This piece came to our attention moments ago from a young blogger writing to inform other young people in Great Britain of the basics of politics there. We’re glad to support his/her blog by sharing it on Views from the Edge.
It’s halftime. It’s a FOOTBALL FIELD. Football players play on this field. Except at halftime when the field becomes a hug stage – a plastic-wood-steel or something stage rolled out to the middle of the field. That can’t be good for the grass.
On the grass itself are marching bands, Beyonce and 40 other women with boots bouncing around on the football player’s field.
This can’t be good for the guys in the locker room, wondering which hole they might step into in the second half.
Has the NFL Players Union asked for an end to this? Has the union stood up for the players’ safety? Nope. It’s about money, not concussions, hips, or legs – except for Beyonce’s.
I confess. I love football. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. I don’t like concussions. I don’t like halftimes. But I still like a great play. Great plays take place in the first and second halves. I regret that halftime entertainment makes the second half less safe than the first.
“Sometimes when I reflect on all the beer I drink, I feel ashamed. Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the brewery and all of their hopes and dreams.
“If I didn’t drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams would be shattered. I think, ‘It is better to drink this beer and let their dreams come true than be selfish and worry about my liver.'”
George Herman (‘Babe’) Ruth
Regarded as “incorrigible at the age of seven (7), George was sent to St. Mary’s Industrial School for Boys, a reformatory and orphanage of the Christian Brothers.
Brother Matthias Boutlier, a disciplinarian and fine baseball player, taught him baseball and to “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
“If I didn’t drink this beer….”
In the middle of the night after taking a sudden fall at the gas pump, it occurred to me: “It was the shoes!”
These shoes – or should I call them ‘boots’? – are HEAVY. The expensive, indestructible H.S. Trasks weigh five pounds.
After wearing myself out on the gym treadmill walking @ three miles an hour for 14 minutes (up two minutes from the last vigorous workout) in my newly purchased near-0-pound black Skecher Pillar sneakers, I re-shoed my feet with the H.S. Tracks, recommended by my brother-in-law Craig years ago, for the trip to Costco.
Maybe it was the shoes that caused the fall over the gas hose. Maybe not. But if it was the shoes, which pair was to blame? The new light-weight gym shoes? Or the five pound Trasks I’ve worn five years without falling?
I rolled over and went back to sleep. “Nah, I’m not going to blame the shoes. It’s my story and I’m sticking with it: it was the exercise. It’s bad for my health!”
Silver Sneakers Logo
So…I wrote earlier today about slowing down. I’m trying. But my doctor and Kay insist I not slow down too fast or I may come to a dead stop. Begrudgingly, I’ve started to take their advice. I joined the health club as a Silver Sneaker or something like that.
This morning Kay and I worked out before going to Costco to get the Prius’s tires rotated, a precautionary move similar to exercise – regular tire rotation will keep the tires from dying before their time.
The tire rotation appointment is for 1:00. It takes 45 minutes. We walk around Costco, get a few groceries, have a bite of lunch, pick up the car, load the groceries, start driving home, and remember we need gas.
It’s after 2:00 p.m. now, past time for my nap with Barclay, but I pull into the gas station, pull up to the pump, stop the car, do the credit card thing, insert the gas hose, and start pumping. Then it occurs to me to check out the windshield for cleaning.
“Are you okay, Sir? Are you okay?” asks the young man who’s come to my aid.
I’m face down feeling old and foolish. “Damn gas hose!” The hose was too high for leg muscles exhausted from working out. I had tripped over the gas hose.
Kay is oblivious to all this, sitting quietly in the passenger seat, her head down, traveling elsewhere in the universe, texting someone not lying on the ground next the car.
“What happened?” she asks as I get back in the car. “I fell. It must have been the exercise. I’ve NEVER tripped like that before. I told you. Exercise is bad for my health!”
Life moves at break-neck speed. Are we built for speed, pressure, stress of this magnitude?
My Amish Rocking Chair
I answered “Yes!” until hearing impairment garbled the sounds, muted the music, confused conversations, and made solitary moments my preferable times of day. I chose slowness over speed, ease over pressure, peace over stress – an end to the vocation of active ministry with a loving congregation.
“How’s retirement?”
Life is slower. I share the quiet with Kay and our canine friend Barclay. I write a lot, which was my intention as the hearing loss progressed.
Still, I’m addicted to speed. Between my MacBook Air and iMac, I’m still dependent on speed – the speed of the internet. The speed of instantaneous communication. The speed of news makes my head ache. I can’t keep up. The pressure builds in my head. My heart gets heavy. Not a good thing, I think, for a privileged person who chose solitude over crowds, silence over confusion, low-pressure and low-stress over high-pressure and high-stress.
Slowing life down is a spiritual thing. The Amish rocking chair in our living room reminds me of the virtue of spiritual simplicity. But I rarely sit in it. I rarely sit and rock without my MacBook Air. The speed, pressure, and stress are in my head or, as the Hebrew ancients would say, in my heart. My heart and head don’t easily un-learn what they’ve been taught. But it seems now that un-learning, not learning, is the privilege and task of solitude.
“Barclay, want to go up and take a nap with Dad?” Barclay races up the stairs and takes his place at the foot of the bed. If I’m late with the invitation, he comes to get me for our intimate hour with no speed, no pressure, no stress – and no MacBook Air!
What a difference a year makes. Last night, Senator Bernie Sanders virtually tied Secretary Hillary Clinton in the Iowa Democratic Caucuses. In April 2015 a Views from the Edge post began:
Ted Cruz, Ron Paul, Marco Rubio, and Hillary Clinton are taking their places in the starting gates for the horse race to the White House in 2016. Smiles and frowns all around, emails asking “Are you IN?“ with requests for money from the partisan Yea-Sayers and Nay-Sayers. But the fact is that every horse they ride – conservative and liberal – is owned by Wall Street.
I’m not “IN” until a candidate rides a different horse into the starting gate. Until someone acts and sounds like Floyd B. Olson….
“I am not a liberal. I am what I want to be — a radical,” said Governor Olson to the 1934 Farmer-Labor party convention. A radical is not an ideologue. It’s a person who insists on going to the root of things. Olson was the nemesis of Wall Street, a champion of the people.
Most Americans have never heard of Floyd B. Olson, the popular Minnesota Governor regarded at the time as President Franklin D. Roosevelt‘s successor before his untimely death. The Views from the Edge piece concluded:
“If and when someone like Floyd B. Olson rides a different horse into the starting gate for the 2016 White House horse race, I’ll be IN with both feet. Until then, I’m not IN.
That was before Bernie Sanders came on the scene.
Last night’s Iowa Democratic Caucuses resulted in a dead heat between Secretary Clinton and Senator Sanders. Unlike all other candidates, Senator Sanders is not funded by Wall Street. He’s supported by over 3,000,000 small donations by people drawn to his clear message, unwavering consistency on the issues, integrity, courage, and a populism like that of Floyd B. Olson.
In Minnesota many people ask, “What would Wellstone do?” referring to Sen. Paul Wellstone who demonstrated the same straight-talking as Floyd B. Olson, and who, like his progressive predecessor, died too early to run for President.
What would Wellstone do? What would Floyd B. Olson do? Ask Bernie Sanders.
You receive a mailing. Snail mail. Addressed to you. It looks official.
The upper left hand corner reads:
PROTECTED AND SECURED
PER CURIUM DOCUMENT ENCLOSED
RECEIPT MUST BE AUTHENTICATED
You open the envelope. The letterhead – with a picture of the U.S. Capitol dome – reads:
United States
Investigative Unit
OMG, you’re being investigated by the United States Federal Government!
You’re 80 years old and scared. You call a friend who knows something about the law. The friend is not scared. He looks at the bottom of the stationery which reads in small light colored font:
Project of Policy Issues Institute. Not affiliated with the federal government
5405 Alton Pkwy, Suite 5A #369 Irvine CA 92604
http://www.policyissuesinstitute.com (202) 558-6491
The enclosed letter and URGENT RESPONSE form asking for money “to support the fight to impeach Barack Obama” is to be returned to a different address:
UNITED STATES INVESTIGATIVE UNIT, a
Project of PII, P.O. Box 96444,
Washington, D.C. 20090-6444
Your friend assures you this is a hoax. He does a google search. He finds a blog that exposes the details of the work of the Policy Issues Institute.
To be PROTECTED AND SECURED against the United States Investigative Unit, click Drowning in Junk Mail – How to Opt-out of Junk Mail from Policy Issues Institute (PII) and to learn more about the meaning of sinister.
“Multi-talented and always interested in mechanics and construction, Nick continually renovated the house at Olson Gulch. He was especially interested in various heating methods and experimented with solar, waste oil burners and various wood-based fuels. Unfortunately, he didn’t leave the instruction manual.
“After graduating from high school and spending some time in college, Nick joined the Army in 1953 and was stationed in South Korea. Nick never said much about the two years he spent serving his country, except to say that he was cold the whole time, the kimchee smelled terrible and the water was unusable!”
A construction and ironworker, Nick “started at the Anaconda Job Corps in 1983, as a maintenance mechanic where he enjoyed working with the staff and students until his retirement in 1995.”
– Excerpts from the Montana Standard obituary published January 26, 2016.
Allyn “Nick” Harris, 82, of Anaconda passed away surrounded by family on Jan. 25, 2016.
Nick was a “mainstay” at St. Timothy’s Memorial Chapel, the summer chapel overlooking Georgetown Lake. Blessings and peace to the experimenter’s wife, Lois, children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren.
Kosuke Koyama, Ph.D
Was the professor’s career distinguished or disguised?
Last night’s post stated that Kosuke Koyama had “a disguised career as John D. Rockefeller, Jr. Professor of World Christianity at Union Theological Seminary in the City of New York.”
The distinguished professor would get a chuckle.
Thanks to Carolyn Kidder (no pun intended) who had a disguised career as a music librarian at the University of Pennsylvania, for arresting the spell check error in the fourth paragraph.
Views from the Edge 