Times, They Are Changing

I’m taking you on another side trip that I’m prone to do, but rather than writing an epic novel, I’m breaking things up in smaller digestible portions and dribble the drivel, so to speak. I’m writing one today, referencing Father’s Day, but this post is about the Jaycees again.

As you recall from my previous posts, this was (now nearly extinct) a leadership training organization through community service originally for young men from ages 18-36 and later expanded the upper age to 40 to make up for declining membership mainly. The Supreme court also ruled that women must be admitted and merge with the men from their previous women’s group the Jayceettes kind of like the current Boy Scout/Girl Scout thing going on now. Before the merger, the men had their own meetings and projects, which included lots of beer and a bit of raucous naughtiness while the women were more civilized with Tupperware parties and such for fundraisers and sandwich luncheons. The men had occasional team-building sessions with an occasional stripper for entertainment and lots of beer. However, the men always came home to their wives, and that was that. Things radically changed after the merger, and in my opinion, carried naughty into debauchery, but maybe more on that later.

The local chapter meetings were raucous, to say the least, the merger happened just before I became president of the Melbourne Florida chapter, and we quickly initiated the ladies into how guys ran meetings, which in the end corrupted marriages and caused harm rather than good as the supreme court forced us to do. Having separate groups by gender accomplished more in the community for good and less destruction of the family unit than merging men and women to do the same thing, albeit coming at it from different ways.

For example, if something was brought up on the agenda, that was not to the liking of the general membership the local president or whoever was presiding at the meeting could expect to be pummeled by several beer cans followed by a group chant of “How d’ya? How d’ya? How’d you like to bite our ass”, to the tune of “How d’ya? How d’ya like to be my gal.” Although the strict parliamentary procedure was followed until this open rebellion ensued, as a tradition when a new president took over, all the past presidents on the first or second meeting would sit together and heckle the meeting disrupting business to “initiate” the new president.

Now I’m not one to be outdone by fun at my expense, on this “past Presidents night” me and my board who sat in the front of the room while these hooligans sat safely in the back hurling insults and whatever they could propel like a missile toward the front of the room, I had a plan. My theme to get elected was “No BS” depicted in a clever logo of a bull depositing one of his pastural treasures on the ground (“clever,” I thought to gain votes with this bunch). Well, after enduring a reasonable amount of this abuse, we implemented a counter-attack. Earlier that day, I dispatched a special task force to forage the local cow pasture. They carefully selected several garbage bags of dried Cow Pies (cow droppings for all you city folk). The cow pie ammunition was previously placed under the table by each board member. When the abuse reached a fever-pitched frenzy, and the hooligans thought that they had the last laugh. I asked for a motion (under Roberts Rules of order) to put down this rebellion. This was kind of like Thomas Jefferson putting down a rebellion in 1807, under the Insurrection Act. Kind of like what Trump is contemplating concerning the nonsense going on in Seattle right now. One of my board members made the motion, and it passed quickly, and I gave the order to commence firing upon, which on cue the board opened up a fierce barrage of cow pies quickly taking the steam out of the rabble-rousers. Then much like after the Whiskey rebellion of 1794, everyone put down their arms alcohol was hoisted up in the air, and the union was saved one more time.

It’s hard to believe that many of this ragtag organization alumna went on to be prominent community leaders, business leaders, and politicians.

Racial tensions NOT

As I write today, after weeks and months of viewing the world in its most horrendous state, I am compelled to write about this topic. As I sit safely imprisoned in my little paradise and even more sequestered in my crowded home office while just above my head is my 17-year-old son playing X-box with his friend who stayed over last night after a grueling day of BMX riding.

I’m recalling a complex, but yet in many ways, a simpler time. I grew up in the ’60s; we moved to Florida in 1962 from a farm in Wisconsin. My dad had had enough of the snow and shoveling cow manure and milking cows. Because of our mining background on the limestone quarry we ran on the farm property, he bought a little sand mine in Melbourne. Everyone in Wisconsin thought dad was out of his mind buying a sand mine in Florida where it is nothing but sand except for deep down coral rock. He was always shrewd and made it work selling sand in Florida.

My first dose of culture shock was in southern Illinois just before crossing into “the South.” We stopped for gas and a much needed potty break. I encountered at the restrooms a delineation clearly on the doors beyond the” men’s and “women’s (this was way before we had to worry about gender equality, how far we have come, lol) “colored’s only” and “whites only.” I was confused as a 9-year-old why this was. We didn’t have any black people in rural Wisconsin. We only saw them from the highway when we would visit Uncle Virgil and my cousins in Beloit, which was a bit more cosmopolitan if you could call a town of 5000 more cosmopolitan. Now, if I remember right, Illinois was in the Union, not the Confederacy. Still, I guess the lines get blurred in southern Illinois because evidently, segregation was not limited to the bigots in the south as generally thought and taught. Even in rural white Wisconsin, we had labels for everyone. Blacks were matter-of-factly referred to as Negros or a slang version of that. Swedes and Pollacks usually had “big dumb” as an adjective added to their cultural origin. And of course, the Wops, chinks, Japs and Heebs, Swiss cheese heads (that be our family), and Krauts pretty much rounded it out. In today’s sensitive political correctness, rounded out the nicknames for heritages mostly used in an All in The Family-Archie Bunker sort of way. There were also religious divides, mainly of Protestants and Catholics. We didn’t have any Muslims around and didn’t even know that religion existed and a few Jews that mostly ran the shops in Monroe the nearby “city” of 3000.

My mom and dad (although my dad was sort of the Archie Bunker type) had as best friends a Catholic couple( we were not), a couple of farms over who would love to go to the local hot spot on Monroe called “Turner Hall” where they would dance away the night together to swing music, Bill Haley and the Comets, Elvis and endless Polkas and Shotishe’s. As I said in earlier posts, music is a great equalizer. One episode in my early days in Florida might serve as a lesson for the looting race-baiting bigotry of this day. My dad was hauling in dirt to fill in a house slab in a new public housing project (another failed attempt to lift people with stuff. What they needed was a chance. They already had a good strong family based on going to church every Sunday, even if it meant Momma was gripping you by the ears and dragging you there), and he brought me along. I was playing amongst the dump truck loads of sand when a little black kid my age came up by himself, and we began to play together. Before we knew it, he and I became “commandos,” found some big roots in the dirt that we quickly fashioned into machine guns and proceeded to “attack” the tank (the bulldozer my dad was running) from behind the mounds of sand. We played for hours and had a ball. My dad even joined in the fun and feinted a successful hit from the marauding commandos and slow the machine to a grinding halt only to move on and start the game all over again.

After some time, the young boy’s mother came over and told him, “you aren’t supposed to be playing with white boys” and marched him home. Looking back on that episode, I have come to one conclusion that If we let the 10-year old’s run this country, I’ll bet we would get along a whole lot better. Then the “adults” that have to step in with everything from the “Great Society” to a misguided sense of entitlement formed by the “entitled” for things that happened way before our time just like my newly minted little black kid friend and me. Neither of us had a clue about the past injustices until our “adult” elders reminded us of it and split us from the human race into separate herds like farm animals.

Another experience I had later in life was in the Jaycees. Our chapter had had a public service project called “Tot land,” a playground to be constructed in the “projects.” Our chapter could never get a project chairman to take the project mainly because we were a 99% white chapter, and NO ONE wanted to go in there. Now the Jaycees worldwide built parks and ball fields and were even instrumental in upgrading the postal system and started what was later to become the Orlando International Airport, among many other things. I was new, I had a bunch of construction equipment and recruited an army of volunteers (an army of me and three other guys) and donated playground equipment from the city with a cheery “good luck boys ain’t nobody been able to build anything in there that didn’t get tore up by the teenage bullies.” So off we went. We started clearing out the old abandoned junk, and the dump trucks started to roll. At first, the parents and other adults just looked out from their windows and sometimes sneered and sometimes just watched. Pretty soon, the little kids came out and started helping, and then parents came out with shovels and rakes, and the gals brought out some food and drinks, and a miracle happened. A bunch of ragtag white guys and a small group of black people started putting aside all the b.s. and started working together. One moment I’ll never forget was when we had a frontend loader on-site, and after spreading the sand, we told all the little kids that if they help us spread the sand, we would give them all a ride in the 5-yard bucket of the loader. There were about a dozen of them that suddenly appeared and began moving sand with their hands. Tonka Toys and plastic shovels and the job was done before we knew it. They were now ready for their hard-fought reward (of course nowadays there have to be insurance waivers, OSHA inspections and some city bureaucrat telling us what to do). We let them hop in the bucket and proceeded to give them a ride around the neighborhood like a small parade with their parents cheering as we drove down the street, The bucket looked like a bowl of Cocoa Puffs with all these little kids riding in there, but boy was that fun for all big and small!

Unfortunately, this story doesn’t have a lasting happy ending. Late in the afternoon, one of my fellow Jaycees and I was putting the last of the playground equipment together, bolting little spring-mounted animals to the in-ground bases, and the little kids were helping us. A few older teenage bullies showed up and started to harass the little kids, and they ran away. Mike (who by the way was a bit of an old school Ohio farm boy redneck) and I were putting on the final touches with a large crescent wrench and a pipe wrench. After they ran the kids off, they came over to us and belligerently basically said, “what are you whiteys think you’re doing in our territory” and started to knock over one of the toys. We held back and just kept on working, thinking that maybe these assholes would just move on. They came closer to us and made gestures like they were going to kick over the piece that we were working on and have a good laugh and said: “hey whitey watchu think you’re doing.” Mike and I looked at each other, and I blurted out, “I got your whitey right here why don’t you just leave this place and these kids alone.” Mike and I raised our wrenches and made them think we meant business, even though we didn’t know if we could take a quartet of thug teenagers. They blinked and went away. We finished up and came back a couple of days later to finish the rest of the park and were welcomed to a site totally destroyed. We gave up as others had and went on to another project.

Well, goodwill was enjoyed for a brief moment in time, then the “adults” came in with prejudices of the past, destroying yet another chance of redemption. I guess that’s why Jesus said bring me the little children and have the faith of a child. For God’s sake, let the ten-year old’s run the world. Then again, maybe we have to start younger with social media and technology poisoning their innocent young minds. And as Forest Gump would say, “And That’s all I got say about that.”

FORGIVENESS: A while back, a tragic news story told of the horrible murder of a young Amish kid by a ruthless killer. Instead of anger and revenge, there was only grief and forgiveness. The killer went to jail.

The Amish could teach us pious pundits and “religious” people a lot about forgiveness and prayer for redemption for the sinners; that one cop murdering this man and the other cops who were on the job for only for three days and acted out of cowardice and fear of the senior cop causing the undeserved death of a fellow brother of God’s creation. May we, for just one moment, get off our pious soapbox and find the last time we directly intervened for justice. Instead of staying in our cozy homes, yelling at the TV while people die. This should be less about the deification of a simple, and yes flawed as we all are, man and more of redemption, repentance (that includes, cops, looters and anarchists doing the evil ones work). You Christians, as I am, think this through and pray for the peace of Jesus and His love to pull us back from the brink. Satan has an opening here. Just yesterday morning, I read where Militias are rising in a little town in Idaho at first to exercise their second amendment and Godly right to defend their families and livelihood as implied threats of Antifa anarchists sneaking into this quiet little town, in white Mercedes vans. We all know what the next step is, and that’s more hatred fired like a scattergun killing innocent and evil alike. Prejudice has existed since Biblical times and before, with tribe against tribe, Gentile against Jew.

In a recent post from one of my followers from the Philippines, their post talks about farmers, and the tillers of the land were/are looked upon as “less than.” I grew up on a farm if we had a little cow manure on our jeans because we didn’t have time to clean up thoroughly after the morning chores, all the city kids on the bus would make fun of us. All you crybabies today, don’t tell me, I don’t understand prejudice and injustice just because I’m white. All this is more about economics and prejudice against hard work than old battles that the adults want to re-fight from long ago.

Maybe, that way, all the intellectual trust fund babies look down upon someone in the trades who works with the technology AND their hands. I have a self-bought and paid for a degree from the University of Florida with a degree in accounting and sat for and passed the CPA exam, and I can run a dozer better than most. Don’t tell me about how hard it is to get an education. I worked to get there and worked to get through there, learned from the professors that I respected and tolerated the “turd” classes of bloviators. I received A’s and B’s in the good classes and “C’s” in the turd classes. I was there to learn what I needed to learn to be a productive part of the world, not to impress some accepted status quo. I passed the CPA exam and only had to go back one time to pass one part. My classmates were working for big 8 firms and still hadn’t passed it after I did.

The lesson here is if you want to learn, be it through the school of hard knocks or the University of Florida; YOU WILL LEARN if you have an open mind and work hard and smart. I guess this is turning into a rant, but with what I see in the pandemic farce and the stalking horse of racism, I have to get this off my chest.

I was a child of the ’60s, and 70’s I think I know a thing or two about the injustices of prejudice and wars fought to enrich the elite through nation-building with the blood of patriotic American men and women and can have little respect for “protestors” who manage to find time during working and school hours to carry their professionally made and distributed signs while the rest of us are working our ass off and VOTING to change things.

There I’m finally done, and maybe I pissed off many of my followers. Through my depression, the country I love is going up in flames and cowardice. I can’t even worship in peace with others; leaves me in that all too familiar place these days of withdrawing to my albeit beautiful home (although she is starting to look pretty old and decrepit like me) to continually search for answers from God and thanking Him daily for my provision and Jesus for my protection as I am on the front lines of spiritual warfare and it scares me to the core. Am I having another seizure (thanks to I think proper meds I haven’t had one since October 2019), or is it another attack from the evil one? (I don’t think I’m in crazy town yet).

Evil is real. Just look at what’s happening on our streets. There is a song from the ’80s that I featured in a Christian Music show I produced in 1986 by Jakata that’s called “Hell is on the Run.” I hope that is true now because it sure looks like Good Is On the Run, and it’s taking a beating If there was ever a time, Jesus, its time.

Reminiscing the Moment

I’m on another bit of a music kick, but with a little deeper meaning, here is a link https://vimeo.com/421925022 to an old video of a live performance of Topaz, my old band from 20 years ago for your entertainment. It was shot on the spur of the moment in an open-air night club called Coral Bay on the Indian River in Melbourne, Florida. It was live; the temperature was about 90 and the humidity about the same on a summer evening in sunny Florida. We were sweating and dehydrated, fighting off heatstroke, but we soldiered on through the night. The horns and percussion were great, and the vocals not so much, especially when a white guy from Nebraska is trying to sound like Barry White on the Maynard Ferguson version of the Theme from the motion picture “Shaft.” I’m posting here not to show off or embarrass but to illustrate that we, especially musicians can create a legend in our own minds of how great we were until like most musicians are humbled when they hear the playback.

However, the moment does count, and it is special because nuances are overlooked when the audience and the performer knit it into one experience. And the music and genre go by too fast for anyone to analyze or care when you are having a great time as I said it is from the heart in the moment. To illustrate what I’m saying, the other night, I was enjoying our church service on Livestream with just the pastor and the worship team due to the pandemic craziness. The worship leader is an accomplished musician of the first order, but he was singing a noticeable flat. Only a hand full of anal types like me would notice it because he was so in the moment and worshipping from the heart that the nuances didn’t matter until you heard the playback. While sometimes embarrassing and ego shrinking the moment, live is what matters. He was in earnest worshipping, creating a moment without an audience. That takes extraordinary talent and blessing I believe that is why it may require many takes or chemistry to lay down tracks in a studio. There is no substitute for interactive live performance, and it is scary as hell for the performer because you are letting people look into your heart, and that is a place we seldom let people see.

Sometimes especially in vocals, some people are not gifted but want to put their all into it. In one of my praise groups as part of the vocal ensemble, there was a stunningly handsome Jamaican Girl who knew all the right moves, maintain a wonderful expression, worshipped with extraordinary grace and heart. The only problem is that she sang anywhere from a minor 3^rd to a perfect 2^nd flat, and no matter how much we coached and worked with her about half the time, she couldn’t stay on key. With a little discreet help from the sound engineer and the tolerance of those next to her, keeping the key and a worship leader(that be me) would find a way to bring out the beauty and genuineness of her worship from the heart and make it the moment that it was. To this day, ten years later, we pray for each other and have only been in the same room maybe once or twice and at my house for the 4^th of July. Tana, you WERE the holy moment. Just don’t listen to the playback LOL.

What am I saying here? God isn’t interested in the imperfect playback, He already knew what it sounded like before you did, but when it comes from the heart, it is in perfect tune and beautiful music to an audience of One. The band, most of the time had that heart. For example, Topaz usually had audiences that ranged from 21 to 70. In that mix, it was always a special challenge to keep everyone involved, especially when you had a large dance floor. I would occasionally call up a “40’s medley that included four tunes from the big band era. We were playing current dance music and occasional novelty tunes so that the floor would pack up with the 20 somethings. When I saw that there were a few older folks (the best-paying customers by the way) sitting out the tunes, I’d call a contemporary slow tune (ballad for you old musicians). The floor would pack up with couples especially since a slug-like me can dance to that when my wife drags me out there. When the slow tune ended, the drummer would start a Hi-hat (a funny looking cymbal that when played properly is used as an anchor for swing tunes). We would break into a rendition to the Glen Miller tune “In The Mood”). The people who knew all the steps from the era, especially the “Jitterbug,” would break into that right away, but what was surprising is that virtually NO ONE left the floor, and before you knew it, the floor stayed full. Everyone young and old was crossing generations of time and were dancing together to big band swing. Those are what I call moments.

As an aside, we would ask the audience to write down all four tunes on a cocktail napkin, we did in the medley, and if anyone got all four right, I bought them a drink. Glenn Miller, Woody Herman, Bill Black Combo, and Count Basie were the composers. If you get this right, I’m NOT buying drinks.

While we were mostly a party dance and novelty band, I would during a set grab my soprano sax walk out and go to the nearest table that had some older couple sitting pull up a chair and sit across from the gal and played the tune by Kenny G “Havana.” It starts slowly with old Cuba romantic flair, and even though I’m not exactly a women’s fantasy date, I would play the slow part and look into her eyes and see her gently take her date’s hand and hold it. The tune then goes into a quick Rhumba, I would retreat to the stage, and the couple would come on the floor and show everyone how it was done in old pre-Castro Havana. After some applause, the impromptu “dancing With the Stars “display the floor would begin to fill with people who mostly didn’t know a Rhumba from a tuba and just wanted to have what this couple had. Another moment tucked away in someone’s “Remember When” file.

The message for today is enjoy reminiscing (we did that song too by Little River Band), it’s a good place to visit but don’t live there.

In my depression battle, it’s a little oasis in the desert I’m taken to. I can’t say I’m winning the battle, but I am holding my own. Every now and then, I feel maybe Jesus’ hand on my shoulder ever so slightly, and He comes when I call when I’m terrified by the evil one. Thank you, Jesus.

Cannon Blast and the 1812 Overture

I was never one to not try something new, so I thought I’d break ground with musical accompaniment. I’ve always been a fan of Tchaikovsky (the sometimes gay, substance-abusing madman genius that he was. I can relate to the madman/genius part because our Swiss ancestry has a periodic history of insanity being diluted over time with marriage to more sane Germans like my mom to mere eccentricity).

I own an authentic replica of a live-fire twelve-pound Napoleon civil war black powder firing field cannon. The live performance of the 1812 Overture calls for a battery of artillery pieces firing on cue from the maestro to be fired at precisely the right moment in the piece to fill out the performance (see what I’m talking about from 14:48 on in the attached link). Well I fired this cannon at a celebration we had every year at our house on the Fourth of July.Well I fired this cannon every ½ hour and except for one communist bastard who would call the cops because of the noise ( I threatened to but a real ball in it since we fired powder only for the effect and noise and drop it the ¼ mile away onto the roof of his house, but I digress). Anyway, everyone else in the nearby neighborhood loved it.

One-year, the local HOA was having a salute to the Vets for Veterans day and asked if I would bring my cannon over and fire it. Of course, for a guy to fire something big like a cannon, I jumped at the opportunity. But to take it one step further, I had an idea. They informed me that they had a scaled-down traveling version of the Brevard Symphony Orchestra coming to perform, among other things, the Overture of 1812. This idea was to make my canon an instrument that day and fire it on cue from the director throughout the performance. As I stated earlier, the full-blown performance calls for a battery of artillery firing on cue. I had one, so we improvised. My assistant and I could get a shot off every 30 to 40 seconds if we hurried. This process involved firing with a lanyard and a friction primer and inserting a pigtail to clean out the residue from the shot swab down the barrel. A rammer soaked in water from a nearby bucket to ensure that any reside powder would not prematurely explode, taking off an arm or other extremity while loading a new charge. Ram in the new charge, puncture the new charge through the firing whole, insert the friction charge hook up the lanyard in the eye of the friction primer, look at the conductor, wait for a cue and fire and reload in about 30 seconds. We missed a couple of shots but managed to get six rounds off on cue during the finale saving one for the end as a final. That was the strangest instrument and performance of my musical career but undoubtedly the most fun. Just watching the expressions on people’s faces and the vets about to scream “INCOMING” was a priceless memory. Nowadays, for the last two years, the gun remains silent but still sits proudly on its rampart in front of our house to remind us of glory days past. But then again, I still got 20 pounds of black powder left, and that old communist bastard over the way will never know when this crazy old bastard will load up in my dying days pull that lanyard and let fly. lol

The Many Faces of Topaz the Band

Well, for all of you who do read my posts, you know that I wander a lot in my topics and often have the urge to write about my experiences in music. Here as of late, while I’m dealing with our struggling site work business, trying to figure out how to carry large insurance payments, heavy equipment payments, health insurance, and a myriad of other fixed costs in addition to costs of materials, fuel, and payroll. We went from about ten employees to four and are still trying to do 1/2 million dollars in work with proper social distancing. We applied for the government giveaways. Still, I guess all the businesses with nearly 500 employees (which I can’t fathom how they are “small businesses” have sucked up the two trillion and ran the system dry in less than a month and left us real small business’s hung out to dry. Businesses in our class and industry are used to us fixing the infrastructure in this country, and the truckers who haul everything being taken for granted. Right now, the truckers are heroes, have low fuel costs, and vast amounts of freight to haul and are finally getting a break, but the rest of us get screwed. Sooner or later, when that water main breaks and all the sheltered in folks can’t flush their toilets or get clean water, being short on toilet paper will be the least of their worries while our industry implodes. We were already near collapse because, in this full-employment country, we can’t find anyone to work in the trades. Even if we pay competitive wages to the student loan, buried college grads who didn’t learn anything marketable and lecture the rest of us how stupid and backward we are. It is in this backdrop, I write this morning to escape this world and into my passion for music, which in the song by the Doobie Brothers says, “Music Is the Doctor.”

The band I formed back in 1976, fresh out of college. It has had many alumni, each with their own story to tell, kind of like the books of the New Testament. Each version of the band with a version of music and a life of its own. With music in its God-given way acting as its earthly representation of the Savior.

We were always a family and were bound together by the music we played, mostly cover songs of other bands, but we did record four originals that are linked in the blog. A couple of nights ago, as usual, I couldn’t sleep away my depression, so I surfed the tv and ended up on the AXS channel. They had a run a tribute to one of my all-time favorite bands, Chicago. I listened and wept with sadness as well, as “tears of joy” when I heard their hit “Make Me Smile.” I grew up in high school and college, listening to their music and played it live in bands from then on.

Topaz started out with six guys; Leigh played bass and doubled on Trombone when the keyboard picked up the bass line either on low-end keys or foot pedals on a Hammond B-3; Louie (the token Cuban) played trumpet. I played sax and doubled on vocals, and I covered Donna Summer because I had a falsetto that sounded like her since we had no chicks in the band then. Earth, Wind, and Fire “Fantasy,” which was reserved for the second set so I could warm up and not blow my chops beyond what an emergency shot of Drambuie chased by a beer could not cure! Matt played the B-3, the real and heavy deal with a full Leslie, ARP string ensemble, and Fender Rhodes piano. RIP Matt; he passed away a few years back. Jack on guitar played massively loud through a tube Fender twin, who sang lead and Mike on drums (who on one occasion brought in dual Tympani kettle drums, so we had the right sound for a disco version of 2001 A Space Odyssey. Everyone sang except Matt, who was a New York Italian, that sounded like Marlin Brando doing his Godfather thing. These were the guys in the first edition of Topaz.

The next edition continued with the nightclub thing but recorded some originals. We recorded these in a little eight-track studio in Orlando in 1979. Me, Leigh, and the Guitar player, all worked during the day at the mining operation, my family owned. My dad passed away in 1978, leaving me at 26 to take over the business with my mom, sister and brother. So we all had day jobs and played clubs at night sometimes six nights a week until 2:00 AM, and then it was back to work at 7:00 AM. Out of this environment, we got off work one Friday night and headed to Orlando to start a recording session at 7:00 PM and broke up after the final mixdown of the four tunes at 5:00 AM when we were done, physically, mentally and out of money to pay for any more studio time. The quality of this take was not derived from the original master but from a second generation cassette. In order to keep the “tape hiss” down, I encoded it with dolby noise reduction and goofed up and played back and transferred to the last version using DBX noise reduction. Since these were two different technologies they didn’t have the same compression or noise gate properties (for all you ancient technology geeks) and the songs fade in and out a bit with the noise reduction not able to compensate for the tape hiss in the same way. Sort of like speaking French and English at the same time.

As an aside, The song by Chicago “25 or 6 to 4”, was titled when recorded because someone in the band looked up at the clock when asked what time it was and someone said “about 25 or 6 to 4 AM and thus the title of the song was the born-true story.

Every song ever written has a story behind it, so I’ll tell you a quick story behind

the inspiration to these four songs. Can’t Dance Alone – Keith, our guitarist at the time, wrote this song as our hopefully break out single (not). He was from Birmingham England and was very gifted and had a knack for song “hooks” The horn parts were made up on the spot and never written out just played from memory.

Can’t Dance Alone

Keith also wrote the next tune “Christy” this one was about an old flame of his that he somehow could never make into a lasting relationship.

Christy

Still, the yearning never left him Leigh wrote the “Music Of You” about his wife at the time. I played, unfortunately, a very flat soprano sax on this tune (not one of my finer moments) We overdubbed the horn parts with Leigh back on Bone. Throughout the tunes, the ARP string ensemble (state of the art analog synthesizer, at the time) was used to supply the string parts, Leigh, and I divorced our wives later on in life, another whole story, but they were childhood sweethearts that just grew apart.

Music of You

I Remember You – was written by me in the Chicago/Blood Sweat and Tears/Tower of Power genre. It was about a dear friend that was probably my soulmate. In my high school days, we were never intimate beyond passionate petting, but we talked for hours on end and cared for each other. Time went on she moved away we kept in touch over the years but lament what could have been with no regrets about where we are I lost track of her years ago, and I think she has passed on. She was instrumental in bringing me back to Christ by giving me Oswald Chambers “My Utmost for Your Highest” daily devotional. I have kept it by my side ever since. What a strange journey we traveled even for just a little while.

I Remember You

I sang the last tune; in retrospect, I should have subbed the vocal out to someone who had a more talented voice, but I gave it my best shot. Also, being in a little eight-track studio and given the analog/tape technology of the time, the double-tracked vocals had to be done by physically overdubbing by singing along with the original track (no digital one takes to add a perfectly delayed and in tune overdub effect). Try doing that some time and sing something the same way with yourself with the exact same inflections and intonation and timing. It isn’t as easy as it sounds, but that’s the way it was done in the ’70s.

Here is the manuscript to the last song that I wrote “I Remember You” that had a big Chicago style horn soli in it, but we ran out of time, and horn chops, so Keith created a killer Guitar solo on the spur of the moment to fill in the hole.

Up until a couple of years ago, when I had my stroke, the band played together in clubs, and on Sunday mornings, pieces of the band showed up at church on Sunday morning to play in praise bands and lead worship. This morning as I sat on my front porch listening on my phone ITUNES, Mercy Me’s, “Word of God Speak,” When I was a worship leader and we did this tune, I would play my EWI (electronic wind instrument that fingered like a sax and produced synthesizer sounds) that produced the strings so that our keyboardist could devote both hands to the piano. Then to add a twist that most of the time took the congregation by the surprise of wailing powerful alto sax solo of the chorus to plead to God to Speak in the one way I could cry out so much from the heart.

I remember Gary, our last drummer, and gifted vocalist would sing this on Sunday morning after playing the night before with me in the last version of Topaz. Turning on a dime to go into praise and worship with an even greater passion than “eagles,” Mustang Sally” and Chicago just performed a few hours before. But no matter what Topaz, when taking the stage, always discretely prayed before the downbeat.

Topaz was unique because of the fact that not only was it loaded with talent (me being the least talent), but I could keep peace among the varying strong personalities, keep the stage presence on cue, call the right tunes at the right time, measure the emotional flow of the audience and handle the business side and run sound from the stage.

Music is as close as it gets for me to express the passion of God.

Ten ideas on how to recover economically from the virus pandemic

As I sit at home with my wife navigating through the loan (code word for free money) emergency federal program to give small business relief in this crisis, I’ve got some broad-based ideas that might save the day yet. Leave the details to the smart bean-counters, lawyers, and technocrats to figure out.

We should stiff the Chinese on all the debt they hold of ours and create an offset, and probably another bill for criminal and civil negligence for tanking our economy. We won’t generally default on our national debt just on the Chinese communist bastards who spread this mess. And not to be a tinfoil hat of guy. It wouldn’t surprise me if they did it on purpose, covered it up and sat back and watched the world feed on itself while wildly underestimating the toughness of the American spirit once we get done whining about it.

Even though I’m jumping on the free money bandwagon, because no matter how principled I am on being self-reliant, they are going to give to somebody anyway, and I think I can spend more ethically than most. We can’t print money as a way out of this. Currency has always been an alternative to the barter system as a less cumbersome way to conduct commerce, but the way we’re going, we may have to return to that. Currency represents the value created by producing goods and services. When we start printing it and bs the American people that we are “borrowing” it, hello Weimar Republic, within a short time like the Germany of the late 1930s, we’ll need a wheelbarrow to haul our currency (or plastic) to the store for a loaf of bread. The answer, we solve it with the American people, and businesses take a haircut and make an equitable sacrifice with real money that was created by real commerce backed by created value.

The following is what I think is what we can do:

All insurance companies cut their premiums by half and rewrite in two years as the exposure can be realistically determined after all the fat is burned off the top. They can handle it without destroying the industry, and the government will be subsidizing them through tax refunds after moderate losses, and they will just manage better. The hell with the shareholders no dividends but grow the stock value over time until we get out of this. An example of why we should be paying pre-virus premiums when the exposure is low on auto and general liability because we’re not driving, and commerce is in the toilet. Health insurance needs to go down because of number 2 below. Let the poor and virus-related loss of job types etc. get a special Medicaid subsidy or better yet pay cash for the doctor and hospital bills negotiated by the patient with a bonus rebate from uncle sam for reducing the costs. The cost reimbursed at warp speed, possibly using a government-backed credit card used explicitly for medical only. The credit card companies will love that, except the interest rate will cap at 6%.
Stop all contingency litigation initiate a no-fault policy just like state no-fault auto insurance. Everybody carries their own health insurance. The lawyers go pound sand instead of trying to win the lottery for themselves and little slice for their clients, and suck it out of the insurance company, which in turn passes that cost on to the premium payor (that would be all of us); who work for a living. Let’s stop enriching big law firms who spend a big chunk of that cash on TV adds convincing some poor average Joe or Josephine that they would be set for life from something as small as a fender bender. No more pain and suffering awards, just reasonable attorneys who really are “for the people,” and they get max 20% after an auditable total of their real out of pocket costs. No more “hired gun” doctors or experts to play games with litigation. Cap malpractice suits give doctors three strikes, and you’re out deal. If they are habitual screwups, take their license just like you take a driver’s license. If the hospital screws up, cap the award for damage incurred to the patient and allow for liens to be placed on the hospital building and chattel. The fat cats that own the real estate aren’t going have tenants screwing up their title, so they can’t build more hospitals and clinics.
Banks immediately forbear all loan payments for three months with no additional interest and forebear ½ the remaining payments until the loan matures. If they make their payments on time, the bank forgives the rest. The banks will get money back through a tax refund on losses, and the feds can provide guilt edge liquidity backed by hard assets, not some packaged up derivatives or some such Ponzi nonsense. The banks still operate and make money.
Rents are forgiven for three months, and the paper holders on the building follow suite on mortgage payments. After that ½ for a year until we’re back on our feet.
Credit card companies immediately forgive all interest on the debt. Reduce principal payments by half. Cut credit limits to half of what they were before the virus—no interest above 12%, no late fees ever. If you can’t make your payments and can’t show hardship, no more credit, pay cash the old-fashioned way. We all, myself included, have been seduced for too long with credit cards paying for things we want, not what we need, and can repay.
Allow businesses to give each employee a hardship stipend for two years of at least $500 per week with NO TAXES taken out, and the business can write off as hardship expense as a regular expense. No one-time pittance $1200 checks.
Restaurants report no tips and business deductions for food only with a max check per individual of $30 per visit but no limit on the overall amount. For example, if employees eat out, let the company pick up the tab and deduct it. This will make the restaurants hum, and the bars will just have to figure it out the lure of good entertainment and ambiance will get the job done.
Give bona fide churches a 50% break on all utilities, retail value deductions for grocers and restaurants to give to church food banks and double deduction for monetary sponsorships to outreach missions, school academies, youth programs, and counseling services immediately. We already have youth and mental health problems; this pandemic just made it exponentially worse.

These suggestions probably won’t solve every/if any of the problems before us, but it is undoubtedly a place to start.

Most importantly, get back to God, pray and ask for His wisdom and discernment. Dump the politics and power grabs and just be accountable and love one another. Welcome to Rick’s answer to pandemic paranoia. LOL

Palm Sunday

On this Palm Sunday, I am writing a small message to all. I am also attaching a picture from a wonderful time I had with my youngest son and a co-worker.

We were building a 1/2 mile road in the mountains of north Georgia to a property we had. Before the stroke and recent virus, which is killing small business like ours faster than the disease itself. Since we build roads in Florida, this was interesting being in the hills with different construction methods, especially since we used no engineering just some rented equipment, a tape measure, and a $19 permit from the Union County public works dept. An old guy, 15-year-old kid, and a devoted employee cracked this ½ mile road in 5 days built to Georgia specs with one 15 minute drive-by inspection. Take that Army Corp of Engineers! Lol. I guess now, if I wasn’t old and stroke debilitated, we’d be building sites for emergency hospitals instead of being sequestered in our home in Florida. Those were the days my friend I lament the end of them. Anyway, here’s my little message.

Whether or not you are a “believer,” a struggling seeker, or a non-believer, maybe this will be of use to you, especially if you are a member of the depressed minions or rather a new veteran such as me.

Historical Jesus is an indisputable fact of history, but what is unique to those with faith is that He didn’t just die on the Cross but overcame it. His human side suffered pain so horrendous and the heartbreaking ridicule, that exceeds anything we can imagine, he still could love us humans so much that he gave his life. Jesus knew a better place awaited him, going boldly into Jerusalem to face the trials awaiting him. He asked God that if He could arrange to have him escape this trial, I despair, please do so but if it is your will, I will go on and voluntarily do your will and die a painful and beaten death so that all the rest of humanity can follow me into my home with you. Jesus wasn’t a martyr but was on a mission. He submitted to the task going into Jerusalem, knowing it was the end, but his human side probably didn’t comprehend the horrors that await him. Probably nervous and distraught just like we feel when we think it’s all closing in on us. He went anyway. We can have the same courage if we just believe in Him the way He believed that Abba (daddy) would bring him home when all man’s cruelty played out and ultimately was futile.

This virus may kill some of us, and the economy will probably kill more, and the trials we face will be severe. But if you can at least muster some hope remember that through our distress and yes whining no one in history had a bad day like Jesus did and he suffered and came through it even if it meant his earthly life which he put up to show us the way. We whine when we have to put up collateral or personal guarantees for loans or purchases. He laid down His life to purchase something that lasts for eternity with no recourse, just belief. Christians believe that he was God in human form. What is amazing to me is that God let it happen, and his own human free will chose to do this because it was God’s will, and he cried just like we do when faced with what he was going to go through on Friday. If you believe in God or the science allowance for a “Supreme Being,” this creator loves us and wants us who he created marvelously with free will to come back to him and love us more. He suffered on that Cross to show us that Satan will be overcome and that just ahead after we live out a life of flawed but the goodness of the heart life, it gets a whole lot better JUST BELIEVE!

Being gripped with depression doesn’t mean I don’t believe. But it teaches me what it must have been like in that lonely garden in Gethsemane. All his human friends went to sleep while he wept and wanted some human comfort. We are no different, my distressed friends, but he asked for his disciples to stay and watch with him. We ask and try to rely on our friends and family to be there and understand, but they can’t. They’re just human and limited.

Jesus is always there even though we think many times he’s not or even exists at all. But he is all I have had as I have stated in my previous posts, that He has pushed the devil away from me. All I had to do was cry out in his name. The filthy coward (Satan) retreated just like the terrorists do when we righteously stand up to them and defeat them one episode at a time. How can you not love someone who gives his life for you and just asks us to believe in him? Such a simple task, yet so hard for anyone who doesn’t have their way. Shunned for your good deeds or feels discouraged or depressed. One of my ex-wives and a recent follower of this blog has gone through the horrendous ordeal of rape. The scars last forever, but remember, Jesus’s scars remained as well, and He overcame just believe in him. What he did, and a level of mental healing will change you and allow you to forgive just like Jesus did on the Cross. “Forgive them for they know not what they do.”

How can we not forgive and pick up our lives and follow him? As he said, “there will trouble in this world, but if you let me inside, nothing in this world is greater than you and I together (paraphrasing from John 16:33). If you have been taught to be self-reliant, like I have growing up in the Midwest, notwithstanding that noble and God-inspired way of living, you can’t do it alone. You need divine help so, put your pride aside and ask. That’s called prayer for those who aren’t used to doing that. We Christians are often criticized and ridiculed by secularists, and other “religions for saying Jesus is THE WAY” It sounds exclusive but not so. It is the door, and though narrow it’s open to All, and if you spend all your time searching for nirvana, trying to scale the walls or building your own tower of Babel, your wasting a lot of earth time taking the long way to God’s home. It’s the quickest way “home,” but we have to head straight for the door and maybe quit thrashing around in that cornfield from my earlier posts. God loves you all. Be on the lookout for Jesus; He’s a lot closer than you think.

Find God

I’m writing this post from my front yard under my favorite tree on my beautiful 5-acre plot of God’s creation called my home. For all of you who may be joining the ranks of the depressed. I’ve been here for about twenty months now, since my stroke, so I’ve got a head start on this journey. I have so many thoughts and so much unwanted time to think. My mind piles up thoughts that I can scarcely keep up with to be inspired to write about or can organize them into coherent English.

As I sit with my faithful companion, Bear dog, who rarely leaves my side, I look out and see many things my kids and I have built over the years. The greatest things were things like the now huge oaks lining our driveway that we snatched out of one of our job sites and re-planted years ago. They were destined for destruction by a front end loader and a root rake. We plucked them out and brought them home to our place and planted them as young trees. We just dug holes and stuck them in the ground, added a little water, and out of certain death, God did his magic and made this place so beautiful surpassing anything our hands could do. Now that the virus is here and everyone’s world is upside down, I have an odd personal feeling. Right now, there is despair and panic and fear everywhere and an eerie quiet except for the occasional suicidal maniac (Motorcycle Rider) on his crotch rocket speeding down US1. I find that now I have company. When this gets over I will return to being on the outside.

For those who are currently working at home, because the same technology that has reduced our minds to artificial intelligence is now our only connection to each other, while there are many hardships and worries for those, who have to work at home behind their screens, all of the rest of us who put the pipes together build and maintain the very infrastructure and homes you live in; we are left to witness the wreckage of years of spiritual neglect. We don’t know how to act when we have to be with our families. Adam Carolla said it best, ‘Instead of not being able to go to Johnny fantastic to get your hair cut remember the days when mom would pull out the stool on the back porch and cut your hair and talk about life, and it’s treasured memories. We can do best in the time to appreciate the closeness of family. I am so blessed to have this little piece of heaven like my sister does in Wisconsin on her little farm with a bit of space and God’s creation so close, not a zero lot line house with panicked neighbors on each side. Thank you, Lord, for the gift of your creation.

As I wonder in my brain cavern, I thought we have all these science channels large brains postulating the theory that mankind is 100s of thousands of years old a product of evolution when they need to refute just one simple fact. Why is so easy to understand how this pandemic started with just one person in China and spread throughout the world in a matter of months and yet it’s so hard to grasp the Biblical fact the entire human race started with just two people a mere few thousand years ago The self-important know it alls of modern science can’t even answer that one. If a great scientist like Francis Collins could understand it than maybe these secular pompous self wanna be masters of the universe might start using science as a road to God not from Him.

On a lighter note, one of my dear friends over the years who is an admitted believer but also admits to being an irreverent Catholic sent me this clip of an even more irreverent poem to music. Living room post, I won’t recite it for you in this blog because it is funny as hell but a little too earthy for some of my Christian friends. I sent it to one of my closest and dearest believer friends who selflessly comes most Saturdays to the house and fixes my broken stuff and we chat under the tree. This comical little song is loaded with f-bombs. Still, it is such an accurate satire of the present character of a society gone cowardly and self-indulgent in this time of pandemic paranoia. He replied that it was a great song as for us f-bombers it was funny and for most people, that is the only language they understand. I replied, I guess that makes you and I bilingual, my friend. We can speak this language and God’s Word as well only hopefully not at the same time. I guess that just makes us more like a very feeble attempt to be like Jesus did. Dinning and speaking with tax collectors and not distance ourselves from the unclean, including us, as the Pharisees did. Neither Christ nor Pharisee, we, my friend, are just regular folks sometimes doing wonderful things that Jesus loves us for even if we let off a few f-bombs when that wrench slips off the bolt head and we smash our fingers on that old lawn mower we’re trying to resurrect.

As a sidebar, I have been spending evenings sitting outside under the stars setting the perfect ambiance for a heart to heart with God. Most of the time, I leave those moments still somewhat frustrated as to why I’ve heard more crickets than the voice of God. But last Saturday, He spoke to me in his way in his time to deliver me a message. I was trying to get my stubborn riding lawn mower to start, and after many tries and my wife patiently waiting in the truck to charge the battery and enduring my f-bomb barrage at the infernal machine. I sat down and just said, “please, God guide me if I wait another 15 minutes, will you help me get this POS to start so that I could manicure your wonderful creation?” At 5 minutes into the wait, I wanted to crank it, and a hushed voice from somewhere inside my thick head said “wait upon the Lord” I said alright God, but in 16 minutes I’m going to give this one more try and if that doesn’t work I’m going in the house and give up. On the 16th minute, I skeptically gave it one more try, and it fired right up. Even though I probably flooded it, ran the battery down, and overheated the starter from repeatedly cranking it, the message was clear. Wait upon the Lord. So as I ponder the failure of our business and all the craziness around me and sit here in paradise threatened by the financial collapse and being land rich and McDonald’s dollar menu cash poor, we will wait upon the Lord.

So find God, pull up a chair and join me in thanking God for every little thing and pray for those who do not have much.

Covid-19

I find it somewhat perplexing as to what to post while most of us are trying to navigate our way through crazy town with the Covid-19 virus crisis. So as my custom, I’ll just shovel out my thoughts raw off the pile, so to speak.

My wife read me a Facebook post that hit home. It referred to an 80 something war veteran that rang home to me as I synthesize it here. These men and women fought and died in far higher numbers than this pandemic will ever produce. They rose and took FDR’s famous “we have nothing to Fear but Fear Itself” call to unite sincerely and did their duty. The home front sacrificed by the rationing of everything. They were growing their food in community Victory gardens. Every farmer planted every square inch they could grow, and young men and women went off to war, leaving their family’s to inventively hold down the home front, not knowing when they would see, or if they would see, their loved ones again.

We whine if our internet goes down because we can’t obsess over the latest panic rumor. In one case during WW2, a mother was notified that her son had been killed, and his last letters arrived in the mail days later. We have become in many ways a nation of crybabies, and now we’re being tested like previous generations. Let us not fall short and disgrace the sacrifices of those generations. They made it their duty to preserve this nation to carry on the home of the brave, not cowering panicked cowards. Sure, this is tough, and yes, scary.

Going through depression is no walk in the park either, no matter what form it takes, or how it comes about. Part of me (since I’ve lived this for going on two years now) cynically says, “all you folks who around me going on your busy, routine, go anywhere-anytime freedom filled world, welcome to my world.” We are living in a world where everything is sort of routine with some panic and silly stupidity, slight inconveniences for food and entertainment. While there is a real concern for the average person and small businesses, about paying the bills and feeding their families, or even the slight chance of serious complications, even contracting the virus (virtually rarer than winning the lottery). We need to be prudent not paralyzed with panic, trust God because all the government printing of fiat currency or doublespeak or even the valiant efforts of our medical teams and scientists pale when we put God at the front. We might ask, “if God is in control, why isn’t he answering our prayers and take this away from us. He must not care or is irrelevant or both.” Well, we aren’t doing so hot with all our amazing technology and knowledge. Hell, we can’t even cure anxiety and depression. What makes us, frightened little children, think we are any match for this.

A straightforward antidote – trust God, He is truly in control, and He never panics. He knows what He’s doing, and we don’t. We won’t until we let Him do his work. For all of us who fight depression, this battle isn’t a one-off thing like this epidemic; it can last for a long time. My depression is a combination of medical due to the stroke, and a general involuntary disconnect with life as I knew it and not in a new utopia either just state of limbo.

As a background of some of my influences, at the ripe old age of 13, my mom, for some unknown reason to me, probably because she saw something in me that could absorb complex thinking at such a young age, gave me a copy of Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugged.” I read it, cover to cover, in a week between school and working at the sand washing plant that our Florida family operated. Ayn was a Russian refugee from the communist state and saw firsthand how oppressive to the creative human spirit it was. Although she was a self-proclaimed atheist and a bit of a humanist, she laid out principles of the God-given human spirit that any Christian would nod their head in agreement. If I could say this, even though she was spot on about the dangers we faced as a nation in the late 40s and 50s when she was writing this, the march of socialism was in full force after the disaster of WW2. Sound familiar to the present day? We are only one crisis away from people who have lost the courage that generations of Americans fought, toiled, and died for, to rise to the challenge.

Right now, the business that my son and I built from scratch 20+ years ago. Is now dangerously close to collapsing. The national climate of panic, weak collective faith, falsely vested in the mere government, and self-serving business leaders is rattling my cage pretty good. “Be Strong, and Courageous,” said the Lord to Joshua. Well, America, let’s show a little courage starting with loving and helping the least of these even at our peril and let the greedheads fall under their weight. Love conquers all said Paul in 1^st Corinthians.

I have the answer! Yeah right! However, I may be depressed, but I’m not a total dunderhead if we’re all in this together, as the government mouthpieces and pundits say. Then we all take the hit together, and one way or the other, the hit is coming/came. On the mortgage front, the Greedheads who bought, sold, packaged, and exploited the little guys, need to stop and take a haircut. Understand we need banks, investors, and the funding system to make our economy work. But this is indeed a war, and they need to, as in business-speak, take a haircut. Forgo profits to a bearable but sustainable loss and suspend, forgive or refinance at new terms and short-term forgiveness or reduced monthly payments to do their fair share. At the same time, the business and operators sweat out the payrolls and keeping the doors open.

Suspend all pain and injury litigation, and by swift arbitration, insurance companies pay only medical costs to fix the person and pay for minimum wage loss if disabled. No pain and suffering, we all got plenty of that right now. Insurance companies should cut premiums across the board by at least half for a year. Reassess new rates at that time to take into consideration for lower litigation costs and medical costs, post-disaster, at real cost levels not inflated $100 aspirin stuff—no more basic contingency lawsuits. Limit the mark up for judgment awards to attorneys to 20-25%, not the sometimes 50-100% that happens now.

Stop all lobbyists period—no corporate or PAC donations to political campaigns allowed except individual self-funded contributions of $1,000 or less. If the politician has a message worth hearing, take it to the people directly with the social media and a hungry media for headlines. The folks don’t need to be funding high priced cocktail parties and $1,000 per plate dinners. The little guy can’t afford that because he’s breaking his ass to feed his family and send his kids to a good college (if you can find one that teaches actual useful knowledge and ethics and isn’t bloated with top-heavy tenured blowhards.)

No deduction for charitable contributions. If you’re going to give something, give it. Don’t worry about tax effects. Instead, be allowed to designate 10% of your tax bill to a bonafide church, or if you’re a non-believer and you think the government can do a better job, give it back to them.

Make giving personal. Get to know who you’re giving to and what their real needs are. Even if it’s only on-line, pay it forward. Build bonding relationships. In our farming community in Wisconsin, when a farmers barn burned down because he had too much green hay inside, catching fire. The people didn’t judge him because he was a drunk or didn’t go to church or whatever; they pitched in, stored his hay in another place, fed his cattle, and rebuilt his barn. Like everything else, nowadays, it’s not personal or family anymore, its big corporate farming that exploits the land, and lobbies government for subsidies and buries their costs in the low prices that industrial-scale farming brings to Walmart consumer America. Not a slam against Walmart even though the Walmart of today resembles little of what Sam Walton had in mind.

Well, this is enough to chew on, for now, my friends. I’m going to have a peanut butter sandwich and watch Fox news showing congress voting us more fiat cash to the masses in a pitiful attempt to seduce us into taking a few bucks for our courage, self-reliance, dignity, and faith in God.

Below is a creed that used to be adhered to by hundreds of thousands of young men and later women. It is the essence of who we are as Americans—composed by an early leader (C. William Brownfield) of an organization called the Junior Chamber of Commerce or the JAYCEES as they were commonly known. They used to train leaders and build community projects all over America and then the world. They started in the early nineteen hundreds (ironically just before the swine flu pandemic that killed millions) as a men’s dance club and grew to a zenith of nearly half-million members by 1990. That year (1990), I was president of the Florida Jaycees. We were at 20,000 members and 200+ chapters throughout the state. We were always strongly encouraged to recruit new members because if you’re not growing, you’re dying, and guest speakers at membership drives would say that it would be a sad day if no more Jaycees were building all these parks and projects. Well, that was prophetic because now the organization is virtually extinct. I submit that our downfall is that we forgot the first line of that beautiful creed. Here it is, the Jaycee Creed

We believe that faith in God gives meaning and purpose to human life.
That the brotherhood of man transcends the sovereignty of nations;
That economic justice can best be won by free men through free enterprise.
That government should be of laws rather than of men.
That earth’s great treasure lies in human personality; and
That service to humanity is the best work of life.

Are we as One Nation Under God, in danger of going the route of the Jaycees? As a nation, we might be well to remember that first line and start practicing it before it’s too late—more on growing up on a farm life later.

Voodoo in Haiti

Voodoo has a genuine component to it in Haiti. There were occasional voodoo ceremonies in the backcountry. I was invited to go one time, but it creeped me out, so I declined. It is induced by a voodoo powder made from a sea snake and is extremely potent. It is sprinkled on doorsteps to lay a ‘Curse’ on the inhabitants and is absorbed through their feet. It was sometimes administered by a voodoo “priest” that put it in a red hanky and thrown into the face of the victim. Most of these priests were just charlatans using a powerful drug to induce a highly hallucinogenic powder that creates a coma-like state. Allowing the body to move but sustain a trance-like state that can last for quite some time, and the victim(s) act like the walking dead or Zombies. This isn’t the Hollywood stuff but a real state of mind, nothingness altering the victims’ state of mind. Frantz was a self-ascribed voodoo priest, but being Frantz, it was all a circus act for his amusement. However, it did serve us well one night when we were returning to port au prince from the mine.

Because at this time nobody knew he was in charge, paramilitary groups set up ad hoc checkpoints to shake down travelers or harass people that were affiliated with whichever side they didn’t like. We were stopped at one of these armed checkpoints that were set up after we got to the mine, and there was no way around it. I was extremely nervous thinking that within minutes I might be on a giant spit-roasting over an open fire with Zombies dancing around me like Dante’s inferno. Frantz calmly stopped the Honda and harsh words began to fly and I am on the verge of panic. Frantz looked over at me and began to smirk. I failed to see any humor in our present situation. He said, “don’t worry, boss I’ll handle this. He reaches behind his seat and pulls out the mason jar full of bones and pulls out this red hanky and begins to raise it toward the window and yelled something in Creole. Instantly the thugs ran away and left their weapons behind. I was nonplussed, and Frantz turned to me and said, “works every time! I scared the hell out of those guys,” as he laughed like hell, we sped away to Petionville and the safety of his home.

The religion in Haiti is overwhelmingly Catholic, but many offshoots mix the Voodoo ritual into the Catholic ritual, and it gets weird. As poor as these folks were, I remember seeing school kids walking along the road dressed in their plaid and Khaki uniforms heading to Catholic School barefoot and wearing probably THE ONLY GOOD CLOTHES THEY HAD. Out of this Catholic top-down administration, came a pedophile priest named Aristede who’s parish was about 5 miles from the mine. He would go on after inciting rebellion against the regime to become president of Haiti, in a sham election backed by our nation-building US government. This guy was a bad guy and elevated Baby Docs’ corruption and cruelty to a whole new level. We were long gone by this time, thank God. Soon after all of this, Haiti has become a broken narco-state where no one is safe on the streets, and even innocent Christian mission trips are on the Special Forces radar for rapid deployment and monitoring in case of attacks. It’s a different Haiti these days mostly for worse if that’s possible.

As we return to our mining days in the chaos after Duvalier left, General Henri Namphy took over the reins of government to try to bring peace and stability. I met him several times, he had a wonderful sense of humor, and we had dinner every now and then when he came to the states. He was military all the way, and I think he loved his country. Unfortunately, the power plays between old Duvalier holdovers, the inept US nation builders, the Cuban communist infiltrators, the narco predators, and a bankrupt nation looted by crooks and propped up with US taxpayer dollars leaking out to the same old bad guys; left nothing changing for the better. As we were trying to hang on, the Reagan Administration had a meeting of American businesses that were invested in Haiti to encourage us not to cut and run. All of us were invited to the Old Executive Office Building for a briefing, from then-Secretary of State Shultz, and reception after, at Haitian Embassy (propped up again by American taxpayers). It was primarily a show event with nothing but “hang in there boys. We’ll send in the marines if we have to”. Yeah, right, no marines, no cash you’re on own boys. This was a miserable trip for me, especially since I made the mistake of drinking bottled water at a decent Port au Prince restaurant/ discotheque instead of Pepsi or the local Prestige beer and got sick and had the runs. I barely got through the briefing and the reception between frequent visits to the bathroom.

As things were getting worse, I came into Port au Prince on some business right from the mine with Bauxite dust on my jeans and somewhat disheveled. I decided to stop by the Embassy and try to make an appointment to see Aubrey Hooks, to see if we can figure out what the hell is going on. To my surprise, the Marine Guards were waved aside, and I was ushered right into his office. What I quickly found out was that he was asking most of the questions, ranging from we heard you were at a restaurant and seated at the table across from you, was the head of the Cuban advisors in Haiti. He wanted to know everything I knew or heard about Cuban involvement in Haiti. I said I didn’t know, squat. I’m trying, among other things, to keep my mining operation alive and keep my army garrison from shooting each other in the streets of Miragoâne. So, could you break the log jam on some US funds or send the damn Marines or something? We’re about to go under. He said in diplospeak he’d see what he could do, but please keep him informed if I hear anything about the Cubans. Right like I’m going to make a collect call from the payphone in Miragoâne to the US embassy. A side note, the most advanced way to communicate anything of high importance on a business level was “teetype” or a new computer program that we could run on our TRS 80 using a teletype program. That would get us through to the Citibank in downtown Port au Prince, who ran the bank, also using a TRS 80 as their “main frame.” This was printed and couriered to wherever we could get it too. It was so slow that you’d type in words, and it would take several seconds for each letter to come across the screen after you typed it. But boy, we thought we were on the cutting edge. Take that Al Gore and you thought you invented the internet. We were pioneers 😊.

I wondered why Aubrey Hooks was always wanting information as the Business Attaché to the Embassy and never gave much out and how he always seemed to know where I was and how to get a hold of me. It turns out many years later after we left Haiti that he was the station chief for the CIA. The pieces fit together a little bit better now in hindsight.

After many efforts to resuscitate the Haiti-America Mining company, it imploded. Our company lost a big chunk of our family fortune. 100 Haitians AND THEIR FAMILY returned to the poverty that they have had since the French and worse oppression than Baby Doc. Gone is the future of good ole capitalism administered by caring and yes God-loving naive Americans and a chance for a better future. We gave it our all. Goodbye, Esnyder and God be with you.