo-democracy. (Pakistan). One has the toughest terrain on the planet for fighting a war and crippled a super power (Russia) that tried to wage war there (Afghanistan). One had violated fifteen UN resolutions, thrown out weapons inspectors, invaded two neighboring countries within the last twenty-five years, had used weapons of mass destruction (please don’t limit this to nuclear), was trying to enrich uranium and openly asserted its intention to acquire nuclear weapons, was a known sponsor of terrorism and paid bonuses to suicide bombers, hosted AlQueda training camps, and routinely maimed, tortured and killed thousands of civilians daily. (Iraq). Forgive the long narrative, but I needed it to lessen my own confusion. Here is the question for you, Senator Obama. Why choose Afghanistan and Pakistan over Iraq? Seems to us dumb voters that a good case might have been made for not going anywhere, but it is hard to understand why you would have focused on the two that you chose. Of course, maybe you would have done nothing and just told the barbaric terrorists that this behavior is unacceptable. (you mentioned that term in the debate) I am sure that would have stopped them right in their tracks—especially if you said it with your mesmerizing voice.

One more thing. This one really threw me for a loop. You said you would go back into Iraq (after you pull out) if AlQueda were there. Well, aren’t they there now? If not, who are those guys planting those IED’s and killing our soldiers? It seems that almost everyone thinks they are AlQueda. So if they are there now and we are there now, why would we pull out and then go back if they are still there after we pull out? Boy, that question confuses me more, but I am sure you can explain. Are you saying that they will leave if we do? Where will they go? Will they follow our soldiers home?

Race

I know, I know—it is politically incorrect to talk about it. We are past all that, but both of you keep bringing it up and the mainstream media throw it in our faces by giving us racial demographics after every primary. Tim Russert brought it up in the debate Tuesday night in the visage of Louis Farrakhan’s recent endorsement of Senator Obama for the presidency or our great country. Although Russert’s liberal bias flashes off him like neon lights, he prides himself on asking tough questions, even of liberals. He gets so puffed up that his eyes bulge and he seems to be inflating like a balloon that is pushing him out of his chair to ask one of his zingers. He was in the middle of throwing out vile Farrakhan quotes about Jews when you, Senator Obama, put out a calming, restorative hand like you were parting the waters and stopped Russert in mid-sentence. Mesmerized by your almost holy presence, he never finished the terrible quote, curling up by your feet like a lap dog. (Ok, he didn’t really curl up, just panted.) He did manage to ask you to respond to Farrakhan’s endorsement. You smoothly disavowed Farrakhan’s teaching, but said you could not stop him from endorsing you—that he was justly proud of you because you are an African-American. Question. Why can’t you? Why can’t you tell him to never let your name escape from his mouth again, especially when he speaks in public. Maybe he won’t listen, but it seems to us country bumpkins that you could sure tell him that you want nothing to do with him or his teachings. I know it’s old-fashioned, but I am always more impressed more by what a man does than what he says. Maybe you could show us a letter you wrote him along with his response. He is after all, not only anti-Semitic, but also anti-white, anti-gay, anti-Asian and anti-everybody who is not black. Is this racism? I thought you abhorred racism in all of its manifestations. He is also head of the Nation of Islam in America.

Next question. Knowing all these things, why do you go to a church whose pastor endorses the teachings of Farrakhan and gives him awards? Is it true that you chose this pastor to perform your wedding ceremony as well as being your religious and spiritual leader? Maybe you could explain this. I am sure you have a better reason than “I don’t always agree with everything my pastor does.” Somehow, that just doesn’t explain these confusing things. Also, there’s the church doctrine. I tried substituting white every place where your doctrine says black and imagined what would happen to a white church with this type of doctrine. It would not be pretty. Is the doctrine of your church racist? Please explain why it is not.

Then there’s that college thesis your wife wrote where she says that the oppressed black must rise up against their white oppressors. I know we are just unsophisticated voters and misunderstand what she really meant, but that sounds sort of racist to us, too. Please explain that and maybe you could also tell us why she has never been proud to be an American. We’re kind of proud, ourselves. Always have been.

Government and Health Care

The final question for this evening touches on health care and your plans to nationalize it. Almost all of us recognize that health care in America is in need of help. We just don’t want to make it worse. Senator Obama, you say that health care will be cheaper when you take office. That sounds good. How does that work exactly? Will doctors and hospitals and pharmaceutical companies start dropping prices on inauguration day or will it be later? How much later?

Senator Clinton, my coffee and poker buddies want to issue a challenge to you. Please name two things that big government has ever done efficiently and well. Focus like a laser beam on both words. If you can come up with one thing, we promise to come up with fifty that have gone the other way. Fifty to one. Not bad odds for you. It should be easy. Here’s a hint. It seems to us that defense, the only real function of a government in America, is done well, but is hardly efficient.

Forgive me for this last comment. My poker and coffee buddies insisted that I ask it. It’s rhetorical and you don’t have to answer it. Are the two of you really that naïve about what made America great or do you just think voters are dumb and will swallow anything you say if you promise to give us handouts? Surely it is the latter. How could anyone run for the highest office in the land, to aspire to be the leader of the free world, and not understand how our country works—not understand the difference between socialism and a democracy, the law of supply and demand, and more importantly, not have read the constitution, especially those parts relative to the powers of the president?

Maybe it’s because both of you have spent your entire adult lives working in one those jobs that presidents create. It’s a mystery.

We were just wondering. We care about America.

Suicidal Republicans

2008-02-13T12:12:00.000-08:00

Get over it. That’s what pundits and members of the Republican establishment are saying to Conservatives. It is John McCain’s turn and he is going to be our nominee. You need to get on board and stop whining. There’s a certain amount of truth to that, but it doesn’t tell the whole story. Establishment Republicans are calling true Conservatives who cringe at having McCain as the anointed candidate suicidal and Kamikaze Republicans. Cute, but that’s the pot calling the kettle black.

Let’s get something straight. I will not be casting a ballot for Obama or Clinton, even if it means voting for John McCain. However, establishment Republicans who refer to us as suicidal need to look in the mirror. They are the ones who committed suicide, not real Conservatives. Wait a minute—they committed murder, not suicide. Ok, maybe it’s attempted murder, because God willing, the Conservative cause will never die. Death of the Conservative cause will be the death of America. Why do I say murder? Because, in the absence of the unlikely event that Obama will be properly vetted before the election, or some major world event happens to change the election dynamics, the nomination of John McCain virtually assures that an uninformed citizenry will elect one of the most unqualified candidates ever to run for the presidency—not to mention the most liberal. Barack Hussein Obama. I find myself pulling for Hillary to win the nomination—then I lose my lunch.

A McCain presidency is infinitely better than an Obama or Hillary presidency. So should we just shut up and rally around his candidacy and do everything we can to help him defeat them? Yes and no. We should do everything possible to help him win, but isn’t this a good time to state our objections to the attempted murder—while the spotlight is on the campaign? Can we complain while we work for his election? Can we address what we consider to be very serious problems within the Republican Party without being called suicidal? I think so. Now is the time.

Let’s consider what the party has done to itself and how Conservatism is part of the collateral damage of this monumentally stupid mistake by establishment Republicans.

It is inarguable that Americans are thirsty for change. Witness the empty-headed adulation of adoring crowds that follow rock-star Obama everywhere he goes. They emote over profound words like future vs. past, up vs. down, forward instead of backward, and most of all, change. The man never utters a substantive word. He has no substantive accomplishments in his life. He doesn’t have to. He is half-black, half-white, had two Muslim fathers, a white atheist mother (or at least agnostic), and belongs to a church whose leader is a stated admirer of Louis Farrakhan. Even if he wasn’t articulate and likeable, he embodies change. Unwitting Americans are so hungry for change that that they are willing to sacrifice everything at the altar of change for change’s sake, to ignore dangerous facts about a candidate in order to prove that we are ready to embrace diversity. Their only complaint is that they hate they were offered two agents of change at once--the first woman president, and the first half-black president. An abundance of wonderful change.

In this environment of ravenous thirst for change, what do the Republicans offer? John McCain—a man who embodies the status quo as much as anyone possibly could. Oh, we will expound upon his maverick status to try to appeal to moderates and independents, but it won’t work. They will be voting for Obama. Why? Because they want change. You know what? So do I. I am dying for change in America. We had a chance to nominate one of the most qualified men to ever run, a man who stood for change, but we opted for a Washington insider. We need change badly, but I will not be voting for a candidate because of a buzzword.

So what do Conservatives want in the way of change? The list is long, but one fundamental change is required. Congress is badly broken and I believe that the only real way to fix it is term limits. I believe that the Republican Party should have voluntary term limits as part of its platform. All candidates should take a pledge to serve only two terms in the Senate or four terms in the House. Maybe it will spark the need for a constitutional amendment allowing term limits. Now, that change would be more than a catchy phrase. Term limits makes change a verb rather than a noun. Congressmen would have to actually live under the laws they pass. They might even have to live under Social Security, for example. They might have to make a payroll or earn their pay. Can you imagine the look of despair that would come over the face of Ted Kennedy, for example, when he is told that his time is up—when he is told that people will no longer bow and scrape to his power and will start treating him for what he is. Bloated, corrupt fat cats have become the rule rather than the exception in Congress. Young, idealistic Conservatives (and yes, Liberals) have little chance in the system of seniority they must labor under. The old, the fat, the alcoholic, the power-hungry, and the corrupt rule the halls of Congress. “Get on board or get run over, Son.”

Is there a part of me that wants the establishment punished for giving us John McCain? Not enough to settle for Obama or Clinton. Still, lets rise up and learn from this. If not, we must have our own party. I am a Conservative first, a Republican second.

Huckabee's Role in the 08 Elections

2008-02-04T11:17:00.000-08:00

A message to all Huckabee supporters: What your candidate did in this campaign is remarkable. I have admired your guy for a long time and was pleased when I saw him enter the race. I wanted a Romney/Huckabee ticket or even the reverse. One of the two of them has won all the debates with the nod probably going to Mike as the best debater. His only real bummer was when he and McCain double-teamed Romney. They looked like petulant high-schoolers that night.

I love Huckabee’s fair tax plan and have supported such a plan for more than two decades. (I was a CPA in a former life and prepared or reviewed over 10,000 tax returns, so I know how bad the tax code is and how it infiltrates all aspects of American life). One of the advantages seldom mentioned about this plan is that abolishment of the IRS and doing away with the onerous tax code will strip Congress of one of its main sources of power.

At this stage of the campaign, Huckabee is focusing his attacks on Romney, even though McCain is the front-runner. Wonder why? Governor Huckabee is obviously looking toward 2012 and is perfectly willing to let America suffer through four years of John McCain or more probable, Obama or Billary, in order to achieve his ambition. His function in the campaign can only be the second man on the ticket. He knows that McCain is definitely a one-term candidate. He is pulling votes away from Romney, the clear and only remaining viable choice for Republicans who are real conservatives. A more worrisome scenario is that he is in tune with McCain’s views. I hope not.

Are you willing to have Obama or Billary as president? The democrats want McCain, because they know he will be beaten. Even establishment Republicans want McCain because most of them have hopes for 2012 and also know he will be defeated or at the minimum, last only four years. Why would they want him to lose the general? Because the president takes the blame when things go south, and they see things going south. They are highly unlikely to take back either house of Congress, so a Democratic President and a Democrat congress will have to take the blame, leaving the way for a Republican victory in 2012. That is the only reason I can see for their abandonment of conservative principles in order to get behind a clearly weak candidate.

Are you willing to take that chance? I am not. Four or eight years of liberal power in Washington may do irreparable damage. Don’t waste your vote. Worse, don’t cast a ballot that will clearly be for Obama or Billary or both.

The Big Tent

2008-02-02T12:42:00.000-08:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about this term. (Big Tent) It is used often in election campaigns, especially presidential elections. The current campaign really requires conservatives to analyze what it means to have a big tent. I agree that we need to bring as many voters as possible into our tent. In my case, it has always been the Republican tent. Now, I am not so sure. I would much rather be a conservative than a Republican.

I am always a little impatient with folks who say they are independents and those who say they cannot decide about candidates. For heaven’s sake, make up your mind. The differences, after all, were clear. The chasm between Democrat beliefs and Republican beliefs was wide and deep. If a voter has a belief system, and all voters should, the choice should be easy.

This presidential election may change that, however. The tent I get under has always been, with few exceptions, the conservative tent. People under this tent believe that the government is unwieldy and does almost nothing well, efficiently, or cost-effectively. It is a bloated, corrupt, influence-peddling, power-hungry behemoth with a voracious appetite that will never be sated, no matter how much we feed it. This monster is necessary for essentially only one reason—to protect us. All of its other functions are subsidiary, at best. When conservatives say protect, we mean national defense, not protection from ourselves. Just see that we are safe and leave the rest of our living to us. In other words, leave me the hell alone. There is virtually nothing the big monster can do that I cannot do better. Leaving me alone means keeping taxes low and regulations few.

Sure, moderates, even liberals are welcome in the conservative tent. But I am reminded of that song a few years back, “Welcome to Texas”. The chorus ended with “now don’t forget to go back home". The theme of the song is come into the tent, but respect our principles, don’t expect us to change to suit you. If you start pulling at the poles that hold the tent up, you will be asked to go back to your own tent.

A John McCain nomination threatens the poles of our tent, even the fabric. I liken it to the millions of illegal immigrants crossing our borders. You are welcome, but come through immigration—legally, and when you do come, assimilate. Sure, you can even keep your culture, but don’t ask us to change ours. Don’t march in the streets waving your own flag, expect us to spend millions educating you and providing you with free health care, and to print everything in two languages because you are unwilling to learn English. That’s impolite and it flies in the face of everything conservatives believe. It tears at the very fabric of this country and the fabric of our tent.

John McCain wants to take over the conservative tent, and he wants to bring his liberal friends with him. Those liberal friends are just stinging him along, hoping to tear down the tent. Sure, I believe in compromise, but not in compromising my principles. If we keep letting liberals tear at our fabric and dig up the stakes that bind our tent poles, then it must fall. I, for one, don’t want to be under a falling tent.