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Mike really loved his work as the local business representative. Something kept gnawing away at him though. In his job he was privileged to knowing about some of the financial transactions going on, and the more he learned the more suspicious he became. He sensed that all was not strictly on the up and up with the money situation within the union. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but some things just didn’t smell right.
As the business representative of the local, he was not allowed to sift through any details of what happened to the dues money he helped to collect each month. He couldn’t follow the money after it was passed up to the district council headquarters. It was frustrating.
After much soul searching, he finally decided that the only way he was going to find out more was to get elected to a position of more responsibility. With a position as a district official, he could sit on the district council board. There he could see the financial reports. Hopefully he could then do something to protect the dues money paid by the individual carpenters he cared so much for. He still felt one of them, and not just a man with a suit, an office, and a union car.
* * * * * * *
So he decided to run for the office of the district secretary/treasurer. As part of his present job he had promised to do everything he could to keep the carpenter dues from increasing. As the local business representative he had proven his diligence toward looking after the average working carpenter. Here was a chance to do even more. The rank and file union members trusted him. They knew he was really one of them. On the other hand, they knew very little about the present district secretary/treasurer, a walking shadow of a man who had held office for a long time, kept a low profile, and ignored the ordinary carpenters. This sitting secretary/treasurer smugly planned to be re-elected without a contest because the hierarchy of the Inner Circle supported him wholeheartedly. Why not, he went along with the old boys club of doing things the way they had always been done. The order of the day was to take money from the carpenters and hide from them any details whatsoever about what the money was spent for.
The next time the term of the sitting secretary/treasurer came up for re-election, Mike filed for the job. When he announced his intention to run, several of the district officials came to him right away and tried to persuade him to either sit still and forget the job, or if he must run, to promise to go along with all the practices in place. There was nothing subtle about their message. They laid it on the line. They repeatedly reminded him he had a pretty good life, and that his wife and family were content with him doing what he was already doing. They stopped short of actually threatening his wife and family, but the message behind the message was obvious.
Because he was totally trusted and liked by his local rank and file members, he managed to defeat the sitting Secretary, a very crooked person. The defeated man hated Mike with a passion and threatened to kill Mike’s wife if he got elected. He played hard ball. Mike was frightened, but he held his ground, accepted a pistol from a close friend, and took it home to his wife. He warned her to use caution regarding herself and the children.
The outgoing Secretary never did actually take a shot at Mike or his family, but the threat, even though hollow, hung over Mike’s head for years. He knew that some union officials had suddenly disappeared or were found dead over the years with a bullet hole in their head when they didn’t cooperate. It was no game. It was serious mob rule. Play by our rules, or take the severe, illegal consequences.
Short of killing union officials who strayed from the approved tactics, the Inner Circle had many other ways to punish them. One favorite was to mail a pair of women’s panties to the home of a man a week or two after he attended an overnight convention in a hotel in another city, claiming the hotel said they were left in the room after his departure. Other times the Inner Circle paid prostitutes to openly solicit men in front of their wives, implying it was a routine thing.
The main way they kept control, however, was with the almighty buck. Those who went along and played along were rewarded, sometimes with cash, but often with expensive perks, such as tickets to major ball games, passes to amusement parks, unexpected gifts of all sorts. Almost all of the officials were quite willing to go along with the system, keep their mouth shut, and keep their jobs.
One man in particular, a lawyer who was retained by the district board, invited Mike to his spacious home for dinner and a quiet heart-to-heart talk. This man virtually controlled the district board, even though he was not a member of the union. He was an independent attorney, supposedly paid to render legal advice to the district. It turned out he was also employed by several of the individual local unions, who cheerfully paid him his fees in return for a kick back of half the amounts they paid him. The kick backs went into the pockets of the officials who arranged the contract. After all, it was the union’s money, and there was a lot more where that came from, so who cared.

By chance I stumbled upon this verse in the Bible:

“The heart of the wise inclines to the right,
But the heart of the fool to the left.”
Ecclesiastes 10:2 (NIV)

Thus sayeth the Lord. Amen.

Can’t get any simpler than that.

Spelling Lesson

The last four letters in American……….I Can
The last four letters in Republican…….I Can
The last four letters in Democrats………Rats

End of lesson. Test to follow in November, 2012

Washington’s Birthday in February gets much less attention, except for government employees, banks and a few companies that deem to call it a holiday.

My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.

Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.

The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.

My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.

In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.

Perhaps just a cough, I didn’t quite know, Then the
sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.

My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.

Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.

A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.

Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.

“What are you doing?” I asked without fear,
“Come in this moment, it’s freezing out here!

Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!”

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts…

To the window that danced with a warm fire’s light
Then he sighed and he said “Its really all right,
I’m out here by choice. I’m here every night.”

“It’s my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.

No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I’m proud to stay here like my fathers before me.

My Gramps died at ‘ Pearl on a day in December,”
Then he sighed, “That’s a Christmas ‘Gram always remembers.”

My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ‘Nam ‘,
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.

I’ve not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he’s sure got her smile.

Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue… an American flag.

I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.

I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.

I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..

Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall.”

“So go back inside,” he said, “harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I’ll be all right.”

“But isn’t there something I can do, at the least,
“Give you money,” I asked, “or prepare you a feast?

It seems all too little for all that you’ve done,
For being away from your wife and your son.”

Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
“Just tell us you love us, and never forget.

To fight for our rights back at home while we’re gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.

For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.

Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us.”

Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach
Despite its having sold 40 million copies since 1970, publishers originally thought that the concept of a book being told from the point of view of a seagull was simply ridiculous. As a result, Jonathan Livingston Seagull was rejected a total of eighteen times.

Chicken Soup for the Soul by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen
These days, everyone is familiar with the Chicken Soup series. In fact, it seems there is a chicken soup title for just about everyone’s soul, from prisoners to preteens to golfers. In a little under three decades, the title has become the best-selling non-fiction series in the world, selling over 130 million copies. Before the series launched though, Canfield and Hansen were rejected by over 100 publishers. Canfield once reminisced on these not-so-good times, noting, “The first time we went to New York, we visited with about a dozen publishers in a two day period with our agent, and nobody wanted it. They all said it was a stupid title, that nobody bought collections of short stories, that there was no edge — no sex, no violence. Why would anyone read it?”

Animal Farm by George Orwell
Orwell’s second best-selling novel behind 1984 was rejected four times before going on to sell 20 million copies. The main problem Orwell faced was the simple fact that his book critiqued communism while the USSR was a critical ally of the UK during WWII. What is truly interesting about this novel’s rejection though is the fact that author T.S. Eliot wrote one of the rejection letters himself, explaining “We have no conviction that this is the right point of view from which to criticize the political situation at the current time.” It wasn’t until a few months after the war ended that Orwell was able to secure a publisher for the story. The rest is literary history.

So if you want to write a book and are reluctant because you don’t know if anyone will publish it or read it, take hope. In fact, I will guarantee that we can publish it — as a printed book and/or as an E-book. Let’s talk.

Rejoice! I found a website that solves it.

Go to www.lyricsplayground.com

Definition of BCE: Abbreviation for ‘Before Common Era’, a
non-religious alternative to the use of B.C. in designating the first period of
the Gregorian Calendar, the era of prehistory and much of antiquity.

BCE is the partner of CE – a replacement for A.D.: Anno Domini, The Year Of Our Lord – and itself replaces BC, Before Christ. Unfortunately, the repetition of c and e means BCE
can often be confused with CE, especially by someone scanning quickly.

Now how’s that for destroying a tradition of thousands of years, just because some nut complained to the world governments that AD and BC were religious symbols and therefore had to be abolished.

God said : “Frank, you know all about gardens and nature. What in the world is going on down there on the planet? What happened to the dandelions, violets, milkweeds and stuff I started eons ago? I had a perfect no-maintenance garden plan. Those plants grow in any type of soil, withstand drought and multiply with abandon. The nectar from the long-lasting blossoms attracts butterflies, honey bees and flocks of songbirds.. I expected to see a vast garden of colors by now. But, all I see are these green rectangles.”

St. FRANCIS: It’s the tribes that settled there, Lord. The Suburbanites. They started calling your flowers ‘weeds’ and went to great lengths to kill them and replace them with grass.

GOD: Grass? But, it’s so boring. It’s not colorful. It doesn’t attract butterflies, birds and bees; only grubs and sod worms. It’s sensitive to temperatures. Do these Suburbanites really want all that grass growing there?

ST. FRANCIS: Apparently so, Lord. They go to great pains to grow it and keep it green. They begin each spring by fertilizing grass and poisoning any other plant that crops up in the lawn…

GOD: The spring rains and warm weather probably make grass grow really fast. That must make the Suburbanites happy.

ST. FRANCIS: Apparently not, Lord. As soon as it grows a little, they cut it-sometimes twice a week.

GOD: They cut it? Do they then bale it like hay?

ST. FRANCIS: Not exactly, Lord. Most of them rake it up and put it in bags.

GOD: They bag it? Why? Is it a cash crop? Do they sell it?

ST. FRANCIS: No, Sir, just the opposite. They pay to throw it away.

GOD: Now, let me get this straight. They fertilize grass so it will grow. And, when it does grow, they cut it off and pay to throw it away?

ST. FRANCIS: Yes, Sir.

GOD: These Suburbanites must be relieved in the summer when we cut back on the rain and turn up the heat. That surely slows the growth and saves them a lot of work.

ST. FRANCIS: You aren’t going to believe this, Lord. When the grass stops growing so fast, they drag out hoses and pay more money to water it, so they can continue to mow it and pay to get rid of it.

GOD: What nonsense!  At least they kept some of the trees. That was a sheer stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. The trees grow leaves in the spring to provide beauty and shade in the summer. In the autumn, they fall to the ground and form a natural blanket to keep moisture in the soil and protect the trees and bushes. It’s a natural cycle of life.

ST. FRANCIS: You better sit down, Lord. The Suburbanites have drawn a new circle. As soon as the leaves fall, they rake them into great piles and pay to have them hauled away.

ST. FRANCIS: After throwing away the leaves, they go out and buy something which they call mulch. They haul it home and spread it around in place of the leaves.

GOD: And where do they get this mulch?

ST. FRANCIS: They cut down trees and grind them up to make the mulch.

GOD: Enough! I don’t want to think about this anymore.  St. Catherine, you’re in charge of the arts. What movie have you scheduled for us tonight?

ST. CATHERINE: ‘Dumb and Dumber’, Lord. It’s a story about ….

GOD: Never mind, I think I just heard the whole story from St. Francis!