If 7 December 1941 was a day that would live in infamy, and 9/11/2001 was likewise a day that will long be remembered as a day when the United States was attacked by a foreign enemy (The Manhattan Raid, in the words of Osama bin Laden), 6 January 2021 will stand as a day more significant than either of the others. It was on that day that our sitting legislature was attacked by our own citizens, and if reports are to be believed, those citizens were led by our president, and aided by members of the legislature itself. That's called a coup.
The leadership of the President in this coup is only in doubt if you have truly drunk the Trumpian Koolaid, as most Republican members of the Congress have. If you have, stop reading now, and run your browser, and your mind, over to NewsMax or OANN. We have no business with each other. As for the assistance of members of Congress, its scope may never be known with certainty, but as evidence continues to surface, it appears that a core group if the rioters planned the assault in advance, and had access to the layout of the Capitol complex, courtesy of a tour no longer available the public. Hopefully arrests and interrogations will yield more ground truth, but the President's actions are a matter of public record.
Such treasonous acts have occurred before. Legislators have beaten their fellows within an inch of their lives at one time or another. But that was in the 19th century, when passions concerning slavery ran hot, and the country threatened to break apart. In fact it did, for four bloody years. At that point a way of life was at stake — not just for the right to own slaves, but for an entire economic system. Ironically, people see a way of life at stake now as well, though today it's more a perception of a way of life than a reality. And this is the 21st century — people don't cane each other anymore, don't shoot each other on the street . . . well, actually they do sometimes. What exactly are we doing to each other?
It is always presumed that the country is not coming apart because it hasn't come apart up 'til now. That's a bit like saying the space shuttle booster seals won't leak white hot gasses onto the fuel tank and blow it up because they haven't up until now. But we haven't taken a baby step; we've taken a giant step on the evolutionary road to a different kind of republic — one with feet of clay, more akin to that of India, where there might always be a democracy, but they are never quite certain what that means, or any number of South American nations, where periodically transformative events redefine what democracy means in ways that make people wonder if they're living in the same country.
On 6 January Trump's mob blasted the United States through a firebreak. The attack on the Capitol, organized by the President and his supporters, apparently aided and abetted by his supporters in the Congress, showed not just the Trump faithful, but all opponents of the party in power at any point in the future, that violently attacking the seat of government, whether the Congress itself, or other nodes of our democracy such as the White House or Supreme Court, that our Republic, with its three branches of checks and balances, could be thrown over if it pleased a dissatisfied mob egged on by the right political leader.
The fact that the leader was not held to account means that the Republic now walks on eggshells, forever wondering when the next adolescent President will throw a tantrum and attempt to kick over the table. The “climb proof” fencing surrounding the Capitol Building stands in mute testimony to that tragic change.
So, in the words of Lenin: “What is to be done?” All must not be lost. If predicting the future were that easy, we could just roll over and die in despair, but the thugs who perpetrated this assault upon our country represent a dying segment of the population. The issue for us is that they do represent a serious weakness in our republic, and the forces in opposition to them may be too weak to save the republic. The result may be a much diminished United States unless leadership arises that can steer the ship of state in a direction that can unify a sufficient number of factions to strengthen the country against the forces of chaos. That means stepping beyond placating the kooky woke children who seem to be driving the country through the mainstream press. It might even mean breaking some woke cohorts like the currently crazy New York Times in favor of more sane elements such as the Washington Post. The current administration has little vision beyond the discredited old school Democratic “free stuff” vision. It owes too much to too many constituencies, and it even seems determined to abandon the few foreign policy successes of the Trump administration either just because Donald Trump achieved them, or because they were politically incorrect in the Democratic playbook.
If I hear the phrase “good union jobs” one more time from the Biden Administration I'm going to vomit. What they really need is an industrial policy to beat the shit out of China. They can't do that until they really understand what China is doing, so everyone who's anyone in the administration needs to read the first three chapters of Michael Pillsbury's highly politically incorrect book “The One Hundred Year Marathon.” I know Joe Biden is a big China booster, but he needs to swallow his pride and read it. That's the beginning of a strong America. Not attacking China — simply building a stronger country over here. When China set out to surpass the US, they didn't mention it, they just took a steady strain . . .
Part II will be published later. Thanks for reading. glm
Saturday, February 13, 2021
Friday, February 12, 2021
Rabbi Rose: Careful what you say or do. Children will listen
The following is my wife's column in the Culpeper Star-Exponent for 12 Feb 2021:
You know it has been a rough week when you find that your mental energy is divided equally between a Presidential Impeachment Trial and coverage of a Mutant Killer Virus Pandemic. Either could be turned into an interesting two-hour made-for-tv movie, but round-the-clock coverage of both has become unnerving and exhausting, with no respite in sight.
Broadcasters covering the trial now give us “trigger warnings” before graphic clips of rioters breaching the Capitol building, complete with strong, “unbleeped” language, and the parental caution that “the video includes images of violent behavior and may not be appropriate viewing for children...” YOU THINK? It is barely appropriate for adults! If WE are having nightmares over it, our kids, already in pandemic lockdown, are probably traumatized for life by scenes of grown-ups behaving badly.
How do you explain “grown-ups behaving badly” (GUBB) while viewing images of adults flaunting CDC guideline meant to keep Americans from spreading Covid-19? Try explaining to some kid why they can’t visit grandma, while events like drunken New Year’s celebrations or guacamole-dipping Super Bowl parties create their own “super spreader events.” Try rationalizing to a fourth grader that the current version of “freedom” in America is the right to not wear a mask, and the right to protest while brandishing firearms and beating up the police. Yes, adults can brandish firearms in the streets, in State Capitols, and in the United States Capitol while in session, but a kid can be arrested, tasered or expelled for bringing a toy gun to school.
Our kids are doing their best. They are trying to handle more burdens than their small shoulders can bear. They are stressed by isolation from peers, parental job loss, food “insecurity”… a fancy way to say they don’t know where their family’s next meal is coming from. Many have poor or no access to computers or internet service, making remote learning difficult or impossible. And directly, or indirectly, they have the fear of sickness or death hovering over them.
What is at stake here is the mental well-being of a generation that can no longer count on the “Golden Rule” to guide them. Doing unto others as you would have them do unto you is a two way street.
What ideas can you impart to your children, or the children in your life, that will carry them through this rough time in history, and build resiliency for their future? Here are a few pointers. Start with the simple statement that humans have the capacity to be good, although they are not ALL good. Human nature is basically good, but can be challenged in difficult times.
Next, morality needs to be taught by words and by example. In the past, we might have left this up to Sunday School teachers, but now it is up to us to model what it is to be moral. Focus on age appropriate examples of compassion and benevolence. Teach respect and courtesy, even if these currently are in short supply. Help them sift through the “right and wrong” of situations they are encountering. Discussions of right or wrong at a young age will develop into internal dialogues that may cause them to think ahead before making decisions. Many are the parents who have uttered the words, “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” The implied response is, they weren’t. We can only hope that learning the skill of assessing right and wrong will lead to a sense of wisdom as adults.
We know the importance of vaccinating to give us resistance to the virus. Now let’s apply the same idea to our children by inoculating them with the strength and tools to develop moral, and emotional health.
And always, we must teach by example. Lyricist Stephen Sondeim, wrote these words for the musical, “Into The Woods.” I leave you with his guidance and his words, which are haunting but oh so true.
Careful the things you say
Children will listen
Careful the things you do
Children will see and learn
Guide them along the way, children will listen
Children will look to you for which way to turn
To learn what to be
Careful before you say "Listen to me"
Children will listen
— Rabbi Rose Lyn Jacob, Syria Virginia Email Rabbi Jacob
You know it has been a rough week when you find that your mental energy is divided equally between a Presidential Impeachment Trial and coverage of a Mutant Killer Virus Pandemic. Either could be turned into an interesting two-hour made-for-tv movie, but round-the-clock coverage of both has become unnerving and exhausting, with no respite in sight.
Broadcasters covering the trial now give us “trigger warnings” before graphic clips of rioters breaching the Capitol building, complete with strong, “unbleeped” language, and the parental caution that “the video includes images of violent behavior and may not be appropriate viewing for children...” YOU THINK? It is barely appropriate for adults! If WE are having nightmares over it, our kids, already in pandemic lockdown, are probably traumatized for life by scenes of grown-ups behaving badly.
How do you explain “grown-ups behaving badly” (GUBB) while viewing images of adults flaunting CDC guideline meant to keep Americans from spreading Covid-19? Try explaining to some kid why they can’t visit grandma, while events like drunken New Year’s celebrations or guacamole-dipping Super Bowl parties create their own “super spreader events.” Try rationalizing to a fourth grader that the current version of “freedom” in America is the right to not wear a mask, and the right to protest while brandishing firearms and beating up the police. Yes, adults can brandish firearms in the streets, in State Capitols, and in the United States Capitol while in session, but a kid can be arrested, tasered or expelled for bringing a toy gun to school.
Our kids are doing their best. They are trying to handle more burdens than their small shoulders can bear. They are stressed by isolation from peers, parental job loss, food “insecurity”… a fancy way to say they don’t know where their family’s next meal is coming from. Many have poor or no access to computers or internet service, making remote learning difficult or impossible. And directly, or indirectly, they have the fear of sickness or death hovering over them.
What is at stake here is the mental well-being of a generation that can no longer count on the “Golden Rule” to guide them. Doing unto others as you would have them do unto you is a two way street.
What ideas can you impart to your children, or the children in your life, that will carry them through this rough time in history, and build resiliency for their future? Here are a few pointers. Start with the simple statement that humans have the capacity to be good, although they are not ALL good. Human nature is basically good, but can be challenged in difficult times.
Next, morality needs to be taught by words and by example. In the past, we might have left this up to Sunday School teachers, but now it is up to us to model what it is to be moral. Focus on age appropriate examples of compassion and benevolence. Teach respect and courtesy, even if these currently are in short supply. Help them sift through the “right and wrong” of situations they are encountering. Discussions of right or wrong at a young age will develop into internal dialogues that may cause them to think ahead before making decisions. Many are the parents who have uttered the words, “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” The implied response is, they weren’t. We can only hope that learning the skill of assessing right and wrong will lead to a sense of wisdom as adults.
We know the importance of vaccinating to give us resistance to the virus. Now let’s apply the same idea to our children by inoculating them with the strength and tools to develop moral, and emotional health.
And always, we must teach by example. Lyricist Stephen Sondeim, wrote these words for the musical, “Into The Woods.” I leave you with his guidance and his words, which are haunting but oh so true.
Careful the things you say
Children will listen
Careful the things you do
Children will see and learn
Guide them along the way, children will listen
Children will look to you for which way to turn
To learn what to be
Careful before you say "Listen to me"
Children will listen
— Rabbi Rose Lyn Jacob, Syria Virginia Email Rabbi Jacob
Monday, February 8, 2021
Mitzi, A Love Story
There are too many cat stories on the Internet.
Mitzi was a kitten born with a problem, or she developed the problem as a young kitten. Her anus leaked. There's no delicate way to say that. When she jumped, she let out a spurt. When she sat down and relaxed, she leaked. Sometimes, while walking across the floor, Mitzi would leave a trail of little puddles — and sometimes not. She came to my cat rescue group, MAD Cats, from a hoarding situation. The rest of the kittens we rescued from that sixty plus cat situation were fine. Three vets treated her, to no effect.
Mitzi's previous foster caregiver had become exhausted caring for her; most likely she would have been euthanized as a hopeless case. Rose and I accepted an opportunity to work with her, and so Mitzi came into our home. Unlike her last situation, where Mitzi was confined to a single room, we had to give her the run of the house. Our 100+ year old house has few doors, and Mitzi did not respond well to being caged. That's one of the reasons she couldn't stay in her last foster home. You see, Mitzi can talk. Not quite like humans, but Mitzi definitely does more than just meow. When caged, she constantly chattered. Whenever she was interested in something, she would talk to us about it. We often wished we could understand what was happening in that kitty brain of hers while she's talking to us.
When I came downstairs in the mornings to our only bathroom, Mitzi would go into her cage, right outside the bathroom door, which was nearly always open, and hop up onto the top level of the cat tree. While I brushed my teeth she would talk to me. Then we would go into the kitchen where I prepared her remedy. We had exhausted all conventional medicine, and had taken Mitzi to a homeopathic vet. Each morning Rose or I would carefully mix a special brew, “The Remedy,” and feed three CCs to her through a syringe. Mitzi enjoyed sipping the mixture from the syringe. Part way through, she would gently push my hand away, take a break, then take my hand and draw it back to continue. Mitzi would watch me prepare The Remedy from her kitchen perch, chatting away. When I had filled the syringe, she would stop talking, grasp the edges of the perch, and be ready.
Mitzi was like our baby. She would curl up on Rose's lap, get wrapped up in a blanket, and go to sleep. When Rose was working on her column, Mitzi would sit on her desk to help edit. If she got too helpful, Rose would push her off. Mitzi would jump onto the nearby recliner and curl up. Sometimes she would watch Rose work, and other times she would go to sleep. Mitzi also liked to come into the living room where I had my computer and ham radio station. She would try to curl up on the desk, but it was slanted, making it impossible, so she would sit in the recliner where I rested my feet, occasionally playing with my toes. I kept a towel on my lap in anticipation of her jumping up. Its consequences were messy.
Mitzi would march around the house with the miniature lamb-akin we had given her in her mouth. She took it everywhere, even to bed. If she forgot it for a few minutes, she'd suddenly look around, then go find it.
In spite of the efforts of three vets, Mitzi never improved. The homeopathic vet had only said that any improvement would be very gradual. This was not encouraging. Constantly cleaning up after her was exhausting, but we loved her. I felt such a sweet and loving connection with her. But as magical as her presence was, it could not last.
Over the last weekend in January Mitzi wasn't herself. She slept more than usual. Our very active kitten seemed tired. “Mitzi is sick,” I told Rose. She knew it too. Mitzi was vomiting something up, or discharging it. We would find it on the rug. But mostly Mitzi slept. She would find a place near one of us, curl up and snooze, sometimes opening her eyes and purring. We had both spent hours searching the Internet for the key to Mitzi's cure. In the end, the week before we had found just the opposite: Feline Inflammatory Peritonitis. It matched Mitzi perfectly, and had no cure. It was time.
On Monday, 1 February, I called the vet, and made an appointment for later that day. Rose offered to drive her, but this was to be my task. Given the pandemic, I wasn't permitted inside. The tech took Mitzi in, gave her a sedative, and brought her back to me so we could be together for a few minutes while it worked. I opened the top of the carrier and stoked her head. She was the same old Mitzi, purring like an outboard, wanting to climb up to be with me. I gently pushed her back inside and stroked the top of her head. She purred, laying down as the sedative took effect. I stroked her back, then closed the top and gave the carrier back to the tech. That was it. I sat in the truck until I could regain enough composure to drive home.
On the way home my phone rang. It was a voice mail. “This is Dr. Jacobson from Culpeper Animal Hospital. Mitzi passed peacefully a few minutes ago. I'm sorry for your loss.”
Five days after she died I was sitting at the kitchen table with a partial view out the back door. A pair of black ears walked across the porch. Mitzi? Of course not. It was our black cat Sherlock. But for just a moment she had evoked a perfect image of Mitzi.
Mitzi was a kitten with a beautiful soul that could reach out and hold you. She still holds me.
Mitzi was a kitten born with a problem, or she developed the problem as a young kitten. Her anus leaked. There's no delicate way to say that. When she jumped, she let out a spurt. When she sat down and relaxed, she leaked. Sometimes, while walking across the floor, Mitzi would leave a trail of little puddles — and sometimes not. She came to my cat rescue group, MAD Cats, from a hoarding situation. The rest of the kittens we rescued from that sixty plus cat situation were fine. Three vets treated her, to no effect.
Mitzi's previous foster caregiver had become exhausted caring for her; most likely she would have been euthanized as a hopeless case. Rose and I accepted an opportunity to work with her, and so Mitzi came into our home. Unlike her last situation, where Mitzi was confined to a single room, we had to give her the run of the house. Our 100+ year old house has few doors, and Mitzi did not respond well to being caged. That's one of the reasons she couldn't stay in her last foster home. You see, Mitzi can talk. Not quite like humans, but Mitzi definitely does more than just meow. When caged, she constantly chattered. Whenever she was interested in something, she would talk to us about it. We often wished we could understand what was happening in that kitty brain of hers while she's talking to us.
When I came downstairs in the mornings to our only bathroom, Mitzi would go into her cage, right outside the bathroom door, which was nearly always open, and hop up onto the top level of the cat tree. While I brushed my teeth she would talk to me. Then we would go into the kitchen where I prepared her remedy. We had exhausted all conventional medicine, and had taken Mitzi to a homeopathic vet. Each morning Rose or I would carefully mix a special brew, “The Remedy,” and feed three CCs to her through a syringe. Mitzi enjoyed sipping the mixture from the syringe. Part way through, she would gently push my hand away, take a break, then take my hand and draw it back to continue. Mitzi would watch me prepare The Remedy from her kitchen perch, chatting away. When I had filled the syringe, she would stop talking, grasp the edges of the perch, and be ready.
Mitzi was like our baby. She would curl up on Rose's lap, get wrapped up in a blanket, and go to sleep. When Rose was working on her column, Mitzi would sit on her desk to help edit. If she got too helpful, Rose would push her off. Mitzi would jump onto the nearby recliner and curl up. Sometimes she would watch Rose work, and other times she would go to sleep. Mitzi also liked to come into the living room where I had my computer and ham radio station. She would try to curl up on the desk, but it was slanted, making it impossible, so she would sit in the recliner where I rested my feet, occasionally playing with my toes. I kept a towel on my lap in anticipation of her jumping up. Its consequences were messy.
Mitzi would march around the house with the miniature lamb-akin we had given her in her mouth. She took it everywhere, even to bed. If she forgot it for a few minutes, she'd suddenly look around, then go find it.
In spite of the efforts of three vets, Mitzi never improved. The homeopathic vet had only said that any improvement would be very gradual. This was not encouraging. Constantly cleaning up after her was exhausting, but we loved her. I felt such a sweet and loving connection with her. But as magical as her presence was, it could not last.
Over the last weekend in January Mitzi wasn't herself. She slept more than usual. Our very active kitten seemed tired. “Mitzi is sick,” I told Rose. She knew it too. Mitzi was vomiting something up, or discharging it. We would find it on the rug. But mostly Mitzi slept. She would find a place near one of us, curl up and snooze, sometimes opening her eyes and purring. We had both spent hours searching the Internet for the key to Mitzi's cure. In the end, the week before we had found just the opposite: Feline Inflammatory Peritonitis. It matched Mitzi perfectly, and had no cure. It was time.
On Monday, 1 February, I called the vet, and made an appointment for later that day. Rose offered to drive her, but this was to be my task. Given the pandemic, I wasn't permitted inside. The tech took Mitzi in, gave her a sedative, and brought her back to me so we could be together for a few minutes while it worked. I opened the top of the carrier and stoked her head. She was the same old Mitzi, purring like an outboard, wanting to climb up to be with me. I gently pushed her back inside and stroked the top of her head. She purred, laying down as the sedative took effect. I stroked her back, then closed the top and gave the carrier back to the tech. That was it. I sat in the truck until I could regain enough composure to drive home.
On the way home my phone rang. It was a voice mail. “This is Dr. Jacobson from Culpeper Animal Hospital. Mitzi passed peacefully a few minutes ago. I'm sorry for your loss.”
Five days after she died I was sitting at the kitchen table with a partial view out the back door. A pair of black ears walked across the porch. Mitzi? Of course not. It was our black cat Sherlock. But for just a moment she had evoked a perfect image of Mitzi.
Mitzi was a kitten with a beautiful soul that could reach out and hold you. She still holds me.
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