It May be May maybe.

You know what tomorrow is, don't ya? It's the last day of May. Then, June will be bustin' out all over.
Just like April, May went by too darn fast. We had great fun visiting with relatives in May but, sadly, they've all gone home.
It's amazing how far north of due east the sun comes up over the horizon these days. Equally amazing is how early it rises and how late it sets. I love it.
One week from today, I'm driving across the mountains to visit my good ol' pal, Nub, for a couple of days. When we worked together, everyone was "officially" identified by their operating initials. His were, NB. Since we retired, I refer to him as either Enbee, or Nub, or Donaldo, or Amigo. I'm looking forward to seeing him again. I'm taking along a couple bottles of George Dickel whiskey for a mutual friend who tricked us into thinking he too was going to retire. Now, he's running for a VP position with the union instead. I expect that we will break the seal on both bottles regardless of his true intention. I'm not a whiskey drinker by choice, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. I'm taking along a bottle of aspirin.

Slip Slidin' Away

Where has the time gone?!!
Our youngest son is leaving tomorrow. He's been here 8 days but it feels like he just got here yesterday!
I hate it when I feel time slipping quickly away and there's nothing I can do to slow it down or stretch it out.
I miss him already.

Idea Germs

I had the germ of an idea for a children's story the other day, while I was in the men's room at the Ferry Terminal in Anacortes, Washington. It went something like this:

Once upon a time, there were three little chunks of iron ore. They lived happily in a hillside somewhere in Montana.

One day, all three were chosen to become STEEL! But not just any ol' steel. They were to become STAINLESS STEEL!

The three little chunks were so happy! Off they went to join thousands of other little chunks at the steel mill down the road.

Finally, after hours and hours of refinement at the mill, it was graduation day! All the little chunks were now shiny slabs of stainless steel.

Each wondered, "What will become of me now?

At precisely 2:00, professor Bessemer started the graduation ceremony and proudly announced what each shiny slab was going to become:

"Little Slab #1, you shall become a stainless steel refrigerator in a beautiful mansion in Beverly Hills."

"Yippee!!" Shouted the first little slab.

"Little Slab #2, you shall become a Delorian sportscar!"

"Wowzowzer"! Screamed the second little slab.

And so it went for the rest of the group. From boat hulls to eating utensils, each slab was destined to become something useful as well as beautiful.

Eventually, there was only one slab left. It was the third little chunk from the hillside in Montana. The professor slowly took off his glasses and tried not to look directly at the little slab as he read its destiny. The room became quiet.

"Little Slab #3,... You shall become a urinal in the Ferry Terminal at Anacortes, Washington."

Little Slab #3 felt the initial flush of excitement suddenly drain away.

His buddies rushed over to console him. They said, "It won't be so bad, Little Slab. Look at the bright side. We will be spending hours alone in the garage or kitchen, but you'll always have guys 'hanging out' with you!"

(The last two paragraphs were contributed by my brother-in-law, who is a master of intended puns)

BORDERMAN

I have a calling. It came to me today as I was escorting visitors around Peace Arch Park at the U.S./Canadian border. There is a lot of history surrounding Peace Arch Park and both countries have done a good job of making the park a beautiful place to spend an hour or two.

What the park lacks, is someone to explain the history, identify the variety of plantings, and direct visitors to the restrooms.

That sounds like a job for my alter-ego, BORDERMAN! Dressed in a cape that is 1/2 Old Glory and 1/2 Maple Leaf and wearing a mask (to protect my true identity), I see myself dashing about the park answering questions, entertaining small children, and spreading goodwill among men.

I might even break out in song now and then: "Oh Canada, my country tis of thee, sweet land of maple leaves, of thee I sing".

Neither rain, nor sleet, nor... Wait a minute! I'm NOT going to run around in the rain and the sleet dressed up like BORDERMAN, singing compilation tunes. That's just silly.

Forget I even brought it up.

Math-o-semantics

I just visited a web site devoted to math challenges for children. I came across it while I was searching for a book that might offer interesting challenges for our granddaughter. It's called "Aunty Math" and says it's appropriate for children in Kindergarten through 5th grade.

This is today's problem posed at the site:
Which of the following numbers does not belong with the rest, and why? 1, 3, 4, 9, 25.

Do you know the answer? Are you sure? This is math, remember, not some touchy-feely psycho-babble pseudo-science course. Or is it?

After I looked at the problem and decided on my answer, I followed the link to, "Notes to Teachers and Parents". Here's what I found: There is no one correct answer. This is an "open-ended" problem.

According to the author, instead of one correct answer, parents and teachers should instead look for:

• - Fluency - How many solutions can the student create?
• - Flexibility - How many math ideas can the student discover?
• - Originality - To what extent is the student's idea original?
• - Elegance - To what degree is the student's expression of the idea simple and clear?

At the bottom of the page it says: "Sometimes students (and teachers and parents) are resistant to the idea that there can be multiple solutions to math problems. However, in today's world, this is very often the case. Teaching children mathematics through "open-ended" problems helps prepare them for the math they will encounter in the 21st century."

This sounds an awful lot like what I heard back in the '80s: "It doesn't matter that Johnny can't spell as long as he expresses himself creatively."

Count me among those who are resistant the idea of blurry math solutions before children have firmly established math foundations.

Mothers Day

Happy Day, Mothers!
The earliest Mothers Day I can recall was when I was in third grade. I wanted to give my mom something special, but like most 3rd graders, I had limited assets. Nonetheless, I hiked down to the nearest drug store and started looking around.
Aha! Something shiny caught my eye. It was a brass ashtray! Never mind that neither of my parents smoked, this thing looked expensive but cost only one dollar!
I bought the ashtray and proudly presented it to my mom on Mothers Day.
That brass ashtray stayed with our family for many years, though no ashes were ever deposited in it. I guess my mom thought it was as cool-looking as I did. What other reason could she have had for keeping it?

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I read an article today about rudeness.

First, it described several examples of rude behavior. For example, bad drivers and rude cell phone users.

Then it related comments from educators who have tried to impress the importance of polite behavior on their students. For example, etiquette training in pre-school and showing respect for elders.

In closing, the article quoted one of those teachers. She said, "Once you lose respect for people, you have a lot of things break down. It's almost like, one by one, these things have fallen away and this has become the new norm."

That's the part of the article that struck home with me. She's right. A lot of the hostility I feel stems from the simple fact that I have lost respect for most other people.

Last month I quoted a funny sign that we saw in a gift shop. It read, "Before you criticize another, walk a mile in his shoes. That way, you'll be a mile away and you'll have his shoes!"

I think the sign is funny because the sentiment completely reverses the original intent of the adage and it speaks volumes about how we treat each other these days.

I want to work on that.

Miles of Smiles

I need to write about something happy. It's easy to slip into the "Abysmal Abyss of Anger" and it looks like my posts have been flirting around the edge a lot lately.
I mentioned in an earlier post that greeting cards are a good remedy for the blues. They work for anger as well. I know because a greeting card pulled me back from the abysmal abyss.
To be specific, it was a belated birthday card I received from my #2 son yesterday. The cover shows a cartoon elephant saying, "To make sure I remembered your birthday, I marked it on my calendar..." The inside reads, "Have you seen my calendar?" Hahaha. It made me smile. It lightened my load. It pulled me back. Proving once again that greeting cards are good therapy.
I think we would all be better off if we spent more time reading, and exchanging greeting cards. I'm going to give it a try.

"DaVinci Code" Busted!

The Executive Secretary to the President of the Philippines wants to ban "The DaVinci Code" from theaters. He thinks it's blasphemous.

According to the official, "We shouldn't be talking about it (the story line). We might be hit by lightning!"

We should be so lucky.

"Lakota warriors: Fighting Illegal Immigration Since 1862

May I have your attention please? Once again, I am proud to share a few words of wisdom from Sam Hurst, of The Rapid City Journal:

"History matters. It is the silent snake in the grass of high ideals and absolute judgments. History is always getting in the way of righteousness.

As a graduate student at Boston University, I studied under Howard Zinn, a radical historian of impeccable credentials, a man of intense convictions. He was a professional historian who never claimed to be objective and never hid from social activism. But one day a student asked him, "What do we do if the facts don't fit our ideology." He calmly responded, "You can't just act like the facts don't matter. You've got to change your analysis."

Easier said than done.

I have quietly watched the national immigration debate boil over these last few months. On the surface, immigration reform just doesn't seem that relevant in western South Dakota. When half a million people filled the streets of Los Angeles last Monday, nine people rallied in Rapid City. But the more I thought about it, the more I came to understand that the history of immigration in the Dakotas does offer us something to think about.

In the 1880s, thousands of illegal aliens invaded the Lakota Nation. They came for a better life. They came to get rich. And they could give a damn about laws or treaties, or meticulously drawn borders. The U.S. Army, which is often depicted as the sword of the conquering nation, in fact operated a lot like the Border Patrol of today. They were under orders to keep the illegal aliens out, but the borders were too long, too porous, too easy to sneak past.

As one generation passed to another, these illegals came to think it was their right to stay. After all, their children were born on the Plains. They had poured their sweat in to the land. They had a moral and economic right to be here. Meanwhile, down on the Rez, the slogan passes word of mouth - "Lakota Warriors: Fighting Illegal Aliens Since 1862."

Like most South Dakotans, I am constantly amazed at how we seem unable to get past the past. Perhaps a good beginning would be to recognize that our great-grandparents, our hard-working, God-fearing, great-grandparents, were illegal aliens.

What are we to make of millions of audacious "illegals" in the streets of Los Angeles and San Diego and Laredo, some of them with the temerity to wave Mexican flags? Conservatives are so enraged about the narrow legal issue ("They have broken the law!") or the narrow cultural issue ("They don't speak English!"), that we miss the historical facts. They were here first. We act like no one was in Texas or California or New Mexico (that should be a hint, right there) when the Treaty of Guadeloupe Hidalgo was signed. The blind spot of our national culture is that we are forever thinking that the great American experiment takes place on an empty landscape. No wonder our immigration policies never work. We're the immigrants.

Long before there was a border with Mexico, long before politicians strutted up and down the floor of the House advocating a big concrete wall to keep out people whose families have been in the southwest for centuries, long before Los Angeles was a port to the Pacific Rim, it was a sleepy Tongva Indian village.

When we grasp these old historical facts, we might be able to make an immigration policy that works. And we might be a little more modest about our own settlement of South Dakota."

We may not all agree with Sam on a gut level, but there's no denying the truth stated in his first paragraph, "History is always getting in the way of righteousness."

Dreams are made of this.

I hate our neighbor's kid. I hate him so much that I dreamed about him last night. I guess that's who the kid was in my dream anyway. Why else would I dream of killing an obnoxious teenager, chopping him into little pieces, and feeling REEEAL good about it?

Here's as much of the dream as I can recall:

I was on a fishing trip with Tom Hanks and some other guy (I think it was Gary Sinise). We found a good spot, next to a river and set up camp. Tom and Gary walked away, for some reason. While they were gone, a kid - who looked about the same age as my neighbor's kid - came out of nowhere and took my fishing pole! That was all the excuse I needed to pulverize the living daylights out of the kid until all that was left of him were two golf ball-sized lumps of goo. I rolled the two lumps of goo in newspaper. Then I kept adding more paper until I had a paper wad about the size of a volley ball! Next, I needed to decide how to dispose of the paper-wrapped remains. Should I toss it in the river where it could soak up water and sink to the bottom? But what if it just floated until someone retrieved it? That was too risky. Maybe I should just burn it. I was starting to build a fire when Tom and Gary returned. Tom saw the paper ball, picked it up and started tossing it in the air. I said, "Wait! Don't be messing around with that!" Tom said, "Why not? It's not going to kill anyone, is it?" I said, "Well, as a matter of fact, I already did." After I explained what happened, Tom and Gary insisted that I unwrap the entire ball of paper to see if we could revive the blobs of goo. So we did. But we couldn't. The goo was a goner. We decided it was time to leave. I re-rolled the goo in paper until I had another volleyball-sized wad. The dream ended as the three of us were getting on a bus. I had the paper ball under my arm. Tom was looking back over his shoulder to see if anyone was following us. The side of the bus read: GOO WITH GREYHOUND.
Pretty scary, eh?

Where did I put those rose-colored glasses?!

Here are some exerpts from Jane Bryant-Quinn's recent article in Newsweek. I think she does a pretty good job of telling it like it is:

The U.S. lives in an energy trap. We fell into it gladly, dug it deeper and sit fat and happy, with blinders on. We're fed daily meals of imported oil, from countries we pay in IOUs and think we can push around. But now we're starting to see the costs and risks of our dependency.
For years to come, we'll be in the hands of some of the most dysfunctional governments in the world. Oil prices will rise and economic growth will slow—not this year, but almost certainly a few years out. We'll be paying in both treasure and blood, as we fight and parley to keep ever-tighter supplies of world oil flowing our way.
About three years from now, the non-OPEC world will start pumping at slowly diminishing rates, says energy analyst Charles Maxwell of Weeden & Co. Most of the extra barrels needed to feed our economic growth will then have to come from OPEC nations—putting them in the driver's seat.
That puts the oil-dependent countries in a serious bind. We're all jockeying for control of oilfields, in a vast game that runs the risk of turning mean. China and Japan are running warships near disputed oil and natural-gas deposits in the East China Sea. China is doing deals in Sudan, Venezuela and Iran (our "bad guys"). Russia looks less friendly as we continue to invest in the oil countries around the Caspian Sea—Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan.
Nobody really knows how much oil there is. State-run companies don't disclose their true reserves. But clearly there's not enough to cover long supply disruptions, and that puts future economic development at increasing risk. "Terrorists have identified oil as the Achilles' heel of the West," says Gal Luft, head of the Institute for the Analysis of Global Security. The world market is losing maybe 1.5 million barrels a day to political sabotage. In February, the Saudis foiled an attack on one of their major oil installations. Had it succeeded, it could have been an "energy Pearl Harbor," Luft says.
What does all this add up to? A future oil market drastically rationed by price. Farmers, truckers and people on lower incomes who have to drive to work will be squeezed, especially if they also need oil to heat their homes. But heating with natural gas won't save you either, says oil investment banker Matthew Simmons; natural-gas supplies may grow even tighter and even higher priced.
Unfortunately, we're investing in war, not in crash projects to develop new energy sources. Maybe there's time to spare. But some events, like true civil war and collapse in Iraq, could change everything in a day.
We're running a faith-based energy policy—still addicted to oil. If something goes wrong, it will go wrong big.

Dude! Where's My Country?

Here's an interesting editorial I found in the Rochester, New York newspaper today:

Half of Americans age 18 to 24 can't locate New York on a map, according to a survey conducted in December and January for the National Geographic Society. Sixty percent can't find Iraq.

What's worse, most of those surveyed don't care. How many respondents thought it was important to know the location of countries in the news? Sadly, fewer than 30 percent.

It's not surprising that young people in the world's richest and most powerful country can get away with those kinds of attitudes. But it is scary.

If 30 percent of Americans believe that the world's most heavily fortified border lies between the United States and Mexico, as this survey suggests, it will be very difficult to have an intelligent national discussion about immigration policy.

QUIET, PLEASE!!!

I respect other peoples' right to believe in the religious fantasy of their choice. The key words in that sentence being, THEIR CHOICE.

Why then, I wonder, do so many of THEM feel compelled to talk about THEIR CHOICE in MY PRESENCE?!!

I want to scream, "JUST SHUT UP FOR CHRISSAKE, WILL YA?!! I DON'T GIVE GOOD DOG DAMN ABOUT YOUR RELIGIOUS PRATTLE!"

That's all I'll say about that before I start boring you as much as they bore me.

Resolutions and Absolutions

Now that 1/3 of the year is history, I thought I'd give your an update on my new year's resoloutions. As you may recall, I resolved to do two things: 1.) Stop making 6 cups of coffee in the morning when I only drink 4, and 2.) Keep track of what day it is.
I'm happy to report nearly total success with resolution #1. Let's see, I've saved 2 cups per day for 120 days. That's 240 cups of coffee that weren't poured down the drain! Amazing!
As for knowing what day it is, well, let's say I haven't enjoyed the same success as with #1. However! It's obvious that knowing what day it is hasn't hindered me in any significant way. There were a couple of times when I stopped by the library and was surprised to find it closed BECAUSE IT WAS SUNDAY. I always have to ask the bank clerk what day it is when I draw cash from my account. Otherwise, it really doesn't seem to matter. I'll keep working at it nonetheless.

Now I'd like to share a "thought-provoking" email I got from a pal this morning. Enjoy:

Subject: The Dangers Of Thinking

It started out innocently enough. I began to think at parties now and then -- just to loosen up. Inevitably, though, one thought led to another and soon I was more than just a social thinker.

I began to think alone -- "to relax," I told myself -- but I knew it wasn't true. Thinking became more and more important to me, and finally I was thinking all the time.

That was when things began to sour at home. One evening I had turned off the TV and asked my wife about the meaning of life. She spent that night at her mother's.

I began to think on the job. I knew that thinking and employment don't mix, but I couldn't stop myself. I began to avoid friends at lunchtime so I could read Thoreau and Kafka. I would return to the office dizzied and confused, asking, "What is it exactly we are doing here?"

One day the boss called me in. He said, "Listen, I like you, and it hurts me to say this, but your thinking has become a real problem. If you don't stop thinking on the job, you'll have to find another job."

This gave me a lot to think about. I came home early after my conversation with the boss.

"Honey," I confess, "I've been thinking..."

"I know you've been thinking," she said, "and I want a divorce!"

"But Honey, surely it's not that serious."

"It is serious," she said, and her lower lip began to aquiver. "You think as much as college professors, and college professors don't make any money, so if you keep on thinking, we won't have any money!"

"That's a faulty syllogism," I said impatiently. She exploded in tears of rage and frustration, but I was in no mood to deal with the emotional drama. "I'm going to the library," I snarled as I stomped out the door.

I headed for the library, in the mood for some Nietzsche. I roared into the parking lot with NPR on the radio and ran up to the big glass doors. They didn't open. The library was closed.

To this day, I believe that a Higher Power was looking out for me that night. Leaning on the unfeeling glass, whimpering for Zarathustra, a poster caught my eye, "Friend, is heavy thinking ruining your life?" it asked.

You probably recognize that line. It comes from the standard Thinkers Anonymous poster. Which is why I am what I am today: a recovering thinker.

I never miss a TA meeting. At each meeting we watch a non-educational video; last week it was "Porky's", the week before, it was "Animal House". Then we share experiences about how we avoided thinking since the last meeting.

I still have my job, and things are a lot better at home. Life just seemed...easier, somehow, as soon as I stopped thinking. I think the road to recovery is nearly complete for me.

Today I made the final step. I registered to vote as a Republican.