Sunday, February 10, 2019

Is literature and art racist or racially insensitive?

An exercise in propaganda. This is my discourse to combat blatant propaganda espoused by the left. Yearbooks can be defined as art. College and high school yearbooks of our past should be defined as historical art. The Webster dictionary makes this clear. If we edit or destroy historical art for the sake of hurt feelings, are we no better than ISIS destroying historical Buddhist temples in Iraq? President Katherine Rowe of William and Mary may think it is ok to destroy art she does not agree with. Let us examine the recent controversies surrounding Virginia and historical art of the past. 

Ralph Northam showed racial insensitivity. However, if we define racism by the Webster dictionary: A belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race. A doctrine or political program based on the assumption of racism and designed to execute its principles. A political or social system founded on racism. Racial prejudice or discrimination, then we should be mindful of calling people racist. I did not vote for Ralph Northam for my own reasons but I find it hard to stand by and watch the press and Democrats use this label to hurt others unjustly. 

I can not lay my finger on a time when Ralph has ever been racist. The whole problem is Democrats have changed the definition of racism to demean the President at el. A 27-year-old picture of blackface or KKK costume was worn for 6 hours once or let us say twice in life is not what we should construe as racism. Think of it this way. At 60 years of age, we have lived 506,880 hours. (60*352*24) We made a mistake for 12 hours wearing blackface twice in our lives. 12 hours / 506,880 = .00002367 time of our life when we made a bad decision. Are we at a point in our society that we will condemn people for .00002367? This picture did not take from anyone the right to go to school, get a job, a place to live or discriminate in any manner. He is not a KKK member or a member of any groups that hate except of course the Democrat party. What the picture did were hurt peoples feelings. 

The left and the mainstream media wants to add to the definition of racism “hurting feelings”. My feelings get hurt every time the Gazette or the Daily Press runs a cartoon of white males depicted as pigs or racist as a whole. My feelings get hurt every time they run cartoons of white males holding the Confederate flag and a MAGA hat as if to say we are all like this. Yes is the answer, the Daily Press has done this in the past. If we are to add hurting feelings to the definition of racism William and Mary and The Daily Press is guilty. If Northam is to step down it should be for not owning up to the picture in the beginning. With that said, Elizabeth Warren should resign tomorrow but you will not see the press calling for her resignation after lying about her Indian heritage and using American Indian on applications for schools. 

Plenty of cake for those who save

Kathleen Parker a columnist with the Washington Post wrote an interesting colum concerning the plight of  Federal workers during the Government shutdown. I offer discourse. 


Ms. Parker, you used your column to attack others in which you disagree.  With your “let them eat cake moment” you fail to realize just how important border security really is and of course, the Democrats are just as guilty of politics.

 During the Great Depression (1929-1939), the families who grew up during this time learned a few things most people ignore today. I learned from my family; I learned from being poor and on my own at an early age with little to no education. I learned to live, only the necessities. Today, I am wealthy, and for me, I am generationally more successful than my father. 

1. Use credit cautiously.
2. Nurture positive relationships with family and friends. Yes, that means your spouse as well. 
3. Enjoy simple pleasures. 
4. Do it yourself.
5. See frugality as a virtue. 
6. Treat food with respect.
7. Don’t treat our soil like dirt. 
8. Reuse, reuse, reuse.
9. Practice good domestic skills.
10. Be thankful.
11. It is not what you make; it is what you spend. 
12. Save, save, save. We hear the best financial advisers tell us every day. Save at least 6-months of expenditures for rough times. 
13. Delayed gratifications.
14. Go to Church and belong to something greater than yourself.    

Federal employees make on the average 120k a year. My wife and I combined make 130k a year. We have a savings account, we save more than 10%, and it matters not your income, you can live by these simple rules.  Some in today's generation have not learned from their grandparents. We pay off our credit cards every month. Twenty – eight years have passed since I married my wife. Marriage is crucial if you are going to have children and be able to afford them. I think the left has taught women they can go it alone, they don’t need a man. That is the worst lie, a most horrible untruth you, feminist and the elites have taught. We enjoy the simple pleasures of walking hand in hand with our dog and talking. We do almost everything ourselves. I fix the cars, change the oil, mow the grass, home renovations and can fix just about anything. My wife cleans the home, no maid in our house. It is a wonderful relationship, I take care of the outside, and my wife takes care of the inside.  These are but a few ways to save. We are frugal when we shop, coupons always, never pay full price for anything. We shop in thrift stores.  My wife still drives a 2006 Toyota forerunner with 130k miles. This truck is in such good shape she can drive it another 100k mile easy. We throw nothing away from the dinner table. We cook at home and spend little time in restaurants. When we do cook, we prepare meats for three meals. We do eat the leftovers, and we throw nothing away. We have a garden. We work in our garden every summer. Freezing vegetables, canning, make pickles, etc. We thoroughly clean the home, change AC filters, clean refrigerator coils, etc. It truly is not what you make it is what you spend. We have a budget we stick to our budget. We save everything. Plastic cups, plastic containers, aluminum cans are money, cardboard boxes, shipping wrap. I save every screw or nail I find. I pick up every penny I see on the parking lot asphalt and add to the jar. I reload ammo, and I don’t buy new. We delay expenditures until the money is saved to purchase. We save for Christmas. We save for a vacation; we save for emergencies. We mend our clothing with our sewing skills and darn our socks. Today, young people, are a throwaway generation and spending more money.

Honestly, I have little respect and sympathy for those who have gone without a paycheck for 3-4 weeks and no savings. My wife and I today have put two kids, almost through college and paid for it up till now. Abby has one more year; Jake has two more years. It cost 56k a year, but we were able to do this because we are married, in a committed relationship, we saved in 429’s since they were three years of age. We saved our money; we built emergency funds, we did without and saved for the future. (“We sacrificed”) My wife and I could go a year without work if needed today. We have saved in our IRA’s, and our 401k is maxed out plus some. “We lived below our means” We will retire very nicely on little pay in the next ten years or so. Our financial adviser says we have more wealth than 75% of today’s American population. We don’t live that way though; you would not know it to meet us. I think that this is the key, a path most 40-year olds and younger, have no clue is available to walk down. 

This essay has been brought to you by a poor man who made it. If I can make it anyone can. 

Reed Johnson

Wednesday, January 23, 2019

Notre Dame murals: A reminder of Hitlers Germany

Notre Dame murals: A reminder of Hitlers Germany.

The murals of Notre Dame were created around 1882-1884 and are historical. The murals are a form of art. It is not the story they tell but, the time in history they were painted, tells a story. If an accurate depiction of the story is what you seek, then a plaque installed next to the historical mural, Iconary, plaque, painting should be placed. This plaque can depict today's interpretation of the past, this is not a time to start removing art and historical depictions of history. Honestly, I can walk into any museum of art and find 1000’s of Renaissance paintings that do not depict the past as accurate. Are we to remove all art that does not factually portray the past as precise due to today's interpretation of history or remove because the historical art offends a few?

Charlottesville Virginia 2018, students demanding the removal of the Jefferson Memorial because he was a slave owner. The founder of UVA, we want him gone!  William and Mary removed confederate art and attempted to remove a gift, a Christian cross, from Wren Chapel.  Of course, when donations were threatened President Nichols was fired, the cross stayed as pheasant under glass, W&M caved and relinquished their convictions for money.  The Silent Sam, University of North Carolina, was torn from its historical base by an uneducated youthful mob of students. These artifacts are ancient in nature, they tell us about a time in the past and how people thought. I think the ideas of the past should not be erased. I think we need to understand how people felt at that time in the past and record this time as important history. We do this through art. These historical murals that were painted represented what people believed to be art. This in itself satisfies historical and art definitions.

Confederate Iconary, a plaque, given in the early 1900s to honor fallen soldiers was removed from William and Mary. President Reveley promised a new plaque to honor all fallen soldiers, on both sides of the civil war. He lied and to this day the plaque has never been replaced. New President Katherine Rowe, in my opinion, has exhibited an unwillingness to consider a change.  President Rowe will not discuss the Confederate plaque as art or of historical significance and will not pursue its replacement as promised. Let us be clear here. A hand-carved plaque is as every bit a piece of art as a statue of Jefferson, residing in the sunken garden. Is every bit a piece of art found in the cross, residing in Wren Chapel. To witness the defacing of art, Jefferson’s statue should be a concern to the President of William and Mary. Alas, it has not historically been a concern, it seems to me.

The murals at Notre Dame are art. Plaques are art, Iconary is art. The biggest fear we face today is, the art we find in museums will be taken down and removed by the left as they see it offensive. It is these leaders of the left, professors, students, presidents, congressman-women, who remind me of Hitlers Germany.

"The Nazi book burnings were a campaign by German Student unions to burn books in the 1930s ceremonially. These books were targeted for burnings as they viewed these books as being subversive or as representing ideologies opposed to Nazism. these included books written by Jewish, pacifist, religious, classical, liberal, anarchist, socialist and communist authors." Books are a work of art, they are historical, and they tell a story. The same can be said for paintings, sculptures, plaques, and Iconary. Today we witness the removal, the cover-up, the torn down, the art of our past being destroyed. A past that the left finds subversive or as representing ideologies they oppose. It is here we see this comparison to Germany's Hitler youth.

Definition of historical: of or concerning history; concerning past events.

Definition of art: The expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form. Examples of visual form: paintings, sculptures, murals, plaques, music, literature, dance.

In closing: I predict as America moves ever farther left, in its ideology, our very country will be threatened, books will be banned, music removed, paintings burned and all for the call to not offend those of political ideology, a left doctrine. The very inclusiveness they shout is but arouse, it is the power they seek, it is the power they seek, to destroy America.


Sunday, January 6, 2019

The Follower Chapter 2: We are the sum of life's experiences.

Chapter 2
We are the sum of life's experiences.

My father passed this past June 2018. Hugh Tipton Johnson, 82 years of age, had taken a fall in a park in Roanoke. Dad never recovered from this fall. I look back and wonder if God had not planned this all along. You see, Dad was an avid dancer. Shag dancing at the age of 82, his favorite of all social events. Dad had been a part of Shag clubs for the last 50-60 years is my guess. Every summer for the past 20-years, Roanoke had sponsored music in the park. A beautiful park, built in the representation of an ancient Greek amphitheater. It was early May 2018, the first concert, Dad was excited, and had been waiting for this day all winter. Dad would arrive early like he always would. He wanted to get a good parking spot and his favorite place to sit. Front and center on the first level of seating, two feet up and easy to get to the dance floor.

Witnesses say Dad had gotten up from his chair, turned to the crowd to wave to a friend. Music, dancing, his friends were all there. Everyone knew Dad as he had been coming to this event for 20-years. I can see the smile on his face, the satisfaction of making it through another winter. It's springtime, leaves are sprouting on trees, flowers fill the gardens, music is in the air. As Dad turned to wave to friends he lost his balance fell to the dance floor two feet below him. I think God gave this gift to my Dad. This gift of seeing friends one more time, to feel springs warmth after a cold Virginia winter, the music, the dancing. Dad was where he wanted to be and God knew that.

We are the sum of life's experiences. Growing up in the 1960's - 1970's certainly did make for some interesting self-preservation instincts. Thomasville NC in the late 60's early 70's was still a divided town as I remember it. The train tracks ran right down through the middle of town. Blacks lived on one side of the tracks and us whites lived on the other side. The elementary school was of course in the white neighborhood. Everyday gangs of black kids would stroll through our neighborhood on the way to school. We, of course, all knew we needed to get to school before they did or leave after they passed. If you got caught by the gang on the way to school, you were chased and if you got caught, fights broke out. Fights were never fair. Always 5-10  on one. Black boys would not fight a white boy one-on-one. They waited in gangs for you. The black girls would cheer them on, calling us hateful names, it was here I learned to fight, to run and to seek revenge.

This is a part of the civil rights movement liberals don't want to talk about. This is the part of the '60s the media will not report on and that is this truth we lived.  These poor young impressionable kids being taught to hate whitey. Parents, Grandparents, older siblings, I think all contributed to this type of behavior. Of course, the media, and we were in the midst of a civil rights movement, did not help create relationships between 10-year-olds, in fact, it separated us as it did our parents. Looking back, I can understand why black youth were in riot mode most of my young life. The peaceful protest turns violent, police harassment, assassinations of good men trying to create a better life for those who follow.

In 1974 and at the age of 13 years, was my last year living in Thomasville. My last year of playing baseball with my friends I had grown up with. I did not know this at the time but, my team sports career was over as soon as we moved yet again. The summer of 1974 was a magical year for Manns baseball. Our team, all white kids, of course, had the gracious fate of the first girl to join our team. I don't remember much of her but I do remember some of the boys on the team giving her a really hard time. I had enough of that one day and stepped in to have her back. I told my friends to leave her alone this was not right. I stood up for her and as far as I remember it was this day they backed off, at least in front of me.

Back in my day, your team was named after the group that supported the team. In our case, it was Mann's Drugstore. Our rival was The Lion Club. The only black team of the 8 or so teams in our town was called Civitan. In my day you had to make the team. You had to try out and you had to be good enough. A midsummer night I remember so well. The day before I was told I was pitching. Our two good pitchers were gone on vacation and it fell to me. Our opponent was Civitan. I pitched 6 innings of decent ball from what I remember. We won the game and afterward, I made the mistake of hanging out after the game at Doak Park. I was attacked just like before as this was a daily occurrence. Attacked before and after school, fighting blacks and no clue as to why. What we do learn is, blacks are not willing to fight one on one they are only willing to fight if they have numbers. Basically, I had to fight the entire Civitan team. Why you ask? I don't know, I got caught where I should have not been. I remember being on top of one kid beating the crap out of him, and the other nine or ten on top of me. I got lucky really, some adults saw what was happening and broke up the fight. What happened next was forever etched in my mind. The adults made me fight one kid. What seemed like forever, this fight, once I had gotten him on the ground and started to pummel him, the adults pulled me off. My white friends were just arriving with baseball bats ready to fight, things were getting out of control. The black kids were told to get out of the park, go home to your side of the tracks.

A few weeks later after being chased home again by blacks, I had managed to get home early and quickly beating these kids to my home. Every day they would walk past our home on the way to their side of the tracks. This day, revenge was to be mine. I had set up a sniper position on top of our garage. My trusty Daisy BB gun locked and loaded. As the gang came by I took my aim and shot. Pop! right in the ass. I cocked and shot again and again before they took off running. As they ran out of sight yelling bee's are stinging us, I was laughing, satisfaction complete knowing tomorrow, I would have to find my way to school and not get caught.

Over the years I did find a way to school and back in order to avoid these kids. You see, black kids did not like the woods. If I could get to the woods they would not enter, I was safe. Something about the woods, the forest, the brush, I don't know but they would not follow. The woods became my haven and my playground.

Boy Scouts: I have fond memories of Boy Scouts. I don't care what you want to call it today, it will always be Boy Scouts to me and that is what I am going to call it. We had meetings every Monday night, played games, worked on badges and ranks. Camping was the best part of the 1960-70 scouting era. No, I did not have to take a swim test to go swimming. No, we did not have to camp next to or insight of the Scout Masters and yes we were given way more freedom to make mistakes and learn on our own than to today's Boy Scouts. We hunted snipes by night with the newbies, we wandered around scout camp with no supervision, we swam alone, we were free. Camporee was an especially good time. This was when we got together with other Scout troops and competed in things that Scouts do. In my day at least in my Troop, we boxed. Scoutmasters would tie off a rope within trees to form a ring, we were gloved, no headgear, no mouth guard and fight! 3-rounds and if you won you had to fight the next kid. I have to say, I remember beating the crap out of a lot of kids in my day. The time I spent fighting in grade school and middle school with the gangs of blacks who would attack me proved to be useful. I could take a punch and deliver deafening blows. I bloodied up this one kid so bad they pulled me off of him in the ring. An older scout grabbed me and carried me into the woods. I was maybe 11 or 12 and he was 15 plus. He hit me as hard as he could right in the face, a sucker punch. I looked at him and said, "why did you do that for?" Surprised, he told me to go back to camp. I never did find out why he did that. I must have hurt someone he loved or a brother or something but boy was he pissed.

Around 2002 my son joined scouting. My gosh had things changed. I had more than once made the remark to Scoutmasters how we were raising a bunch of pussies. Liberals were taking over Scouting, the rules and regulations were unbelievably many and in most cases absolutely unnecessary. Two deep was one of the good things they had done along with background checks. One of the worst things they did was take God out of Scouting, allow Gays in, and of course girls. Now we got Scoutmasters and leaders who are women, liberals everywhere, boys being turned into pussies and the right to just be a boy was gone. Since when is a woman allowed in scout camp? This is and should be a time for men and boys to be men and boys in a common bond of masculinity. But no, masculinity is now outlawed in Scouting. I am glad my son got out when he did. Jake made the rank of Eagle in 2016. Two years later, Boy Scouts became "Scouting" the damn liberals have taken over completely, girls are allowed in a boys club. Damn you to hell you liberals, Damn you to hell.....

I got introduced to motorcycles around the age of ten. My first bike was a Honda CT70. Our home on Spring Street had a small patch of land out next to the garage. I would ride around in a circle for hours at a time. Over the next couple of years, my friend Bill and I built trails on a piece of land out near a railroad track spur for one of the Thomasville furniture plants. We would walk our bikes to a gravel road and ride to the trails. Many summer days were spent riding trails and building trails. We even built a lean-to for our clubhouse. Every summer we would pack up our bikes and head to Baden Lake. Here we found 100's of the miles of trails and would ride 8-hours a day while our families enjoyed the lake. A friend of my Dads had a farm. His children rode as well. One of the many nice things my Dad did for us was,  we would pack up the bikes and head out on a Saturday or Sunday to the farm to ride. We rode all day. Sometimes we would visit a Par-3 golf course and play golf just down the road from the farm. Other times we would ride to the local country store to get drinks and candy. It was here I learned to love Zots. Zots was a hard candy with a powdery sugar hidden inside. I think I paid a nickel apiece.

I got paid to mow the grass, Dad paid 2.00. The entrepreneur in me started a lawn mowing business. I got 2.00 a yard no matter the size. When I was 10-years of age I was recruited to run the neighborhood paper route. I got up every morning at 4am, rolled papers and delivered. The first year or two was on my bicycle, eventually, I migrated to my motorcycle. The local police seem not to care at all. Good times flying through the neighborhood delivering papers on a motorcycle. When I talk about my Dad, I don't want people to think it was all bad as it was not. There were good times too but when you start to look back, you realize as a ten-thirteen-year-old you were oblivious to the obvious bad decisions.

Many a summer day we spent at the Moose club pool. I learned to swim, dive and play a game called sharks and minnows in the deep in. The Moms would sit and smoke cigarettes, gossip I am sure, and play cards. I learned to swim and dive from the older kids. Backflips, Gainers, Forward flips, 1 1/2's, inward diving on 3- meter boards. When I was 40-years of age we joined a pool locally to take our kids. My son and daughter tried to learn to do flips and the such, but the passion was not there. Sharks and minnows are still on the menu I am happy to see. Life had changed, parents more involved in their kids. No longer did kids come home when the lights came on. No, everything had to be structured with these young parents. God forbid you to take your eye of a child for a second, oh Lord what could happen? I am an older father compared to other parents with the same age children. I am 40 with 8-year olds hanging out with 30-somethings with 8-year olds. So protective they were, there was no keeping score in the little league. The child had become the most important thing in life and they were sure to remove every obstacle so their little snowflakes would not fail. While I did learn how not to raise children from my father still I had only one rule. I will let them fail but, I will not let them hang themselves or jump off the cliff. Knowing when to let it go and when to step in was the hardest part of my parenting philosophy.

The end of summer is drawing to a close. Knowing my family is about to move to Appomattox VA. Another job another opportunity to start over. In 1974 Manns Drug won the city championship. In the top of the 6th down 1-0, Jeff Stone pitching for Lions throws a fastball to a part of the plate I could handle, boom two-run home run over left field fence. A monster of a shot for a 13-year-old as this ball ended up in the parking lot. One kid later told me, "you hit a windshield and it was the Lions coaches car." I still have the newspaper clipping today. I look at the clipping from time to time and remember that moment in time, that pitch I remember well, I remember the ball as it sailed out of site and through the lights. A fitting end to my time living in Thomasville, North Carolina. Appomattox VA here we come.

Experiences learned from this era. Black people will only fight in gangs and never one on one. When you walk past a black guy, look over your shoulder and make sure he does not hit you from behind. Avoid black people when you can, walk on the other side of the street if you have to. Black girls were usually nice unless they were in gang mode. Inside, fastballs are my favorite pitch to drive. Motorcycles were my passion. This is what was running through the mind of a 13-year old.

Tuesday, December 25, 2018

Merry Christmas Daily Press

My discourse to the Daily Press opinion's written on this joyous day of Christmas. May you learn something today, find joy in your hearts and give thanks for family.  

As I do every day, we make the coffee, hope the paper is on time and awaiting my barefoot scamper across an aggregate driveway. The scamper reminds me I should have put on shoes for the millionth time. In this moment of darkness, as I reach for my paper, I look up. The winter stars are shining, the sun nowhere to be found, all is quiet on the western front. It is here I stop every day and look up. I look up and I thank God for everything he has given me. 

Have you ever stopped and watched a crowd of people? Watched intently, selected individuals and then regress to the understanding of the crowd? For me, I do not see people, I see individual realities. Every person in the crowd lives their own reality. There are times to stop and offer assistance to realities and, understanding. There is also a time to stop and fight realities lived by those who mean to do us harm, change our realities or harm our nation. 

Today we remember Jesus the Christ. My church reality has become neutral over the years like Digby’s. I ponder the need for humans to have to believe in miracles to believe in Jesus the Christ. The Bible is riddled with stories of nonbelievers until Jesus performs a miracle. I think my faith has grown, has found a different reality, a lonely reality. I do not need Jesus to perform miracles for me to believe. I do not need Jesus to die on a cross and rise three days later for me to believe. I believe because I know, it is the right thing to do to help humanity.  I am reminded of a small book Thomas Jefferson wrote, I have a copy but for the sake of having to leave my coffee, I will not retrieve for the proper title. Google this and find “The morals of Jesus Christ.” This book is a book that every reality should own and read. It is this book if lived by, will bring you happiness. Or shall I say, brings my happiness to bear. 

I think about  Barabbas and another book I read “The Zealot.” While our bible leads us to believe he was a robber, factual history tells us he was a freedom fighter captured. This freedom fighter resisted the Roman rule in Jerusalem. This is why he was set free by the crowds and not this rabble-rouser Jesus the Christ. Jesus to was a fighter, prone to acts of demeaning others, and violence in the temple, throwing over the money changers tables in the temple (John 3:15). Luke 22:35-36 Jesus called for his follower to buy a sword. Luke 12:51 Not peace, but a sword. Because of him, a son will turn against father, the daughter against mother, and a daughter-in-law against mother-in-law. Even a person’s enemy will be a member of one’s own household (Matt. 10:34-36.) Like John the Baptist, Jesus the Christ was a freedom fighter, a rabble-rouser, a zealot, and a thorn in the side of the Jewish Priest he saw as collaborating with the Romans. He saw the taxing of the poor and requiring animal sacrifice in the temple as a means to find favor in the eyes of God. You see the money changers were there to sell animals to be sacrificed and we can all guess who kept the money or do I have to spell it out for you?

What amazes me most is the people's lack of understanding Jesus. There are two Jesus’s if you will, Jesus of Nazareth and Jesus the Christ. Each has a story to tell, a beautiful story of love, forgiveness, anger, violence, and war. Today’s Daily Press offers only one side, much like our Pastors found in everyday church USA. They are preaching a dogma that benefits them and justifies their own realities while trying to change my reality by using shame. 

I urge each person to read Thomas Jefferson's book. I would also urge each person who reads this to understand, there is a time to fight and a time for forgiveness and love. This is what Jesus teaches.  

Sunday, December 23, 2018

Medical science and morals, the Left will not tolerate

Abortion: Medical science and morals, the left will not tolerate.

I think Liberals will say the mother carrying the child owns the unborn child and therefore may do with this unborn child as they see fit. Kill her, bear him, give the child up for adoption.

Conservatives might say, The moment of conception is the birth of a child and therefore the child should be protected. 

Charles Krauthammer, a brilliant man, in my opinion, offers us this. “There is not the slightest recognition on either side that abortion might be at the limits of our empirical and moral knowledge. The problem starts with an awesome mystery: the transformation of two soulless cells into a living human being. That leads to an insoluble empirical question: How and exactly when does that occur? On that, in turn, hangs the moral issue: What are the claims of the entity undergoing that transformation?” How can we expect such a question to yield answers that are not tentative and indeterminate? So difficult a moral question should command humility or at least a little old-fashioned tolerance, I think." 

Liberals either do not agree with the medical interpretation of Charles Krauthammer or will not use science in determining when two soulless cells become a child. In other words, it is here that liberals (some liberals) cast aside science. It is here where the hypocrisy of the left begins. It is here where liberals will simply tout only the science they agree with. Example: Liberals tout climate change science as factual. Yet when it comes to the unborn child, in the 10–12 week period of pregnancy, the liberal will disregard the functioning brain of a child and the rights of a child, afforded to the child life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. 

My interpretation: Abortion: At 10–12 weeks the unborn child has by medical standards, a functioning brain. If a child, a person, has a functioning brain then the questions become who owns this person? If the mother has made the mistake of not keeping her legs crossed, do I blame the child? I do not have a problem with abortion before the functioning brain has developed and in cases of severe defects or harm to the mother. My best research finds the 10– 12-week window to be the time if, we have to establish time, as a reason to make a decision. I think Walter Williams said it best. I am paraphrasing here but, will use quotation marks to make sure my social hero is documented. Take a moment to ponder the following and please stop and answer the next question before you read on. Do you believe you own yourself? 

“If you believe you own yourself, then what others try to take from you, without your permission, is a form of slavery” Is the unborn child a slave to the mother? If abortion is ok then yes, a child with a functioning brain is a slave to the mother. Here we see Liberals, in this case, promoting slavery. A child, a slave to the mother, the mother with every right to kill the unborn child. I am reminded of the rights of the southern slave owner. They had the right to kill slaves with functioning brains 230 years ago. 

Thursday, December 20, 2018

The Follower

The Follower: Chapter one

From time to time, I tire of politics and current events. I have tired of puppets and have begun to ignore them. As dangerous as they are, I have to let go for now and try something new. I plan to write about my life. Throughout this year, I plan to write a few chapters and continue this story.  

1961-Morristown Tennessee is home. Born and raised until we left for Thomasville NC. I don't remember a lot and I suppose that is normal. I grew up in Thomasville NC. My father on his 4 or 5th job now, has gone to work for Thomasville Furniture. We rented a small home on Elliott Street.  Doak Park was nearby, Doak Park was a city park with basketball, swings, tennis, and baseball. How I loved baseball growing up and, with other children in the neighborhood who became friends made growing up a little easier. A great time to be a kid I think but, also a hard time to be a kid. I want to save those stories for the next chapter. My father had finally found a job he could hold on to. It's 1966 and after 2-3 years of renting my parents bought their first house, 400 Spring Street. This home was in really bad shape and needed tons of work. My Mom and Dad did a lot of the work that they could and, created a beautiful home for the next 10 years. 

 Three gentlemen came to our front door. Dressed in business suits I remember, my father greets them at the door and calls for me. " These men are here to see you, Reed, my father said." We sat down in the living room and oblivious as to why they were there, they start to ask me questions. I don't rightly remember the questions except for one, " do you believe in Jesus Christ, do you take Jesus as your savior?" Not knowing what else to do, I simple remembering nodding in agreement, and told them what they wanted to hear. A few weeks later, I was baptized at The First Baptist Church. I have fond memories of this church, many friends, fun, RA's. Today, I think back to that day the three men came to see me and wondered why at such a young age would someone be asked to make such a profound statement of belief?

    Fond memories of our church in Thomasville NC, but to look back on my memories of Church in Morristown TN was another story. When I was 4-5 years of age the memories of church are still with me. One has to ask how can memories of such a young age stick with us all these years? Does something horrible or wonderful have to happen to impregnate these memories into our brain? I remember being beaten in church, yes that's right, for whatever reason, my father thought I should be able to sit still for one hour. Sit still and listen to the pastor preach unknown and at that time uncaring words of wisdom, after all, I was just four, On more Sundays than I can count or remember, after the sermons, I would be taken to the deacons room and beat with a belt for not sitting still. In my later years, I would wonder why God would allow such a thing to exist in his church? This was long before the Catholic Church was forced to admit to the assaults of children. 

 After moving again, to Appomattox VA our family settled down in a small rural town at the age of 13. Another town and another Baptist Church. You see my father could not hold a job but somehow had managed to hold down a job with Thomasville furniture for the last 15 years. The move to Appomattox was a promotion, a move up. In the first 16 years of my life, my Dad had been fired from 6 jobs. An angry man, a man who abused my Mom and my sister. I was lucky for the most part, he left me alone, most of the time. Church in these years was not of anything particularly worth remembering. My friend Bill and I spent our time playing ping pong in the student center, our parents thinking we are sitting in the balcony. One day my Mom and Dad brought us all together and we talk about moving from the Baptist Church to the Episcopal Church. Evidently, a group of women had come to the house one day and, asked my Mom why we were not in church, Something happened and I am not sure why but, we left the Baptist Church and began a life in a new Church. Good or Bad my parents have made sure we attended. 

Saint Ann's Episcopal Church was a great Church with fond memories. Our pastor worked on VW's and I use to go over to his house and work on cars with him. This is where I learned to work on VW's and established a love for the Karmann Ghia. I was an altar boy, I read in Church at least one time and, attended youth group. I was still not particularly religious it seems but, still a part of the Church. 

    At the age of 18, I am off to college and failed miserably. This high school life of just being passed along, parents more concerned with fighting each other than raising children took its toll. The moving from Morristown to Thomasville to Appomattox was detrimental to my sister and I. Constantly having to fit in, to this day I believe if we had just stayed in NC until we graduated from high school, life for my sister and I would have turned out much differently. Age 20 my parents divorcing, my father fired yet again and the Church became a thing of the past. Living on my own in a trailer, in a campground, the day came, it was time to leave. I left Appomattox with a pick-up truck, a bag of clothes and, a tent. A new life before me, a poor life, an uneducated life, but God, thank-you for giving me the tools to use my hands. I was fortunate to have the ability to work with my hands. Living in a one-room boarding house in VA Beach on Pacific Avenue, my first job was rebuilding starters and alternators, on a night shift for a small business. Later on building shipping crates for equipment headed to Saudi Arabia. Moving in and moving out with housemates, and for some time living in a tent again. I would only see family once a year, Christmas time was nice. My Mom had gone on to remarry a good man, my Mom went on to build a successful real estate business but never knew how I lived or struggled, never asked. My father living the life of a bachelor, a ski instructor, fired yet again from another job in sales but, he did manage to continue with ski instructing and living off his parent's money until of course that was all gone. I did not see my Father much and for many years. 

When people ask me why I am, who I am, I generally don't have an answer. Reflection has been the key to resolving my inner demons I think. The whole "an unexamined life, is life is not worth living." Don't get me wrong, I still have demons but unless you can identify them, you cannot be rid of them. Some demons, I don't want to be rid of and some I have yet to identify in a meaningful way.

I had presented forgiveness to my father and I never told him how disappointed I was with him. I just let it go and did the best I could to make sure he had a roof over his head.  Somewhere along the way I think, God has guided. Somewhere along the line, I chose not to be my father. I chose to apply what I had learned from the bible in my everyday dealings with people, but mostly I had become fiercely independent. I had, through life's experiences learned, I could only depend on myself. This independence I think created a part of me where it was hard to make friends and trust others. This life also created the idea that if I can make it anyone can. The fact is, this is not true. Some will not make it in life, some will fail, some will simply not have the brain power to succeed I think. It is this population we need to care for. Some, like my father, possessed the ability to succeed (college educated mind you) but chose to abuse the system, take and not give, me first, cheat welfare, cheat insurance companies, cheat on others, cheat himself of a blessed life. If there was one thing Dad was good at, it was scheming for the easy money. In hindsight even this, he was not good at I think. Dad was often caught in lies and deceit. I wonder, why do people behave in such a destructive way? I had every opportunity to turn out like my Dad and God had other plans. 

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