California’s Climate Change Non-Sense

Recently the Governor of California and Senator Kamala Harris posed for a photo in front of a smoky, charred background, and proclaimed that “climate change is real,” meaning that climate change contributed to the wildfires currently raging throughout the state. The argument goes that the fallen timber that has accumulated on the forest floors is dryer because of higher temperatures, and therefore more likely to ignite.

This is non-sense.

You don’t have to be a scientist to reason this out, you only have to answer a few common sense questions, the first one being how long does it take for firewood to dry? This article, one among many, suggests that it can take anywhere from 3.5 months to 3 years for firewood to dry depending on the type of wood and the climate. For most wood in most places one can estimate that it takes 9-12 months to dry. Cut ends dry faster, so it is universally recommended that firewood be cut in lengths of approximately 16 inches. This article suggests that humidity level is actually more important than temperature. The drier the climate the faster the drying time. A commenter on this thread wrote, “I wish I had the source but I remember reading that wood doubles its rate of drying for every 20F increase in temp outside.” In other words, for every 5F increase in temperature, wood will dry 25% more quickly. I can’t find any verification for that, but let’s throw it onto our information pile.

Let’s go way out on a limb (pardon the expression) and assume that every branch and log on the Golden State’s forest floors is no longer than 16” and that the variety of wood lying there takes one year on average to dry. Let’s add to that an assumption that California’s average temperature has risen 5 degrees in the last 10 years. Applying those assumptions, one concludes that the trees and branches that have died nine months ago are as dry as if they had been lying there for one year, or in other words, as dry as they need be for optimum burning. That is an incredibly small percentage of the total amount of fuel that has been lying on the forest floor for decades. The wood that was there 9 months ago adds nothing to the climate change argument for the simple reason that wood cannot get dryer than dry.

Sasha Berleman, a fire ecologist, explained to Mother Jones in 2017 that “We have 100 years of fire suppression that has led to this huge accumulation of fuel loads.” Fire suppression means that California and the Federal government have spent their time and our tax money fighting small fires instead of managing them. The preferred management method according to this fact sheet from the California Environmental Protection Agency is through prescribed burns, which have been performed on only 11.3% of California’s forests between 2008-2018, according to this article. While the (relatively) small fires are being suppressed, the fuel for catastrophic fires continues to accumulate. All this is true whether the climate is changing or not. Anyone who has ever seen a brush fire or even built a large bonfire knows that once you get it going, it will burn whatever you throw on it no matter how wet or green the wood may be.

Clearly, climate change has nothing to do whatsoever with the wildfires currently raging in California. If we are going to “follow the science,” then by all means let’s follow the science, remembering that science is an ongoing process which constantly develops, modifies, and abandons theories based on newly observed facts. It’s not a religion, though talk of “deniers” (read heretics) and faith that excludes facts demonstrate that climate changers are adherents to a creed, not science.

Yes, the climate changes. That’s why there are fossils of sea creatures in West Virginia and palm trees once grew near the Arctic Circle. Of course, one of the primary tenets of science is drawing conclusions from a proportionately sized sample. Temperatures and other data have been collected in the modern sense only since 1880. The Earth, and its current climate are a tad older than that. Drawing conclusions based on data collected over the last 140 years is irresponsible. It’s not really science, and the wild conclusions based in part on such limited data is the Climate Change religion’s version of the Apocalypse.

Data must not only represent an adequate sample size, it must be put into perspective. The fact that Texas has “more forest and higher temperatures than California” yet “rarely struggles with fires,” and obviously shares the same climate, provides a little—actually, a great deal—of perspective. Likewise, the fact that the acreage consumed by wildfires so far in the United States exceeds a little over 7 million acres, which is not even half of the acreage consumed by wildfire in most years between the mid-1920s through the mid-1940s. In 1930 and 1931 wildfires consumed over 50 million acres.

Michael Shellenberger, who was named a Time magazine “hero of the environment” in 2008, and who has serious concerns about what is now taking place, writes that many scientists are simply wrong about the effects of climate change and, therefore, are wrong about potential solutions. Just this past November, he wrote,

Sometimes, scientists themselves make apocalyptic claims. “It’s difficult to see how we could accommodate a billion people or even half of that,” if Earth warms four degrees, said one earlier this year. “The potential for multi-breadbasket failure is increasing,” said another. If sea levels rise as much as the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change predicts, another scientist said, “It will be an unmanageable problem.” 

Shellenberger notes that the Netherlands have “managed” the problem of living below sea level for 400 years.

These scientist-evangelists are doing their best to put the fear of Climate Change in their believers, but Shellenberger’s article is a profound and compelling antidote to such fevered thinking. Once more, here is the link. I urge you to read it. I urge Gavin Newsome and Kamala Harris to read it as well, but I suspect the palm trees will return to Canada before that happens.

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A Pilgrimage to Bedford

Martha and I recently visited the National D-Day Memorial in Bedford, Virginia, which as regular readers of this blog know, is one of our favorite places. Now that the Bedford Boys Tribute Center has opened on North Bridge Street, Bedford has become more of a mecca than a destination.

4,415 poppies frame the flag.

The reason for our most recent visit was a display of 4,415 poppies—one for every casualty on June 6, 1944. The flowers may have been plastic (poppies are out of season), but the inspiration they provided is very real. As we strolled through the Memorial, I found myself taking photos of the same statues and vistas that I always do, and I realized that it is because that while the emotions they inspire are not new, those emotions are always renewed; always fresh and immediate.

The Bedford Boys Tribute Center adds a great deal to the immediacy. To visit the center is to exist in multiple times all at once. This non-profit museum is not only the caretaker of the Boys’ relics, but of their memories, and indeed, of the love that the town still feels for their 20 sons, husbands, and brothers who lost their lives on D-Day. Linda and Ken Parker, the caretakers (I cannot call them owners—one does not own the collective memory of a community) are to be commended for their work and their effort to write the story of the town’s healing. That healing, by the way, is an ongoing process.

Of course, if you have an interest in World War II, you should visit Bedford. If, however, you are inspired by sacrifice and you love America, then you should take a pilgrimage to Bedford.

There is no such thing as a “lifeless” statue here.

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Basement Baseball and Book Reviews

There has been a baseball tournament of some sort or another taking place in my basement since March 23rd. The first, which I reported on in April, pitted the 1971 American League teams against one another—this is because those are the teams I ordered when I purchased my Strat-O-Matic baseball game back in 1972, when I was 15. At least, I think I was once 15, but that life might have been a movie I saw once. The Baltimore Orioles won this tournament.

I enjoyed that so much, I bought all the 1941 teams and set up a tournament for them. The Boston Red Sox won the American League bracket, while the Brooklyn Dodgers won the National League bracket. The Dodgers then defeated the Red Sox in the Championship Series 4 games to 3. (In real life, the Dodgers lost the 1941 World Series to the New York Yankees.)

Naturally, I had the 1971 Orioles play the 1941 Brooklyn Dodgers—the Birds lost in 6 games.

I am keeping the ball rolling, so to speak, by creating a Best of the Worst Tournament that pits the 8 worst teams from both years against each other. All of these teams were wiped out in the first round, so these players will get a little more playing time. Sadly, for you Washington baseball fans, Senators teams from both years qualified. So did both Philadelphia teams from 1941. In fact, the ’41 Senators (with a real-life .455 winning percentage) have already eliminated the Phillies 3 games to 1 in the opening series of Round 1.

That fourth game was # 125 overall.

The average time of game is around 25 minutes. I could tell you for sure, but it’s not a statistic that I care that much about, even though I record it for every game. If you’d like any teams stats, the Tournament All-Star teams or League Leader stat sheets, feel free to request them.

Professional baseball has been non-existent or a mess this year, but in my basement, it’s fun and free.

***

As for the “book review” portion of this post, please leave one, especially for Swing Time, which you may not have had time to do yet. It helps a great deal with the Amazon rankings, and, of course, I appreciate it very much. Click on the link, sign in, and leave your review! Doesn’t have to be long—a sentence will suffice.

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To the Baltimore Orioles on Boycotting Last Night’s Game in Tampa

Yesterday afternoon, when Roch Kubatko reported that the team had voted unanimously to play last night’s game in Tampa, I took solace in the fact that my team was standing up for facts over emotions. I tuned in to watch the game in the evening, but got the impression from Scott Garceau that MLB had cancelled the game. Then, this morning, I read on the MASN website that my team decided not to play last night’s game. My team took a hike. I thought that I would be angry or disgusted, but I am surprised to find that I am hurt. At 63, I’ve been a Baltimore Orioles fan since Wally Bunker toed the rubber for the Birds, but now my team has decided to voice a political opinion in direct opposition to my own. You see, I would not take a day off from my job to protest the wounding of a wanted felon, especially one who was wanted for sexual assault, and was in the process of drawing a weapon on the police.

A childhood home.

You did this in the name of “social justice,” a term none of you can define because its definition is so nebulous that it has become, not a term for justice, but for justification. It is used to justify vandalizing public buildings, assaulting police, harassing citizens, and burning down businesses. Your boycott of last night’s game says that you justify those things, too, but I don’t.

So, how can the Baltimore Orioles remain my team?

Put another way, perhaps in terms that you will better understand, I am paying you to play baseball. As individuals, you can hold any political position that you want, but your contract with me is to entertain me. You broke the contract, one that I have held as sacred since I was 7 years old, but one for which you clearly have no regard. If I were your garbage collector and decided that I needed to not pick up your trash this week because I wanted “social justice,” you would probably call the sanitation department and report me. You’re entitled to your beliefs, but your sense of entitlement is beyond offensive—it is hurtful.

I won’t be able to bring myself to watch tonight’s game, but not because I’m boycotting the Baltimore Orioles or Major League Baseball. I’ve been jilted, and right now, to even see you, is too painful.  I admit that I’ll probably cave at some point—maybe by tomorrow—because those childhood heartstrings are numerous and sensitive and I’m not sure that my adult self can reason with them.

All I know now, however, is that you threw me over; threw me over for a criminal who resisted arrest. You threw me over to support rioters on his behalf. You threw me over because you could. I, and others like me, have kept you in ready cash for so long, that you can afford to take us for granted.

You’ve left us incredibly sad. Not that you care.

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Friends, Post Cards, and Special Nights

As you know, the Valencia Ballroom appears on the cover of Swing Time and plays a prominent role in the story. It occurred to me recently to search for old photos of the place, and sure enough, there were several postcards listed on e-Bay illustrating what it looked like back in the day. I posted the eBay listing to Shenandoah Valley Dancers, our local dance community’s Facebook page and by the next day, someone had bought the postcard. I mentioned this to my friend Shea, and added that I hoped it was someone in our group who got it.

It was.

A much more colorful Valencia, probably from the 1940s.

Turns out that Shea bought it as a gift for me, and it came with a surprise. When we turned the postcard there was the autograph of famed jazz and big band drummer Buddy Rich, along with the autographs of Johnny Angelo and Lynn Warren. Those two names I did not know, but it seemed to me that these “other two” must have been part of whatever band Rich was playing in at the Valencia on a particular night. I couldn’t find any reference to either on the Internet; therefore, I turned to Craig Orndorff, a friend of mine, who produces a wonderful syndicated radio program, Seems Like Old Times. A local boy from Woodstock, VA, Craig is something of an expert on the old bands, as you’ll discover if you listen to his program. (And you should! Here’s the link to his website.) He was able to tell me that Johnny Angelo was a tenor sax player, and that Lynn Warren was a vocalist with the Ray McKinley Orchestra. Further research turned up this recording of Warren singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” from 1947 with that orchestra. Interestingly enough, McKinley was a drummer for Glenn Miller before starting his own band, and is someone whom Buddy Rich cited as influencing him.

Of course, I wonder about the night or nights these autographs were obtained. In my mind’s eye, I see a happy dancer, maybe with his girl on his arm, approaching these three who are hanging out at the side of the stage during a band break. They sign his card and he—or more likely she—tucks away this souvenir of a special night in a shoe box where she kept special things. One night followed this night, which was followed by another and another until it had been years since that night at the Valencia. When the kids or grandkids found the post card, they could not know of the special night; probably never even heard of Buddy Rich. (Clearly, the eBay seller hadn’t!)

I know there was a special night at the Valencia, though, because that card still vibrates with the joy of that evening. There have been thousands of such moments there, and imagining such moments is what inspired Swing Time in the first place.

The Valencia post card illustrates two points: First, joy is like energy—it cannot be destroyed, and second, I am very fortunate to have the many friends that I do. They are the fortune that I have accumulated in a lifetime of special moments. . . . Oh, I guess there is one more point. Always turn over old postcards. You never know what may be on the back!

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Feel the Joy That Still Lingers

I would like you to take a moment about 6 o’clock this evening, maybe a little after, to pause and reflect on the fact that 75 years ago, President Harry S Truman was announcing that the war with Japan was over. Try to imagine the joy and the relief. So many days of sacrifice had been spent in order to bring about this day.

The narrative below is from I’ll Remember You All. The characters are mine, but the details were largely taken from a story in the Winchester Star, August 15 edition. What they termed a “snake dance” we now call a conga line.

Read, reflect, and above all, remember. That’s the least we owe the boys and girls–for that’s what they were–who saved the world

13 August 14, 1945: VJ Day

I have received this afternoon a message from the Japanese Government . . . in reply to the message forwarded to that Government by the Secretary of State on August 11. I deem this reply a full acceptance of the Potsdam Declaration, which specifies the unconditional surrender of Japan. In the reply there is no qualification.

Arrangements are now being made for the signing of the surrender terms at the earliest possible moment.

Margaret Bittner sprang from her seat in front of the radio. President Truman was still talking, but Margaret had heard all she needed to hear.

“My God, Gerald, it’s over! It’s really over; the whole thing is over!”

She grabbed Gerald, who could only smile, and skipped about like a child. She stopped suddenly.

“Come on!”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know, but let’s go!”

Without waiting for Gerald, Margaret burst out the door and ran down to Peak Street. She hadn’t actually run anywhere in 20 years, but then, at this moment, she felt 20 years younger. She saw people streaming from the Paramount Theater. The manager had stopped the movie and had run into the theater shouting, “The Japs have surrendered! The Japs have surrendered!” She soon heard a commotion coming up the hill. The entire work force at LeBeau’s had abandoned their sewing machines and were running into town. The fire siren began to blare, and soon the fire truck formed a one-vehicle parade, which turned randomly up and down the streets of Marsh Point. It was soon joined by an old farm truck driven by Tom Marsh. He was waving out the window, while Millie waved from the passenger’s side. Buck was standing in the bed, hanging on with one hand and waving with the other. So was Hannah and every one of the Victory Farm Volunteers.

The parade quickly numbered 10 vehicles and 200 marchers, but came to an end just as quickly when it became apparent that there was no one left in any house to parade past. The celebration itself was just beginning. Separate groups had begun to snake dance throughout town, and the idea that they should join their lines together seemed to occur simultaneously as they danced their way toward each other. More and more people joined, and soon the giant dance line was actually snaking its way across the bridge. A roar of laughter arose from the front of the line, when they saw, coming down the Queen City Pike, a group of snake dancers from Mike’s Place. Johnny Hall was in the lead, and Veronica was hanging on to his hips, kicking and smiling and singing, “Happy Days Are Here Again,” along with the rest of Mike’s patrons. Mike and Joyce were bringing up the rear.

The entire group—which is to say, most of the citizens of Marsh Point and the surrounding area—made its way back across the bridge and into town. People milled about, hugging first one neighbor, then another, then acquaintances, then strangers, not that there were many of those.

Johnny and Veronica found the Marshes, along with Hannah and Joe, across from the Paramount. They were soon joined by Margaret and Gerald. Johnny reached for Buck and hugged his fellow Marine. They had survived it all and had lived to see this moment. Instinctively, the others, who had taken note of this long embrace, knew that they were thinking of their comrades who had not made it to see the end.

“Now, Elizabeth can come home,” said Margaret, when Johnny and Buck separated. “If we had her here tonight . . .”

“Don’t worry, Miss Margaret,” as Johnny had taken to calling her now that they were sharing the Bittner’s home, “She probably got to send the telegram to MacArthur telling him that the Nips were finished. We’re just out here making noise, and she’s out there making history!”

Margaret smiled. The boy had a way of cheering her up.

“Mike!” hollered Gerald, seeing his old friend making his way through the crowd to join them. “Who’s tending the bar?!?”

“Nobody. After about 10 toasts to the news and Truman and MacArthur—”

“And the Marines,” interrupted Joyce.

“—And the Marines, everybody just danced their way out, and I mean everybody! So, we just locked up behind ’em and joined ’em!”

“Come to think of it,” added Joyce, “I don’t think we actually locked the place.”

“Nobody cares tonight,” said Mike, who suddenly turned to Hannah and Joe. “Don’t you kids ever forget this night. And what it cost.”

“How could they?” asked Johnny. “How could any of us?” he added, then began to laugh. “Look.”

He pointed up at the theater marquee, which read, “Jack Benny in, The Horn Blows at Midnight.”

“Well, that’s appropriate!” said Gerald. Indeed, it was well past midnight before folks started to drift home, and even as the first light of the new day began to show, a car crossing the Rowatoba bridge could be heard honking its horn.

My parents saved two newspapers from that time. The other is dated December 8, 1941.

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More on Swing Time

I’m happy to say that Swing Time: A Swing Dancing, Time Warping Story has been given a warm reception since its debut, including a nice feature by Gordon Freireich of the York Daily Record that includes a couple of excellent photos of the Valencia Ballroom in York. (For you York area fans, Gordon’s column will appear in the August 9, 2020 edition of the paper, that is, the paper which you can actually hold and in which you can wrap your lunch.)

This is the paperback cover.

Sharp observers will note that the e-book cover and the paperback cover contain different graphics. That is because the cover that I created for the e-book was not in a format that Amazon would accept for the paperback cover. (Weird, but whatever.) I was obviously able to use the same photo, which is the main element, and since I liked both sets of graphics, I kept both covers. You collectors will need to order one of each!

This is a scan of the Kindle cover.

The e-book version is a great value in any case, because it contains YouTube links to all the songs mentioned. (Be careful: Music has a way of transporting you through time, just ask Chance and Faith!)

Baseball usually finds its way into all my books, and it was tempting to make Chance and Mr. Tommy big baseball fans, especially since the latter can see FNB Field on City Island where the AA Harrisburg Senators play from his front porch. I resisted that temptation, but when it turned out that Mr. Tommy had driven a cab in Harrisburg, then it was natural for him to have worked for Spottswood Poles, a former Negro League star, who did, indeed, own a cab company in Harrisburg. Not only that, but Poles was born in Winchester, VA where I live, so I was able to make several little connections with just one detail.

I’m very surprised to say that a sequel is in the works. And by “works,” I mean in my head. Not a single sentence on paper yet, but then I had no thought about a sequel until driving up the Shenandoah Valley last Tuesday, when one idea was followed by two thoughts which were followed by three scenes, and before I knew it, an entirely new story was gestating. It opens with Chance and Faith dancing at the Mimslyn Inn in Luray, Virginia. There’s something about those grand old buildings and ballrooms from the swing era that attracts me! Give me six months to a year, though, to actually write it.

If you enjoy Swing Time, please leave a review. These are extremely important in the Amazon rankings and are a big boost to sales.

Again, thank you for your support and encouragement. Oh, and if after reading Swing Time you start thinking that you should learn to dance, why yes, you should definitely learn to dance!

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Swing Time, A New Novella, Now Available!

As a writer, I am always encouraged when people ask, “When’s the next book coming out?” which, I’m happy to say, I’ve been asked several times recently.

I’m also happy to have an answer. Swing Time: A Swing Dancing, Time Warping Story is available as of today in both paperback and Kindle formats. Swing Time is a 20,000 word novella and makes for an easy, one-sitting read.

As you all know, I love swing dancing, and I’ve always been fascinated by the nature of Time, that “stuff” of which life is made. We live moment to moment, of course, (even if we don’t always recognize that fact) and I have long had the sense that when those moments pass, they don’t just disappear. They must go somewhere! As it turns out, quantum mechanics suggests that they indeed, don’t just disappear, and that all points of Time, just as with all points of Space, are always present. All of which has led me to wonder how many moments of excitement and joy the old ballrooms such as the Valencia in York, PA or Pen Mar Park or the Spanish Ballroom at Glen Echo must have seen! How many first crushes and first kisses, and yes, final partings, especially during World War II, took place in those old dance palaces? All those intense moments can’t just disappear forever.

Chance and Faith, the two main characters in Swing Time, discover that, in fact, they do not. They found that if the song is right and the dance is right and you’re tuned in to the possibilities that the Universe presents, then you might just be able to touch one of those long ago, but not long gone moments. One of them might even touch you.

This is the Kindle cover. The paperback edition features the same photo, but different graphics.

Half of the book’s 8 chapters take place in one of the three venues that I just mentioned. Many of you have danced in those places, and, therefore, many will also recognize the cover, which is a photo of the Valencia that I took at the end of the Big Swing Thing in 2017. The other dancers that Chance and Faith hang with will be familiar to more than a few people as well, but the two main characters are not based on any one in particular.

If I see you semi-regularly, and you’d like to order a signed copy, please DM or leave a message in the comments. I’ll put together one order and save you the shipping charge. To have Swing Time delivered directly to your door—or to your Kindle—please click here, and you will be taken to the book’s page on Amazon.

I hope all of you will enjoy Swing Time. Just remember that reviews are most appreciated and that books make nice gifts.

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Sunday, D-Day, and These Days

This past Sunday, which was July 5th, Martha and I were returning home from a visit with our granddaughter, Riley, and we stopped at the Southern Kitchen in New Market, Virginia for lunch. Because it was Independence Day Weekend, I was wearing a shirt (pictured below) from the National D-Day Memorial’s commemoration of the 75th anniversary of D-Day. A gentleman about my age rose from his table and approached me. “I want to thank you for wearing that shirt on this day,” he said (and I’m paraphrasing.) “What those men did to keep us all free is inspiring and you wearing that shirt to recognize that actually makes me tear up.”

He was not kidding. His eyes were moist, and we shook hands not as a greeting, but in affirmation of a shared belief.

I shared this story with my good friend, Kurt, who pointed out that patriotism properly understood is bound to render one emotional, for patriotism is not a matter of waving the flag, it is a matter of understanding what it symbolizes and what has been sacrificed to keep its meaning relevant.

So, let me confess right now, that when I visited the site where Washington crossed the Delaware, I got teary. The silence that pervades national cemeteries makes me teary. Seeing 23,000 luminaries at Antietam National Battlefield on an early December evening makes me teary.

I get teary when I watch Hacksaw Ridge, The Best Years of Our Lives, 1776, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and other such films.

I get teary when I hear “Sentimental Journey” and think of what that song must have meant to my dad as he rode the train from Seattle back to Baltimore after being discharged from the Navy in mid-December, 1945. He made it home in time for Christmas.

There are many out there who may find it strange, that a grown man would approach a stranger and confess to emotions strong enough to produce tears. Well, it is not strange—or at least, it shouldn’t be, and if you find it so, or if you find it corny or not “woke” behavior, then the problem is yours. Read Private Yankee Doodle by Joseph Plum Martin, a private in the Continental Army or Richard Tregaskis’ Guadalcanal Diary. Visit Booker T. Washington’s birthplace and learn about what the individual is capable of overcoming. Or stand before the Iwo Jima Memorial and contemplate the fact that three of the six flag raisers never made it off the island.

America is an idea, and an ideal. Whether you are called to save the world as were the boys who stormed Omaha Beach, or you are called to simply be a good neighbor, see to it that you cherish that ideal.

That photo over my left shoulder features my dad (2nd from R) and other neighborhood men who participated in a bond drive at the Butler Brothers textile plant in Baltimore where my mother worked. November, 1943

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Independence Day 2020

Humanity advances on all fronts thanks to individuals who possess innumerable skills, ideas, beliefs, perspectives, and talents. Let there be no mistake: The United States of America is the greatest expression of the individual in the history of humanity. The Constitution is its political underpinning and capitalism is the economic foundation of the individual. Marxists have been whittling away at America and the ideal for which it stands for decades. In the past 6 months, the penknives have been put away for chain saws, and now the Marxists are cutting down everything in sight. If we allow that to continue it won’t be long before the only thing left for them to do will be to burn off the brush and bulldoze the stumps of what was once humanity’s greatest hope. If they succeed, the human race will be plunged into another millennial-long dark age, and the individual will become a greasy spot in the road to a Totalitarian utopia in which many must suffer for the good of the few. I realize that this post will one day put me in a re-education camp, but then I don’t plan to go quietly into that good nightmare. People such as I may even have the opportunity to walk in the footsteps of our Founding Fathers and unfurl our flag by some rude bridge.

Therefore, on this the actual anniversary of the passage of Richard Henry Lee’s resolution for independence in 1776, watch this dramatization of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the perfect document written by an imperfect man. America was founded on the ideal of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We must not permit the destruction of that ideal on the pretense that since we can’t perfect it, there is no point in pursuing it.

“What brave men I shall lose before this business is through.”~~ Geo. Washington

 

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