Southern Observer - Featured Column

Growing old presents its own unique set of problems, but none more troublesome than forgetfulness. It is quite bothersome when one starts up a set of stairs and comes to a landing, suddenly not remembering whether you were going up or coming down. It’s equally disconcerting pondering if that doctor’s appointment was on the 11thh at 4 o’clock or the 4th at 11 o’clock.

They tell us that as we age we sometimes forget to drink liquids. I wish this was true for eating as well because I have noticed no difference in my food intake and my weight has tended to increase with each year of longevity.

I often do forget to drink enough water. With advancing age, we tend to lose our reflex notion of thirst. I have found this to be the case and I try to drink water every time I can think of it. But, there’s that old bugaboo of failing memory again. I forget that I forgot.

Anyway, I read that a large glass of water in the morning can restore about two or three points to your IQ. They say that dehydration, which is likely to be present upon arising in the morning; can actually cause your intelligence to suffer. Eureka! I thought I was just getting stupider. Not just thirsty.

This was quite a revelation to me and I attacked the newly-discovered, water-drinking practice with gusto. I started drinking a 10-12 ounce glass of water each morning upon rising. At least, on the mornings that I could remember to do so. That old memory problem again.

Sure enough! I found that in just a few minutes after a large glass of water, I felt smarter and could reason better.

I need all of the help that I can get when it comes to raising my intelligence quotient. (Just ask some of my readers). So, I reasoned that if one glass of water could raise my IQ by two or three points then two glasses would elevate it by four to six points; three glasses by six to nine digits and so on.

So, I gave it a try and was finally up to about five glass of water at a sitting. Man, was I beginning to feel smart. In fact, I got so intelligent that I was finally able to reason that I had an important decision to make:

I could continue to become smarter and smarter with my elevated water-induced IQ or I could spend the rest of each day in the bathroom. What’s the use of a genius IQ if you can’t leave the toilet?

I opted to drop back to one glass of water upon arising in the morning. Perhaps just a two or three point advantage in my IQ would be enough to get me through old age.

I don’t know why the “more is better” concept didn’t work in this case. But then I remembered my late father-in-law and his lawn fertilizer experience.

That dear old man truly loved his yard and he worked diligently to have one of the finest looking yards in town.

I’ll never forget the time he found a new lawn fertilizer with elevated nitrogen content. He gave it a try. He was one to try out anything new that came along in television advertising, be it nasal sprays, make-your-life-easier gadgets or lawn fertilizer.

Sure enough, the fertilizer turned his lawn grass green as the lush hills of Ireland. He reasoned if a little fertilizer could bring about such a dramatic improvement, then two bags would be twice as good. Perhaps three or four bags even better.

Poor soul, he succumbed to the more-is-better philosophy and killed his entire beautiful lawn before Memorial Day.

So, I suppose more is not always better when it comes to glasses of water or fertilizer. But, I can offer an example of what will work. I’m an eternal optimist and my life-long companion, Barbara, sometimes leans toward the pessimistic side of life. Her glass is often half empty while mine is always half full. We have lived our years together with both halves combining to create a life that has always been full to overflowing. Not too much, not too little but JUST Right.

In fact, we will have been together for fifty-three years next July.

It has worked out so well that if we make it to July, we plan to be married! Just kidding. Our glasses were joined in Holy Matrimony almost fifty-three years ago and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Well, perhaps there has been a thing or two that I would have changed but I forget what they are.

Maybe a glass or two of water will help me remember.

When it comes to saying a few words, Southerners are not very good at it. We find it difficult to limit our comments to several utterances. You say, “Good Morning” and we don’t seem to be able to say simply, “Yes, isn’t it.”

More times than not, we will add additional comments such as, “But not as good as the morning I got out of the hospital, which reminds me. Did I tell you about my gallbladder operation…, well, it was about two months ago… blah, blah, blah……etc. We are not adept at letting the conversation die down. We feel compelled to keep it going. Have you noticed? Southerners always seem to say “Blah, blah, blah” when “Blah” would do. In case you haven’t paid attention (a few letter-writers have), I am no exception.

In a word, you could say we Southerners are “verbose.”

Now this doesn’t always apply when we are speaking to strangers – especially anyone whose dialect does not match ours. We are not always comfortable in our conversation with folks we don’t know until we find out who this person is, where he/she is from and more than likely where they go to church.

Because of our tendency to speak on and on, we have, through the ages, been story-tellers. In fact, American literature was dominated during the first century of American history by Southern writers. They still hold their own with writers from other areas. Before radio and television, we entertained ourselves with sitting around the fire or on the front porch telling stories. Most Folks, it seems, from “up there” apparently were too busy complaining about the bread (or something else) to form a story-telling habit.

Southerners, perhaps because they couldn’t afford to do anything else, relished the telling of stories. We can be long-winded but not as bad as those Russian writers. Just take a look at their long, long novels. I once owned a Russian novel, “Quietly Flows the Don” that was six volumes long. It covered almost a foot of my bookshelves.

Southern novels were much shorter. I suppose those long winters on the frozen tundra of the Russian steppes offered nothing else but boredom — overtaken by long-windedness. Our Southern winters were mild; therefore, our novels are shorter.

Times, though, they are a’changing. Brevity can sometimes be less than forthcoming. We are bombarded hourly with television sound-bites and newspaper headlines that don’t usually tell the whole story. Many folks don’t look or read past headlines and/or sound-bites; therefore, they often get a distortion of the true picture.

TV stations can take a whole day’s political activity and reduce it into six words. I wonder what they would have done with the Abe Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address if it had been delivered yesterday. Would sound bits/headlines have been condensed into something like this?

Lincoln’s words, “…whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure” would be reported: “Lincoln doubts future of America.” And, “…government of the people, by the people, for the people….” would likely be: “President promotes anarchy.” You get the idea.

Ernest Hemingway was once asked to tell a story in six words or less. His composition was sheer genius:

“For sale: baby shoes, never used.”

Wow! I wish I could write like that.

And excessively wordy graduation speeches are most times remembered about as long as it takes the procession to leave the auditorium but I doubt that anyone who heard Sir Winston Churchill’s famous baccalaureate ever forgot it. His address was the epitome of brevity:

“Never give up!”

On another occasion following several long-winded speakers, Churchill was called upon to give his “address;” whereupon he rose, paused a second or two and said, ”My address is 10 Downing Street and that’s where I am now going right now!.” He walked off the stage.

William Shakespeare understood the value of brevity when he put these words into the mouth of Hamlet: “…brevity is the soul of wit….”

Brevity is preferable in most cases and Thomas Jefferson (not always known for succinctness) probably had it about right when he said: “The most valuable of all talents is that of never using two words when one will do.”

I’ll take his advice, at least for now, by saying my two words:

“Bye, bye.”

(This was written a few days before my Mom died last year)

All indications are my Mother, age 92, is experiencing her final days on this earth. By the time you read this, she may be gone.

We knew the day was not too far distant three years ago when she moved to a nearby nursing facility. But, I was just thankful that for the first time in many, many years we were once again in the same town. Sadly, this seems to be coming to an end. But only God knows. She is a resilient woman and has survived cancer, a mastectomy and a broken hip in the last five years.

There’s nothing I can do. The professionals are doing everything they can to give her loving care and to make her as comfortable as possible. All I can do now is just go by daily and hold her hand. The time comes to us all, if we live long enough, when there is little left in this life. But in my Mother’s case, it’s not the end. There is a more joyous life at the end of this earthly tunnel. She has always believed this — and so do I.

In the meantime, I am unable to converse with her beyond a gentle greeting on my part and a slight recognition or an occasional smile from her. Her words are all used up, but, I can, upon occasion, garner a slight sense of recognition. Two-way conversation is a thing of the past.

Today, I found another means of communication. The door to her room was closed and I impulsively broke into song. Not just any song but her favorite old-time hymns.

Those who have ever sat beside me in church know full well that I cannot sing. I often feel the need to apologize to those around me when I try. But, today, I just felt it was the proper thing to do.

I was not wrong.

For a half-hour, as I fumbled through almost every hymn I knew by heart, her spirits rose and for a short while we were communicating. A broad smile crept across her face during the first notes of “Lilly of the Valley,” and broke even wider as we segued into other hymns from her childhood and mine. Her hand, help closely in mine, grasped tighter each time I came to one of her most favorites. The old hymns were speaking to her subconscious soul.

By the time the medical personnel came in, I thought Mom was about to join with me. A false hope, I’m sure, but nevertheless, it was a glorious time for us both. Now that I have found this method of communion, I will hold her hand and sing every day just as long as life prevails. Although her voice was not added to my meager offering of song, her soul sang right along beside me. It was marvelous.

As I sang, my mind wandered into the distant past as I recalled my Mom singing these same hymns to my youthful soul. Our roles, as often happens if we live long enough, have reversed.

Mother was always able to conjure a smile even in the face of despair. And prayer was the answer to all the trials of life. She came by it honestly. Her father was a deeply religious man and Baptist to the core. Although seminary trained before his health prevented further study, he was never a preacher but he “preached” daily by his example to his family and those around him. I was one who benefited from living near him early in my life. Mom has sustained his spiritual devotion through the years. Hopefully, I enjoy some benefit as well.

Another thought came to me today as I witnessed the joy in Mom’s eyes. I was reminded that every time I go into a church today, I see a sea of gray heads – other older folks harvesting the last years of life. I understand that churches want to seek younger members into the fold, but in the process, we should not miss the opportunity to speak to the souls of older members. In my view, no church service is complete without the inclusion of at least one or two of the old hymns: Old Rugged Cross, Amazing Grace, What a Friend, Living for Jesus, Rock of Ages, Bringing in the Sheaves and others of that genre. An occasional old-time gospel song wouldn’t hurt either.

The sermon tops off a perfect service where aged and youthful souls are both nourished.

I don’t fully fathom the spiritual side of death and dying but I do know one thing for certain:

“When the Roll is Called up Yonder,” — Mom, you’ll be there!

Hallelujah!

I have always feared it would someday come to pass. Now, it’s actually happened — the inmates are in charge of the asylum. Very little in the news surprises me these days. Idiots seem to garner all of the coverage. Here are but a few examples gleaned from the pages of recent media offerings:

APES HUMAN?
At a time in history when the “personhood” of an unborn child is being devalued, a group of animal rights nuts are seeking laws to provide for the “personhood” of apes. You heard me correctly. Austrian animal activists want chimps to be declared persons to protect the rights of monkeys all around the globe. As Europe goes, can the US be far behind?

The animal rights crazies want a 26-year-old male chimpanzee legally declared “a person.” As such he would be entitled to “basic rights” ordinarily assigned to authentic humans. A judge has ruled against the first petition but the case is being appealed. In the meantime, Spain’s parliament is considering a national law that would extend “fundamental moral and legal” rights to apes. I suppose snakes, camels and sheep are next on the humanization roster.

Then what? Intermarriage with humans? Voting rights? Where will it all lead? Who can tell? Only a few years ago, most Americans thought the right for folks of the same sex to be married beyond comprehension. But, even that’s legal in a few states today. Human/monkey nuptials in the offing? Who will get custody of “Cheetah” if they divorce? Do animals have a right to abortion?

ON-SCREEN SMOKING
Smoking by actors on movie screens has come under attack by the Motion Picture Association of America which dictates movie ratings. Gone are the days of Bogey and Becall with smokes hanging from their lips. On-screen smoking will earn a film a more restricted rating (N-13 for nicotine?) because the movie moguls want to protect our young folks from the evils of smoking.

This might be a good cause but the elimination of cigarettes on the screen still leaves adulterous sex, abortion, explicit sexual promiscuity, drug activity, and let’s don’t forget the ever-present alcoholic drink on the silver screen. All of these practices will remain intact. But smoking? No-sir-ree. The movie crazies are at it again.

TERM “MASTER” VERBOTEN
Some building contractors and real estate folks have decided that the term “Master Bedroom or Suite” is too “politically incorrect” for describing the main bedroom and the term “Owner’s Suite” is coming into vogue.

It seems that the word “master” has bad vibes for women and some black Americans. My, my, another word that must be eliminated from the English language to accommodate political correctness. Absurd? You bet.

What’s next? Can we no longer use the words: Mastermind, master key, Master of Arts degree, master of ceremonies, or masterpiece? Come on. Give us a break. Words are words and we shouldn’t tamper with perfectly descriptive, traditional terms.

TARGETING LAWNMOWERS
If you have driven down the highway with an eighteen-wheeler belching clouds of black smoke in your face, then you just might be outraged that the Environmental Protection Agency is going after the pollution created by your lawnmower even as the behemoths continue spewing their black sin along our highways.

The federal agency has declared that any walk-behind or riding lawnmower of less than 25 horsepower must be equipped with catalytic converters just like your automobile. This will make home mowers more expensive because catalytic converters are laced with precious metals costing hundreds if not thousands of dollars per ounce. The catalytic-equipped mowers will also be less efficient while the trucking juggernauts continue down the Interstate unabated. Nutty? You’d better believe it. But that’s the rationale today of the politically correct – the eighteen-wheeler might be transporting a gorilla to its nuptials with a real human primate, therefore, it’s OK.

$60,000 MATTRESS
Baby Boomers are adding a new twist to the price of a “good night’s sleep.” New ultra-deluxe bedding costing more than a college education, a luxury automobile or a starter home is being scooped up by boomers with more money than brains.

A Swedish bed company has launched a new mattress product called “Vividus,” which is Latin for “full of life,” that will retail for $59,750. The bedding is made of latex, memory foam, silk, cashmere, lamb’s wool and horse hair. Horse hair! I thought that went out with Duncan Fife sofas.

The company has sold only a dozen of the high-priced mattresses. Wonder why. Could it possibly be that most folks are getting a good night’s sleep on a mattress costing only a few hundred dollars. As I said, the inmates are in charge of the asylum.

These are only a few of the insane shenanigans of the devout brainless. But idiotic ideas will always be with us as long as there is a substantial portion of the world’s population willing to be suckered into any wacky notion.

OK. Here we go again. If you are going to live in the Southland you must learn how we count kin.

Wilbur J. Cash in his book “Mind of the South” said that everyone who lives in the South is kin to everyone else within a thirty-mile radius. What he said was nearer to the truth in 1939 when he wrote his book, but that was before WWII, Interstate Highways and northerners’ reluctance to shovel snow six months out of the year shuffled America’s population. And, before “Moving South” became a national obsession. But, it still remains somewhat true – at least for those of us who have been in the region for all of our lives.

So, here’s how you count kin:

We all know about brothers, sisters, grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles but when it comes to cousins, it gets a little more complicated so, here’s the format.

Children of siblings (brothers and/or sisters) are first cousins.

Children of the siblings’’ children are second cousins.

The relationship of a first cousin to one of these second cousins is a first cousin – once removed.

The kinship of the first cousin to the second cousin’s child is first cousin – twice removed.

Two second cousins’ children are third cousins. And so on with the “removeds.”

Thusly, your grandfather’s first cousin is your first cousin twice removed. It really gets complicated when you get down the line to second cousins – thrice removed. But you’ll eventually figure it out.

One more reminder: we don’t pronounce the word “cousin” like folks from other parts of the country. To us, the word is “cud’n” as in “Cud’n George” and we always insist on adding the prefix, “Cud’n,” before the first name. I was speaking with a friend the other night about the subject and he said that he was grown before he understood that his Cousin Lucy’s proper given name was not “CudenLucy.”

We could just solve the whole problem by adopting the practice of the venerable Charlestonian, former state Senator and Member of the US House of Representatives, Arthur Ravenel, Jr. who calls everyone, “Cousin” or “Cud’n” — as the case may be.

I penetrated the fascinating world of “Blue Tooth” technology recently with the purchase of a little instrument that sticks in your ear and allows “hands-free” use of a cell phone.

I waited until the marvelous little gimmick became available for 10 bucks – after the obligatory “mail-in” rebate, of course – a practice that I always find hard to follow through on. Manufacturers count on folks like me to provide a profitable “breakage” as the MBA types term it.

I was first introduced to the Blue Tooth idea several years ago by a son who announced that he had just acquired a “Blue Tooth.” My heart sank because I assumed a blue tooth was some sort of dental malady. My thoughts quickly reverted to the fourth grade when my little classmate, Sammy, showed up one morning with an actual blue tooth.

His big brother had shot him in the mouth with a BB air rifle during a make-believe war-game. His “battlefield” injury had left little Sammy with a dead tooth that had turned a ghostly pale, bluish white. Sammy acquired an appropriate nickname and was ever afterwards known simply as, “Blue Tooth.”

My son quickly allayed my fears that he had somehow attained a real blue tooth by explaining that the term in modern parlance referred to the technology that allows users of cell phones a hands-free telephone experience. I was told the technology had other adaptations but I left well enough alone because I have great difficulty understanding technology beyond small doses. (I wonder if the plural of “blue tooth” is “blue teeth” or “blue tooths.”)

For the uninitiated, let me offer a brief explanation of how blue tooth technology works. The short answer is, “I don’t have the foggiest idea.” But, the extended answer is that all I know about it is that you can talk on a cell phone via an instrument that sticks in your ear without a wire of some sort connecting the two instruments. The expression, “Stick it in your ear” now has a completely new dimension. That’s exactly what you do. You stick this thing in your ear and you can talk and hear via your cell phone even though the phone remains in your pocket — unopened.

When I first learned of this marvelous technology a year of more ago, previous mysteries began to clarify. For instance, I now know that those folks tooling down the highway are not really talking to themselves. Once, my wife came in from the Piggly Wiggly and announced that she had seen and heard a woman talking to the green beans. It now became clear that she was speaking through her “blue tooth” to someone on the other end of a cell phone conversation.

And, it also cleared up another mystery I experienced once at a rest stop along Interstate 95. I had gone into the men’s side of the “comfort” station and was utilizing the utility hanging on the wall for its intended purpose when the guy next to me started what I thought was a conversation directed at me.

I felt a bit uncomfortable speaking with him under the circumstance, but I answered his seemingly senseless questions. Somehow, his subsequent questions never seemed to match the answers I had given.

I was a little uncomfortable but the guy didn’t look like a US senator, so I continued to uphold my end of the conversation. It was only as the turned to wash his hands that the mystery cleared up. I noticed this little instrument in his ear. I was somewhat embarrassed – especially when he gave me that disgusted look as he walked away. Do you suppose that he thought I was a US Senator?

I figured at the time that he had a really big hearing aid. I had not yet been enlightened regarding the Blue-Tooth” miracle.

Subsequently, I have learned that there are many other modern technologies that I have no comprehension of. My lack of technological understanding can be blamed on my pre-space-age education. I am handicapped in today’s advanced world because my science classes revolved around hooking a dry-cell battery to a little homemade motor. We marveled at the “flow” of electricity as we turned the “juice” on and off with a little switch. This brand of technological knowledge doesn’t even get you into Kindergarten in today’s post moon-walk environment.

My grandson knew more technology after the first grade than I knew after six years or more of college. In fact, I have to count heavily on my three sons and grandson to keep my household electronics in working order. Since they all live distantly, I worry that they might not enjoy visits with my wife and me because I always have some technology problem for them to solve when they come. Oh well, perhaps they owe me. After all, how can you possibly equate hooking up a television cable box with changing a diaper? I figure they still owe me — big time? I’m not certain that they (or anybody else, for that matter) agree with my comparative point of view. But I surely changed a lot of diapers. Even that task isn’t what it used to be with disposable diapers and such.

After unwrapping my “mail-in rebate” purchase containing my very own personal Blue Tooth instrument, I learned that it had to be “recognized” by my particular brand of cell phone. Once again, I did not posses the foggiest notion as to how this was to be accomplished.

Thank the Lord, again, for tech savvy sons and grandson. I can now walk around with my cell phone in my pocket and my Blue Tooth in my ear.

If you come upon me and I am seemingly speaking to open space, just remember, I ain’t talking to you.

I’m Blue-Toothing!

We are taught from childhood to be “tolerant”. Tolerance is a wholly different thing than “Acceptance.” Americans too often get confused when it comes to telling the difference.

Consider rat droppings in our food for instance:

The question is not whether Americans consume rat excrement (a small amount approved by the government) in our daily food but rather a matter of how much we are willing to accept. The same is true with other forms of human consumption. We are constantly fed a gluttonous diet of filth in an effort to slake our physical, moral and intellectual appetites. In too many cases, “tolerance” has become “acceptance.”

Most conscious Americans recognize that we are continuously fed perverted sex, filth, foulness and depravity via television, Internet, motion pictures, printed media, music lyrics, conversation and other public communication. But, it may surprise you to learn that many of the food products most Americans consume daily can contain rat droppings, maggots and insects and still be approved (accepted) by the Federal Drug Administration (FDA).

That’s right. The FDA allows, without penalty, certain minimum amounts of various foreign materials that we consume in many common foods. For instance, according to FDA bulletins, anything less than an average of 9 mg. of rodent excreta per kilogram (36 oz.) is allowed in wheat — a common ingredient in bread, cereals and the like. I don’t know exactly how much that is but it’s more than enough for me. I don’t want ANY rat droppings in my food. How about you?

The Feds dictate that we not only “tolerate” but “accept” their standards as the norm. Canned citrus fruit juices can contain 5 or more fly eggs and less than one maggot per 250 ml. – which is about 8 ounces or about the amount of liquid in a glass of orange juice. Turns your stomach right?

So it becomes a matter of how much filth in our daily lives are we willing to “accept” – not whether we will “tolerate” it. The same is true of other forms of muck that has stampeded into public and private life. We no longer argue whether we will “tolerate” filth thrust into our lives. It’s already here, but it becomes a matter of how much we are willing to “accept.”

The threshold of acceptance grows wider each passing year. Who would have thought a generation, or so, ago that we would even be discussing things as same-sex marriage, perverted sex, abortion on demand, foul language over the public airways, etc.? But our “acceptance” has grown little by little with each passing episode.

The level of acceptance has gone up in other areas as well. We once controlled immigration through our borders. No longer. And Congress is refusing to correct the problem. When will they? The Hispanic population has reached almost 15 percent of the national total and this doesn’t even count millions of illegals missed by the census. When will Congress balance the flow – when it reaches 25 percent of our population – 50 percent? When?

And how about taxes? Government waste and corruption climbs and so do our taxes. When do we reach a point that we are no longer willing to accept this? (See American Revolution, 1776).

Now consider filth in the public arena. Where does the right to speak, print, draw, act, etc., reach the point that it encroaches on the rest of America’s (children included) right to be shielded from such filth? We have already passed that threshold, but “Progressives” mark unfettered speech and action as an unlimited First Amendment right.

At one point in history, movies would not allow unmarried couples to be shown, EVEN fully clothed, in bed together. Fast-forward thirty years or so and observe what we see today – just about any sexual act, perverted or otherwise, is generally accepted. A few years ago, who would have ever imagined that we would hear lyrics over the airways and in public places that we find in “modern” rap, rock, hip-hop and other forms of music?

And look at what has happened to religion. We once were entitled to express our religions beliefs in public places. No more! We have accepted that the government has altered the Right OF Religious expression to an imagined Right FROM Religion. You can find ridicule of religion daily in letters to the editor, television shows, on the Internet and elsewhere.

We have reached a point in our moral history when it is “accepted” that other higher levels of debasement is expected as we “move forward” in our “Progressive” society. And many tell us that this is “good.” It frees the soul, they say, of human hang-ups that held society together for millennia. How much of this sort of moral rat droppings are we willing to accept?

Of course a little fertilizer can be a good thing when used properly. But too much in too many places will kill the crop. The crop in this case is our American civilization.

We seem content to raise the amount of filth allowed in our lives with each passing year.

It becomes a case, pure and simple, of just how much rat droppings are we willing to consume.

There would be no so-called labor shortage in America if we had not aborted future citizens by the millions.

When the monumental testament entitled, “The Rise and Fall of American Society” is written, and it is certain to be written some day, future generations might be surprised and disgusted at how badly we went wrong.

Few, if any, of us will be around, but it is interesting to speculate about what future historians might write about the demise of American Culture.

I suspect that they will begin to see the genesis of much of our problem was the mounting dependence on a strong, central Federal Government for the solution to every problem in life – problems that our forefathers solved for themselves. Problems that our forbearers traditionally forbade the government to get involved in. Failure to concoct solutions to problems that set us on the path toward losing our independence, therefore, our freedom and, consequently, our way of life.

Although future historians will blame many causes for our downfall, one highpoint in the history of our demise is certain to be the point at which Americans lost their reverence for life. Once we gave way to abortion on demand, it was just a small step toward the eventual concept that man has the right to judge and determine which lives are worthy of being lived. Euthanasia becomes common – first the abortion of unwanted babies followed by the killing off the infirmed and then the old. The selection of which fetus will live and which will die became the judgment solely of prospective parents – based not on reverence of life – but more often upon the perceived inconvenience of the parents. When this trend comes full circle, it will be shown that we lost forever our ability to think of life as sacrosanct. Life will have become “cheap” in America just as in other failed cultures.

It will be noted that a dramatic change in culture occurred when we eliminated the lives of future Americans and replaced those lost lives with un-aborted immigrants, illegal and otherwise, from foreign cultures. All because we needed more people to accomplish the tasks of everyday American life that would have been filled by individuals who did not make it past the abortionist’s sucking tubes. Hard to believe but it’s coming to fruition as we speak.

According to a 2004 study by the Alan Guttmacher Institute, there have been an estimated 50 million abortions performed in America since legalization took hold in 1973. Relatively few of these abortions had anything to do with fetal defects, rape, incest or danger to the mother.

The oldest of these individuals would be over 30 years of age today. These discarded folks would be establishing families of their own. And, each year, as more and more entered the labor force, the numbers would be more than ample to outweigh the supposed need for an equal number of immigrants or the necessity of exporting jobs to other lands.

These 50 million aborted souls would have been native born citizens, speak English, have established families and raised in the bosom of American culture instead of a foreign one. We would not be having this immigration discussion we are now consumed with. Neither would we be searching for teachers from the Philippines; doctors from India, nurses from Thailand, etc. We would already be served by native-born US citizens. Future generations will ponder how many potential doctors, world leaders, teachers, scientists, religious figures, etc. had their lives flushed shortly after conception. The number grows each passing year.

Interestingly, future readers of American history will take note that many (not all) of the very folks who supported the abortion of unborn babies, became the very same people who later decried that there were not enough native-born Americans to fill jobs and places in our society. Therefore, we must establish open US borders – making US Citizenship a God-given right for the whims of any of the world’s six billion inhabitants.

“How utterly unbelievable!” future generations will exclaim.

When our history is written, it will also be noted that many of these same Americans, who supported abortion as a human right were the “progressive” individuals condemning the saving of lives of victims in lands ruled by tyrants in Iraq, Afghanistan, etc. They could never understand the concept of meeting the enemy on foreign soil before even more terror erupted in our own land. The are same folks who failed to recognize the importance of human souls here and in other lands while simultaneously placing greater emphasis on woodpeckers, old trees and historical temperature changes.

Readers of history in the future are certain to proclaim: What were these people thinking?”

Sometimes I wonder if the Southland will lose its traditions and culture with the influx of newcomers. I shudder to think so, but evidence seems to indicate that rather than the South becoming more like America – the nation is becoming more like the South.

After the War Between the States and the ensuing so-called “Reconstruction” every attempt was made to bring the Southland into alignment with the rest of the nation. We were kept in abject poverty as punishment for our role in the war. Unlike Europe and Japan after World War II, we didn’t have a “Marshal Plan” or “Foreign Aid” to help us recover. During the 1930s, President Roosevelt was led to opine that the South was America’s foremost economic problem. But we prevailed.

It took several generations and during the last World War, the South experienced recovery, slowly at first, but it didn’t take long for things to kick into high gear. The so called Sun Belt became the darling of industry, banking and tourists.

The process was accelerated by Interstate highways, a more mobile society and air conditioning causing more folks from more northern climes to march our way. Much has been beneficial but there always remained the threat that Dixie would lose its uniqueness – its special flavor. But, in recent years, it has become apparent that America is adopting Southern Ways.

We can see the fingerprints of Southern culture on just about every facet of American life.

Let’s look at a few examples:

JOBS AND PEOPLE - Over half of the new jobs in recent decades have been created south of the Mason/Dixon Line. The population of the original Confederate states has grown twice as fast as the rest of the nation since 1970. Starting in the 1980s more black Americans moved back south than moved north — reversing a more than one-hundred-year trend.

PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS - Four of the last five US presidents have been Southerners. No president since 1932, with rare exception, was elected without carrying the Southland, or at least most of it. The national political leadership in both major parties has been disproportionably dominated by Southerners.

MUSIC – Country Music which boasts Dixie as its birthplace has become America’s music of choice. The Blues created by Southern blacks also claims Dixie as home. Place a dot on the hometown of country music stars on a map of America and the southern tail of Appalachia will be almost completely covered.

RELIGION – The South is home to the “Bible Belt” dubbed so because of the intense influence of religion in the Southern states. Most Southern protestant churches are growing while churches in many other portions of the nation are struggling. One of the fasted growing is the Southern Baptist denomination with 16 million members and they don’t even count children and others who have not been baptized. Neither does it account for the multitude of other “Baptist” denominations. Include additional Calvinistic branches to the mix, and, there can be little doubt that Southern Evangelicals have changed the face of national politics for decades.

NASCAR – Let’s not forget stockcar racing which had its origins in Southern moonshine running and has become a $3 billion American past-time – termed by some as the nation’s premier sport. Once considered a redneck enterprise, stockcar racing has become the sports darling for folks from every walk of life in every corner of America.

These are just a few examples of Southern influence on American life. Many others abound.

For the past fifty years or so, America has taken on the persona of the South, according to New York Times writer and editor, Peter Applebome, in his book, “Dixie Rising – How the South is Shaping American Values, Politics and Culture.” The New York City born writer moved south to cover the news for the Times and became entranced with Dixie – as do many others transplanted to the Southland.

In his book, he provides some of the views expressed above and poses the question: Why does the South wield such influence over the rest of the nation? He answers his own question, “…the South offers a sense of history, roots, place and community while the rest of the nation desperately searches for all four.”

He adds that the South has managed to maintain most of the old virtues while resisting new vices and, thusly, has imprinted the rest of the American society.

There are many reasons that America has taken on the countenance of the South but none more important than the basic aspects of Southern Culture formulated in our traditions of conservatism, religion and images of time and place.

The struggle to hold on to the basic facets of our Southern way of life is not over. With the influx of newcomers expected in the ensuing decades, will the Southland maintain it preeminence?

Only time will tell.

We have prevailed in the past. Let’s hope the future will be as kind.

I don’t know what the practice is today but when I was growing up, schoolteachers and principals always held the threat of my “Permanent Record” over my head like a hammer.

Whenever I misbehaved or even when they suspected that mere thoughts of misbehavior were rattling through my brain, they would threaten me with, “You know this will go on your Permanent Record”.

A student’s Permanent Record attained status with God’s Book of Life and students lived in fear we would be haunted through our lifetimes with what might be recorded within this grave document.

Only in high school did I begin to question the existence of a Permanent Record. But doubts were strong enough that they served to keep me in line throughout my public school education.

A lifetime has passed and I have yet to be confronted with my Permanent Record in any job interview, induction into the US Army, upon joining a new group or, for that matter, at any juncture in my life.

So, I have decided that it is time, once and for all, to settle this haunting question of Permanent Records.

Citing various Freedom of Information laws that did not exist when I was a student but which now guarantee Americans the right to access every private record from their dental records to their school Permanent Records, I have asked the Public School Administration in the town where I grew up to furnish me with a complete and accurate copy of my Permanent Record.

Truth is at hand. If indeed there is such a record, I will learn, at last, if my sins have been recorded for posterity.

Does my PR contain the misdeeds of my youth? Does it recite the times I brought firecrackers to school and set them off at recess? Does it relate my indiscretions regarding shared homework assignments, etc.?

I now await anxiously for a response to my request for a copy of my Permanent Record.

I will let you know if I do indeed get a copy of the dark secrets contained in my Permanent Record and perhaps, I will even share the contents with you.

In the annals of human events, it is time that the mystery of the Permanent Record be settled once and for all.

My sister and I were talking recently about obituaries – the FINAL Permanent Record.

Obituaries consume much of the conversation for people our age. It is one of the first things we look for in the newspaper. As we grow older, more and more of our acquaintances pass on and, of course, we want to know about it when they do.

My sister was lamenting the fact there would be little to record by way of activities from her life. This is not true of course because she has led a full and useful life in every way. Nonetheless, we began to comment on the things some families include in the obituaries of their loved ones.

We decided that we would forego having our families write grandiose obituaries and prepare our own well ahead of our demise.

For instance, we did not want any nicknames used as in “Foster (Happy Dude) Gilligan” passed away. Or “Mary (Great Big Mama) Smith Succumbs.”

We also decided that we did not want platitudes used. I don’t think I have ever read of a Catholic dying without the word “devout” utilized. And have you ever read of a golfer passing on without the notation that he/she was an “avid” golfer or a Baptist who was not a “life-long” Baptist?

Not for us, my sister and I want just the basic facts reported.

We want our obituaries to say just plainly that we died, where the funeral will be held if enough people can be corralled to hold one and that we were “devout” members of AARP, “life-long” members of AAA and, furthermore, we were “avid” card-carrying members of Blockbuster Video.