Kent Conwell's Blog, page 9
June 15, 2011
Letter to My Father
Dear Dad,
Well, it’s been twenty-five years. And never a day goes by that I see something and have a thought that reminds me of you. The good stuff, you know. And, perhaps a few incidents that weren’t so good.
But that’s life.
And if I had it to do over, you’d be the father I’d pick to make sure I grew to be a man meeting the responsibilities that a man faces in this world today.
You know, when I was in elementary school in Wheeler, I never could figure how you always knew when I got in trouble. It was years before I realized that you didn’t have magical powers, but that you and the superintendent often visited.
Carrick? I think that was his name. I was grown when you revealed that you had specifically requested he contact you whenever I broke any school rules.
One thing you should know is that I would have taken five paddlings from him than to get one from you.
As a Dad, I never could match your skill and finesse with a leather belt. Now, if you were here today, you’d be cussing the namby-pamby discipline many parents pass on to their children.
I have no question there are very few problem kids today that you couldn’t handle. Remember the old spanking merry-go-round?
I’ll never forget you holding my arm, me screaming and trying to run from the belt. All I succeeded doing was running in circles while you just pivoted on your feet and flailed away at my legs with your belt. If you only knew how many times I considered making that leather strap disappear. But then, you would have known who did it.
Today, some bleeding heart would claim such discipline was child abuse. Nonsense. It’s child abuse not to discipline kids, but the idiots can’t see it that way. And they’re always wondering just why kids are so much trouble today.
Spankings weren’t the only way you managed me. I was mischievous, sneaky, lied if I thought I could get away with it. I had so many things wrong with me only a hard-headed Panhandle boy with the nickname, Nubbin, could have kept me straight.
You always were one step ahead of me
like the time the Haltom City police stopped me for reckless driving. I was only fourteen, so they called you and tossed me in jail. I was scared witless. For the next fours, it was all I could do to hold back the tears. Then they took my license away from me.
Remember that?
It was all of fifteen years later out on your patio listening to a Texas Rangers baseball game that you laughed and revealed you had asked them to throw me behind bars and you were the one holding my license.
Well, you sure made your point.
And who can ever forget that Christmas when Mom and Sammy came down with pneumonia out by Lubbock and you and I went back to Fort Worth for—well, I don’t know why we went back, but I remember you telling me to pick up my trumpet.
You mentioned that night many times in the years to come. There we were in a 1947 Nash speeding through small towns shut down for the night, and I’d stick my horn out the window and blast out the cavalry signal for ‘charge’. Then we’d laugh as lights popped on.
You were always there for me, even when your work took you out of town. I’ll never forget the second year I boxed in the Golden Gloves. That was about ’51 or ’52. You were on the road back from Houston listening on the car radio. When the announcement was made that I forfeited the bout, you stopped at the first house and paid them to use their telephone.
Gosh, Dad, there’s so much I’d like to talk to you about.
I’d like to sit around a campfire like we did on our deer hunting trips and shoot the breeze. I’d like to go fishing up in Oklahoma with Mo and Mae. You and Mo always had such a great time together.
Mo passed away. So did Mae. But you already know that. You and Mom have probably already gone fishing with them.
There’s a lot I’d like to do with you.
I can’t, but I can do it now is with my children and grandchildren.
You understand what I mean?
I can’t say exactly when it came about, but somewhere in the mid-sixties, we became friends, good friends.
The most rewarding moment of my life was not long before I moved down here to Port Neches. You and I were on the patio with Jim Beam and talking about what lay down the road as well as a lot of other philosophical mumbo-jumbo. Just before I left, I hugged you and said for the first time, “I love you, Dad.”
You simply hugged me back and replied. “I love you too, Boy. You take care now, you hear?”
I heard, Dad. And thanks for everything.
Well, it’s been twenty-five years. And never a day goes by that I see something and have a thought that reminds me of you. The good stuff, you know. And, perhaps a few incidents that weren’t so good.
But that’s life.
And if I had it to do over, you’d be the father I’d pick to make sure I grew to be a man meeting the responsibilities that a man faces in this world today.
You know, when I was in elementary school in Wheeler, I never could figure how you always knew when I got in trouble. It was years before I realized that you didn’t have magical powers, but that you and the superintendent often visited.
Carrick? I think that was his name. I was grown when you revealed that you had specifically requested he contact you whenever I broke any school rules.
One thing you should know is that I would have taken five paddlings from him than to get one from you.
As a Dad, I never could match your skill and finesse with a leather belt. Now, if you were here today, you’d be cussing the namby-pamby discipline many parents pass on to their children.
I have no question there are very few problem kids today that you couldn’t handle. Remember the old spanking merry-go-round?
I’ll never forget you holding my arm, me screaming and trying to run from the belt. All I succeeded doing was running in circles while you just pivoted on your feet and flailed away at my legs with your belt. If you only knew how many times I considered making that leather strap disappear. But then, you would have known who did it.
Today, some bleeding heart would claim such discipline was child abuse. Nonsense. It’s child abuse not to discipline kids, but the idiots can’t see it that way. And they’re always wondering just why kids are so much trouble today.
Spankings weren’t the only way you managed me. I was mischievous, sneaky, lied if I thought I could get away with it. I had so many things wrong with me only a hard-headed Panhandle boy with the nickname, Nubbin, could have kept me straight.
You always were one step ahead of me
like the time the Haltom City police stopped me for reckless driving. I was only fourteen, so they called you and tossed me in jail. I was scared witless. For the next fours, it was all I could do to hold back the tears. Then they took my license away from me.
Remember that?
It was all of fifteen years later out on your patio listening to a Texas Rangers baseball game that you laughed and revealed you had asked them to throw me behind bars and you were the one holding my license.
Well, you sure made your point.
And who can ever forget that Christmas when Mom and Sammy came down with pneumonia out by Lubbock and you and I went back to Fort Worth for—well, I don’t know why we went back, but I remember you telling me to pick up my trumpet.
You mentioned that night many times in the years to come. There we were in a 1947 Nash speeding through small towns shut down for the night, and I’d stick my horn out the window and blast out the cavalry signal for ‘charge’. Then we’d laugh as lights popped on.
You were always there for me, even when your work took you out of town. I’ll never forget the second year I boxed in the Golden Gloves. That was about ’51 or ’52. You were on the road back from Houston listening on the car radio. When the announcement was made that I forfeited the bout, you stopped at the first house and paid them to use their telephone.
Gosh, Dad, there’s so much I’d like to talk to you about.
I’d like to sit around a campfire like we did on our deer hunting trips and shoot the breeze. I’d like to go fishing up in Oklahoma with Mo and Mae. You and Mo always had such a great time together.
Mo passed away. So did Mae. But you already know that. You and Mom have probably already gone fishing with them.
There’s a lot I’d like to do with you.
I can’t, but I can do it now is with my children and grandchildren.
You understand what I mean?
I can’t say exactly when it came about, but somewhere in the mid-sixties, we became friends, good friends.
The most rewarding moment of my life was not long before I moved down here to Port Neches. You and I were on the patio with Jim Beam and talking about what lay down the road as well as a lot of other philosophical mumbo-jumbo. Just before I left, I hugged you and said for the first time, “I love you, Dad.”
You simply hugged me back and replied. “I love you too, Boy. You take care now, you hear?”
I heard, Dad. And thanks for everything.
June 8, 2011
What's in a Name, Old Glory?
What’s in a Name, Old Glory?
June 14 is Flag Day, first proclaimed such by President Woodrow Wilson in 1916 and by an act of Congress in 1949.
Our flag is sometimes called the ‘Stars and Stripes’, sometimes ‘The Star Spangled Banner’, or sometimes ‘Old Glory.’
The first two nicknames are obvious. The third, ‘Old Glory’ has a story that personifies the core of those beliefs that makes America the country she is—to be what you choose and do what you wish.
Now, I’m a sucker for the American flag, for what it symbolizes-a free country that guarantees its citizens the inalienable rights God intended for every human being. I’m one of those throwbacks who actually folds a worn flag properly and takes it to the nearest military office for proper disposal. I revere it, just like the old sea captain who gave her the name.
Captain William Driver was born on the morning of March 17, 1803. One Sunday in 1817, fourteen-year-old Bill set out for Sunday School in his home town of Salem. Instead, he went down to the harbor.
By sheer determination and persuasion, he talked himself into the position of cabin boy and was on the high seas by nightfall. He sailed to Calcutta, Gibraltar, Antwerp and Gothenburg. His next voyage took him to the Fiji Islands, and then on, his career centered in the South Seas.
Seven or eight years later, Bill sailed back into Salem harbor as captain of his own ship, The Charles Doggett although some sources say it was The Seawood.
As a birthday and farewell gift on an 1831 voyage, his mother and several young ladies in Salem, Massachusetts, sewed him a large American flag twenty by twenty-four feet.
When the flag was unfurled in the sea breeze, Captain Driver was asked what he thought of it. He replied, “God bless you. I’ll call it Old Glory.”
The 1831 voyage was his longest. He sailed the Charles Doggett to the South Pacific. During a port of call at Tahiti, he met some of the descendants of the H.M.S. Bounty crew. They had moved to Tahiti from Pitcairn Island where the mutineers who had taken control of the Bounty had marooned them. They wanted to leave Tahiti, so they asked him to give them passage back to the island. During the return trip, Captain Driver slept on the deck of the Charles Doggett so the women and children could sleep in the bunks below.
Altogether, “Old Glory" and Captain Driver sailed twice around the world and once around the continent of Australia.
Six years later, he retired to Nashville, Tennessee, taking with him his flag from his days at sea. By the time Tennessee seceded from the union years later, everyone in the city knew of the elderly sea captain’s ‘Old Glory.’
The story went that Rebels were determined to destroy the flag and its symbolism, but despite numerous intense searches and threats, no trace of Old Glory was ever found.
No one knew what had become of the flag, not even Driver’s own family for they were all southern sympathizers. He could not afford to share with them the secret of where he had hidden it.
And then on February 25, 1862, Union forces captured Nashville and raised the American flag. It was a small flag, and immediately, citizens asked the aged captain about ‘Old Glory’. Did she still exist, or had he destroyed her to keep her from the Rebels?
Accompanied by Union soldiers, Captain Driver went upstairs to his bedroom, which had been searched dozens of times by frustrated Confederates. He began ripping at the seams of his bedcover. As the batting of the quilt top unraveled, the soldiers looked inside and saw the twenty-four stars of the original ‘Old Glory.’
Although Captain Driver was sixty years old, he gathered the flag he had so jealously guarded and loved for the last thirty years and hoisted it to the top of the tower to replace the smaller ensign. The Sixth Ohio Regiment cheered and saluted, and later adopted the nickname, ‘Old Glory’.
The captain is buried in the Nashville City Cemetery. His tomb is one of three sites authorized by Congress where the Flag of the United States may be flown twenty-four/seven.
Think of what he risked to save the flag, and then ask yourself what that irascible old sea captain would say to those protestors in Arizona desecrating the American flag by spray painting ‘deport Arpaio’ and ‘impeach Brewer’?
I imagine it would have been too blistering for delicate ears.
Old Glory today? In the Smithsonian, courtesy Driver’s granddaughter.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
June 14 is Flag Day, first proclaimed such by President Woodrow Wilson in 1916 and by an act of Congress in 1949.
Our flag is sometimes called the ‘Stars and Stripes’, sometimes ‘The Star Spangled Banner’, or sometimes ‘Old Glory.’
The first two nicknames are obvious. The third, ‘Old Glory’ has a story that personifies the core of those beliefs that makes America the country she is—to be what you choose and do what you wish.
Now, I’m a sucker for the American flag, for what it symbolizes-a free country that guarantees its citizens the inalienable rights God intended for every human being. I’m one of those throwbacks who actually folds a worn flag properly and takes it to the nearest military office for proper disposal. I revere it, just like the old sea captain who gave her the name.
Captain William Driver was born on the morning of March 17, 1803. One Sunday in 1817, fourteen-year-old Bill set out for Sunday School in his home town of Salem. Instead, he went down to the harbor.
By sheer determination and persuasion, he talked himself into the position of cabin boy and was on the high seas by nightfall. He sailed to Calcutta, Gibraltar, Antwerp and Gothenburg. His next voyage took him to the Fiji Islands, and then on, his career centered in the South Seas.
Seven or eight years later, Bill sailed back into Salem harbor as captain of his own ship, The Charles Doggett although some sources say it was The Seawood.
As a birthday and farewell gift on an 1831 voyage, his mother and several young ladies in Salem, Massachusetts, sewed him a large American flag twenty by twenty-four feet.
When the flag was unfurled in the sea breeze, Captain Driver was asked what he thought of it. He replied, “God bless you. I’ll call it Old Glory.”
The 1831 voyage was his longest. He sailed the Charles Doggett to the South Pacific. During a port of call at Tahiti, he met some of the descendants of the H.M.S. Bounty crew. They had moved to Tahiti from Pitcairn Island where the mutineers who had taken control of the Bounty had marooned them. They wanted to leave Tahiti, so they asked him to give them passage back to the island. During the return trip, Captain Driver slept on the deck of the Charles Doggett so the women and children could sleep in the bunks below.
Altogether, “Old Glory" and Captain Driver sailed twice around the world and once around the continent of Australia.
Six years later, he retired to Nashville, Tennessee, taking with him his flag from his days at sea. By the time Tennessee seceded from the union years later, everyone in the city knew of the elderly sea captain’s ‘Old Glory.’
The story went that Rebels were determined to destroy the flag and its symbolism, but despite numerous intense searches and threats, no trace of Old Glory was ever found.
No one knew what had become of the flag, not even Driver’s own family for they were all southern sympathizers. He could not afford to share with them the secret of where he had hidden it.
And then on February 25, 1862, Union forces captured Nashville and raised the American flag. It was a small flag, and immediately, citizens asked the aged captain about ‘Old Glory’. Did she still exist, or had he destroyed her to keep her from the Rebels?
Accompanied by Union soldiers, Captain Driver went upstairs to his bedroom, which had been searched dozens of times by frustrated Confederates. He began ripping at the seams of his bedcover. As the batting of the quilt top unraveled, the soldiers looked inside and saw the twenty-four stars of the original ‘Old Glory.’
Although Captain Driver was sixty years old, he gathered the flag he had so jealously guarded and loved for the last thirty years and hoisted it to the top of the tower to replace the smaller ensign. The Sixth Ohio Regiment cheered and saluted, and later adopted the nickname, ‘Old Glory’.
The captain is buried in the Nashville City Cemetery. His tomb is one of three sites authorized by Congress where the Flag of the United States may be flown twenty-four/seven.
Think of what he risked to save the flag, and then ask yourself what that irascible old sea captain would say to those protestors in Arizona desecrating the American flag by spray painting ‘deport Arpaio’ and ‘impeach Brewer’?
I imagine it would have been too blistering for delicate ears.
Old Glory today? In the Smithsonian, courtesy Driver’s granddaughter.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
June 1, 2011
D-Day-A Name to Remember
Within the military ranks, the terms D-Day and H-Hour are routinely used for the day and hour on which a combat attack or operation is to be initiated. They designate the day and hour of the operation when the day and hour have not yet been determined, or where secrecy is essential. The letters are derived from the words for which they stand, "D" for the day of the invasion and "H" for the hour operations actually begin.
Such protocol meant nothing to a small town in the Texas Panhandle on June 6, 1944. The day was the first Tuesday after school was turned out for the summer in Wheeler, Texas. It meant nothing to any of us. We had never heard the term ‘D-Day.’
We had no idea D-Day was just a common name routinely given to the date of every planned offensive during World War II, or that it was coined in World War I before the massive U.S. attack at the Battle of Saint-Mihiel in France.
We kids in that little Texas town far up in the Panhandle knew nothing of such procedure. For us, it was summer, free, joyous summer. As every summer, the first couple weeks, we’d ride our bikes along the hard-packed roads, through the forest the community called a park, jump the creek, rumble over ancient, wood-plank bridges, and lie in the shade after dinner (our noon meal) staring at the fluffy clouds drifting by in the sky as blue as robin’s egg. If you used your imagination, you could spot every animal on Noah’s ark.
After all these years, my memory’s sort of shaky, but it was either Wednesday or Thursday of that week that to my chagrin, I learned had had to chop corn the next couple days instead of a carefree ride around town on my battered but trusty New Departure bicycle.
Dad was overseas, and Mom had planted five acres of corn that she planned on us selling in nearby Pampa and Shamrock to earn some extra money.
So I wasn’t in a good mood, and I probably chopped more corn stalks than I did weeds until she caught me. The third time she yelled at me, she started looking around for something to switch my legs.
To my relief, Papa Conwell drove up about then. My brother, Sammy, was just a toddler, so Mom picked him up and we hurried to the end of the row to see what Papa wanted. I was hoping he wanted to take me out to his lake, but that wasn’t why he was there.
Wartime in a small town back then was much different than it would be today. Everyone was caught up in it. Radios were always turned to the news. Of course most of the news was weeks old, but for the last month or so, rumors had been thick and heavy that something big was going to happen. All the grown-ups speculated as to what might take place.
From the old boys down at the pool hall to the local preachers, everyone thought he knew what the Allied Forces had up their sleeve. Now, let me point out here that there was never any doubt in anyone’s mind that America would win the war. No matter how long it took, we would prevail. I wouldn’t want to repeat in mixed company what some of those old-timers back then would think of us today.
Anyway, back to my story.
When we reached Papa’s car, he didn’t even say ‘hi’. All he said was ‘We invaded Normandy.”
The only thing I understood in his statement was we. I wasn’t really sure what invaded meant, and I certainly had no idea what a Normandy was. I guessed it was a nearby town back south around Shamrock although I’d never heard of it.
Mom was excited, and a bit frightened.
For the next few days, our little town didn’t come to a standstill, but it came as close as it could and still keep functioning. Crops had to be looked after, animals tended, mail delivered, and such. Everything else was just about shut down. Folks were glued to the radio while others frequented the newspaper office.
Over the next few days, we learned more. There was happiness and joy in our little town, and unfortunately as the news came in, with it came some grief.
The Invasion of Normandy was epic, a savage battle that lasted for eleven months until May 1945 when Germany capitulated.
And then we turned the Lions of War loose on Japan.
Within a few months, it was over.
The nearest train station was in Shamrock, sixteen miles to the south of us. I’ll never forget that day we drove over and waited on the platform for Dad to step off the train.
The Greatest Generation had brought peace back to America and pulled a common name from military obscurity and held it up for the world to forever recognize.
D-Day!
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot .com
Such protocol meant nothing to a small town in the Texas Panhandle on June 6, 1944. The day was the first Tuesday after school was turned out for the summer in Wheeler, Texas. It meant nothing to any of us. We had never heard the term ‘D-Day.’
We had no idea D-Day was just a common name routinely given to the date of every planned offensive during World War II, or that it was coined in World War I before the massive U.S. attack at the Battle of Saint-Mihiel in France.
We kids in that little Texas town far up in the Panhandle knew nothing of such procedure. For us, it was summer, free, joyous summer. As every summer, the first couple weeks, we’d ride our bikes along the hard-packed roads, through the forest the community called a park, jump the creek, rumble over ancient, wood-plank bridges, and lie in the shade after dinner (our noon meal) staring at the fluffy clouds drifting by in the sky as blue as robin’s egg. If you used your imagination, you could spot every animal on Noah’s ark.
After all these years, my memory’s sort of shaky, but it was either Wednesday or Thursday of that week that to my chagrin, I learned had had to chop corn the next couple days instead of a carefree ride around town on my battered but trusty New Departure bicycle.
Dad was overseas, and Mom had planted five acres of corn that she planned on us selling in nearby Pampa and Shamrock to earn some extra money.
So I wasn’t in a good mood, and I probably chopped more corn stalks than I did weeds until she caught me. The third time she yelled at me, she started looking around for something to switch my legs.
To my relief, Papa Conwell drove up about then. My brother, Sammy, was just a toddler, so Mom picked him up and we hurried to the end of the row to see what Papa wanted. I was hoping he wanted to take me out to his lake, but that wasn’t why he was there.
Wartime in a small town back then was much different than it would be today. Everyone was caught up in it. Radios were always turned to the news. Of course most of the news was weeks old, but for the last month or so, rumors had been thick and heavy that something big was going to happen. All the grown-ups speculated as to what might take place.
From the old boys down at the pool hall to the local preachers, everyone thought he knew what the Allied Forces had up their sleeve. Now, let me point out here that there was never any doubt in anyone’s mind that America would win the war. No matter how long it took, we would prevail. I wouldn’t want to repeat in mixed company what some of those old-timers back then would think of us today.
Anyway, back to my story.
When we reached Papa’s car, he didn’t even say ‘hi’. All he said was ‘We invaded Normandy.”
The only thing I understood in his statement was we. I wasn’t really sure what invaded meant, and I certainly had no idea what a Normandy was. I guessed it was a nearby town back south around Shamrock although I’d never heard of it.
Mom was excited, and a bit frightened.
For the next few days, our little town didn’t come to a standstill, but it came as close as it could and still keep functioning. Crops had to be looked after, animals tended, mail delivered, and such. Everything else was just about shut down. Folks were glued to the radio while others frequented the newspaper office.
Over the next few days, we learned more. There was happiness and joy in our little town, and unfortunately as the news came in, with it came some grief.
The Invasion of Normandy was epic, a savage battle that lasted for eleven months until May 1945 when Germany capitulated.
And then we turned the Lions of War loose on Japan.
Within a few months, it was over.
The nearest train station was in Shamrock, sixteen miles to the south of us. I’ll never forget that day we drove over and waited on the platform for Dad to step off the train.
The Greatest Generation had brought peace back to America and pulled a common name from military obscurity and held it up for the world to forever recognize.
D-Day!
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot .com
April 27, 2011
The Truth and Nothing but the Truth
If you’re like me, you quickly grow weary of the name-calling, back-stabbing, vilifying, mudslinging, and muck-raking that goes on in Washington. And that’s just between friends. Heaven forbid what happens to enemies.
I’ve had my fill of politicians from every party delivering a speech or granting an interview one day, and then standing up the next and with angelic innocence blatantly denying the meaning of the words they spoke.
‘I misspoke.” That’s the new mantra for so many. “I misspoke’.
One most recent ‘misspoke—misspeak?’ was the budget cuts from the Senate. From what the public was told, over sixty billion dollars had been cut when actually, only 322 million was carved from the bulbous budget. Seems like the difference was simply moved back and forth in accounting tricks, a fact both parties failed to mention.
They bragged. ‘We cut sixty billion.”
Haven’t you noticed the growing usage of the expression?
According to the Bodhi Tree Swaying Blog, ‘misspoke’ is a weasel word.
Like the time Hillary Clinton remarked she ‘misspoke’ when she claimed she’d run across a tarmac airfield in order to avoid sniper fire after landing in
Bosnia as first lady in 1996.
Weasel words are derived from the
weasel’s habit of sucking the contents out of an egg without destroying its shell. A weasel word is deliberately misleading or ambiguous language used to avoid making a straight–forward
statement while giving the appearance of having made such.
People today buy into such weasel words because by their use, they avoid the truth of their behavior, lying.
That’s what the then primary candidate Clinton really did in her Bosnia remark, she lied.
She isn’t by herself. They don’t misspeak. They lie. And they’re well aware of it when they do.
All right, so it isn’t fair to say all misspeaks are deliberate. Some come about out of sheer ignorance.
But the ones to whom I refer are the politicians. Far, far too many of them believe such linguistic gymnastics is essential to their success.
Do you remember when the then aspiring Supreme Court candidate Sonia Sotomayor remarked “I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life?”
And when confronted with the statement, claimed she meant that all judges should render decisions without regard to any bias.
Or the time in 2005 she said a ‘court of appeals is where policy is made.” Immediately she added “And I know this is on tape, and I should never say that because we don’t make law. I know. O.K. I’m not promoting it. I’m not advocating it. I’m—you know.”
All I know is she does believe courts shape policy despite her protestations.
And then we have politicians who misspeak unintentionally. If we follow to the definition of ‘misspeak’, unintentional misspeaking is not really misspeaking, but simply a mistake. Make sense? Doesn’t to me either, but on with the story.
Our former president, George W. was a master at mangling the English language.
I think it was playwright George Bernard Shaw who remarked that the British and Americans were two people separated by a common language. Well, that common language was how old George got into the act.
I suppose the one remark of his that sticks in my mind was when he said, “They misunderestimated me.”
Stop and think about it. He knew what he meant to say. I know what he meant to say. We all know what he meant to say. But he didn’t say it.
Or what about the time he said “I’ve abandoned free market principles to save the free market system”?
That one, I can’t figure out.
Both of his remarks, though vague and ambiguous, are mistakes, not misspeaks.
When was the last time you went to a doctor and he prescribed medicine with the comment, “Take this and let’s see what happens?” Never? Right? Nobody’s going to experiment on me.
Instead, he says, “Let’s see how well you tolerate it.”
Same thing.
Misspeak?
Looks to me, it’s everywhere.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
I’ve had my fill of politicians from every party delivering a speech or granting an interview one day, and then standing up the next and with angelic innocence blatantly denying the meaning of the words they spoke.
‘I misspoke.” That’s the new mantra for so many. “I misspoke’.
One most recent ‘misspoke—misspeak?’ was the budget cuts from the Senate. From what the public was told, over sixty billion dollars had been cut when actually, only 322 million was carved from the bulbous budget. Seems like the difference was simply moved back and forth in accounting tricks, a fact both parties failed to mention.
They bragged. ‘We cut sixty billion.”
Haven’t you noticed the growing usage of the expression?
According to the Bodhi Tree Swaying Blog, ‘misspoke’ is a weasel word.
Like the time Hillary Clinton remarked she ‘misspoke’ when she claimed she’d run across a tarmac airfield in order to avoid sniper fire after landing in
Bosnia as first lady in 1996.
Weasel words are derived from the
weasel’s habit of sucking the contents out of an egg without destroying its shell. A weasel word is deliberately misleading or ambiguous language used to avoid making a straight–forward
statement while giving the appearance of having made such.
People today buy into such weasel words because by their use, they avoid the truth of their behavior, lying.
That’s what the then primary candidate Clinton really did in her Bosnia remark, she lied.
She isn’t by herself. They don’t misspeak. They lie. And they’re well aware of it when they do.
All right, so it isn’t fair to say all misspeaks are deliberate. Some come about out of sheer ignorance.
But the ones to whom I refer are the politicians. Far, far too many of them believe such linguistic gymnastics is essential to their success.
Do you remember when the then aspiring Supreme Court candidate Sonia Sotomayor remarked “I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life?”
And when confronted with the statement, claimed she meant that all judges should render decisions without regard to any bias.
Or the time in 2005 she said a ‘court of appeals is where policy is made.” Immediately she added “And I know this is on tape, and I should never say that because we don’t make law. I know. O.K. I’m not promoting it. I’m not advocating it. I’m—you know.”
All I know is she does believe courts shape policy despite her protestations.
And then we have politicians who misspeak unintentionally. If we follow to the definition of ‘misspeak’, unintentional misspeaking is not really misspeaking, but simply a mistake. Make sense? Doesn’t to me either, but on with the story.
Our former president, George W. was a master at mangling the English language.
I think it was playwright George Bernard Shaw who remarked that the British and Americans were two people separated by a common language. Well, that common language was how old George got into the act.
I suppose the one remark of his that sticks in my mind was when he said, “They misunderestimated me.”
Stop and think about it. He knew what he meant to say. I know what he meant to say. We all know what he meant to say. But he didn’t say it.
Or what about the time he said “I’ve abandoned free market principles to save the free market system”?
That one, I can’t figure out.
Both of his remarks, though vague and ambiguous, are mistakes, not misspeaks.
When was the last time you went to a doctor and he prescribed medicine with the comment, “Take this and let’s see what happens?” Never? Right? Nobody’s going to experiment on me.
Instead, he says, “Let’s see how well you tolerate it.”
Same thing.
Misspeak?
Looks to me, it’s everywhere.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
April 13, 2011
The Yellow Rose of Texas, a True Story?
How can a ragtag army of misfits and rapscallions soundly defeat one of the best-trained armies in the world? And in only twenty minutes, give or take a minute or so?
Some of you already know what I’m talking about. And no, it isn’t
Gaddafi’s forces and the rebel Lybians.
The battle of which I speak took place 175 years ago on the banks of the San Jacinto River and Buffalo Bayou.
The battle at San Jacinto, April 21, 1836, when Sam Houston and his makeshift army routed a far superior military force in the blink of an eye by historical time.
Screaming at the top of their
lungs “Remember the Alamo; Remember Goliad,” the savgage Texians charged across the Mexican fortifications, stampeding the nodding Mexicans. The outnumbered Texians, at the cost of nine lives, killed more than 600 soldados and overran the rest, according to historian Kent Biffle.
Since that date, historians have cussed and discussed just how in the blazes Sam Houston pulled off such a victory.
There have been numerous answers posed, but one of the most intriguing is the story of Emily West who came to be known as the Yellow Rose of Texas.
It was she, many historians claim, who delayed Santa Anna long enough so the surprised soldados could only stumble about in confusion from lack of leadership.
Says Biffle, “The Yellow Rose of Texas is fancifully famous for bedazzling Santa Anna out of his fancy pants at the Battle of San Jacinto on April 21, 1836.”
Possibly he gleened that information from William Bollaert, an English ethnologist who wrote in an 1842 essay regarding the Texian victory over a much more powerful army that “The battle of San Jacinto was probably lost to the Mexicans, owing to the influence of a Mulatta Girl (Emily) belonging to Col. Morgan. She was closeted in the tent with General Santana at the time the cry was made ‘the Enemy! They come! They come!’ She detained Santana so long that order could not be restored readily again.”
Could all this be true? Could the great state of Texas have been given birth with the midwifing help of a ‘mulatta girl’? And was she the real ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’?
Chances are a fairly certain ‘yes’ to both questions.
A long time friend of Houston, James Morgan, of Morgan’s Point, sought to bring emigrants to the fledging colony that would soon be Texas. One of the emigrants was Emily West, a mulatto, from Bermuda.
Emily was a bright young woman who volunteered to be indentured to escape the prejudice against her mixed race. As custom for indentured workers, they took their employer’s last name, so she became known as Emily Morgan. She had met Houston on more than one occasion at her employer’s plantation.
Colonel James Morgan’s settlement, New Washington, sat on the shores at the mouth of the San Jacinto River where he loaded flatboards with various supplies for Houston.
With Santa Anna’s approach on April 18, settlers fled New Washington; however, Emily and a young black boy named Turner were captured by the Mexican army. Santa Anna was struck by her beauty.
Emily convinced Turner to escape and inform Houston of the Mexican general’s arrival. Turner has to be the ‘mysterious visitor’ some historians say paid Houston a clandestine visit a couple nights before the battle.
Santa Anna was a ladies’ man. Though married to a woman in Mexico, he remarried teenage captives throughout his Texas campaign. Emily appeared to be a suitable replacement.
So, he set up camp on he plains of San Jacinto despite vehement protestations from his colonels who insisted the location violated wartime strategy.
They were right.
On April 21, Houston, said to be perched in a tree, saw Emily preparing a champagne breakfast for Santa Anna. His supposed comment was “I hope that slave girl makes him neglect his business and keeps him in bed all day.”
And the rest is history.
Morgan was so impressed by Emily’s heroism that he repealed her indenture and gave her a passport and funds back to New York where all trace of her faded away.
Did it happen that way?
Well, the stories hold water,
and ‘Yellow Rose’ was the expression for mulatto females during that period. And James Morgan did spread her story to anyone who would listen all the way from Texas to his influential partners in New York.
Now, whether true or not, the tale does make for a good story. And I believe it.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Some of you already know what I’m talking about. And no, it isn’t
Gaddafi’s forces and the rebel Lybians.
The battle of which I speak took place 175 years ago on the banks of the San Jacinto River and Buffalo Bayou.
The battle at San Jacinto, April 21, 1836, when Sam Houston and his makeshift army routed a far superior military force in the blink of an eye by historical time.
Screaming at the top of their
lungs “Remember the Alamo; Remember Goliad,” the savgage Texians charged across the Mexican fortifications, stampeding the nodding Mexicans. The outnumbered Texians, at the cost of nine lives, killed more than 600 soldados and overran the rest, according to historian Kent Biffle.
Since that date, historians have cussed and discussed just how in the blazes Sam Houston pulled off such a victory.
There have been numerous answers posed, but one of the most intriguing is the story of Emily West who came to be known as the Yellow Rose of Texas.
It was she, many historians claim, who delayed Santa Anna long enough so the surprised soldados could only stumble about in confusion from lack of leadership.
Says Biffle, “The Yellow Rose of Texas is fancifully famous for bedazzling Santa Anna out of his fancy pants at the Battle of San Jacinto on April 21, 1836.”
Possibly he gleened that information from William Bollaert, an English ethnologist who wrote in an 1842 essay regarding the Texian victory over a much more powerful army that “The battle of San Jacinto was probably lost to the Mexicans, owing to the influence of a Mulatta Girl (Emily) belonging to Col. Morgan. She was closeted in the tent with General Santana at the time the cry was made ‘the Enemy! They come! They come!’ She detained Santana so long that order could not be restored readily again.”
Could all this be true? Could the great state of Texas have been given birth with the midwifing help of a ‘mulatta girl’? And was she the real ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’?
Chances are a fairly certain ‘yes’ to both questions.
A long time friend of Houston, James Morgan, of Morgan’s Point, sought to bring emigrants to the fledging colony that would soon be Texas. One of the emigrants was Emily West, a mulatto, from Bermuda.
Emily was a bright young woman who volunteered to be indentured to escape the prejudice against her mixed race. As custom for indentured workers, they took their employer’s last name, so she became known as Emily Morgan. She had met Houston on more than one occasion at her employer’s plantation.
Colonel James Morgan’s settlement, New Washington, sat on the shores at the mouth of the San Jacinto River where he loaded flatboards with various supplies for Houston.
With Santa Anna’s approach on April 18, settlers fled New Washington; however, Emily and a young black boy named Turner were captured by the Mexican army. Santa Anna was struck by her beauty.
Emily convinced Turner to escape and inform Houston of the Mexican general’s arrival. Turner has to be the ‘mysterious visitor’ some historians say paid Houston a clandestine visit a couple nights before the battle.
Santa Anna was a ladies’ man. Though married to a woman in Mexico, he remarried teenage captives throughout his Texas campaign. Emily appeared to be a suitable replacement.
So, he set up camp on he plains of San Jacinto despite vehement protestations from his colonels who insisted the location violated wartime strategy.
They were right.
On April 21, Houston, said to be perched in a tree, saw Emily preparing a champagne breakfast for Santa Anna. His supposed comment was “I hope that slave girl makes him neglect his business and keeps him in bed all day.”
And the rest is history.
Morgan was so impressed by Emily’s heroism that he repealed her indenture and gave her a passport and funds back to New York where all trace of her faded away.
Did it happen that way?
Well, the stories hold water,
and ‘Yellow Rose’ was the expression for mulatto females during that period. And James Morgan did spread her story to anyone who would listen all the way from Texas to his influential partners in New York.
Now, whether true or not, the tale does make for a good story. And I believe it.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
