When my family immigrated to the U.S. from Germany, we booked passage on the S.S. United States, the fastest and most modern steamship in the world. Due to some labor dispute after we bought the tickets(darn unions), the sailing schedule for the trans-Atlantic packet service of United States Lines (the owner of the ship) had to be re-arranged. My father had to be in the U.S. by a certain date, and the only way we could get there in time was to shift to the S.S. America, the smaller, older, and slower sister ship of the United States. Still a great trip from Le Havre to New York, but not the same as sailing on the legend.
When we came to the U.S. from Germany the second time, we sailed from Bremerhaven to New York on a German ship, the M.S. Bremen. Soon thereafter, the trans-Atlantic packet service of the great ships ended, because jet airplanes were faster and cheaper. Via Instapundit, this is a trip down nostalgia lane about the S.S. United States, hoping for a belated reprieve from the scrapyard and an assignment to the trans-Pacific Hawaiian cruise route.
Some things for which to be thankful as we celebrate Thanksgiving:
Families, and spouses and children in particular, as we think about those unfortunates who are alone in nursing homes, in prisons, and under bridges.
The smile of a small child, in which we can catch a glimpse of God’s perfect goodness.
Having a job that allows us not only to live well materially, but to have a life that is intellectually and emotionally fulfilling.
Medical and dental care and the many wonders produced through modern science and technology that free us from the pain and toil that have plagued human beings since the dawn of time.
Living in a country where one need not fear for one’s life, liberty, or property because one was on the losing side of a political campaign.
The members of the armed forces and the peace officers and civilians who work to protect us from violent individuals, domestic or foreign, who seek to do us ill.
Those exceptional human beings who went before us and from whose intellectual, scientific, artistic, and religious patrimony we continue to draw to our incalculable benefit, individually and as a civilization.
Indoor plumbing, particularly when one is sick or on those cold nights, and clean sanitation that alone prevents a great number of diseases that have killed or debilitated untold millions of human beings in the past.
Stores where the food is so varied, healthy, inexpensive and plentiful that the average citizen today eats far better than royalty did during almost all of human history.
Not living in almost any other country or at any other time.
Sources of amusement at one’s fingertips that dispel the mind-numbing boredom that was the common lot of human existence.
Clean, cool water.
And, of course, a benevolent and involved God, Who, by making us in His image, allows us to participate fully in the wonder that is life. Or, if you are otherwise inclined in your beliefs, the felicitous coincidence of a fantastically large number of unimagineably improbable random material causes that allows us to do so.
I am not a cat person. That admission is the equivalent of walking into a sports bar in L.A. on a Saturday in the fall and announcing you’re not a USC fan. Half the people there will revile you, and the other half will embrace you. But it gets worse. Admitting you’re not a cat lover is a big mark against you with those female feline fanatics that constitute three-quarters of unattached women. It’s an interesting speculation which is cause and which is effect, the attachment to cats or the lack of a male companion. But I digress.
The epitome of cat craziness has to be women over 65, at least ninety percent of whom exhibit some version of this malady. Reports of law enforcement or other governmental agents finding the dwelling of this or that elderly woman overrun by near-feral felines are hardly news any more.
I bring all this up to report on the adventure we had to find a suitable replacement for my mother-in-law’s cat that recently died. My eight-year old daughter had grown quite fond of Oliver, who in his youth was the typical playful kitten but who now could barely drag around his arthritic twenty-year old body. He was also suffering from kidney problems and other ailments, so that, despite still consuming impressive amounts of food and water, he looked like the Dr. Death of cats with his white fur and emaciated body. Most of the time he slept. Were there ObamaCatCare, he would have been end-of-life-planned to another world long ago. Forget kidney care. Oliver would not even have got so much as a cat scan. Still, Lexi, my daughter, looked after him and played with him with dogged devotion. I see that as a good sign for how she will treat her parents when they are in a similarly catatonic state.
Oliver had beaten predictions of his death so long that it almost surprised us when he finally left for the big celestial cattery. I say almost, because for a couple of weeks prior to that day, I had been saying to my wife that the cat was acting strangely. He was especially clingy, and I thought that he was instinctively readying himself for his grand finale.
My eight-year old had a good cry over Oliver’s death. But then, showing that psychological resilience children possess and adults fail to fathom, Lexi soon turned her attention to the task of replacing him. To that end, she and her mother perused the internet for cat ads. Craig’s List turned out to be as good a source for dozens of potential feline friends as for human relationships. But the unscreened nature of the cats available on Craig’s List matches their human counterparts, so that selecting a possible pet is as unpredictable an adventure as using Craig’s List for dating. There seems to be a need for a higher class of pet match-making service, a miew-harmony.com, perhaps.
On finding a candidate with a cat adoption agency in the San Fernando Valley, my wife filled out an on-line application worthy of the FBI. The only thing missing was a space for fingerprints. It asked about previous ownership of cats, and what had happened to them. My wife wisely rejected my proposed answer that they had ended up heroically helping to advance science at various labs. She was asked whether the new cat would be an inside or an outside cat. In light of our difference of opinion, she split the difference and wrote that the cat would do some of each. Big mistake.
Then there was the other background information disclosure, from employment to driver’s license. As to the former, my wife nixed my suggestion to put that we were the owners of a Thai restaurant. The form asked whether we would agree to have people from the cat agency periodically come to our house to check on the cat. My inclination was to tell them jokingly they were welcome any time they could get past our German Shepherd/Doberman mix. My wife just told them, “No.” The form also requested a complete list of people and animals at the house. It demanded that any children under six be sent to live somewhere else.
Actually, I made up that last one. But after dealing with the other quirky requests, by the time the form was completed such a demand would have surprised no one.
After some discussions on the telephone, it was agreed that we would pick up the cat at a large pet food store in the San Fernando Valley. I anticipated a brief get-acquainted session that would end with a grateful pet adoption agent (and a grateful cat) accompanying us in plenty of time to return home for a productive afternoon.
Was I ever wrong! I have bought cars, complete with financing, in less time than it took to get out of the door with that cat. Forget the cars; my children were born more quickly. There are Hollywood marriages that have lasted less time.
After yet another review of the application, there was a lengthy dissertation on cat care and the physical and psychological needs of the cat. Subtly addressing the disturbing tendency of many animal lovers to consider animals worthier than humans, my wife noted that nothing like that was ever demanded of me or my wife to take our children out of the hospital. The woman was aghast that we had checked that we did not want anyone to come to our house. “Why would you not want us to come check on the cat,” she asked, dumbfounded. “Because we think you’re nuts, and don’t want you anywhere near our children,” were the words that wanted to tumble out of our mouths. Instead, “You have our address. You can drive by,” was our response.
Then came a list of warnings about improper food. “Don’t feed the cat a lot of fish. She can get mercury poisoning.” My thoughts were that I should tell her that crazed cat fanciers who go to people’s houses and cause trouble often get .38 caliber lead poisoning.
In similar vein, we were warned not to feed her luncheon meat. Too many preservatives that could be harmful. I was tempted to ask why such cold cuts were fine for humans. If we get killed eating luncheon meat, we won’t be able to adopt cats in order not to feed them cold cuts. No chocolate, which once and for all ended our long-held plans to indulge the cat with a steady diet of chocolate-covered cat’s tongues (cookies).
By this time I assumed that such basic cat cuisine as birds, mice, rats, lizards, and other “meals-on- the-hoof” were beyond the pale, and I was beginning to wonder what to feed the animal. How had cats ever evolved and survived for millions of years without this combination FDA, OSHA, and EPA? The commissar of cats then helpfully suggested that some cats like to eat peas and cantaloupe, and that we should feed that to our new charge.
Now it was my turn to be dumbfounded. Had this woman seen too many showings of Madagascar and various Disney animation movies that feature the new politically-correct vegetarian carnivore? Had she never looked at a cat’s teeth? Was she unreservedly bonkers? My wife shot me urgent glances not to stir the pot, or we might not get out of there before closing.
I took a closer look at this woman. She didn’t physically appear to be deranged. Botoxed, likely. Other “work,” probably. But no wild, Cosmo Kramer eyes. So this must simply be the muted manifestation of some neurosis that raged internally in the deep recesses of her superego.
We finally loosed our own ultimate weapon, the three-year old. I had been entertaining him, trying to smooth the closing of the “adoption” that my wife was handling. It was now time to unleash him. Such an escalation was risky. After all, his antics of running around the store, yelling, and touching all the cats to the misgivings of the disapproving cat handlers, could cause the whole deal to collapse. But, as the saying goes, desperate (and passing) times call for desperate measures.
Whatever the reason, we finally got out of there. With the cat. And numerous instructions.
Since then, we have received a call asking again to come visit the house. “No,” was the emphatic answer. Further, there has been a follow-up email with a reminder of a promise (never made) permanently to seal the pet door to keep the cat from going into the backyard. This is another fascinating psychological phenomenon. Cats are roaming animals. Yet this woman has an attitude I have noticed with many cat fanciers. They maintain a tighter policy of detention and incarceration of their charges than does the U.S. at Guantanamo.
As an interesting side note, the cat has ignored the pet door. The only one who uses it is the three-year-old when he sneaks out of his room at nap-time and crawls outside to play with his trucks.
With the passage of time, I have come to a measured response. The whole experience reminds one of a small and private version of the nanny state. Endless forms and inquiries. Long wait times. Being treated like incompetents who lack the common sense to live their lives without the help of such busybodies.
But, then, these folks mean well, which in this particular context is mildly annoying but not harmful. It is a basic human need to be loved and to extend love. We are social creatures. Most people extend that love to family, friends, and, through personal altruism, less fortunate strangers. A few, perhaps those who lack the aforementioned outlets, offer it to animals. They anthropomorphize those animals from pets into animal companions. And, sure, they’re a bit daft in the eyes of most. But they do, in a fundamental way, perform a valuable service, that is, connecting a little black and white kitten with an eight-year-old girl who, now that her little brother has turned into a pest, also wants something to love.
With the new school year starting, it is time for the conscientious law professor to give his students some tips for academic and professional success. In no particular order of significance, a how-to and how-not-to guide for you, dear (and dearly-paying) students.
1. Laptops in the classroom. They’re a fine thing, unless you’re using them to surf the web while I’m speaking. You’re paying nearly $40,000 per year in tuition, fees, and books. That’s about $90 per class hour in tuition alone. Why would you be using that time to bid on Ebay, rearrange your photos, email your friends, post on Facebook, etc.? Unless you’re reading my blog, pay attention to what’s going on in the classroom. If you don’t understand that, let me invite you to come to my house. Pay me $90 per hour, and I’ll let you do those tasks on a comfortable couch in my living room. I’ll even throw in coffee and pastries.
2. Laptops, part 2. Some think that professors don’t know that students are web-surfing. Leave aside the fact that sometimes professors visit each other’s classes and sit in the back of the room, which affords great views of students’ computers. Instead, let’s agree that I deliver quite humorous lectures and enjoy witty repartee with my students. But come on. When you (and typically more than one of you in short order) are broadly smiling while gazing at your computer screen, sometimes with shoulders heaving, I know that my remarks about the privileges and immunities clause or about the incorporation of the Bill of Rights into the due process clause of the 14th Amendment are not the cause.
3. Laptops, part 3. If you are going to engage in extra-curricular “research” during class, at least sit in the back of the room, so that your classmates behind you are not distracted by your selection of dating prospects on e-harmony.com or on other, more questionable websites that test for age limits through credit card information.
4. Lack of preparation. If you are not prepared to participate, tell me ahead of time. I give you three opportunities per semester to opt out. If you are unprepared on more days, you should reconsider your choice of profession. Again, why are you paying $90 per classroom hour not to be prepared? Funny thing, but to hear students tell, I have a keen sense of only picking on them for the one case for which they are not prepared all year. Sure. Whatever you do, don’t engage in breezy speculation when asked a question. The halting speech, the beads of sweat, the nonsensical formulation of the response, the reading of the wrong parts from the case (usually picked from the first paragraph), all betray a desperation that envelopes the room like pheromones at a sorority party. While you flail about, others are laughing at you, though usually silently. Or worse, they feel pity. You’re going to be a lawyer. Show a sense of responsibility. Have the backbone to admit you’re unprepared. And, next time, be prepared.
5. “I read this for last week’s class.” This is a passive-aggressive variant of number 4. Sometimes we don’t get to a case that was assigned for the preceding week until the next Monday. When called on, the student tries to excuse his or her performance by invoking this semi-accusatory plaint. Think about how idiotic this sounds. Imagine you are in court. The client is with you. You are prepared to move forward on the motion or hearing. The opposition announces that they need a week’s continuance. (Assume the opposing counsel was unable to get your consent for the continuance because you are playing tactical games.) The judge is likely to grant that continuance, and the case is reset for a couple of weeks hence. At the new date, all parties appear, and the matter moves forward. The judge asks you a question. Will you respond, “I don’t remember. I was prepared for this a couple of weeks ago”? I doubt that the client wants to hear such a limited commitment to his or her case from you. The judge won’t be forgiving of your predicament. Your opponents will not be singing your professional praises in respect. In fact, having had the extra preparation time should make you even more knowledgeable. In the same way, you should be prepared in time for every class.
6. “Please repeat the question.” A docile version of number 4. This reflexive response is the classroom equivalent of the “flight” part of human “fight-or-flight” reaction to perceived threat. It has been parodied in print and song. You hope to buy time for a rescue, or better yet that I, the “predator,” will pass over you for some more attractive prey. When I ask a question that is directly on the point I have been making for the past three minutes, and you offer that response, it is painfully obvious to everyone involved that you have not paid the slightest attention. Your act is both derivative and trite. You need to get new material.
7. Late entry. One aspect of the professionalism we try to teach is to be on time. You are not in the scenario found in certain “romantic comedies” where the frustrated suitor eventually gets his perfect but clueless girl by invading the ongoing wedding ceremony and snatching her from the clutches of the would-be groom who only would have made her miserable. So, don’t cause a scene and disrupt the class by entering late and, worse, squeezing to your seat in the middle of the third row in a six-row room. Follow the protocol I have set up, where all those who are late for whatever reason (no questions asked), come in at a point 10 minutes into the class for one disruption, instead of a stream of disruptions.
8.”Feel.” It is generally considered inappropriate, indeed, uncouth, to utter four-letter F-words. In a law school classroom, well, in my law school classroom, that means “feel” or any version thereof. The word has lost all meaning since it has become a substitute for think, reason, analyze, believe, opine, conclude, and a multitude of other verbs. I blame movies like Star Wars, but then those are merely a reflection of our non-thinking, but very feeling times, where reason and analysis, the brain if you will, have taken an epistemological back seat to feelings and emotions, the heart one might say. Just to be clear: It isn’t only I who thinks so. Some years back, a former student of mine sent me a memo her district judge had circulated among his law clerks advising them never to use the word “feel” when another verb from a long list he provided would apply. That said, I see too many judges use the word in their opinions. ”Feel” should only be used to describe a sensory reaction. Or when describing the impact of something being evaluated for its obscene nature. Oh, and, unless you are describing a procedural due process analysis, don’t get me started on the use of another four-letter F-bomb, “fair,” or its fancier relatives, such as “just.”
9. Briefing cases. I have been teaching constitutional law in some manner or another for, well, let’s say quite a number of years. So, I have read and discussed these cases many times. Yet, I have my case briefs to which I can refer if I cannot remember a point. Even granting students that they are much smarter than the ol’ prof, why would they, who are reading these cases for the first time, think that they can avoid briefing cases in preparation for class, the tests, and the practice of law? Case briefing is a valuable research skill that has to be learned, but it can be tedious particularly until one gets enough practice to be comfortable. Instead, students underline in a rainbow of markers and write notes in the margins. Then they wonder why, when called on, their performance is, ahem, “marginal.”
10. Using commercial outlines. Students use commercial outlines. Some professors express shock and horror at such a practice that, likely, they engaged in when they were law students. I really don’t care. But, here’s some advice. Do not bring them to class, especially not blatantly left on the desk and ostentatiously used to see whether the prof is getting it right. I’d rather you bring in Hustler magazine or similarly sordid publications and left them on the desk. I am more likely to get the law right and the commercial outline get it wrong (they aren’t updated as frequently as my lecture notes) than the other way around. Also, use them for what they are designed, as study supplements, not substitutes. You take vitamins as food supplements, not substitutes. Like any concentrated and refined product, they should be used with caution. By themselves, they won’t prepare you for the questions asked in class or on the test. But, hey, it’s your grade.
11. Canned briefs. These are variants of number 10. Stay away from them. They are not substitutes for the actual work of briefing the cases. If you use them to state the case in class, you are misrepresenting someone else’s work as your own. Worse, you are not learning a skill you need. Going back to the food analogy, you don’t have others pre-chew your food for you. Do you? Well?
12. Talk to the professor. You don’t pay loads of money for a fancy car and don’t race it on an empty road, drive it with the top down, take it to impress your dates, right? Why would you pay huge amounts for a legal education and not take advantage of one of the perks, talking with the professors? Some students are intimidated, others are the strong silent types who are going to do this themselves. They’ll finally show up after the first semester’s grades are bad, dejectedly uttering lots of “shouldas.” Not a winning strategy. If you have a question, ask. After class. During office hours. Just don’t wait for the Thanksgiving rush. I can’t offer you as good service then. And write practice exams. Better to find out what you don’t know when it doesn’t count. Critiquing your effort may call for some tough love (or not), but the goal is to succeed and learn, not just to get by. Isn’t it?
I have decided to set up shop on Twitter (@tokencon) and Facebook (Joerg W. Knipprath), too. We’ll see what happens. There’ll be some cross-linkage, but not completely. I’m going to go more for lighter and immediate stuff, though, again, not entirely.
The other day I was using one of my credit cards to scrape ice off the window of one of our cars. Given the attitude of the banks towards consumer credit limits, this probably is the card’s highest and best current use. Now, some might say, “So what? This is December.” Sure, but I live about ten miles from the Pacific Ocean in Southern California. Moreover, it isn’t the first time this season that I have had to use the card in this manner to deal with a “frozen asset.” This has been a recurrent event during the last several winters, though so far this year our landscaping has escaped the ravages from previous episodes of “unusual” freezing that must be further evidence of “anthropogenic global warming.”
Anyway, we decided that, if we were going to deal with freezing temperatures we might as well go somewhere outside Southern California. We could go to visit family at our house in Northern Idaho. But the Coeur d’Alene area was going through the snowiest December on record by far, with the single worst storm in fifty years, and the coldest temperature in almost twenty years. This manifestation of global warming seemed a bit too radical for us pampered Angelenos. So, we decided to head to Southern Utah to visit my wife’s father and his wife. There, in the booming retiree haven of medical clinics and golf courses known as St. George, the frost might give a little nip. But there would be no danger of frostbite just from stepping outside.
We packed up the car with clothes, toys, cameras, clothes, toys, computer, and clothes and toys. Mrs. Token Conservative, the two youngest tokens, and yours truly set off at 10 in the morning on Saturday, for what was expected to be a seven-hour drive, including breaks. A disquieting omen was when the littlest token, the almost-three-year-old golden-curled prince, posed a question he would repeat even more frequently than new Al Franken votes were discovered after voting ended in Minnesota, “Are we at Grandpa’s house now?” The problem? We had not yet left our town.
Eventually everyone settled in, with eyes glued to the portable DVD player showing classic Looney Tunes cartoons, though the driver also kept an eye on the highway. Traffic was flowing smoothly, and there was an air of optimism about a smooth travel day. That illusion was shattered on Interstate 210 just before Interstate 15. They say that Christmas is a season when people focus on tradition and seek the comfort of the known and constant. Well, one known and constant associated with L.A. is stop-and-crawl freeway traffic. We were able to enjoy this tradition of fumes from idling engines and asbestos from brake linings and clutches for almost 15 miles. At an average pace of 10-15 miles per hour, this took, well, the math is easy. The reason for the delay? Throngs of people heading for the ski resorts in the San Gabriel Mountains. What economic slowdown?
With an hour behind schedule, and a particularly insistent voice demanding lunch (no, not Mrs. TC), we limped into Barstow. Hoping to give the two-year-old master of psychological torture a work-out that would ready him for a long nap and usher in a period of familial peace, we visited the Burger King establishment with its children’s play annex. Of course, the annex was closed “due to construction.” So, back into the car and over to the old reliable Golden Arches. Say what you will about McD’s (and I’d rather say very little), their McFacilities are predictable. After a meal and a decent work-out for the offspring, back on the road.
Unfortunately, there was no nap. Instead, the refrain, “I want to go to Grandpa’s house” was to make its appearance as a revised version of the earlier slogan. It was to be heard for the rest of the trip at regular intervals. Usually delivered in a nasal whine, but with interesting variations from matter-of-fact statement to primal scream, it became the aural equivalent of Chinese water torture. No response would end the ordeal. The soothingly rational, “That’s where we’re going”: No effect. The annoyed, “I know. I’d like to get there, too, with my sanity”: Might as well have been talking to a deaf person. The outraged and high-decibel, “Stop saying that and play with your toys”: Like shouting into a storm, even with an occasional “dammit” added to underscore the sentiment.
Things couldn’t get much worse. Well, until twenty or so miles past Baker, when traffic came to a halt once more. I was rather certain that this was not caused by a horde of skiers heading for resorts in the Eastern Mojave Desert. So I harbored the dark and sinful hope that this congestion was due to a recent accident ahead. After all, that might mean potentially a short delay only. Alas, three lanes of traffic eventually merged into two, and then into one. Why? Well, after about 15 miles and 40 minutes, the reason appeared: A lone construction worker, protected by a Highway Patrolman, repairing a pothole. Meanwhile, opposite traffic had three lanes available, including one on our side of the freeway. Go figure. The one bright spot was when one of the wise guys who decided to get a jump on everyone by driving in the coned-off lane got pulled over right in front of us by the afore-mentioned Highway Patrolman. Christmas spirit, my posterior! I laughed out loud and pointed at him. That felt good, however fleetingly. He only had to deal with an annoyed cop for a few minutes; we still had to deal with an annoying two-year-old for a few hours. In due time, I’ll ponder more critically my lapse into immature and un-Christian behavior. But not yet.
We decided our jittery nerves needed some soothing. The salve appeared in the form of a Starbucks sign at Primm, Nevada, another spot that doesn’t live up to its name, if an earlier billboard advertisement for a “topless revue” there was to be believed. Anyway, as soon as we got out of the car, Master “Maybe now you’ve figured out why it’s called the ‘terrible twos,’ Dad” turned on the charm. We were standing in line and he was laughing and putting on a show so that the woman behind us was moved to tell us, “He is so adorable.” Since we were near a gambling area, I figured “Well, how much will you pay me for this amazing specimen of cuteness,” might be viewed as suspiciously as yelling, “Hi, Jack” to your friend on an airplane flight. So, I meekly responded, “Isn’t he, though? Quite the Dr. Jekyll compared to the last several hours of driving with Master Hyde.” “I just love his blond curls,” came the woman’s reply. “That is an attractive feature of his,” was all I could muster.
He continued his cute and happy charade all the way until we got into the car and once more were out of public view. Then, the psychological gamesmanship resumed with renewed intensity. It was more of the same with the “Grandpa’s House” Chorus from the “I can’t Handel this” performer. Crying jags were interspersed with missiles in the form of Matchbox cars launched by the little terrorist. Of course, he then had the impertinence to demand his cars back. He has a future working for the Iranians as a nuclear arms negotiator. When his sister moved too close, he diversified his method of amusement by pulling her hair so that the screams of the would-be-scalped sibling provided a counterpoint movement in this symphony of horror. Mom’s admonitions and Dad’s threats directions delivered fortissimo and con molto brio had no more than a few seconds’ effect.
By the time Las Vegas appeared, my thoughts had wandered to the Christmas story and another child often pictured improbably with a head of blond curls, the Christ child. I thought about the flight of Joseph and Mary with their child to Egypt to escape the edict of King Herod to kill all newborn males. They were fleeing through a dark and cold desert and must have seen Egypt as a magic haven the way a deceived and tired traveller might see Vegas lit up in the night sky. But what if Baby Jesus had behaved the way our “adorable” child had just behaved on our trans-desert journey? What would have been the temptation simply to go to Herod and say, “You’re looking for this kid? He’s yours. Take him.” How that would have altered the fate of mankind!
Vegas provided more of that comforting constant in life, the I-15 construction project that surely has been going on since Joseph and Mary’s journey. Heck, it’s been going on since before they built the pyramid. Well, at least the pyramid on the Vegas Strip. Once we were past that traffic jam, it should only be about an hour-and-a-half more of whining and carrying on. It was.
Meanwhile, the air in the car was thicker with tension and animosity than a family-law courtroom. Things were so bad that the eight-year old sister was roused to read her brother a couple of books. That momentary peace was like the interludes of quiet in World War I between long bouts of trench warfare designed to grind down the resources of the opposing forces. As expected, this attempt at peace-making by big sister came to naught, and the interludes soon ended. It had the same chance of success as talking without preconditions to leaders of countries whose goal is to destroy you. So big sister, too, became increasingly vocal about her frustrations. Sad to say, but the two-year-old’s assymetrical warfare was defeating all attempts by the rest of the TC family to deal with him. And, looking at him and then at us, no one would believe us if we told this tale. So, the only remaining tactic: Stoic calm. And going 85 miles per hour. Miles per gallon be damned. This was an emergency.
With the gas tank on reserve, as I dared not take the time to delay the end further by stopping at a gas station, we arrived at “Grandpa’s House.” Nine hours of being held hostage in a small confined space by a not-yet-three-year-old master of psy-ops were over. I breathed the air of freedom once more, trying not to think about the return trip. No more whining and crying for now. As I wearily carried in the bags and brought in the tiny terrorist’s toy cars, he was playing peacefully in front of his adoring grandfather. Raising his blue eyes to look at me, he said angelically, “Thank you, Daddy.”
Some things for which to be thankful as we celebrate Thanksgiving:
Families, and spouses and children in particular, as we think about those unfortunates who are alone in nursing homes, in prisons, and under bridges.
The smile of a small child, in which we can catch a glimpse of God’s perfect goodness.
Having a job that allows us not only to live well materially, but to have a life that is intellectually and emotionally fulfilling.
Medical and dental care and the many wonders produced through modern science and technology that free us from the pain and toil that have plagued human beings since the dawn of time.
Living in a country where one need not fear for one’s life, liberty, or property because one was on the losing side of a political campaign.
The members of the armed forces and the peace officers and civilians who work to protect us from violent individuals, domestic or foreign, who seek to do us ill.
Those exceptional human beings who went before us and from whose intellectual, scientific, artistic, and religious patrimony we continue to draw to our incalculable benefit, individually and as a civilization.
Indoor plumbing, particularly when one is sick or on those cold nights, and clean sanitation that alone prevents a great number of diseases that have killed or debilitated untold millions of human beings in the past.
Stores where the food is so varied, healthy, inexpensive and plentiful that the average citizen today eats far better than royalty did during almost all of human history.
Not living in almost any other country or at any other time.
Sources of amusement at one’s fingertips that dispel the mind-numbing boredom that was the common lot of human existence.
Clean, cool water.
And, of course, a benevolent and involved God, Who, by making us in His image, allows us to participate fully in the wonder that is life. Or, if you are otherwise inclined in your beliefs, the felicitous coincidence of a fantastically large number of unimagineably improbable random material causes that allows us to do so.
