Ronald E. Yates's Blog, page 75

Thoughts from a hipster coffee shop…

I am re-posting a commentary from a young woman–a millennial–named Alyssa Ahlgren. Her views are certainly antithetical to most of her millennial comrades who have decided socialism is the path to the future. Take a look. She makes a lot of sense.

By Alyssa Ahlgren

I’m sitting in a small coffee shop near Nokomis trying to think of what to write about. I scroll through my newsfeed on my phone looking at the latest headlines of political candidates calling for policies to “fix” the so-called injustices of capitalism. I put my phone down and continue to look around.

I see people talking freely, working on their MacBook’s, ordering food they get in an instant, seeing cars go by outside, and it dawned on me. We live in the most privileged time in the most prosperous nation and we’ve become completely blind to it. Vehicles, food, technology, freedom to associate with whom we choose. These things are so ingrained in our American way of life we don’t give them a second thought.

[image error]Alyssa Ahlgren

We are so well off here in the United States that our
poverty line begins 31 times above the global average. Thirty. One. Times.
Virtually no one in the United States is considered poor by global standards.
Yet, in a time where we can order a product off Amazon with one click and have
it at our doorstep the next day, we are unappreciative, unsatisfied, and
ungrateful.   

Our lack of appreciation is evident as the popularity of
socialist policies among my generation continues to grow.

Democratic Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez recently
said to Newsweek talking about the millennial generation, “An entire
generation, which is now becoming one of the largest electorates in America,
came of age and never saw American prosperity.”   

Never saw American prosperity! Let that sink in.

When I first read that statement, I thought to myself: that was quite literally the most entitled
and factually illiterate thing I’ve ever heard in my 26 years on this earth.

Many young people agree with her, which is entirely
misguided. My generation is being indoctrinated by a mainstream narrative to
actually believe we have never seen prosperity. I know this first hand, I went
to college, let’s just say I didn’t have the popular opinion, but I
digress.   

Why then, with all of the overwhelming evidence around us,
evidence that I can even see sitting at a coffee shop, do we not view this as
prosperity? We have people who are dying to get into our country. People around
the world destitute and truly impoverished. Yet, we have a young generation
convinced they’ve never seen prosperity, and as a result, elect politicians
dead set on taking steps towards abolishing capitalism. Why?

The answer is this: my generation has only seen prosperity. We have no contrast. We didn’t live in the great depression, or live through two world wars, the Korean War, The Vietnam War or see the rise and fall of socialism and communism. We don’t know what it’s like to live without the internet, without cars, without smartphones. We don’t have a lack of prosperity problem. We have an entitlement problem, an ungratefulness problem, and it’s spreading like a plague.

Well said, Alyssa. Here is what Winston Churchill had to say about socialism:

“Socialism is a philosophy of failure, the creed of ignorance, and the gospel of envy. It’s inherent virtue is the equal sharing of misery”

About Alyssa Ahlgren

Alyssa Ahlgren has her Bachelor’s in Business Administration and currently works as an Analyst in corporate finance. She is also pursuing her MBA through the University of Wisconsin – Eau Claire and is a former collegiate hockey player for the school. Alyssa spent most of her undergrad as a Pre-Law student with a major in Economics and minor in Political Science. However, she decided to pursue her passion for current events and politics outside of a career in law through writing and being an advocate for the conservative movement.

[image error]

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Day 6 #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 6 of the #WatchRWISAWrite Showcase, where each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to introduce author Linda Mims and her short story, SOLACE.

[image error]Linda Mims

Solace

by Linda Mims

Eighteen precocious kindergartners stared as Carly walked
into the colorfully decorated classroom. Carly hoped her smile was more reassuring
than she felt. Was this a mistake? She spotted two six-year-olds who’d
been in her charge on the first field trip she’d chaperoned. They gave her a
friendly wave, and a true smile parted Carly’s pursed lips and lightened her heart.

Ms. Jones, the principal, asked all of the children to file
around and shake hands with Carly, but some of them hugged her around the waist
and Carly bent to embrace them. The huggers stared up at her and quickly turned
away unsure how to behave.

After Carly shook hands and hugged them, she asked their new
teacher’s permission to lead them to the circle in the back of the room. She’d read
that schools were frowning on seating students on the floor, but their former
teacher, Miss Mason, had valued the practice.

Miss Mason sat smack dab in the middle of “her kids” and shared
her own childhood or read to them from her favorite stories.

So, hovering above the painted line, Carly squatted until
she dropped. Sitting crossed-legged wasn’t as comfortable or as easy for Carly
as the children made it appear. She smiled as they sank to the floor on legs like
rubber bands.

The children sat on the painted circle touching their
neighbors with legs, arms, or elbows. There was no jostling or whining from
anyone about invasion of space. They needed to connect in this strange time, so
it was okay for someone to sit too close.

Two little ones, seated across from Carly, couldn’t stop
sniffling, so she held out her arms, and they came over. She pulled them down
on either side of her and nuzzled them there. She wanted to join in. Be as free
and uninhibited as they, but she held her feelings in check.

The children bowed their heads, but a few raised their eyes
to cast envious glances at the two burrowed beneath Carly’s arms. She smiled
around the room, looking for the ones Miss Mason had told her about. Johnnie, who
was the biggest discipline challenge. Grown-ish Jenny of the fresh mouth and
Einstein mind.

Carly recognized little unkempt Anna who caused Miss Mason
enough anxiety to refer her family to DCFS. Diana Mason loved these children, and
they loved her. The students spent more time with Carly’s daughter than with
their own parents.

“Listen and I’ll tell you about the day little Ms. Mason broke
the rules and made cookies for herself and her little sister,” Carly said.  “When her father and I were away from home, she
wasn’t supposed to fool with the stove, but you guys know how feisty Ms. Mason can
be.”

“She was a mischievous little girl,” Carly said with
exaggerated feeling.

One of the little ones giggled and hurriedly stifled it when
the others swiveled their heads to stare at her, disapprovingly.

“Children,” Carly said. “Ms. Mason would want you guys to smile
as you remember her. She’d want you to remember the stories I’m about to tell
you and think of her with love.”

***

Joe Mason waited outside the old brick building where, four
years ago, his daughter and some of her colleagues had started their own small
school. His wife was inside visiting his daughter’s kindergarten class, but Joe
remained in the car.

He hadn’t agreed with Carly that this was a good idea. His
family had spent a crushing two days grieving Diana’s sudden death and just
when—maybe—the weight was easing, his wife sprung up.

“Oh God, Joe! Her kids.”

“I’m sure someone has told them,” he assured her, but Carly
wouldn’t be comforted.

“They’re five and six years old, Joe. They don’t understand
death. Can you imagine the confusion and anguish for those children? I have to
go,” Carly said.

“They need to hear from me and know that it will be all
right.”

She had made up her mind and Joe didn’t try to talk her out
of it. Perhaps she needed this, too. He, on the other hand, couldn’t bring
himself to think about Diana without feeling guilty. There was no peace for him
as he shouldered the weight of his daughter’s death.

The night Diana died alone in her room, Joe had convinced
himself that he’d heard her knocking for help. He’d been dreaming and in the dream,
Diana had knocked on the front door. He was upstairs, and he wondered why Carly
didn’t go to the door and let their daughter in.

She knocked in random succession maybe three times, but when
Joe woke, he heard nothing. He lay there for a long while listening and
wondering if someone had been knocking on the door for real.

It was 1:45 a.m. and outside, the sounds of jazz music told
him his neighbor Jimmy was in his parked van, again.

Jimmy did that after a spat with his wife, Vanessa. That’s
what the knocking had been. A radio commercial. Satisfied, Joe turned over and
went back to sleep. It never occurred to him to wake Carly or to go check on
Diana. If he had, his daughter could have gotten help, and she’d still be
alive.

Joe couldn’t tell anyone. Carly and Diana were more than
mother and daughter. They were best friends. Carly would never forgive him for,
if nothing else, letting her remain asleep. God! The pain of losing Diana,
compounded by his guilt, was eating Joe alive.

Inside, Carly carried her own guilt. Diana had been working
herself to the bone raising money to keep the school afloat. More than just exist,
Diana and her colleagues wanted the school to make a huge impact on the lives
of their students and their families.

Diana wasn’t sleeping. She was losing weight, and more than
a few times, Carly argued with her about taking care of herself.

“If you don’t take care of your own health, you won’t be any
damned good to your students!”

“Mom, relax! What am I going to do? Die?”

“Your heart, Diana. Please remember your heart.”

“I do, mom. I think about my heart all the time. School is
the only thing that prevents me from thinking about my heart. Can you give me a break? And don’t go to Dad with your suspicions.”

So, Carly gave her a break and she didn’t tell Joe that she
suspected Carly was sicker than she was letting on.

***

“You smell like her,” said a little one who’d scooted over
and was hugging Carly from behind.

“Let me smell,” said another, peeling his classmate’s arms
from around Carly and nudging the child over to squeeze in.

“I wanna smell,” cried a young girl who had stopped twirling
her hair around her finger and now stood.

Soon they clustered around Carly, talking and gesturing.
Their little voices serious as they shared stories of the times Ms. Mason had
been kind, or funny, or very, very stern. Their beautiful faces weren’t so sad
now and they made Carly laugh. An hour passed and the pall over the room
lifted.

Outside, the breeze blew leaves from the young trees Diana
had planted across the grounds. Joe trained his eye on a leaf that floated
across his windshield on the gentle breeze. Instead of drifting along, the
green leaf frolicked and rolled on the air in front of him.

He’d never paid attention to leaves, and he wondered that
this one seemed determined to hang right there, tumbling and playing in front
of him. While Joe watched, the leaf floated down and lay on the hood as though
spent. Then, to Joe’s amusement, it blew flat against his window and stuck
there for a few moments.

The leaf stood on its stem and Joe bent to see it flutter across the car and brush Carly’s face just as she opened the passenger door. Carly started, then laughed and touched her face. Smiling, without even knowing why, they watched the little leaf fly off over the building and out of sight.

THE END

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

MEET #RWISA #AUTHOR, LINDA MIMS – @Boom_Lyn #RRBC

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Day 5 #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 5 of the #WatchRWISAWrite Showcase, where each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to introduce author Gwen Plano and her short story, THE ROSARY.

[image error]Gwen Plano

THE ROSARY

By Gwen M. Plano

Young or old, we are all children at heart. This truth
became apparent to me last December when I had neurosurgery.

Prior to the operation, a clerk handed me a stack of
documents to sign—billing forms for the hospital and the doctors and several medical
release forms that included a list of potential risks. My apprehension grew as
I fingered through the papers and provided my signature. It was then that I wished
that my mom could be with me. Like any child, I thought she could make it all
better. But sadly, she had passed away nine months prior.

My mom was a person of prayer, and when I was young, she’d gather
her seven children, tell us to get on our knees, and then proceed to pray. We’d
follow her lead—usually protesting—and pray for family members, friends, and
the unknown masses. Often, she led us in saying the rosary. Prayer was my mom’s
response to any challenge or difficulty, and we had plenty of both on our farm.

Mom’s most common expression was, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
While some of us might curse or yell in frustration, Mom would say this phrase
instead.  So, when one of my brothers
sent a golf ball through the picture window, Mom called out “Jesus, Mary, and
Joseph!” before scolding him. When we siblings squabbled with one another, Mom
would mutter, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” before sending us to our bedrooms.
Without exception, we grew up knowing that when Mom said “Jesus, Mary, and
Joseph,” we were in trouble.

I can’t remember a time when Mom wasn’t praying. Whether
washing the dishes, hanging the wash on the clothesline, working in the garden,
or driving us to a sporting event or a 4-H meeting, Mom quietly prayed. I asked
her about this once, and her response left an indelible impression.

“Life is short,” she began, “and we must use every moment to
the fullest. People need our prayers, and some don’t have a family to pray for
them like we do.”

 I didn’t understand
her comment about using every moment to the fullest until I grew older. But her
explanation helped me grasp why she rarely watched television and why she
rushed from one room to another throughout the day.   

When Mom passed at ninety-two years of age, she left a
legacy of beliefs and practices that had found a place in the heart of each of her
children. We may have complained about kneeling on the hard floor, but even as little
tykes, prayer became part of our lives because of our mother.

At her passing, we were bereft. Mom was our strength, our
compass. She was the one we called about concerns, both large and small; she
was the one we talked with about our hopes and dreams. Her passing left a huge
emptiness that still echoes in our memories. When we sorted through her
belongings, not so surprisingly, we discovered she had a dozen or so rosaries.
I received two of them.

When I checked into Cedars Sinai hospital in Los Angeles, I
took my mom’s wooden rosary with me. I felt her near when I held it, and this sensation
gave me comfort.  I held the beads
tightly and imagined Mom with me.

After the surgery, I was rolled into a room on the Pain
Floor where all neurosurgery patients were housed. Next to me was an adjustable
overbed table, and when I awakened, I realized that my mom’s rosary rested on
it.  

My nurse, Lucy, regularly came in to check on me, and each
time she walked through the door, she sang a refrain which included the words, our lady of the rosary. I was surprised
by this, because Cedars Sinai is a Jewish hospital. After Lucy left, an aide
visited, and she explained that her sister was a nun, and my rosary reminded
her of this sister. Later, the night nurse came in and told me about
immigrating to the US and how she loved the rosary.

During my hospital stay, one staff person after another visited
me and shared family stories and photos—all evoked by the rosary that rested on
the overbed table. As I was preparing to leave, Lucy came in to say her
goodbyes. She pulled a photo from her pocket.

“This is my mom,” she proudly stated. “I thought you’d like
to see her.”

The image was of a petite woman, hunched over by time,
smiling broadly at the camera. She stood next to her much-larger daughter,
Lucy. I was stunned; she looked like my mom.

As the hospital staff came to say goodbye and wish me well, I suddenly realized that Mom had been with me the whole while. I had been loved and cared for by many at the hospital, but it was Mom who drew them near with her rosary.

THE END

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

MEET #RWISA AUTHOR, GWENDOLYN PLANO – @gmplano #RRBC

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Day 4 #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 4 of the #WatchRWISAWrite Showcase, where each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to introduce author Rhani D’Chae and an excerpt from her upcoming novel, WINTER OF THE DRILL.

[image error]Rhani D’Chae

EXCERPT FROM UPCOMING NOVEL, “WINTER OF THE DRILL”

By Rhani D’Chae

Decker leaned against
the hood of his car, talking to JT in a low tone of voice. His face wore a
pleasant expression, and a casual observer would have had no clue as to the seriousness
of their conversation.

   
“Second floor, third from the left?”

    JT
nodded without turning, keeping his eyes focused on Decker’s face. “That’s
what Hunt said, and it does make sense.”

   “Are
you sure?”

    The boy
closed his eyes, remembering Hunter’s words immediately after the
shooting.  

   “I
think it came from that window over there!” Hunter’s eyes zeroed in on a
building across the street. “Second floor, three in, left.”

    JT
nodded his head, confident that he had given the correct information. “Third
from the left. I’m sure.”

    Decker
dipped his head almost imperceptibly, flicking his eyes quickly over the row of
windows on the second floor of the nondescript building. Nothing seemed to be
out of place, but he had not expected to find anything. However, the
address of the building, as well as the location of the window and anything of
interest nearby, went into the small notebook that he always carried with him.

 
 “Well?” JT’s voice held a touch of impatience. “Do you see
anything?”

 
 “Yes.” Decker laid one hand on JT’s shoulder. “I see a boy
who needs to learn that some things take more than a minute.”

    The
addition of a friendly smile took most of the sting from his words, and JT
responded with a smile of his own.

 
 “Okay.” Decker rose from his perch and stepped on to the
sidewalk. “I’m hungry, and you never got to the Olive Garden. Let’s find
some food.”

* * *

    From his
vantage point at the front window of the Greyhound station across the street,
the man known only as Rhegan, watched them head toward a small cafe. He had
returned to the strip in search of street gossip but had surprisingly heard
almost none. And what he did hear was not worth listening to.

    As he
watched the pair walk slowly along Pacific Avenue, he thought back to when he
had sighted on the boy and pulled the trigger. He had aimed carefully, not
wanting to kill, but even so, he was surprised to see JT back on the street so
soon.

    After
the shooting, he had taken a few minutes to watch the fireworks, knowing that
the police would not be called. 

   His victim
had fallen hard, his panic obvious as he managed to scrabble behind the nearest
parked car.

   His
companion had reacted with cool precision, slipping one arm behind the boy’s
shoulders and speed-dialing his cell phone with the other hand.

    Even
from a distance, Rhegan could see that the man was scanning the street. When
the steel-blue eyes passed over the window that he looked through, he felt a
sudden chill, as if those eyes had looked directly into his and issued a
challenge.

    A few
passersby stopped to offer assistance, but Rhegan could tell that the man was
dismissing each with a plausible excuse, for there was none of the panic that
usually accompanied a public shooting.

   Within
minutes a car had pulled smoothly to a stop, collecting both men before exiting
at a sedate speed that would not attract attention.

    Rhegan
had expected the part-time bouncer to run crying to Valdez, resignation in
hand. Hopefully, the news that another person had taken a hit in his name would
force a desperate Valdez to sign his club, the Toybox over to Malone, at
whatever terms had been typed above the signature line.

    Malone
had told Rhegan that desperation was the only thing that would put a pen in his
rival’s hand and had given him a list of potential targets. Malone had laid out
his plan of attack, and Rhegan had no problem with any of it.

    But,
instead of running, his first victim had returned to take care of business.
Head high and shoulders straight, he walked the sidewalk that still bore
spatters of his blood, not even glancing down when his boots passed over the
red splotches.

    He was doing what Reagan himself would have done, and the hard-eyed gunman respected that, even while he planned when and where to take the boy out for good.

THE END

Thank you for supporting this member along the
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if
you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA
site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and
social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

MEET #RWISA #AUTHOR, RHANI D’CHAE – @rhanidchae – #RRBC

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Day 3 #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 3 of the #WatchRWISAWrite Showcase, where each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to introduce author A.M. Manay and her short story, MIRROR, MIRROR.

[image error]MEET #RWISA #AUTHOR, A. M. MANAY – @ammanay #RRBC

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Day 2 #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 2 of the #WatchRWISAWrite Showcase, each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to introduce author D.L. Finn and her collection of poetry, entitled POETRY II.

[image error]D.L. Finn

POETRY II

By D.L. Finn

ICICLES 

The icicles
dangle downward

Reaching for
the substantial snow

Each drop
bringing them closer

As the
landscape merges into itself

It is silent
in its existence

Until a
raven reveals itself

Wondering
what’s in the trash

Yet, the
moment remains peaceful

Sitting and
surveying in the chill

An instant
promising potential

When there
is no celerity

When
crackling fires call

When
surroundings are concealed

Soon, the
renewal will be revealed

But now it’s
the stage of contemplation.

For
sustenance

For solace

For soul

To live on
our abundance of the past

This is the
gift of the snow

When we can
replenish our hearts

In the
silence of the icicles.

FREEDOM
(Musings from the back of a Harley)

The freedom
of the blue skies

Welcome us warmly
back

Our path is
asphalt

Our vehicle
a mechanical horse

Our guide is
the wind

Lush green
walls soar

The sun
illuminates the way

Oaks are
waking up after a long nap

And I…

I fill my
soul

With
nature’s flowering renewal

Bursting
with beauty and abundance

In the
freedom of spring.

WHERE THE RIVERS MEET

Roaring white, pounding the granite

Swirling,
swelling, splendor

The air is
heavy with anticipation

It blows
over me like a lover’s touch

Filling my
heart with sweet floral ecstasy

I relax into
the experience

Each breath
carries away my worries 

My eyes fill
with abandonment

As the
rushing liquid serenades me

Singing the
praise of this paradise

Until the
different directions converge

After a
brief resounding rumble

They combine
and continue on their way

Leaving the
moment where the rivers meet.

OCEAN

As I sit
perched up high on our lanai

Comfortable
on my recliner in the shade

The ocean
draws my gaze

Its sapphire
and emerald water calls me

While the
blue pool floats in its space—uninviting

I hear the sea’s
song as it smashes onto the shore

The surfers
ride its motion

The
snorkelers gaze into its depth

And the
swimmers float on its perception

Our
attraction is undeniable

Opposites:
one of air, one of water

It beckons,
and I must respond

Offering
myself up to the hidden world

Under the
cerulean summon

I answer, embracing the ocean completely.

Thank you for supporting this member along the
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if
you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA
site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and
social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

MEET #RWISA #AUTHOR, D. L. FINN – @dlfinnauthor #RRBC

Welcome to the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! Day 1 #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to Day 1 of the #WatchRWISAWrite RWISA Showcase, each day I will feature a different author. Today, it’s my pleasure to start off the tour with John W. Howell and his short story, The Road.

[image error]John W. Howell

The Road

By John W. Howell

Just a couple more hours and I’ll be able to rest my
eyes. Been on this damn highway for what seems like forever. His head
slowly nods until the rumble strip noise causes him to jerk awake. “I have been
asleep,” he yells. He yanks the wheel, and the tires screech in protest as he
swerves back on to the highway. He can feel his heart in his chest and pressure
in his eyes. In an instant, he regrets being so weak as to give in to the
physical need. He also becomes alarmed since now he knows that sleep could
overtake him without notice.  One second,
his eyes could be open and the next closed. Thank God for the jarring and noise
of the rumble strips since without its alarm, he is sure he would have ended up
piled into a tree.

As his heart settles down, he concentrates on the road
ahead. There’s someone at the side about a half mile away. A hitchhiker by the
looks of a backpack. A sign in the person’s hand is not readable at this
distance. The thought occurs that It would be a good thing to have someone else
in the car to help him stay awake.  Of
course, there are dangers in picking up a stranger. As he gets closer, he can
see that the hitchhiker is not a guy like he thought. It’s a young woman about
his age.  She is wearing some kind of
overalls, but the distinctive female form still comes through. He decides to
slow down and assess the situation. A girl makes all the difference in trying
to reach a decision for or against a pickup. After all, who knows where this
could lead? He does know that in all probability, she is not likely to stick a
knife in his ribs and demand his wallet after a couple of miles down the road.

He eases the car to the shoulder and can’t help kick up some
dust in the process. The sign is facing him even as the person turns away to
avoid the dust storm he has created. Kansas City in black marker on cardboard
is all it says.

He opens the passenger door and waves her over. “I’m going
to Kansas City. Want a ride?”

The young woman looks back at him, and he can tell she is
doing an evaluation on the safety prospects of accepting a lift. She slowly
hoists her backpack on to her shoulder and walks with hesitant steps toward the
car. She puts her hand above her eyes to cut the glare of the sun and stops
short of the door. She leans in. “Did you say you’re going to Kansas City?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. I also asked if you would like a ride.”

“That all depends on your intentions?”

“My intentions?”

“Yeah. You are offering a ride. How much will it cost me?”

“Cost you? I’m going to Kansas City. Your sign says Kansas
City. Why would it cost you anything?”

“Just want to make sure is all.”

“No charge. I’ve been on the road forever, it seems, and I
would welcome the company. My name is James.”

“Sorry, James. I know I sounded a little ungrateful, but I
have also been on the road and have met several guys that think I owe them
something for a ride.”

“I can understand that. Let’s just say you can ride or not
it’s your choice. No other decisions to be made.”

“Fair enough. I accept your offer. My name is Sarah.” She
slides in and slams the door.

“Nice to meet you, Sarah. You want to put your backpack in
the rear?”

“No, I’ll just keep it here in the front with me. You can
never tell.”

“Tell what?”

“When I’ll have to bail. Everything I own is in this pack,
and I sure wouldn’t want to leave it behind.”

“I get it. No use trusting someone just cause they say you
can.”

“Right. I think I like you, James.”

“Wainwright. My last name’s Wainwright. How about you?”

“Not sure I have a last name. I go by Sarah.”

“No last name? How can that be?”

“You going to start this car or is my fear well founded.”

James flushes as he turns the ignition. “Yeah, here we go.”
He looks in the side mirror and signals as he pulls back on the highway.

“You are a cautious one. There’s no one for miles.”

“I guess it’s a habit from city driving.” He keeps checking
in the mirror until he is up to highway speed

“Where you from, James?”

“New York. You?”

“I think I was originally from down south somewhere.”

“You don’t know?”

“Well, it’s been a long time.” She pauses.

James glances at her and sees that she is lost in thought
somewhere. Her skin is fair, and she has the high cheekbones and lips of a
runway model. She looks vaguely familiar, and he compares her looks to Joni
Mitchell. There is that innocent, fragile look that makes you want to take care
of her.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?” She is back.

“I didn’t say anything. I’m amazed you don’t know where you
are from.”

“Well do you remember where you’re from or is it someone
told you?”

She has a point. James only knew he was born in Chicago
because his parents told him so. He lived in New York for twenty years so
unless clued in he would have thought he lived there his whole life. “I guess I
should rephrase the question. Where did you last live?”

“Yes, James. That makes a little more sense. I last lived in
Dubuque, Iowa.”

“What a coincidence. I am driving from Dubuque. Do you
believe that?”

“I can believe that. Someone once said there are only six
degrees of separation of everyone on Earth. You and I traveling from Dubuque at
the same time certainly falls into that realm.”

“Aw come on, Sarah. We are both going from Dubuque to Kansas
City. That has to be more than a coincidence.”

“I never said I was going to Kansas City, James.”

“Wait. You have that sign that says Kansas City.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m going there.”

“What does it mean?”

“You think I know?”

“I’m getting a weird feeling here, Sarah. Like you aren’t
telling me something.”

“Do you remember swerving after you ran off the highway?”

“What? Back there. Yeah, I remember almost falling asleep.
Hey, wait a minute. How would you know about that?”

“Think a minute, James. How do you think I would know about
that moment?”

“Sarah I’m too tired for guessing games. What is this all about?”

“Do you feel okay, James?”

“Yeah, just tired.”

“Look around. Do you see any other cars?”

“No, but I haven’t for a while. What are you trying to tell
me, Sarah?”

“You fell asleep James.”

“When did I fall asleep? I know I nodded off, but when did I
fall asleep?”

“Just before your car went off the road and you hit a cement
culvert.”

“Now, you are joking. Right? Right, Sarah?”

“No joke, James. Look ahead. What do you see?”

“Uh up the road, you mean?”

“Yes, up the road.”

“Nothing but what looks like a sandstorm.”

“It’s no storm, James. It is nothing.”

“Who are you anyway?”

“Do you remember that little girl who went missing in the
second grade?”

“Yeah, what does that have to do with you?”

“Does the nickname Jimmy Jeans mean anything?”

“That’s what Sarah called me in the second grade.”

“How did I know that?”

“You wouldn’t unless.”

“Unless I’m Sarah.”

“Oh My God. Sarah. It is you. Where have you been?”

“That’s not important. What is important is you were broken
hearted when I vanished. You prayed for my return and made promises to God if
only I would come back.”

“I never got over that either. I think of that little gir¾. I mean, I thought of you
almost every day. Why didn’t I recognize you?”

“Cause I’m all grown up. There would be no way.”

“Where have you been Sarah. I have missed you so much.”

“Don’t cry, James. I’m here with you now.”

“Can you tell me what happened to you?”

“No, James, it’s not worth the time.”

“So why now? Why are you here now?”

“To help you, James.”

“To help me. How?”

“To understand what your life is like now.”

“Now? What do you mean?”

“You were in an accident, James. You ran off the road, and I
am sorry to say your body didn’t survive. You are now going with me on an
eternal trip.”

“You are saying I’m dead. I can’t believe that.  Look at me. I’m just as alive as you.”

“That’s right. You are.”

“Um, Sarah?”

“Yes, James.”

“You are dead too?”

“Yes, James. A man took me from school and killed me. They
never found my body.”

“W-what?”

“Don’t think about that now. Think about the future. Because
you prayed so hard and missed me so much, I was given the honor of escorting
you to the other side.”

“Other side? There’s a Future?”

“A wonderful one.  You
and I for all time.”

“I would like that.”

“Take my hand then. Let’s be off.”

“I have more questions.”

“All in good time, James. All in good time.”

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

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THE LITTLE KNOWN STORY OF LEICA & GERMANY’S JEWS

I ran across this story not long ago and put it aside until I could do some of my own reporting. It tells of how Ernst Leitz II who headed E. Leitz, Inc., designer and manufacturer of the Leica Camera, Germany’s most famous photographic product, defied the Nazi’s and saved scores of German Jews. As with most of the public, I wasn’t aware of the story. Now, I am pleased to share it.

The Leica was the first globally popular 35mm camera. It’s a German product – precise, minimalist, and utterly efficient. Behind its worldwide acceptance as a creative tool was a family-owned, socially oriented firm that, during the Nazi era, acted with uncommon grace, generosity, and modesty. E. Leitz Inc., designer, and manufacturer of Germany’s most famous photographic product saved its Jews.

[image error]The Original 1927 Leica

And Ernst Leitz II, the steely-eyed Protestant patriarch who headed the closely held firm as the Holocaust loomed across Europe, acted in such a way as to earn the title, “the photography industry’s Schindler.”

As soon as Adolf Hitler was named chancellor of Germany in
1933, Ernst Leitz II began receiving frantic calls from Jewish associates,
asking for his help in getting them and their families out of the country. As
Christians, Leitz and his family were immune to Nazi Germany’s Nuremberg laws,
which restricted the movement of Jews and limited their professional
activities.

To help his Jewish workers and colleagues, Leitz quietly
established what has become known among historians of the Holocaust as
“the Leica Freedom Train,” a covert means of allowing Jews to leave
Germany in the guise of Leitz employees being assigned overseas.

Employees, retailers, family members, even friends of family members were “assigned” to Leitz sales offices in France, Britain, Hong Kong, and the United States, Leitz’s activities intensified after the Kristallnacht of November 1938, during which synagogues and Jewish shops were burned across Germany.

[image error]Ernst Leitz II

Before long, German “employees” were disembarking from the ocean liner Bremen at a New York pier and making their way to the Manhattan office of Leitz Inc., where executives quickly found them jobs in the photographic industry Each new arrival had around his or her neck the symbol of freedom – a new Leica camera. The company paid the refugees a stipend until they could find work. Out of this migration came designers, repair technicians, salespeople, marketers, and writers for the photographic press.

Keeping the story quiet The “Leica Freedom Train”
was at its height in 1938 and early 1939, delivering groups of refugees to New
York every few weeks. Then, with the invasion of Poland on Sept. 1, 1939,
Germany closed its borders. By that time, hundreds of endangered Jews had
escaped to America, thanks to the Leitzes’ efforts.

How did Ernst Leitz II and his staff get away with it? Leitz, Inc. was an internationally recognized brand that reflected credit on the newly resurgent Reich. The company produced cameras, range-finders and other optical systems for the German military. Also, the Nazi government desperately needed hard currency from abroad, and Leitz’s single biggest market for optical goods was the United States.

[image error]The Leica “Freedom Train” tunnels in Wetzlar, Germany through which Jews escaped.

Even so, members of the Leitz family and firm suffered for their good works. The Gestapo jailed a top Leitz executive for working to help Jews and freed him only after the payment of a large bribe.

Leitz’s daughter, Elsie Kuhn-Leitz, was imprisoned by the
Gestapo after she was caught at the border, helping Jewish women cross into
Switzerland . She eventually was freed but endured rough treatment in the
course of questioning. She also fell under suspicion when she attempted to
improve the living conditions of 700 to 800 Ukrainian slave laborers, all of
them women, who had been assigned to work in the plant during the 1940s. (After
the war, Kuhn-Leitz received numerous honors for her humanitarian efforts,
among them the Officier d’honneur des Palms Academic from France in 1965 and
the Aristide Briand Medal from the European Academy in the 1970s.)

Why has no one told this story until now? According to the
late Norman Lipton, a freelance writer and editor, the Leitz family wanted no
publicity for its heroic efforts. Only after the last member of the Leitz
family was dead did the “Leica Freedom Train” finally come to light.

Several years ago Frank Dabba Smith, a California-born Rabbi living in England penned a book about the Leitz family’s efforts entitled: “The Greatest Invention of the Leitz Family: The Leica Freedom Train.”

After World War II Leitz refused to talk about his efforts on behalf of his Jewish workers, and the story remained unknown for decades.

As the late radio commentator Paul Harvey used to say: “Now you know the rest of the story.”

PROGRESSIVISM & THE RISE OF THE INTOLERANT LEFT

The following column appeared in my local newspaper the other day. It is well written and thought-provoking—two areas that I like to focus on in my blog, so I am sharing it with you today. The author is Joel Kotkin, executive director of the Houston-based Center for Opportunity Urbanism. You can learn more about him at the end of this post.

By Joel Kotkin

In the past, the right, notably the segment affiliated with religious belief, was closely associated with censorship and control of thought. Today, enforced orthodoxy derives primarily from the left, emboldened by near total control of the media, university curricula, and cultural products.

Remarkably, a recent study by the Atlantic found that “the most politically intolerant Americans” tend to be white, highly educated urban progressives. Conservatives may have once driven intolerance from the pulpit and the press, but they no longer have the ability to exercise thought control in a meaningful way.

[image error]

Long ago, religious zealots embraced feudal ideals, but increasingly it’s the ultra-secular progressives who reprise the role of Medieval Inquisitors.

This move toward leftist orthodoxy is not unprecedented. McCarthyism in the 1950s may have been cruelly inquisitional, but not nearly as totalitarian as Stalinism. Unfortunately, it is largely on the left that we find the authoritarian demand for unanimity on virtually all issues.

Progressivism’s
feudal turn

At the heart of intolerance lies with the notion of “absolute truth.” Traditionally, Western liberalism embraced the ideal of healthy debate and interchange about values and objectives. Liberals and conservatives alike took empiricism and rationality seriously.

Today these ideals are being undermined by a fevered rush to reject empiricism and complexity. “There’s a lot of people more concerned about being precisely, factually, and semantically correct than about being morally right,” suggests the left’s super-star Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.

This emphasis on intent and “morality” reflects a more medieval attitude than that of a reasoned politics that grows from facts and evidence.

[image error]

As in the Middle Ages, the new progressives often seek to impose a secular version of the imperial theocracy. Like the Medieval Catholic Church, new school progressives often exhibit hostility to the roots of our own past, whether verities contained in Shakespeare, the writings of the founders or even the notion of disinterested jurisprudence. In the new fundamentalism, as in the old, there can be only one set of truths, while all others are viewed as evil.

The
green religion

The globally ascendant environmental movement follows the medieval script perhaps more than any element on the left. Theirs is also a movement defined by the imminent apocalypse, with mankind’s fate doomed by natural disasters, like fires, sea level rise, or even unusual weather brought about by our own sinfulness. There’s increasingly little debate even about the best ways to address climate issues without undermining the economy.

Today, even distinguished skeptics deeply concerned about the impact of manmade warming such as veteran climate scientists like Roger Pielke and Judith Curry or economist Bjorn Lonborg have been essentially driven out from most mainstream media. No longer willing to countenance any dissent, many scientific associations have become open advocates for a particular climate agenda. Modern media all too often reflect what the RAND Corporation calls “truth decay,” that is, substituting assertion over evidence if evidence diverges from the accepted narrative embraced by journalists.

There is, for example, a refusal to confront the long history of exaggerations in environmental prophecies — dating back at least to the late 1960s.

But whenever the apocalypse fails to appear at its appointed time, the green priesthood simply pushes the timeline further out again, knowing full well the media will not report on their misleading prognostications.

The
Inquisition of the Enlightened

There’s a price paid when an influential part of society embraces a kind of fundamentalist hysteria reminiscent of the grassroots religious movements common in the Middle East and also plagued Medieval Catholicism. The New Yorker’s Benjamin Wallace-Wells is just the latest “climatista” to suggest that constitutional democracy as we know it may not be up to meeting the apocalyptic challenge.

In many places, the worst intolerance pertains to issues relating to gender or race. Holding up the banner of social justice, campus activists have ejected liberal values for those of Mao’s Red Guards, chasing those with differing ideas, including distinguished professors, off-campus, as recently occurred at both Harvard and Cambridge.

[image error]Middlebury College students turn their backs to Charles Murray during his lecture. Hundreds of students protested the lecture, forcing the college to move his talk to an undisclosed campus location.

These tendencies are hardly weakened by the fact that so many college administrations — Oberlin, Evergreen College, Williams — have not only tolerated assaults on those considered, often falsely, as racist or sexist but seem to embrace them. Some progressives such as Cass Sunstein fear that students raised in current homogeneous college environment “are less likely to get a good education, and faculty members are likely to learn less from one another if there is a prevailing political orthodoxy.

A recent survey of first-year reading assignments at 350 schools by the National Association of Scholars found that most are now dominated by contemporary authors, usually focused on progressive topics like racism, Islamophobia, or gender issues. Not on the reading list: Pretty much anyone who wrote before 2000, including Homer, Confucius, Shakespeare, Milton, de Tocqueville, V.S. Naipul or the Founding Fathers.

Given their muddled elders, it’s not surprising that many millennials reject the ideal of free and open expression. In 2017, 43 percent of college students approved the banning of extreme speakers, twice the number in 1984. Over two-thirds of older Americans believe that it is extremely important to live in a democracy; but among millennials, less than one third do.

The
technological threat

Free speech’s future prospects are not made brighter by an internet controlled by a handful of tech oligarchs. Nearly two-thirds of readers now get their news through Facebook and Google; as those tech companies systematically destroy the economics of the news business, their dominance will only grow, particularly among the young.

[image error]

Based largely in the Bay Area — a hotbed of progressive sentiment — these firms use algorithms to suppress anything they find mildly disturbing.

This has already resulted in the mass de-platforming of largely conservative voices on outlets such as Facebook, Pinterest, You-Tube, and Twitter.

The power over information wielded by the oligarchs, the shaping of the next generation by the progressive professoriate and cultural clerisy represent a clear danger to the future of free thought. It will take a concerted effort by people of good will, both left and right, to demand a return to an appreciation of the great thinkers of the past and humankind’s beautiful diversity of thought. We can’t let our cultural legacy be squelched by today’s inquisitors.

Joel Kotkin is the R.C. Hobbs Presidential Fellow in Urban Futures at Chapman University in Orange and executive director of the Houston-based Center for Opportunity Urbanism (www.opportunityurbanism.org).

“Scoop:” A Classic Satire About Foreign Correspondents

(I continue to receive requests that I repost my piece on Evelyn Waugh’s “Scoop,” the classic book that lampoons foreign correspondents.  Here it is. Enjoy.)

If you have never read Evelyn Waugh’s wonderful satire of British journalism entitled “Scoop,” get thee to Amazon or to a bookstore and buy the book. You won’t be disappointed.

“Scoop” ranks number 60 of the 100 best novels of all time. For good reason.

It’s fast, funny, wonderfully written, and most of all in an era online journalism, blogs, and social media it still has an undeniable ring of relevance and truth about it even though it was published in 1938.

[image error]       Evelyn Waugh

The book is based partly on Waugh’s own experiences as a green correspondent in Ethiopia where he covered the Italian invasion of that country for the Daily Mail in 1935.

At its heart, Scoop is a story about mistaken identity. A timid and hapless nature writer for London’s Daily Beast (Daily Mail) named William Boot, who writes a weekly column entitled “Lush Places,” is mistaken for John Boot, a distant cousin, and novelist who wants to be sent to Africa to cover an impending war.

The powers that be at the Beast get the two Boots mixed up and erroneously dispatch William Boot to the fictional East African country of Ishmaelia where he has no idea what he is doing or how to write anything beyond his nature column.

Indeed, William Boot’s idea of outstanding journalistic prose is, “Maternal rodents pilot their furry brood through the stubble,” and “Feather-footed through the plashy fen passes the questing vole”—both lines from his Lush Places column.

Not to worry. Despite never knowing what exactly is happening around him, and sending dispatches back in Latin to keep competitors from reading his copy, Boot manages to “scoop” the gaggle of famous (or infamous) correspondents who have come to write about a war between barefoot, spear-chucking natives, and the modern, highly mechanized Italian army.

The sub-title of Scoop is, “A Novel About Journalists.”

However, it is more than that. Much more. The novel strips away the mystique of the foreign correspondent and reveals many as self-serving egotists who would just as soon start a war as cover one and who believe that the most important thing about any story is the fact they have arrived to cover it.

Not a very flattering picture. I say this as somebody who has covered war and mayhem in almost every continent of the planet.

Take this passage from Scoop about a legendary wire service foreign correspondent named Wenlock Jakes:

“Why, once Jakes went out to cover a revolution in one of the Balkan capitals. He overslept in his carriage, woke up at the wrong station, didn’t know any different, got out, went straight to a hotel, and cabled off a thousand-word story about barricades in the streets, flaming churches, machine guns answering the rattle of his typewriter as he wrote.

“Well they were pretty surprised at his office, getting a story like that from the wrong country, but they trusted Jakes and splashed it in six national newspapers. That day every special in Europe got orders to rush to the new revolution. Everything seemed quiet enough, but it was as much their jobs were worth to say so, with Jakes filing a thousand words of blood and thunder a day. So they chimed in too. Government stocks dropped, financial panic, state of emergency declared, army mobilized, famine, mutiny — and in less than a week there was an honest to god revolution underway, just as Jakes had said. There’s the power of the press for you.

“They gave Jakes the Nobel Peace Prize for his harrowing descriptions of the carnage — but that was colour stuff.”

[image error]

As Boot arrives in Ishmaelia, there is no war, which is not a problem for the invading hacks. They merely go about fabricating hostilities to please their editorial bosses back home. Boot is at a loss. How is it that he is missing all the action when few if any correspondents ever actually leave the bars in their hotels?

While Boot files tedious stories about the geography and anthropology of Ishmaelia, his competitors are sending dispatches rife with “blood and thunder.”

For example, Boot cables the following bit of twaddle to the Beast:

“Ishmaelia, that hitherto happy commonwealth, cannot conveniently be approached from any part of the world. It lies in the northeasterly quarter of Africa, giving colour by its position and shape to the metaphor often used of it: “the Heart of the Dark Continent.”

“Desert, forest and swamp, frequented by furious nomads, protect its approaches from those more favoured regions which the statesmen of Berlin and Geneva have put to school under European masters. An inhospitable race of squireens cultivate the highlands and pass their days in the perfect leisure which those peoples alone enjoy who are untroubled by the speculative or artistic itch.”

Naturally, he incurs the wrath of Salter, the managing editor of the Daily Beast because the Daily Brute and other Fleet Street competitors are clobbering the Beast on a daily basis. To top it all off, Salter is being verbally thrashed by Lord Copper, the publisher of the Beast because of Boot’s dearth of rousing war reporting.

He receives several “rockets,”(choleric cables) from his office such as, “OPPOSITION SPLASHING FRONTWARD SPEEDIEST STOP ADEN REPORTED PREPARED WARWISE FLASH FACTS BEAST.”

However, the inexperienced Boot cannot decipher cablese and has no idea what the cable says.

Finally, Boot receives a cable from an exasperated Salter that says, “LORD COPPER PERSONALLY REQUIRES VICTORIES!”

Another correspondent eventually explains to a disillusioned and confused Boot why they are all in Ishmaelia: “News is what a chap who doesn’t care much about anything wants to read. And it’s only news until he’s read it.”

That crisp line pretty sums up journalism as Waugh saw it.

In the end, William Boot, like Evelyn Waugh himself, survived the pitiless and harsh eccentricities that cutthroat newspaper journalism was once upon a time.

Many hacks didn’t.