Her Daddy Wrestles Alligators, Mama Works on Carburetors

Well, it's happening.

The eight year old boy is questioning the existence of Santa.

He started in, innocently enough (and lucky for him, without his five year old sister in the car). "There's no way reindeer can fly," he tells me. Which led me down a line of questioning that demonstrated to him that he had no idea how anything could fly. He finished with, "There's just not enough force!" To which I replied, "Maybe they are Jedi reindeer." He laughed it off, "Not that kind of force, Dad."

Circumspectly, he's been undermining Santa, then checking me (or his mother) for reactions. He still composed a letter to the man, hope springing eternal, and put it in a Santa letter box he knows of.

Literacy, problem solving, sense of self: all these things he has done, and they indicate he is growing up; this is the first one that has made me wish he was not. When he asks me later this week, I'm not sure how I'll answer. But I know how I want to.

Many great things have been written, some of my favorites I've referenced before. This is another of my favorite writings. It makes me tear up a little, to think about a person writing such an eloquent response to a point-blank question posed by a young girl. To think about a young girl posing such a question to the newspaper, and hoping for an answer, makes me tear up a little more.

She got her answer, which I have copied shamelessly from The Newseum.

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Published on Sept. 21st, 1897, the editorial was left unsigned. Seriously, though ... who was thinking about Santa in September?

Until another time,
Salt

Are Part of Being Young

Editing comes naturally to me.

I have a friend (I call her a friend), whose blog I started reading a while ago. Her blog is different than mine, and I'm sure it appeals more broadly. She allows for variances from the rules of writing; hers is more of a stream of consciousness flow, conversational in its manner. She writes while her emotions are still raw and powerful, and I would not be surprised to hear that her keyboard was wet from her own tears at the end of more than a few of them.

Without realizing how damaging this could be, I reflexively critiqued her writing, from placement of punctuation to spelling errors, typos and verb agreement, and so on. I didn't mean to offend her, and luckily, she knew that I intended no such thing. She politely notified me that she didn't think she wanted my help, and it was then I realized that I had been essentially editing her diary or journal.

Her thoughts, her feelings...shared with the internet, but still her emotions, laid bare. I had run roughshod over them, because while I was reading, my eyes would stumble over misused grammar, and it jarred me away from the perfect immersion of her story. I wanted everyone who read it to experience her weavings without interruption, and I had tried to change it to fit my view of what it should (or should not) be.

This revelation made me think about my friends (I call them my friends), and how we approach writing our blogs. Some write their blogs like journalists. They are art critics and sports beat writers, political strategists and foodies. Starting with a play or a plan or a plate, they explore each part of it with their words. Others still are travelers, whose blogs are a place to record what they experience on their journeys, so we might see the world through their eyes.

My writings? These are my essays, awaiting publication; my arguments, prepared to face attack; and my speeches, searching for the right audience. Each word is carefully chosen, every connotation is weighed carefully against the others. Even my mother tells me that my thoughts appear to have "boiled" for a while before I couch them here. I strive to be thought-provoking. The written word is more to me than just a tool to convey thoughts. It's the medium in which I choose to frame my existence.

An apology to my friend (I call her my friend) for trying to edit her soul from her blog.

Until another time,
Salt

Each and Every Note Another Octave

I voted today.

My lovely spouse had gone before me (while I was taking the children to school), and called to say we weren't on the registered voter list. She mentioned to me that the volunteer had said that sometimes people just drop off the list. She reminded me to have my driver's license handy.

When I got there, I went to the registered voter line, organized alphabetically. I handed the volunteer my driver's license, so I wouldn't have to spell my last name (which is easily misspelled).

Still, it got looked up wrong, and I was told I was not registered. I pointed out the error, and after flipping back a page, my name was found, immediately following my wife's unsigned line.

Then I mentioned that my wife had already been there, and that she had been informed that she was not registered, and that she had registered again, and that she had voted. I was assured that her vote would count. Which makes sense, after all, it's a secret ballot, how would they know which one was hers? Since she doesn't plan to return and vote again under her registered name, I think she'll be able to vote in future elections, as well.

Our volunteer looked rather embarrassed about all this, so I told her that it was still pretty early, and she'd probably only had one cup of coffee so far. Her fellow volunteers laughed, and I went to retrieve my ballot.

How did it go, you ask?

I voted to increase the local property tax, because I have seen the school district budget, and I know how the state money has decreased, while the need to educate our children has not. Also, some of the school buildings are so old, they are out of code; they need repairs or replacement of certain fixtures.

I voted against all incumbents, because sometimes I'd rather have "the devil I don't".

I voted for everyone running unopposed, because they need affirmation, too.

I did not vote for anyone in the race that I had not researched (Judge 3, 10th District Court), a fact that bothered me. I should have looked at the sample ballot on the Secretary of State webpage, so I would have been better prepared. I won't be missing this one in 2012.

Until another time,
Salt

Like a Hurt, Lost, and Blinded Foal

My faith is like a single thread, stretching up from me, into blackness I cannot penetrate.

It wasn't always this way. I used to have a rope; a golden rope, that I would lean on, pull on, use to hold myself up if  I felt I was falling.

A slow erosion of reason wore against my rope, and a thread is all that remains.

So, I have a single silver thread, impossibly thin. Now I stand without aid, and without fear of falling. Still, I hold onto the thread.

Mass was held last night, at my son's religion class. I attended with him, performed all the usual rituals with him and the others in the church. I felt as though I had attached a cup to my end of the thread, and I had whispered into it, "Is anyone there?" I pressed my ear to the cup, and waited.

I'm still waiting, as I have always waited before.

...and will continue to wait, so long as a thread remains. For when it is gone, it will not be because I let go. It will be because whatever I thought it was tied to has gone.

Until another time,
Salt

Inside This Ancient Heart

I have terrible dreams.

Lately, they've been about people dying. People I know. Sometimes individuals, sometimes couples, sometimes whole families; all dying.

But not me. I'm never the one that dies. I'm usually not even there when they die. Instead, I'm asked by the priest (rabbi, minister, etc.) to eulogize the deceased.

Each of these dreams has me going to the wake (visitation, calling, viewing, etc.) of the person (people) who has died, greeting and visiting with those who also knew him or her (them). I hear stories, all stories I've heard before, from the other mourners, and everyone has a favorite memory. We pray in whatever custom he or she (they) practiced in life. I am always the last to leave.

Then I go home (sometimes alone, sometimes to my family), and I sit down to write. I've gotten quite far into some, before I realize I'm apologizing for them. "I know that so-and-so had [some negative quality]," like, didn't share feelings well, or had an annoying speech habit that everyone but them was aware of. So, I make myself delete that, and change it to a positive story.

When a person dies, no one recounts the "bad" parts. When a person dies, we go into our memories of them with a cloth, and we buff out all the negative things, and we shine up all the positive things, until their memory glows in our minds, and we celebrate that part of them.

So...why don't we tell them while they are still alive?

Having realized this, in my dream I start to cry, and I can't write anymore. I wake up, feeling awful about anything I've ever said bad about anyone, and I steel myself to be more positive, to everyone.

My friends and family, go ahead and put me down as someone who will speak on your behalf, should you proceed me out of this life. I don't mind. In fact, I may be able to write it in my sleep.

Until another time,
Salt


P.S.  Please, play this song at my funeral.

A Cry For Help, Look At Yourself

Critics drive me crazy.

The way I was raised, if you didn't have a better solution, you really have no right to go after the people implementing "bad" solutions. An example of this kind of behavior would be the Tea Party activists. Their rallying cries of "we're going to get spending under control" and "we're going to cut taxes" are just criticisms of government, not solutions to real problems.

The problems are very real. The solutions are not obvious. However, the screaming and clanging of bells tends to drown out the actual facts. I don't expect anyone besides me to actually read the budget of the United States Federal Government or the Statement of Public Debt, so I'll do my best to sum them up.

In the year 1998, the actual total budget authority (found in the 2000 Budget) of the US Government was about $1.6 trillion. Of that, about a quarter of a trillion was spent on interest. There was an actual surplus of about $69 billion. The actual debt stood at $5.5 trillion dollars.

To scale this back, suppose a household netted (after taxes) $35k. They have a mortgage (debt) of about $120k. They spent $6k on interest, but didn't pay down their mortgage at all.

In the year 2008, the actual total budget authority (found in the 2010 Budget) of the US Government was about $2.98 trillion. Of that, about a quarter of a trillion was spent on interest. There was an actual deficit of about $459 billion. The actual debt stood at $10.0 trillion.

Going back to our scaling example, our theoretical household is now a $60k household. They now have a $200k mortgage, and they just borrowed $10k to make ends meet (including paying about $6k on interest).

Pointing fingers (criticizing) is easy. Implementing change will be hard. No solution will be popular, because every good solution will be painful. Fixing the Social Security Ponzi Scheme will be an incredible task for any President. Health care is another issue that will likely be wrestled with again (and again).

Whatever mistakes have been made need to be corrected (without dwelling on the reasons the mistakes were made), and it's going to be more painful the longer we wait. In 1998, there was a budgetary surplus. For most of the 2000s, there was an actual deficit of $450 billion per year. The debt has climbed by over $1 trillion per year since 2008.

My solution would be to raise taxes, to reduce the deficit. Unpopular, yes. Would fix the problem? Also, yes. My original reason for looking up the budget was to find something to cut. Flat 10% across the board cut, and raise taxes. I don't have a solution. Before you vote this November (state and federal levels), please make sure the person you cast your vote for has a real solution, that addresses real problems; not just a "they screwed it up, elect me to fix it" platform.

I'd like to close with a statement from a Republican President (Theodore Roosevelt), on critics.

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.

Until another time,
Salt

And Together We'll Spread The News

Some guy in Florida is looking to have a book-burning.

(apparently, his sudden notoriety has overrun his expected bandwidth, and the site is down. Maybe this Google cache link will work)

This country is big believer in rights. He has every right to do this; it's a mode of free speech. However, the rest of the world is going to do their best to shout him down; also, a mode of free speech.

I do not see how inflammatory actions like this will result in any kind of positives. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind (as is is believed M. Gandhi once said). This is not turning the other cheek, nor is it "spreading the truth," as he claims he is charged by the Bible to do. This is ideological warfare, and firing a salvo of insults that will be used for extremist propaganda is just poor judgment.

All that can be said on this has already been said, and much of it was said by people who are far more eloquent than I am.

However, I hope someone sets up 1,000 chairs for the event. So that when 900 of them are empty, they appear in all the media.

When Christianity turned 1400 years old, the Renaissance and the Age of Discovery were starting. The world as they knew it was being reworked. As Islam turns 1400 years old over the next 20 years, what changes will be brought to that culture?

Until another time,
Salt