TOP TEN WAYS TO BE A MAN'S MAN IN GOD'S EYES now available for purchase

Baltimore, MD: Publish America has announced the release of Top Ten Ways To Be a Man's Man in God's Eyes, by Rusty Stroupe. This is Rusty's second book and is now available online at http://www.publishamerica.net/product38697.html.----------------- "Top Ten Ways to Be a Man's Man in God's Eyes" is an excellent resource for a ten-week men's group Bible study or for individuals whose desire is to grow in their relationships with God while discovering how God wants them to conduct themselves as men. While modern culture has established its own determination of what constitutes a Man's Man, God's definition is radically different. This book explores what it means to be a Man's Man on God's terms, providing a scriptural framework through which men can grow as fathers, husbands, and leaders in their churches and communities."------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- If you live in the vicinity of Shelby, N.C., Rusty Stroupe may be available to speak to your Men's Group to explain how to use the book as a ten week Men's Study at your church. Contact Rusty at rstroupe002@carolina.rr.com if interested. The online publisher price is normally $17 plus $4 shipping. To purchase directly from Rusty and have the book signed and personalized, send a $15 check(this includes shipping and handling) made out to him to 1908 Burke Road, Shelby, NC 28152. ">If you would like a free copy of the study guide sent to you by email, please send a request to rstroupe002@carolina.rr.com.

Loyalty to Hero and Team Unconditional

You may have noticed that from time to time in these columns, I refer to a favorite major league baseball team of mine as “my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates”. Since 1971, the Pirates have reigned supreme as my favorite team in any sport. We did have a brief separation in 1997 when they parted with my favorite manager, but I eventually returned after a few months of pouting. Unfortunately, I returned to futility. Recently my Pittsburgh Pirates were tabbed by one publication as the worst franchise in all of professional sports. Ugggh. They haven't had a winning season since 1992, when they blew a two-run 9th inning lead that would have sent them to the World Series. My advance-purchase World Series tickets went unused. So why do I still give my heart to this hapless band of cellar dwellers? Simple. I am loyal. I fell in love with the Pirates when I was seven. And jumping off the bandwagon isn't my style. Though I loved them all, my favorite two Pirates were Roberto Clemente and Willie Stargell. Clemente led the team to the World Series title in '71 and died tragically a little over a year later. A child's heart was broken. But I still had Willie. “Pops”, as he later became known, was my absolute hero. He was a huge, left- handed power hitting first baseman and I was an undersized, righty-hitting shortstop but it mattered not. Willie was my hero and because of him, I worked hard not only at baseball, but also at school and at life. I played on a little club team (they called it the minor leagues) when I was seven called the Pirates. During a real Pirates game on the Saturday Game of the Week on one occasion, the announcer referred to prospects in the minor leagues. Due to my extreme naivete, I assumed that since I played minor league, my team was somehow connected to the big league Pirates and they were monitoring our progress closely. No one could have convinced me different. Some thirty years later, I asked a Pirates scout friend of mine how Willie was doing. My friend informed me that Pops was extremely ill due to a kidney disease and his days were numbered. Heartbroken, I went home and typed a letter on my computer. The contents of that letter will remain private but basically I poured out my heart about how an African-American slugger in Pittsburgh inspired a small town white kid from North Carolina to dare to dream. And I was a better person because of him. Through a previous connection with the Pirates general manager at that time, I was able to get my letter to the Pirates organization. A few weeks later my scout friend assured me Willie had received my letter while in the hospital. A week or two after that on April 9, 2001- ten years ago this month- a voice on my truck radio informed me that my hero had fallen. A thirty-seven-year-old college baseball coach choked back a tear as the memories flowed. Unlike many money-chasing stars of today, Willie Stargell played for one team his entire career. And as long as I'm around- no matter what their record is- Willie's team will always be my team, too.

The Value of Trophies

The national championship trophy was presented at a basketball game recently. After a championship victory, everybody wants to hold the trophy. Sometimes they kiss it. One time a pro bowler dropped his championship trophy and it shattered into various pieces about ten seconds after he received it. Tragic, yet quite humorous. Sometimes people refer to animals they have hunted and conquered as trophies. Trophies in different sports can be shaped into cups, mugs, belts, animals, or posing athletes. And in the most outlandish usage of the term, men sometimes inexplicably refer to their spouses as trophy wives. (I'm not a female so I don't know how I would feel being referred to as a trophy.) When I was growing up, trophies were synonymous with championships. Usually only first place finishers got a trophy. I was excited to get my first trophy as an eight-year-old. However, I was curious and felt slightly guilty that the team members and I each received trophies despite finishing in second place. Don't misunderstand me here. I'm not against every kid getting a trophy just for being on a team and making it through the season. That's fine. But the reality is at some point, only those at the top will get the trophies. To the victor go the spoils, they say. Three years ago I watched as the winner of the tournament my baseball team was playing in hoisted the championship trophy up in the air near home plate. We battled for five days and lasted fifteen innings in the championship game before they finally beat us. But when all was said and done, they got a huge trophy and we didn't get so much as a certificate. All we could do was watch. Second place was first loser in that instance. But I'm not so sure in the long run trophies mean all that much anyway. I think the memories of the achievement far outlast the hardware received. I still cherish the memories of the 2008 tournament run and I don't need a trophy to remind me how special that team and those moments were. Take, for example, the number of trophies you see with dust all over them at thrift stores. Somebody gave their heart and soul for that trophy and yet, there it sits on the shelf with a $2 price tag on it. Eventually someone will buy it and change the nameplate so they can cherish their own particular accomplishment and thus the trophy can be recycled over and over again. I have a box full of trophies from my younger days but to be honest, I'm not exactly sure where they are now. My parents begged me a long time ago to remove the box from their cluttered attic. I took a look in the box a few years back. Some of the trophies brought a smile to my face as I remembered the pride with which I had accepted them- including the second place one and to be honest, a few third placers. I realized then that the treasure was not in the trophy but in the experience. Earthly objects don't mean that much in the ultimate scheme of things. And you can't buy memories in the thrift shop. But if you're desperate enough to try, for $2 you can change the nameplate.

Heroes in the Midst of the Madness

Despite a busy spring baseball season as a coach, I've caught a few minutes here and there of what they refer to in college basketball as March Madness. This year's tournament has produced more than its share of incredible performances. I've heard announcers and commentators refer to outstanding players as heroes during the madness. They speak of their courage, perseverance, and faith in themselves and their teammates. And I wouldn't disagree with that assessment. I'm not here to say that they're not heroes in some sense. When you can bring a group of people together and unify them- as in a team, a university, a community, etc.- then your efforts are heroic. When you can inspire others to chase their dreams and believe in themselves, kudos to you as an athlete. Well done. But not everyone is an athlete and few folks are afforded the opportunity to compete in high profile sports competitions. Thus common heroism is often overlooked. I recently had the privilege of watching several military veterans be honored at one of the baseball games I was coaching. One of those honorees was a former player of mine named Brett. He didn't get to play much when I coached him but I knew he was destined to be a winner in life. The few times he got to play in games way back when, I would ask him, “Are you ready?” His answer was always the same. “I was born ready, Coach.” Brett served two dangerous tours in Fallujah, Iraq during his time in the Marines. On the day he was publicly recognized and threw out the first pitch, I asked again if he was ready to perform and got the standard reply. A few weeks back our church conducted an exercise known as Cardboard Testimonies, where ordinary folks stand before their church family and present a brief written synopsis of their personal story on the front and back of a piece of cardboard. It takes courage to stand before others and reveal your deepest struggles. It takes perseverance to have endured those struggles and faith not to have buckled under their weight. Don, one of our members, had within the past several months suffered a stroke that nearly took his life and eventually left him incapable of many of the normal functions he had once easily accomplished. On the morning of Cardboard Testimonies, Don- who had been told at one point that he would probably never walk again- slowly but triumphantly made his way toward the pulpit, climbed the stairs, and presented his cardboard sign for the world to see. It really didn't matter what it said on the board. When he conquered those stairs, I knew I was in the presence of a real-life hero. Many moist eyes in the congregation would certainly have agreed. I've seen my share of incredible sports highlights in my life, but Don's performance that day was among the most courageous and inspirational feats I have ever witnessed. I don't know if heroes are born or made. I only know that within the daily madness of life, I have been privileged to encounter my share of inspirational people. And I'm a better man for having had the honor of witnessing Brett ascend the ranks and Don ascend the stairs. Heroes indeed.

Foul Ball Redemption

I have attended many baseball games in my life. Though I could speak of winning pitchers, dramatic homeruns, and dazzling catches- I have decided instead to use valuable column space to share with you some experiences I have had with foul balls. And if you're still reading at the end, there will be a point to this column. My first foul ball encounter occurred when I was eleven and my parents took me to see my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates play. At one point during pre-game batting practice, Manny Sanguillen- one of my favorite players- lifted a foul ball near the left field foul line that magically guided itself directly toward my personal space on planet Earth. Every child's dream. The fact I wasn't wearing my glove was irrelevant. I was about to catch my first foul ball. At about the same time my eyes recognized the distinctive red seams of a baseball, the self-preservation area of my brain secreted a message to the rest of my body, causing that body to bail out and duck for cover. A split second later the ball struck the seat behind me and bounced back onto the playing field. I was crushed and embarrassed. Some twenty years later I was attending a jam packed high school state playoff baseball game and decided to place my folding chair on a hill far down the right field line so I could be alone and peacefully evaluate some players I was recruiting. About midway through the game, a player stroked a line drive foul ball in my direction. I calculated the odds of a ball striking a person sitting all by himself to be extremely low and concluded that the best thing to do was not move and play it cool. A millisecond before would-be impact, my brain again secreted survival waves and I moved my head slightly to the right just in time to avoid a natural disaster. Most of the crowd laughed while a few hissed at the “cowardly moron” sitting by himself who didn't have the sense to get up and move when a line drive was headed his way. And so the saga continued. Until a recent high school JV game in which my son was playing. While I was sitting in the bleachers, a foul ball was launched high into the air and appeared to be descending in my vicinity. Again, knowing the odds were against it landing on me, I kept my seat as usual. But the ball, my right hand, and destiny would all meet in one dramatic instant. I reached up at the last moment and the ball stuck like glue in the palm of my hand. I tossed it back onto the field as an impressed crowd observed. A friend a few rows away yelled, “Hey, you can mark that off your list just like catching a (miniature) football from a cheerleader!” Maybe she has a point, I thought. So as soon as possible I checked the “To Do Before I Die (Bucket List)” on my laptop and there it was, bigger than life: “Catch a foul ball in the air at a baseball game.” As I crossed it off the list, I couldn't help but think that Manny Sanguillen would be proud, even if it was almost forty years late.

Sticking close vs. Letting Go

I have a love/hate relationship with super glue. I'm not questioning its effectiveness. I have used it in the past to hold together oodles of items, including the soles of shoes at times. Most recently I used it to repair a pair of broken sunglasses. The sunglasses were cheapies, but I'm attached to them. And smack dab in the middle of a baseball winning streak, I stepped on them and broke them into two pieces. "Gotta find some super glue," I told my assistant coach, "we can't mess with a win streak." The line came from a movie but everybody knows you don't change things during a win streak, underwear nothwithstanding. I've had those same sunglasses for about three years as best I can remember. If my memory serves me correctly, I paid three dollars for them. And they held up well until I stepped on them. "Coach, where are the sunglasses?" one of my players asked at practice that day. "No fear," I said, "I will find some super glue." Later that night I found some at home and set to work on my treasured shades. When I finished, they were a little whoppy-jawed and some of the super glue ran onto the lens, but they were intact and re-ready for action. I showed up the next day with my sunglasses and the win streak both intact. I have a perfectly good pair of replacment shades primed and ready for action, but they will wait in the wings as the first runner-up until the winner can no longer perform its duties. So why am I not a huge fan of super glue if it continually pulls me out of binds? Simple: I can't handle the stuff without getting it stuck on my fingers. And yes, I've accidentally glued my fingers together before, like many of you have, though few are willing to admit it. There are few sensations more irritating or distracting than super glue stuck to your personal self in some manner, especially your fingers. No amount of scrubbing with soap, water, and/or alcohol can rid me of the nuisance. Sometimes you gotta wait it out. Eventually the dead skin is replaced by a new layer and the super glue nemesis fades into oblivion. You wake up one day and the sensation is gone, but the new layer of skin is tougher than the last. I'm no theologian but I think there may be some sort of lesson in all this sunglasses and super glue mumbo jumbo. Sometimes we have to let go of things we are attached to. And other times we have to use everything at our disposal to repair the damage. The trick is knowing whether or not to open the super glue and risk becoming sticky and messy. Letting go can be painful but liberating. Conversely, enduring sticky situations can leave us tougher and stronger and more bonded than we were before. Life can't be fixed. Sometimes the best thing we can do is weather the storm and let it take its course. But there's also something to be said for resisting with all your might and all your resources when the storm's effects can be minimized. So where does that leave my sunglasses? For now, they're still on my head, stuck to my eyebrow.

Retiring From Beauty Pageants

Perhaps I opened a can of worms in last week’s column that I wasn’t quite ready to fish with. Lest your imaginations run wild, I now feel I must use valuable column space this week to clarify my participation in two separate womanless beauty pageants. It is indeed true that I participated and received the first place prize in a womanless beauty pageant at my church in South Carolina ten years ago. First let me note that no man wants to win a womanless beauty pageant, at least not this man. So the fact that I achieved that feat is not a source of pride or accomplishment to me. But win I did. Probably because I bucked the system and, emerging as the last contestant, rebelled against common dignity and appeared with a couch cushion stuffed in my “dress” to indicate my pregnantness. And to add to the effect, I grabbed a jar of pickles at the last minute and pretended to throw up a few times while walking down the “runway”. Mind you, I did all this to raise money for a good cause. Churches dress men up in women clothes so we can raise money to send mission teams to foreign places to teach people how to properly conduct themselves as godly men and women. Go figure. Of course it’s all in fun and the cause truly was a good one. So when I heard my current church would be conducting a similar pageant a few weeks back, I debated whether or not to risk losing my title. In the end, the event coordinators forced me to enter and in doing so, I saw an opportunity to relinquish my crown once and for all. I decided to rebel again and go with the whole pregnant theme and coming out last routine. This time, with my wife’s help and blessing, I sported a bathrobe, slippers, and sponge curlers in my wig. All was going well beforehand until me and some of the guys backstage got a little carried away. Unfortunately for everyone in attendance, I discovered a small baby doll in the church nursery where I was dressing before the performance. Why in the world I decided to stuff the hapless child up into my bathrobe next to my pillow I don’t rightly know. But I did. And at the proper moment, in front of several hundred fine Christian onlookers, I birthed a baby on stage. Caught up in the moment was I. Devoid of good sense was I. Inconceivably out of my gourd was I. Fortunately for me and everyone in attendance, I did not place in the top three. A guy in my Sunday school class who dressed like Cleopatra took home the crown. Thus my reign ended. Thankfully. And I decided then to hang up the wig and bathrobe for good. But the reverberations reverberated the next day at church. The pastor publicly mentioned something about a “churching,” which I think is similar to excommunication. I don’t know if I imagined it, but there were whispers about my continuing as a deacon. However, it seems everyone is okay now that I have announced my retirement. Hopefully I won’t pull a Brett Favre and come back seven or eight more times. (Unless it’s for a good cause.)

Parking dilemmas

I've never been good at parking, parallel or otherwise. When choosing the DMV where I would get my license when I was 16, I was careful to avoid a location anywhere near a parallel parking situation. Thus I remained unprepared and intimidated by the whole parking gig. The town where I live, Boiling Springs, is inundated with parallel parking spots near the one stoplight in the center of town. I avoid those spots like the plague. The few times I tried to parallel park in one of those spots in the past led to personal embarrassment and public humiliation. On more that one occasion I gave it a try, but eventually gave up, pulled out, and moved on while the waiting traffic and pedestrians observed. "Check out the moron who stopped traffic for five minutes for nothing," I think I heard them say. I tell you all this to set up the recent scene which occurred at the local Dollar General. There are no parallel parking spots there but the spaces are nonetheless cramped and challenging to negotiate. As I pulled into the parking lot that fateful afternoon, I noticed one available spot on the back row nearest to the road. I also observed two young men sitting on the tailgate of a truck directly across from the parking spot. Surmising that it would be extremely difficult to back out of the spot when I returned from inside, I made a courageous decision. I took a deep breath, mentally crossed my fingers, and decided to back into the spot with the goal of facing outward so I could easily pull out later. I could feel the eyes of the young men bearing down on me as I pulled forward, came to a stop, then turned the wheel hard to the right as I slowly began backing. "Don't panic," I told myself. "Use your mirrors and your common sense. Bad idea, forget your common sense. Just use your mirrors and whip it in there." With every bit of humility and modesty I can muster, I must say that I absolutely nailed it. On the first try. When I got out of my truck, my eyes witnessed a masterpiece of epic proportions. My truck rested precisely in the center of the parking spot, proudly facing outward for the world to see. The front end of my truck was smiling broadly at me in amazement and appreciation. So impressive was my feat that one of the young men on back of the truck commented, "Great parking job, Dude." I have played on state championship baseball teams and coached a world series team. I have received member of the year awards at two colleges where I've worked. And ten years ago I won first place in a womanless beauty pageant. Yet I can say that at that moment, when an impressed teenager paid homage to me for a parking job well done, I beamed with indescribable pride. "You are an absolute stud," I said to myself as I tipped my cap to the bewildered teens. And I strutted as if I had been doing it all my life. Franklin Roosevelt once said, "All we have to fear is fear itself." From this day forward, I will no longer fear parking spot dilemmas. (Unless they are of the parallel sort.)

The curse and blessing of technology

Technology has been driving me up a wall lately. I started counting up the things that were causing me stress recently, and the vast majority of my anxiety involved breakdowns of devices invented to supposedly make my life easier. There's a computer module thing-a-ma-jig that hides out of sight somewhere near the dashboard of my son's truck. Apparently it controls a lot of stuff I never knew about because when it decided to become unruly, various sorts of craziness ensued. The horn didn't work, the oil light stuck in the on position, and both headlights went out despite being supplied with perfectly good bulbs. The new cell phone I got in December when my old one conked out has begun misbehaving. It- not me- decides when, where, and if it wants to turn on and off. And I've made at least ten "pocket calls"- you know, the kind where your phone calls somebody when you didn't intend to. I'm quite certain it has a mind of its own. But the biggest pain in my technological life has been that wretched laptop of mine. I can't begin to explain to you the complicated tenuous love/hate relationship that dominates our mutual existence. I appreciate the fact my laptop partners with me in the production of these columns each week. I have three completed books and portions of two others stored on my laptop. And she keeps me connected to the world through the web. But I've got to admit, the laptop is a constant source of disdain for me. She won't turn on and off correctly. She freezes all the time. She taunts me by flashing error messages virtually every time I try to do anything. And recently, she decided she would no longer connect to the internet. My wife swore off the laptop weeks ago. I kept telling her that instead of hollering at it, she should just get up, walk away, and go upstairs to the PC in the bonus room. My wife took my advice and has been a better person ever since. When the strain of our relationship reached its peak, I made a drastic decision. As a result, we (my laptop and me) are currently going through a separation. We tried going to a computer specialist for therapy burt he said he needed to keep her for 10 days or so. I told him to take his time. We need our space. Not to be deterred, I produced this column on the upstairs PC. But technology would make a dramatic comeback on the day the baseball team I coach played its first home game in the new stadium. As the sun began to set, the brand new stadium lights gradually brightened and illuminated the field. And they came on automatically because I had called a guy in Iowa the day before and told him to set the lights to come on. He tapped a key on his computer and Poof! Let there be light. It was a beautiful sight to behold. As frustrated as I was with all my techno gadgets, those lights made me appreciate living in the advanced age we enjoy. I felt like stopping the game and calling the folks in Iowa to thank them for flipping the switch. And maybe I would have, but my cellphone wasn't working.

Feeling like a hero

It started for me when I was in high school. Because my mom was a fifth grade teacher, I spent as much time as possible hanging out with the kids in her class. I had a blast with the kids and for whatever reason, they treated me like a hero or something. One of the fifth grade girls even handed me a Coke outside the locker room after I played in a high school football game one Friday night. In a scene similar to the one with Mean Joe Green in the famous commercial, I gave her one of my jerseys when she gave me the drink. As I grew older, I made sure not to grow up. I’ve tried over the years to hang out with the elementary kids as a lunch buddy and as an occasional speaker at their assemblies and on other special days. Recently I was asked to speak to the first graders at a local elementary school on Hero Day. The teacher informed me that due to my being the college baseball coach in town as well as the author of this weekly column, I was somewhat of a hero (she used the term celebrity) to the kids. It was an honor to go speak but it’s comical to me to be considered a hero or a celebrity. I was even more intimidated when I showed up and the poster behind me said something about heroes and there were pictures of George Washington, Abe Lincoln, and Martin Luther King, Jr. plastered all over it. Then all of a sudden it hit me. None of those guys were available to speak so they went for the first person who was willing to take the gig. And this person was proud to accept. The script is similar every time I do one of these things. I talk a little bit about working hard in school and not giving up. I tell them how bad I was at baseball when I first started. Then I read them the little children’s book I wrote (as yet unpublished) about a paper clip who overcame multiple obstacles to eventually succeed in holding some important papers together. Yes, it’s cheesy but it’s mine. Then it’s question time. Most want to tell me about their coach pitch and little league teams and how they toss with their brother in the back yard. That’s cool and I’m always glad to hear about that sorta thing. But I really like it when they ask me questions about writing. It’s a nice aside from the usual sports stuff. One of the little boys in the most recent class I visited raised his hand and asked simply, “Where do the words come from?” It was quite possibly the most profound question I’ve ever been asked. One that I couldn’t fully answer other than to say the words only form when I turn off the television, the video games, and either sit quietly or stick my nose in a book. No matter how wise I become as the years roll on, I can always learn something from a child. And I may not be a real hero, but when the kids step out of line to give me a high five while walking down the hall with their class, I sure feel like one.

Introducing the Flash Report

It has become apparent to me that you, the reading public, are in need of a “Flash” fix. Of all the subjects I have written about, the Stroupe family dog Flash has gotten the most response. And though I am not one to cave in to the whims of a fickle public, I have decided in this case to quench your thirst for more by incorporating an occasional update which will furthermore be known as the Flash Report. Flash is quite the icon these days. Neighbors ride by and wave at her in the front yard all the time. She just sits there, not realizing why human types raise their arms above their heads and wave their hands back and forth when they see her. Unable to understand or respond, she simply stares. Even the UPS delivery woman is familiar with our dog. She told my wife recently, “I felt safe to leave it on the porch because I didn’t see Flash outside.” Apparently she knows Flash from the newspaper. The relationship between Flash and deliveries to our home is the main topic of this week’s Flash Report. Flash, like the Grinch, nearly stole Christmas. As you may remember, Flash has the unpleasant habit of chewing and destroying most anything she can sink her teeth into. Examples include plastic water bottles, Penny (her stuffed tiger), six bags of mulch, the stuffing of her bed, and three of those spigot covers we use for winterizing our pipes. She also chewed up the first 38 chapters of Genesis from one of our Bibles. That’s what I call digging into the Word. Even so, it did not deliver her from further temptation. Christmas was particularly challenging. She intercepted a front porch shipment of those free trial fluorescent light bulbs Duke Power has been sending out. She got a hold of a box containing two pair of shoes. When we opened the tattered box, it held three shoes. The fourth was discovered in the side yard, salvageable but traumatized. When one important shipment was way overdue, a search revealed an expensive hat in a bush next to a couple thousand pieces of cardboard that had previously served as a box. We’ve held our breath on several occasions, hoping that the recipient of a particular gift would not notice the teeth marks in the item. We were advised to put a cooler on our front porch near the front door with a sign attached that reminded delivery folks to place items in the cooler. Not to be defeated, Flash ripped up the sign and went straight back to her pillaging. That was the breaking point. I decided something drastic had to be done. I took immediate and deliberate action- I made a new sign and taped it high enough on the front door where a dog couldn’t get to it. Now that the holiday season is over, the sign and the cooler have both been removed- but the menace remains. After hearing the doorbell ring recently, I opened the front door and observed the delivery lady and the dog playing together in the front yard. “Don’t trust her,” I said. But it was too late. Like the neighbors and the reading public, the delivery lady was charmed by Flash’s magic. While the Stroupes are left to clean up the messes.

Teaching the Kid the Rules of the Road

It happened one afternoon when I was a teenager a few months away from receiving my coveted driver’s license. On that particular day, I was perched in the front seat next to one of my friends in a truck driven by his father. We came to a stop sign and my friend’s dad never slowed down but kept on truckin’ right past the sign. The stunned look on my face begged an answer, so my friend quickly explained, “He doesn’t think that stop sign should be there.” Thus began one of my first informal training sessions in Driver’s Ed. It’s a wonder I ever survived to see high school graduation. Over the years I have developed my own philosophy of driving, which I am more than willing to share with my sons. My middle son recently completed Driver’s Education and for now, he’s my responsibility on the road as I ride along in the passenger’s seat. He’s extremely cautious, which is a positive, but also leads me to admonish him to “give it a little juice” from time to time- which does not go over well with Mom. But I feel like I’m doing a fine job instructing the chap. I have trained him to complete the following phrases: Dad: Know all the rules and assume everyone else . . . Son: Has forgotten them. Dad: Never text and drive but assume . . . Son: Everyone else is dumb enough to be texting and driving, especially teenagers like me. Dad: Never be an idiot behind the wheel, but assume . . . Son: Everyone else I meet on the road is an idiot. Dad: Never drink and drive, but assume . . . Son: Everyone else I meet on the road is drunk. Dad: If you ever drink and drive . . . Son: First you will take my license and then you will castrate me. (The first time I said that he ran to the dictionary to see what it meant.) I think kids these days have it a little easier than we did in my day when it comes to driving and such. We had to use either maps or some vague sense of direction to find our way. They have GPS. We had to turn the radio station with a knob while we were driving (not a good idea) and they can press one button and it goes straight to their favorite tunes. They have cruise control and we had a sore right foot. They have automatic transmissions where we had to learn to operate a clutch and grind the gears. (But they can’t catch second gear like we did.) They have cellphones if their car breaks down. I had to walk two miles in the rain to a friend’s house to call home when the truck I was driving broke down. (Long story, one I still don’t like to mention to my dad.) Regardless, I’m proud of my middle son’s driving. He comes to a complete halt at stop signs (even if he doesn’t think they should be there) and obeys the speed limit obsessively. So forgive us if we’re a little tardy now and then. The kid is just being safe and assuming everyone else on the road is an idiot. Just like his old man taught him.

Time to Tune Out the Rhetoric

I don’t do politics in this column. And I certainly don’t endorse candidates in my 550- word-space each week. Not to say people won’t encourage me from time to time to speak on the issues. Take a stand and stick to it, they might say. I’m not afraid to take a stand on issues. But in case you haven’t noticed, my little column is best described as a humor/insight column that is sometimes lacking in both in the opinions of some. Even so, I admire people who take a stand and aren’t afraid to put their views out there for the inevitable criticism. People can talk all they want to about how our politicians in this country are crooked. Unfortunately, some deserve the label. But in general, I admire their bravery to stand up. If they stand up against their party occasionally, I respect them. If they go against popular opinion in the name of what is right, I applaud them. But if they spew rhetoric, debasing and personally vilifying everyone that disagrees with them, I am turned off. Speaking of turned off, that’s what I want to do to my television when the pundits all start talking at the same time and hurl insults and dirty names at each other. Seems many are incapable of carrying on a rational discussion. Turn on the tube and scan for ten minutes and you’ll see what I’m talking about. Take, for example, the Democrat Congresswoman who was shot in Arizona recently. Despite an outpouring of love and support from across the country, there are those who want to get their faces on TV and talk about how it’s her opponent’s party’s fault that she got shot because of the “atmosphere they have created” in this country. Here’s my opinion, for what it’s worth. The atmosphere created exists mainly in our government, not among the vast majority of Americans- who simply want positive and effective representation. Most of us red, white, and blue Americans admire people for their character, not for their political affiliation. But some of the pundits have created a situation where even politicians themselves are scared to compliment members of opposing parties for fear that it will give their opponent credibility as a human being. I don’t care whether Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords is a Democrat, Republican, Independent, or whatever. She’s an American. And she was doing her job representing and interacting with her constituents when she was shot. Unfortunately innocent others were hurt and several died. There are some out there who want to blame Republicans for the shooting as much as the lunatic who did it. And others would be irritated that by humanizing her and offering my deep respect for her- and by opining that the President gave a fine speech after the incident- that I am somehow advancing liberalism and harming conservative causes. If you adhere to either of these two opinions, I’m going to step out on a limb here and say that you are in the vast minority in this country. Most of us red-blooded Americans care about people more than we do parties. And we want all the rhetoric to cease so our representatives can get something done that will benefit all of us. That’s my stand and I’m sticking to it.