Kathleen Parker: The Virtues of Political Moderation

Although for years I have thought of myself as a conservative, I have more recently found myself uncomfortable with that label. To a good many people on the other side of the political divide "conservative" means you are, by definition, an evil racist bible-thumpin' stupid abortion clinic bombin' redneck. This is, of course very very far from the truth. So where do I hang my hat? In pretty much the same place that Kathleen Parker does:

Like most people I know, I tend to run screaming from both ends of the spectrum. Too conservative for the left wing and too liberal for the right wing, I find myself scrambling for the center aisle.

Yet, people in the middle often are held in contempt as fence-straddlers... you're forced to pick a side. People want to know: Are you conservative or liberal? "It depends" is considered a weak answer, morally relativistic, lacking in backbone.

Abortion provides a convenient if unpalatable example. I've written dozens of columns through the years, more or less urging a pro-life position - having a baby forces a review of one's assumptions - while clinging to a pro-choice conclusion. Abortion is a terrible thing, I say, the violent termination of a life and a decision many women (and men) regret with time and perspective.

Nevertheless, I can find no way to justify government-enforced maternity. Under penalty of what? By whom? Under what circumstances? The practical applications of the moral ideal become nightmarish as we extrapolate to the real. Thus, one might hope to seek compromise.

Yup, pretty much where I stand. Here's the whole piece.

Where's The District Attorney?

It's not too often that our little area of central Pennsylvania makes the national news. Unless, of course, Penn State has a great football season. So it's been awhile. And now, we're not stopping the presses at the New York Times topping the news on Fox or CNN. But this story is showing up here and there across the country, and it's the main topic of conversation 'round these parts.

Understandable, too. See, the Centre County District Attorney vanished on Friday. Poof. Read the story here, if you'd like. Ray Gricar's been the DA since 1985, and is known as a straight-shooter, serious fellow, not given to flamboyance. Although he's a prosecutor, those who know about these things really can't think of a single case he's prosecuted where someone would be likely to come gunning for him. No mental or medical problems as far as anyone knows, likewise no gambling debts.

On Friday morning about 11:30, Ray called his office, in which his girlfriend works as a clerk. He told her he was taking the day off, and was driving along Route 192 in Brush Valley, a picturesque rural area. That's fairly typical -- he often takes long drives in the country as a stress-buster. But that's the last anyone's heard of him.

On Saturday, they found his Mini-Cooper near the Susquehanna River in Lewisburg (that's about 45 miles from Bellefonte, the county seat of Centre County) and the home of Bucknell University. No sign of the DA. No evidence of foul play, either. He's just gone.

One odd note: About ten years ago, his brother, Roy Gricar, vanished without a trace. His body turned up in a river a couple of weeks later. His death was ruled a suicide by drowning.

I have a feeling that this will become one of those mysteries which never gets solved. That in April of 2015, the Centre Daily Times will do an article about how District Attorney Ray Gricar vanished without a trace ten years ago, and how the trail went cold long ago. Hope not. But that's what I think.

The Word Curmudgeon #2: Stanch, Champ, Vicious Circle

Please take out your workbooks and make the following corrections:

1. When you stop the flow of blood, you stanch it, you do not staunch it.
2. Someone who is so anxious to do something he can barely be restrained is champing at the bit, not chomping.
3. And it’s a vicious circle, not a vicious cycle.

The word stanch has a very specific meaning, as does staunch. Those meanings are not the same.

Champing is also a specific thing, and it’s horse-related.

And really, don’t you think vicious circle is so much more poetic and descriptive than vicious cycle? “Yes it certainly is,” he said, answering his own question.

Cruisin' Sissies

It’s interesting to read the accounts of people who were aboard the Norwegian Dawn when it was smacked upside the head by a freak 70-foot wave over the weekend.

In case you haven’t heard about it, details can be found here, but here’s the story in brief:

The ship was headed back to New York after a week of sun and fun in sub-tropical climes, when it ran into a vicious storm. It was not unexpected; the storm had been brewing in the Atlantic for several days. But what made this one really unusual is that after the main event, a wall of water 70 feet high slammed the ship, wreaking havoc of all varieties. Windows as high up as ten stories were broken, dishes were smashed, cabins flooded and several people were injured.

The ship stopped off in Charleston, South Carolina for emergency repairs and then headed for New York. The damage was apparently superficial; The Norwegian Dawn is back in service with a new load of passengers headed south.

But what I found interesting is the number of passengers who decided to get off in Charleston rather than continue to New York. Some said they’d rather drive nine hours than stay on board. Now, some cabins were pretty well trashed, so I understand that those people had no place to be. And I guess I can understand the relief of some of those who must have been violently ill.

But what were the rest of them scared of? Did they think it was going to happen again? The fact that this event made national headlines should have tipped them off that this sort of thing is very very unusual. I wasn’t ready to admit this until I saw that Neal Boortz said the same thing, but I sorta wished I’d been on board. That would have been quite an experience to tell ones friends about.

Just over a year ago, my wife and I were aboard the Dawn’s sister ship, the Norwegian Dream, and, oddly enough, we went through quite a storm in the Gulf of Mexico. We’ve been on several cruises, and that was the only time we had ever experienced anything like it. But it was an adventure. And I’d get back aboard that ship... or the Dawn... in a heartbeat.

Can't Be Too Careful

Nope, no use knocking yourself out on the first day...

It's really the first beautiful, mild, spring weekend here in central PA, and there are chores to be done. We need to get the outtake from the pond unplugged, haul away the rusted old hunks of the incinerator (yup, we live in the country -- we burn the burnable trash, throw the food garbage out in the field wherein we learn lessons about the circle of life, and the trash guys pick up the rest,) we need to clean out the gutters on the garage, pick up sticks and stones, get the lawn tractor up to snuff... oh, there are a million things.

But it's important to not push too hard! So when I got home from the public radio pledge drive this morning, no matter how much I wanted to get right to work, I knew I should lie down and take a nap. So I did. For two hours. Then, I couldn't hit all that work without an infusion of energy, so a nice lunch was in order. A turkey sandwich. Made me sleepy, of course, so just another half hour or so napping just to make sure I was alert. Okay, time to get started. But I hadn't checked my email in several hours (since before nap #1) and you just don't want to let that stuff pile up. Naturally there were things that had to be read and considered. And these things take time.

And I haven't blogged for several days, and I really must do an entry now. But I'll get to that stack of outdoor jobs, absolutely. You really don't want to rush these things though...

The Word Curmudgeon #1: Decadent

Here comes a shocker: I just looked up “decadent” in my trusty Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, and discovered that it has nothing whatsoever to do with chocolate!

Just about the only place you ever see or hear “decadent” out there in popular usage is as a description of a dessert. It is generally either a.) a dessert named something like “Death By Chocolate,” containing heavy cream, butter, a dozen egg yolks and several pounds of chocolate, or for a not-very-good, fat-free, low-carbohydrate, “choklit-flavored” thing that people on TV commercials blissfully eat and try to convince us that if you eat it, you’ll never miss the Death thing.

There’s usually a female announcer, using one of those inflections that is designed to make males think she’s either naked or about to become naked when she says “decadent.”

But do you know what decadent means according to Webster? Do ya? It means:

1: marked by decay or decline 2: of, relating to, or having the characteristics of the decadents.

How about that?? Not a word about dessert! Gosh, you don’t suppose that ad copywriters don’t know what it means, do you? You don’t suppose that maybe they heard “decadent” and thought it meant... oh... maybe “delicious,” but never bothered to look it up, do you?

And just who are these “decadents” to whom Webster refers in definition 2? The are “one of a group of late 19th century French and English writers tending toward artificial and unconventional subjects and subtilized style.”

Why, of course they were. And they just loved rich chocolate desserts.

St. Bee's Hard-Learned Hints For Happier Living #1

When it is necessary to crawl on hands and knees under a table to retrieve a dropped object, it is advisable to make sure you come all the way back out before standing up.

I Want My Hour Back!

Grouse, grouse, grumble, moan, gripe. I hate Daylight Savings Time. Especially today: the Sunday from which one hour of precious, sweet sleep was stolen.

Because I am on the radio early in the morning six days a week, I have to get up at 4:30. It's been this way for many years, and I sincerely hope that soon I will move into a position in which I can get up at a more humane hour, but that's a whole 'nother topic.

Anyway, for someone who arises at 4:30 (which is not early in the morning; it is late at night) every minute... every second of sleep is to be hoarded and guarded and defended. And once a year, an entire hour is rudely snatched from under my sleeping head. Sixty minutes. 3600 somnambulistic seconds.

For you normal people, I know, you walk around like the undead for a few days while you get used to it. But for months and months and months and months and months, those of us who get up and put everything in order for the rest of you so you can wake up to hot coffee and fresh news, get up and toil for several hours in cold darkness. Then, ever so slightly, just little by little, the sky lightens earlier and earlier. And at the very end of March, there's a bit of brightening showing in the east during our commutes. It's spring! Our hearts are light tra-la, tra-la, then, BAM! It's night in the morning again. And we go back an hour and start the climb toward the dawn's early light once again.

And when the rest of you are out frolicking in the extended summer evening, enjoying late barbecues with the neighbors as the Evening Sounds CD plays next to your plastic molded water feature, and the sun slowly sinks just in time for Jay Leno to start his monologue, we morning-dwellers are turning in. It's like being 7 again and having to wrap up play when the streetlights go on. There's another good hour of daylight left in which to wallow, but nooooo! We have to get our rest so you people can have a nice, unscary world to wake up to!

And if you're about to argue that we'll get that hour of sleep back in six months, I know that. I don't care. I want it now. This minute. Shut up.

Thank you.

Terri is at Peace. The Pope is Dead. Abigail is 8.

This past week has had an odd and tragic feel to it. Terri Schiavo’s ordeal finally ended, with enough rancor and bitterness and moral agonies among those left behind to last for a long, long time. Pope John Paul II died earlier today, and the cable news outlets are covering it wall-to-wall, non-stop and commercial-free.

Of course, there’s no real breaking news here. The pope was 84 years old and in ill health. He was a man of towering importance in the last half of the 20th Century, and a symbol of love, courage and hope to millions. He is dead. He will remain dead. But still, the cable news outlets must keep on breathlessly reporting, as if there will be new developments. There will not be. At least until the Cardinals get together to elect a successor. Then, there will be breaking news once again. But the Pope will remain dead.

Today is cloudy and rainy here in Pennsylvania, with high creeks and flood watches. And although the weather this week has been tentatively spring-like, slushy, wet snow will push its way back for a last hurrah tonight, as we set the clocks ahead and look forward to the return of life and color.

And today is the 8th birthday of my exceptional niece Abigail. Her maternal grandmother had a very nice and very expensive playhouse built for her. It hasn’t yet been delivered, and I took Abby to see it today. Her reaction was just as one would hope: Her eyes became wide and she said, “I must be the only kid on the face of the Earth to get such a neat birthday present.” Then she said, and I’m not making this up, “I don’t know how to express my gratefulness.” Little realizing, of course, that she just had.

The Passage of Time and John Paul II

The passing of Pope John Paul II has caused me to pause and reflect. Not so much on his papacy; there will be millions of words written on that, and I have nothing useful to contribute to them. I am not Catholic but have always thought of him with respect and admiration for the extraordinary person he was, and his monumental place in recent history.

No, my reflections are more about time.

If you are my age (50) there have been five popes during your lifetime: Pius XII (1939-58), John XXIII (1958-63), Paul VI (1963-78), John Paul I (1978), and John Paul II. You probably don't remember Pius at all, and maybe have a dim memory of John, particularly if you're Catholic. Then, it seems (at least to me,) that Paul was pope forever and ever amen. Then came John Paul I, who was pope for what -- a few minutes? Days? Months? The main thing I remember about John Paul I is the dark speculation that he was murdered. And, since I was working in Top 40 radio at the time, my colleagues and I decided that the pope to succeed John Paul should call himself George Ringo I. Har, har, what clever fellows we were.

I was living and working in Honolulu then, and it really doesn't seem all that long ago. Or, it didn't until someone pointed out yesterday that there are young priests and older seminary students who have never known of any other pope except John Paul II. He has held the papal throne for twenty-six years.

It's the same sort of sobering revelation I get when I realize that someone who was born on the day Apollo 11 landed on the moon is now 36, and has never lived in a time in which mankind was Earthbound. Of course things sort of fell apart and for all intents and purposes, we're still Earthbound, but that's beside the point.

When we were kids, virtually all old people were born in the 1800's. My maternal grandfather was born in 1898, and my great-grandfather was born in 1868. He died in 1963, so I remember him fairly well. He ultimately became the historian of Chemung County, New York, and that's where Mark Twain lived when he died in 1910. Grandpa Wilcox worked in the Elmira post office at the turn of the century, and had a passing acquaintance with him. So as a child, I actually spoke with someone who had spoken with Mark Twain. This fascinates me.

But it is the relentless passage of time that the passing of Pope John Paul II brings into sharp focus. In recent pictures, he's frail, sickly.... old. It seems as though there was no transition between the robust, athletic John Paul, and the John Paul who has now reached the end of his life.

Wasn't it just the other day when he was skiing in the Alps? Wasn't it?