I am not quite sure how the Holiday Season has crept up on us so quickly again this year.  I swear it was just yesterday that I was touring around the country on my Harley feeling sheepishly guilty about the seemingly infinite fun and freedom that was at my disposal.  I was able to overcome those feelings of angst should you be worried that I am continually burdened by any remnant guilt associated with the non-stop pleasures of my summer.  My life has dramatically changed since those care free days.  Getting the kids back in school, experiencing the demands of single parenthood and advocating for the candidates of my choice in the fall election did a good job of keeping me busy this fall.  Trying to convince “She Who Must Be Obeyed”, who rejoined the family three weeks ago, that I learned how to not live like a pig in her absence has perhaps been the most demanding element of my waking attention.

            It is quite possible that this year, after today realizing that Monday begins Thanksgiving week, I was caught more off guard by the upcoming holiday's  than any previous time I can remember.  I saw the all of the signs of the season: the Christmas displays in department stores, the incessant toy ads on the television and the loss of my desire to jump on the Harley because mornings are so damn cold.  I just chose to ignore them.  And then last night my youngest wanted to have a little quality time to run down a list of things that he thought Santa might be interested in depositing under our tree this year. 

            Once I composed myself I was able to settle right in and enjoy all of the wonder in the eyes of my baby boy who still believes in all of the magic that is Christmas.  As a first grader he is at the precipice of believing or not believing all of those fantastic fantasy notions that make childhood so special.  I have always loved the enhanced qualities that having children who believe in Santa affords.  I don’t believe that my eighteen year old twins have forgiven me yet for breaking the news to them when they demanded an answer about the reality of Santa.  I had wanted to protect the whimsical image of jolly St. Nicholas alive in their minds for as long as I could.  I have to tell you though; by the time they entered high school I owed it to them to tell them the truth.

            First graders are a worldly lot in this day and age and it will be touch and go to see if we can squeak out another year of "believing" for Carter.  No matter what he hears at school or how adamant he becomes for “the truth” I plan to deny shattering the luxury of holding onto the possibility that Father Christmas will actually be stopping by our home this Christmas.  The look in his eyes on Christmas morning will justify any discomfort I feel when he presses for an honest answer.  The discovery that there is no Santa Claus is surly a traumatic event in the lives of children.  I am confident that my son will want to believe me above and beyond what he may hear at school.  I am equally convinced that he will forgive me when he has children of his own if not sooner.  The twins haven’t told me it was okay and that they understand yet but maybe I just took it all a little too far with them.

 

            Kim, over at the Peace Tree Blog, had a post today about a national grass roots effort to create a U.S. Department of Peace. There is currently a bill before both Houses of Congress (House Resolution 3760 and Senate 1756). This legislation would aide in all of our problem-solving modalities, providing practical, nonviolent solutions to the problems of domestic and international conflict.  Domestically, the Department of Peace will develop policies and allocate resources to effectively reduce the levels of domestic and gang violence, child abuse, and various other forms of societal discord. Internationally, the Department will advise the President and Congress on the most sophisticated ideas and techniques regarding peace-creation among nations.  The U.S. Department of Peace seems like something all readers of the Red Hog Diary; well most of them anyway, would be interested in.  Click the blue text link.  You know you want to!

            You all know by now that I am a bit of a sucker for those feel-good emails that are always forwarded with a subject line saying something about crying when the sender first read it.  I received one last week that I was anxious to share with you because it appeared to be all about a boy from Iowa.  I used to be a boy from Iowa!  Well suffice to say, this one is pure fiction but I didn’t know that until I had retyped the whole dang thing and went to get some verification and links to confirm what a wonderful story it is.  The fact that it isn’t true doesn’t diminish the story.  I wish it were true and would imagine you will too as you read it.  Go ahead and set aside your knowledge that this story is fiction and enjoy it anyway.

            As she stood in front of her 5^th grade class on the very first day of school she told the children an untruth.  Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same.  However, that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard.  Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he did not play well with the other children that his clothes were messy and he always seemed to be in need of a bath.  In addition, Teddy could be unpleasant.  It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X’s and then putting a big “F” at the top of his papers.

            At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child’s past records and she put Teddy’s off until last.  When she finally reviewed Teddy’s files she was very surprised.

            Teddy’s first grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh.  He does his work neatly has good manners.  He is a joy to be around.  His second grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle.”  His third grade teacher wrote, “His mother’s death has been hard on Teddy.  He tries to do his best but his father doesn’t show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren’t taken.”  Teddy’s fourth grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is withdrawn and doesn’t show much interest in school.  He doesn’t have many friends and he sometimes sleeps in class.”

            By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself.  She felt even worse when all of her students brought her Christmas presents wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy.  His was clumsily wrapped in the heavy brown paper that he got from a grocery bag.  Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents.  Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing and a one-quarter full bottle of perfume.  She stifled the children’s laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was as she put it on and dabbed some of the perfume on her wrist.  Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, “Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to.

            After the children left, Mrs. Thompson cried for at least an hour.  On that very day she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic and began to teach children.  Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy.  As she worked with him his mind seemed to come alive.  The more she encouraged him the faster he responded.  By the end of the year Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her favorites.

            A year later, Mrs. Thompson found a note under her door.  It was from Teddy telling her that she was the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.  Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy.  He then wrote that he had finished high school third in his class and she was still the best teacher he had ever had.  Four years after that she got another letter saying that while things had been tough at times he’d stayed in school, had stuck with it and soon would graduate from college with the highest of honors.  He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he had ever had in his whole life.  Four years later another letter came.  This time he explained that after he got his Bachelors degree he decided to continue his education. The letter explained that after all these years she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had.  Now his name was a little longer.  The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.

            The story does not end there.  You see, there was yet another letter that spring.  Teddy said he had met a girl and was going to be married.  He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at his wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom.  Of course Mrs. Thompson did.  She wore the bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing.  Moreover, she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.  

            They hugged each other and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson’s ear, “Thank you for believing in me Mrs. Thompson.  Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.”  Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back, “Teddy, you have it all wrong.  You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference.  I didn’t know how to teach until I met you.”  Teddy Stoddard went on to have a very successful medical career at Iowa Methodist Hospital in Des Moines.  Iowa Methodist Hospital now boasts one of the finest cancer treatment units in the Mid West.  The name of the facility is the Stoddard Cancer Wing.  Try to make a difference in someone’s life today and tomorrow too. 

 

The true story of Teddy Stoddard.

Watch a movie of it here.

 

            It has been refreshing to hear President Bush say, ”…it is now our duty to put the elections behind us and work together with the Democrats and Independents on the great issues facing this country.”  I don’t want to say I doubt the integrity of our President but a good opportunity to verify his sincerity will be to see if he pushes the lame duck Congress to legalize and expand the illegal NSA wiretapping program that he found too hot to seek before the elections.  I suspect that the President’s idea of “putting the election behind us” will be to rush his legislation through while he still has two months of Republican control in Congress.  The American people spoke clearly and loudly that they wanted to see a change in direction for the way this government does business.  I would suggest that we put the Congress to the test and see if they heard us clearly enough.  Please contact your legislator (you can get your Congress person’s phone number by clicking here) and tell them to oppose all legislation that undermines the Constitution, checks and balances and the rule of law with regards to domestic wire taps without warrants.  Making that phone call would not be something that you should consider doing rather it is something that you really need to do!  Go ahead, do it now.  The freedoms you lose could be your own.  I would love to know if you make a call.  You could let me know by leaving a comment on the blog or sending me an email. 

           

            And now for something completely different.  On August 7^th 2000 I was making my way back from Sturgis, South Dakota.  I had been on the road all day when the sun started to go down.  I had 180 miles yet to travel but I was determined to make it home.  I didn’t know what was happening immediately when I saw deer fur press against the windshield of my Harley.  My headlight blew out and I figured out soon enough what had happened as I rolled down the highway.  Once my tumble ended I began the cliché body inventory to see what parts of my body still worked and which didn’t.  And then I saw headlights.  That sucked.  As quickly as I could I tried to stand but couldn’t so I rolled off to the shoulder of the road.  Fate was on my side because that set of headlights belonged to a Viet Nam Veteran combat medic who happened to have a cell phone.  I still remember lying on the shoulder when the paramedics arrived.  I noticed a chunk of meat about the size of a baseball laying on the edge of the road beside my head.  “That is deer meat isn’t it?” I asked the paramedic.  He laughed and assured me it was not mine. 

            The Red Hog is a big boy and I recall a tremor in the arms of one of the EMT’s as he strained while they lifted me into the ambulance.  “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you get so big?” asked the rescue worker.  “I eat a lot of deer meat.” I replied.  I am a remarkably lucky man because at the time of impact I had been doing 75 miles per hour, had no helmet and was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.  My arms, back and side had a good amount of road rash and I broke four ribs but that was the extent of my injuries.  The only thing I can attribute to my survival was that it just wasn’t my time to go.  I recovered quickly but the deer did not fare so well.  I had literally cut it in half.  I can still recall the resultant smell of that deer’s insides being smeared through my hair and over my clothes.  My beloved custom painted Red Hog received over $11,000 in damage. 

            Since that day I have had an unhealthy appreciation for deer road kill when ever I travel the back roads of Iowa.  I would actually find joy in seeing a deer splattered on the shoulder of roadways.  That changed today.  I had to make a trip to the home office and was following a pickup truck when a deer, stupidly, as they do, jumped into the path of the speeding 2000 pound vehicle.  The violence of the deer spinning off into the ditch changed my attitude about deer and auto collisions forever.  The truck, an older model, did not slow or even seem to notice.  The hood and front corner of the truck sustained significant damage but the driver seemed not to mind.  In fact, shortly after the impact the road split to a four lane configuration and I noticed the two young males laughing as they continued down the road.  That is when it hit me that maybe delighting in dead deer on the side of the road is not actually an attractive quality. 

            All of this reminded me of the first and last time I ever went hunting.  I had received a BB gun for my 10^th birthday and took aim at a sparrow perched on the bird house in our back yard.  I was ecstatic when my first shot hit its mark and the sparrow fell to the ground behind our garage.  Upon running to investigate my prowess as the great white hunter I discovered a rather pathetic and helpless little bird gasping for breath.  That was the end of my hunting career.  Don’t get me wrong, I am all for anybody hunting that enjoys it and I am a big fan of venison.  I just don’t have the stomach for the actual killing part that is requisite to processing game into those deer sticks that I love so much.

 

            Hey get this, crazy college kids from Penn State are having a competition against students from Michigan State to see which school can collect more blood for the American Red Cross.  The competition is an annual event that is scheduled to ensure an adequate blood supply for the holidays.  Recent years have seen the competition, dubbed the “PSU-MSU Challenge”, collect up to 3,500 units of blood for the Red Cross.  I kind of got a kick out of running across a story on the internet that wasn’t about lies, deception, crime or perversion, you know, something that wasn’t political.  While in search of more good news I came across this:

           

            On this date in history the US Supreme Court struck down Alabama's racial segregation on public buses, thus ending the Montgomery Bus Boycott (1956).  Perhaps no better day could have been selected as President Bush dedicated ground for the Martin Luther King Jr. National Memorial.  The Memorial will be located on the tidal basin of the Washington Mall in Washington DC approximately one half mile from the Lincoln Memorial where Reverend King made his “I have a dream” speech in 1963.  President Bush said, "On this ground, a monument will rise that will preserve his legacy for ages.  As we break ground, we give Martin Luther King his rightful place among the many Americans honored on the National Mall... It will unite the men who declared the promise of America and defended the promise of America with the man who redeemed the promise of America."  Way to go Mr. President.  I was proud to hear our President speak those words.

            Flanked by the Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson and Franklin D. Roosevelt memorials near the eastern edge of the Potomac River Tidal Basin, the monument's design was inspired by King's stirring sermons and will feature flowing water to match the cadence of his speech.

According to the memorial's official Web site, visitors entering the memorial will pass through two stones described as the mountain of despair, to reach a third, the stone of hope - echoing the 1963 speech.  The line, "With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope" will be carved into one side of the entry. The other side will be inscribed with the words: "Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream."

            Of the $100 million needed to construct the memorial, $65.5 million has been raised, mostly from corporations.  You can help and make a donation by clicking here.

 

            College football is dead to me, for this season anyway.  My beloved Iowa Hawkeye’s have fallen into the quagmire that is mediocrity.  Insufficient opportunities remain in this season to change the footnotes that will describe the heartbreak of unmet expectations for this year’s team.  At times a sense of guilt will wash over me when I contemplate the time and energy I afford my passion for Hawkeye athletics.  Such self-reproach is never faced when contemplating my fervor for the Chicago Bears but that is because I know God is a Bears fan.

            Longtime Green Bay Packers quarterback Brett Favre, after living a full 

            life, died.
            When he got to heaven, God started showing him around.
            They came to a modest little house with a faded Packers flag in The

            window.
            "This house is yours for eternity, Brett," God said. "This is very special;

            not everyone gets a house up here."
            Brett felt special indeed and walked up to his house.
            On his way up the porch, he noticed another house just around the

            corner. It was a three-   story mansion with a blue and orange sidewalk,

            50-foot-tall flagpole with an enormous Bears logo flag, and in every

            window, a blue helmet with a "C" on it.
            Brett looked at God and said, "God, I'm not trying to be ungrateful, but I

            have a question. I was an All-Pro quarterback, I won a Super Bowl, and I

            even went to the Hall of Fame."
            "So what do you want to know, Brett?" God asked.
            "Well, why does Walter Payton get a better house than me?"
            God chuckled and said, "Brett, that's not Walter Payton's house. That's

            mine."

 

            I think we all have passions that would at first seem inappropriate while there are things like war, hunger and oppression in the world.  Our zeal for the truly inconsequential offers us balance in an otherwise troubling world.  Whether our chosen affection be football, NASCAR, quilting or cow tipping we need the diversion for the sanity that is not afforded through our daily interaction with friends and family.  In reality friends and family can actually be detrimental to our sanity but that would be a topic beyond the scope of this post.  So please forgive my grieving for this Hawkeye season which has ended disappointment.  I know in my heart that college football means squat in the big scheme of things.  That doesn’t make the pain I feel this Sunday morning any less sharp.  At 7:15 PM this evening “Da Bears” will face the New York Giants for a game with NFC dominance on the line.  I am so over the Hawkeye’s.

 

            My duties as editor of the local Harley Owners Group was particularly challenging this month as the riding season is pretty much over, events are fewer and farther between and contributions from club members were at an all time low.  Faced with the dubious prospect of meeting my printer deadline caused by an abundance of white space I had to get creative.  I took a chance at poetry once again.  (I know, I know some things should just not be done)  I actually was fond of my attempt to convert the famous Clement Clarke Moore poem “Twas The Night Before Christmas” into something that my fellow Harley Riders could relate to.  Here it is:

            Twas the night before Christmas when all through the land.

            Not a bike wheel was spinning they were parked on their stand.

            The chrome parts were mounted on the Harley with care.

            In hopes that more Harley stuff soon would be there.

            The Bikers were nestled all snug in their beds.

            While visions of S-curves danced in their heads;

            And mamma in her dew rag, I in skull cap.

            Had just settled down for a long winters nap.

            When out in the garage there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed

            to see what was the matter. 

            Away to the garage door I flew in my Speedo’s. 

            If someone messed with my bike, they’d die was my credo.

            The moon light shown through the doors and the glass

            I was rearing and ready to kick someone’s …

            When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

            But Willie G Davidson, his Hog and some gear.

            More rapid than other bikes his new bike line he announced,

            Buy V-Rod or Wide Glide or Low Rider soon. 

            A Fat Boy, a Heritage, or a Bagger with Tunes.

            I told him I want one or two maybe more

            When I heard my wife come charge through the garage door.

            She said are you crazy?  Have you lost your damn mind? 

            She glared at me sternly it was really unkind

            Your twins soon start college and you aren’t in position

            To buy a new Harley with two times tuition.

            Willie had heard it before and winked as to say.

            Don’t give up hope.  Every hog gets its day.