"For the Rain it Raineth Every Day"

"For the Rain it Raineth Every Day"

“When that I was and a little tiny boy,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

A foolish thing was but a toy, 

For the rain it raineth every day.”

Feste, “Twelfth Night” by William Shakespeare

The rain began last Thursday, at times pouring down in buckets, the winds peaking at 55 MPH, according to the National Weather Service. This is Monday, so we’re working on day number 5. Though we are due to see a return to sunny skies shortly, I can’t help but look back on those days when I was still hanging out in the middle school, and remember how we coped with those times when the rain kept students under cover for weeks at a time.

Beginning the year Casey was in sixth grade, I opened up my classroom at lunchtime, when it rained, so that students had an alternative to the multi-purpose room, as exciting a venue as that was. Students were encouraged to bring their lunches into my class and eat, and then afterwards, remain to take advantage of a warm, dry environment, in which to spend their lunch-break.

Students could do a last-minute assignment if they chose, or they could do anything they wanted that did not involve being up and about. Over the years I had accumulated a number of board games, including plenty of decks of cards, and these were available on a first-come-first-served basis. 

There was really only one rule that accompanied the basic “Be respectful to the environment and those in it,” and that was that you had to be seated in a chair-your own chair-no sharing. 

That way, it was a given that you weren’t in there to play football or musical chairs. The volume was loud, of course, but it was an organized chaos that allowed students to let out a little of that pent-up steam, before they returned to their next class.

There would undoubtedly be music on the boom-box, and if I were desperate, I could even make use of the time to get blast-minute assignment graded before the next period(s) began. 

I remember Judy and Kathy, both yard supervisors for many years, covering my classroom for me, so that I could go up to the staffroom and check my mail, use the facilities, or even xerox something for later on that afternoon.

It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, because the more students who were in my classroom the fewer who were out in the quad, trying to stay warm without running around on slippery concrete.

I never worried about students making a mess and just leaving it. First of all, their peers would never allow them to get away with it; secondly, they recognized a good thing when they saw it. If they abused the privilege, they would lose it.

I wanted my sons to have a comfortable place to be at lunch, and it just so happened that their friends were welcome too. After all three had moved on beyond the middle school, I still kept my classroom open at lunch when it rained.

Now when we have these extended periods of rain, I look back and remember those days in the classroom, with forty or so kids all sharing lunch, and smile. 

How many of you can say you have shared lunch with more than two eighth graders, and lived to smile about it?

Lived, sure, but still smiling when it was over? 

All Hands on Deck

Treasure Island

All Hands on Deck

I got a hankering to read “Treasure Island” the other day, and went looking for a copy of it. I have a shelf devoted to some of the classics I used to teach when I was hanging out in the middle school, but there was no copy of the novel I was seeking. Upon further research, I not only found what I was looking for, I found a hardbound copy that I think may have been a Christmas present to a son, many seasons ago.

In any case I am delighted to be able to revisit the account of the greatest of all adventures, and one of the earliest examples I can think of, where good and evil were presented to me in such ambiguous terms, as to make me realize how complicated the whole process could be.

Evil Long John Silver

Good and evil are not as easy to distinguish as white and black. Was I supposed to perceive Long John Silver as evil, because Jim Hawkins actually witnessed him murdering the honest sailor, Tom, in cold-blood? Or was I to look at him as good because he protected Jim against the other cutthroats?

As a kid I used reading as an escape mechanism. I was small and wiry, with three older brothers and three younger brothers. To say I sought attention is akin to saying that Hurricane Matthew sought attention; I was not a child to be ignored.

I learned early on that there was a right time to seek attention and a wrong time, and the wrong time was anytime that Papa was in the vicinity. Take those hour-long rides in the 1951 Plymouth, on our way to visit Noel at school, when I would ride on the floor right behind Papa, among the legs of those riding in the back seat.

I was that small.

I also had a book at all times, a necessity for being able to escape a potentially hazardous setting, one which involved my incurring the wrath of Papa. A copy of “The Prince and the Pauper” was more than adequate to do the job. 

Reading not only entertained me, it kept out of trouble, a twofer if ever there were one. As a family we would go visit Mama’s older sister, Frances, or as we called her, Sister Mary Petra. I was an adult before I ever remember referring to her as Aunt Frances, and when we visited her at the convent, we would seat ourselves in the most formal of settings, the parlor of this elegant edifice.

All of us in our family, dressed in Sunday-go-to-meeting outfits, would be seated silently around the room, and if someone did ask a question or make a comment, it was in hushed tones or even a whisper. Fortunately for me, books were not only acceptable, they were encouraged, until, of course, Sister Mary came into the room.

After devoting my life to reading, I find I am less adventurous than I used to be, when it comes to staying current with what’s out there. I always have a book going but more often than not, it is exactly that: an adventure that is more likely to be “Treasure Island,” than the National Best-Seller, “Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion.” 

All the years I was in the classroom, with all levels of ability under one roof except for special-needs kids, I used to read most of each novel I taught, out loud. For those who questioned why, I said the primary  reason was that it gave access to the material to all students. Those who struggled to read, could not only follow the story, they had to read along. 

How did I know they were reading along or not? I encouraged students to read aloud but did not insist in it. However, if I called your name to read, and you declined, you still had to be able to read the next line so that I knew you were with us.

Those who were “against” us would be easy enough to spot. If a student weren't following along, then her eyes would be somewhere other than on her book. It’s harder to keep one’s eyes clamped to the front of a book and not follow along, than it is to simply go with the flow.

[Editor’s note: Despite the recent revelation that the “singular they” is now acceptable, I chose to use “her,” instead, in the above example. I could have used “his” or I could have used both. “They?” Not yet…]

As a teacher, I was quite adept at navigating the classroom, using that strategy of proximity to keep potentially squirrelly kids on point, and taking in the next line or two of the story. That way I could cast my eyes adrift throughout the room, to ensure that all hands were still on deck.

Should a question arise in my mind, I would throw out a net. All one had to do to avoid it was to show you knew where we were at. What were the consequences of not knowing your place?

First, you lost face in front of me and your peers; second, it cost you participation points in my grade book, generally a way that a grade could be salvaged if you were struggling academically; finally, it put you on my radar, as a candidate to be called on again within the next fifteen minutes.

I did the voices, so that when Long John Silver was talking, I did the pirate thing. I never even made cameo appearances in the plays I directed, but I got my acting in, anyway. The longer I taught, the more dramatic I got. It was a gift, or a curse, if you were a student who was not enamored with the program.

Hey, we could have been diagraming sentences.

Now, the attraction to electronics is so strong, that parents need to have kids on board before they start hanging around their friends who are already plugged in. The best way, of course, is to read aloud to them from the earliest possible age, and the older they get, the more you read to them.

Not only does it promote comprehension and literacy, it promotes closeness between parent and child. Sharing this time together is a precursor to helping a kid with his homework when the time arrives.

Helping with schoolwork, especially projects, is a logical extension to the shared-reading experience, and with a solid foundation in place, the tutoring should go smoother. 

Now when I see those memes on social media, which question the need for libraries, I bristle. The idea that libraries are outdated is so short-sighted as to be ludicrous. Notably are they essential to the fabric of our culture, they are the pathway to treasure chests of gold, such as that found in “Treasure Island.”

The only thing missing are the coordinates, and you’ll have to get those yourself.

Christmas Interrupted

Christmas Interrupted

“Christmas is coming; the geese are getting fat.

Won’t you please put a penny in an old man’s hat?

If you haven’t got a penny-a ha’penny will do;

If you haven’t got a ha’penny, then God bless you.”

Rarely have I sat down to write, and found my topic so challenging that I struggled to frame my thoughts in some semblance of order. I can relate the events without hesitation but for once, when I assemble all the parts, what I expect to find at the end, is an incomplete accounting of the emotion I am attempting to convey.

I didn’t know we were poor when I was young because our family life was rich. When the last kid had arrived, we were nine siblings in all, being raised in a home where the head of the house pulled in an annual salary of $7,000.  

Christmas means house-cleaning.

Though economically challenged, the folks were experts at extracting every last penny’s worth of enjoyment out of any given occasion. They demonstrated it when we went camping every summer, managing to take us all “On Holiday” for a pittance, and they showed it by always acknowledging birthdays, with a special meal and all of the festivities

Nowhere, however, did this skill surface more apparently than at Christmas time. The parents placed a great deal of emphasis on both the spiritual and material side of the season, resulting a unified effort on their part, to bring us kids a joyous Christmas every year.

Pauline told me once that Robert always felt strongly that kids needed to wake up on Christmas morning to a pile of gifts, that did not consist solely of new socks and underwear. They made good on that goal every Christmas of my youth. 

Inexpensive but well-chosen gifts, books being number one on the list, were the order of the day. A new Hardy Boys Mystery or Bobbsey Twins book; “The Call of the Wild,” or one year, “Treasure Island”; “Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates,” “The Swiss Family Robinson,” and “Little Men”; all of them filled the bill.

Anticipation of the grand day itself, actually took a back-seat to that of the season overall. I counted the days down with a keen sense of eagerness, but the reality is that just getting to December was good enough, because then the folks would begin playing Christmas music and lights would start appearing on neighbors’ homes. 

I had mega-problems sleeping Christmas Eve night, needless to say, and it only served to illuminate how intense the whole experience was. I grew up carrying this intensity around with me, and it remained unbreakable for sixty Christmases.

The first year I began blogging, 2011, I wrote a series of “Christmas Memories” with a great deal of enthusiasm, thus demonstrating that my feelings were still very much alive and well. There were twelve in all, representing the twelve days of Christmas, filled with vibrantly rich memories of my childhood.

The Nativity Set was a huge deal at home, on Fellowship Street.

The picture I painted left no uncertainty, as to why I would form a lifelong attachment to this season, and why I never failed to feel intense anticipation, no matter how old I got. Particularly during the years I taught, did I look forward to this season, because along with the big day, came two weeks of R & R.

Nothing occurred-ever-until December of 2012, to rain on my parade, but when it did, the downpour was enough to extinguish this enthusiastic anticipation, forever.

Zounds, one might respond. What kind of horrible event did it take to take the air out of my balloon? Someone died on Christmas Day, itself? My wife left me for a trimmigrant? My dog died?

What?

My emotional state was already strained by Annie’s diagnosis of kidney cancer in August of that year, and by her having to spend most of the time in Willits near her health care provider. I was keeping the home fires burning because that was the way I could best help Annie.

I commuted back and forth from the mountain to Willits, as circumstances and weather allowed, having to spend far less time in Willits than I might have liked. The reality, though, is that there is always a lot happening up on the mountain, and I could not pretend that such was not the case. 

As Christmas approached, I naturally began to build up my anticipation. Even if I had to go back and forth, at least I could spend the key times down in Willits, because the critters didn’t care what day of the calendar it was. Of course I was thinking the key days were Christmas Eve and the next day, and the same a week later, on New Year’s Eve and the following day.

These were simply MY thoughts as December approached; I never vocalized them because, well, I never saw the need, as if everyone felt the same as I did.

Which turned out to be quite accurate.

Annie had taken a part-time position in the video store, working for an old friend of both of us, attempting to defray the cost of the little apartment. In the aftermath of her surgery to remove a tumor the size of a softball, along with one kidney, Annie did not want to feel imprisoned in her small living quarters.

Naturally, she wanted to be a team-player when the boss asked her the first week in December, if she could work both Christmas Eve and New Years Eve, so that those who had families could spend those days with their loved ones. 

Annie automatically said yes and that was that.

She had no idea how much that decision, made spontaneously because she was put on the spot, would impact me. I was simply thunderstruck. I felt as though I had been run over by the proverbial Mack Truck, but there was nothing to be done.

I couldn’t blame Pete for asking, I couldn’t blame Annie for saying yes, and all I could do was roll with the punches, from my punch-drunk position on the floor.

I understood exactly what had happened and why it had occurred, and what’s more, I could explain it as clearly as I could recap a ballgame. It didn’t help with my emotional letdown, but it did help in terms of the big picture, and Christmases still yet to come.

My expectations for any given Christmas season, no matter how festive it turned out to be, could never match the reality of what I actually encountered. Going through life with this expanded set of expectations, was bound to set me up for failure, somewhere down the line. 

It was simply coincidental that it took so long. Now, however, with this clear recognition that the upcoming Holiday Season will undoubtedly NOT be the best one ever, I am in a far better position to enjoy, that which I actually encounter. 

Always a jig-saw puzzle going...

As much as the fall is always painful, I feel as though I am better off for having had enough of a parachute, as to be able to find some meaning in it all. Now I am more aware of how important it is to enjoy each day, one at a time, the way life is meant to be experienced, instead of some variation on a theme.

That way, if we have to spend Christmas Day down at Howard Hospital, dealing with side-effects from Annie’s immunotherapy treatments, as we did on my birthday, I will not miss a beat. 

I will just switch my Pandora station to Christmas music in the hospital room, and go down to the cafeteria for some egg nog for me and Annie. 

And like the critters, I won’t worry about which day of the calendar it happens to be.

Look at Me! Look at Me!

Look at Me! Look at Me!

If I could alter one component of my personality, it might be to tone down my tendency to function at extreme levels, and stay more to the center of life’s complex arena. I’d like my life to more resemble a baseball game, with its serene pace interspersed with frenetic action, than to look like “extreme sports,” which tend to be, well, more dramatic. 

I glom onto patterns of behavior that defy explanation, even to myself, who curiously enough, seems uninterested in getting to the bottom of any of this idiosyncratic conduct. Whether it’s music, footwear, writing, big pharma, sleep, tee-shirts, water or facial hair, I am going to be at the extreme end of the “normal” spectrum.

Earlier this summer. Interesting color of shirt...

What I haven’t figured out for certain, is either why-or how-I slipped into this mode in the first place. 

Out of the blue the other day when I opened Pandora, my sole method of accessing music, a message appeared relaying the information that in the last three months, I had accessed 9,747 songs. The communique went on to say that Pandora was quite pleased, and hoped that I would access another 9,747 songs in the next three months.

Not having any data off the top of my head, to compare how my listening rate compared to others, I took the numbers at face value, and kicked them around for a moment. Per month I would be listening to approximately 3,250 songs, or a little better than 100 songs per day.

You may see where I’m going with this. Take my sandals, for instance. After encasing my feet in conventional footwear the first sixty years of my life, I have since abandoned-ship on shoes and boots. My feet no longer wish to be so confined, I guess, though they have not personally conveyed that message to me.

I have drawn my own conclusions, based on the fact that in the past year, I put on boots only one time, refusing even to wear socks with them. My task at that moment was to haul rocks out of the creek-bed, and up to a worksite behind the house. There was no way I could go up and down the steep side of the hill to access the creek-bed, wearing sandals.

Even last spring, when I spent twelve weeks using a pitchfork to work the soil at three different sites on-farm, I wore only my sandals, though I wore through two pairs in the process and created some technical difficulties in my digging (right) foot.

My sister JT informed me that my metatarsal bones have an issue and that it would go away over time if I start wearing footwear with better support. Well, I have news for you: As soon as she told me that, the pain magically disappeared, relegated to that same part of my brain that the discomfort in my back from processing tomatoes or handling the weed-eater goes.

If I refuse to acknowledge that discomfort exists, then it doesn’t exist. 

Ties? Uncomfortable?

[Editor’s note: Cannabis may or may not have an influence here-the jury is still out back with the bong and some high-grade OG/SK, trying to ascertain whether there is any connection. They’ve been gone a week now.]

Sleep? Yes, there is that pesky issue of only getting four hours per night, and then getting up and letting my mind roam around for a few hours, though I keep a tight leash on that sucker, most of the time. You see, I get into trouble online because of my politically correct perspectives, which often clash with the more down-home approach of the locals.

Unfortunately, to solve that sleep issue, I would have to capitulate, and go with my VA doctor’s prescription for the meds big pharma is so happy to provide. I drove down that road earlier, until the meds caused me to crash and burn in the most hideous of styles.

Never again.

What the VA doctor does not have to prescribe is water, which I have found to my utter astonishment, to be a panacea for a bevy of physical issues. Per my custom I drink from six to eight liters of spring water every day.

For me water keeps my life afloat in so many ways, I am still figuring them all out. Water keeps headaches away; if I feel a headache coming on, I know I am not properly hydrated. Water reduces my incessant craving for sweets; even at that, I fall back on fruit rather than chocolate, the food of the gods.

If I am outside in March with a temperature of 34 degrees and the wind is howling, and my bare toes inside my sandals are cold, I know I am not properly hydrated. It’s immediate-I hit that water thermos, and my toes stop tingling.

Four inches of snow on the ground? No problem. It’s way more hassle to put on boots to go out and get an armful of wood, or feed the chickens, than it is to simply take care of business in my sandals. Were someone to ask me if my feet were cold, I would inform them that they were not.

Who needs to travel to experience the Grand Canyon?

If I were to guess, I would say it is because there are so many moving parts in the feet, and that blood keeps circulating at 98.6 degrees, keeping those feet warmed accordingly, but what do I know?

What I do know is that I am not a guy who likes to be uncomfortable, so if my feet were giving me grief, I would address the issue.

I hate tee-shirts with sleeves, so I either wear tank tops, or cut off the sleeves. I wore a buttoned-up shirt and tie for sixteen years, four days a week, and I guess this is my way of evening up the scales. 

And, of course, I have those goofy braids/dreds, more than a foot long by now.. As Annie is want to say, “Look at me! Look at me!” Considering I hate the spotlight, I have a funny way of showing it.

If you twisted my rubber arm, I might confess that I thought it was all related to my mood-spectrum disorder. Think of it as a passive/aggressive approach to being bipolar. I don’t take meds, relying on my Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and cannabis to keep matters under some semblance of control.

I don’t think of cannabis as medication, just as I don’t think of oxygen as medicine. Both are essential to my forward progress in life, just as are those extreme personality traits. By being able to manifest my bipolarism in enough socially acceptable situations, I seem to be able to manage the disorder more effectively.

I guess. Maybe. Who knows? My behavior is generally referred to as eccentric, which is how you like to think of retired folks, now getting on in age.

Hey, eccentric is better than bat-shit crazy…

Bridge-Burning-201, Advanced Studies

I'll have a Jameson on the rocks-better make it a double...

Bridge-Burning-201, Advanced Studies

How Liberals and Conservatives can learn to get along: A Step-by-Step guide to the complete idiot (that would be me, for one; the rest of you have to take stock…)

The first point of order here is that neither libs nor cons are right or wrong: They simply are, kind of like Jerusalem crickets and butterflies, dependent upon which side of the septic tank you happen to be representing. I, by universal definition, must be a Jerusalem cricket, because everywhere I go, I make people nervous.

So in order to be able to coexist with the butterflies I encounter, I must find a way to rein in those pincers that seem to be the problem. I must accept that I am the newcomer here, despite having lived on the mountain for almost 35 years. In most books, that makes me an old-timer, but not when it comes to politics.

I bring in with me different notions of how things ought to be, especially the concept of political correctness. I have been around for a spell, and have seen our culture go from referring to various ethnic groups as spics, wops, kikes, zips, and micks, all nice single-syllable words, easy to spit out, even by the mouthful.

There are others, so many others, that it boggles the mind at how creative we were back then. On the other hand, we drove around in vehicles at 70MPH without seat-belts or airbags. Go figure.

Liberals tend to look upwards and outwards from the immediacy of their lots in life, more globally as it were. Conservatives tend to focus more on what is right around them, as their grandparents and multiple generations going back into the depths of time, have done.

Both are admirable sides of the septic tank of politics, from which to view life. When occasion calls for the intermingling of the two sides, unspoken truces go into effect, baseball is played, church is attended, the school field trip takes place and we all enjoy a good cup of our favorite hot beverage at Pour Girl’s, in the ‘Ville.

Until the election comes along.

Instead of being able to keep those truces in effect, as we do when we are face-to-face, we (I mean me, of course) tend to let that broader side of our socio/economic background take over, and that’s like trying to mix cannabis oil and beer: It’s never going to happen smoothly. 

Better to drink your beer and eat a brownie with it, than to try and mix the two.

Though I personally do not support either of the major party candidates, I find myself drawn into debate because of my inability to understand that I am clearly out of my league. 20,000’s worth out of my league.

I am so politically naive, I never actually realized how much animosity I could incur, by simply asking a clarifying question of someone. It makes no difference what the question(s) was, only that I was incapable of recognizing how vast the chasm was/is between us. 

I appealed to what I thought was human nature, and found out that human nature can be viewed by different people, in amazingly different ways. Again, specifics are unnecessary-only the recognition that they exist.

So, what to do?

Well. there is the weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth approach to the situation, or a daylong excursion to Boomer’s, to drown my sorrows in good Irish whiskey.

Oops, probably not Boomer’s, due to my controversial approach to the whole Colin Kaepernick/respect-for-flags conundrum. Judging from some of the posts coming out of the saloon, I would be as welcome as, well, a Jerusalem cricket.

One strategy is avoid all political exchanges period, recognizing clearly the futility of once again, being put through our paces by a master plan far more complex-and probably devious-than any of us can imagine. Nothing is too outrageous.

Another strategy is to find neutral ground, preferably of a humorous vein, and then go that route. Not only is the humor infectious, there is a certain lightness to the exchanges that lends more weight to them, as in, “We are rising above that septic tank and meeting somewhere else, kind of like we do in reality.”

The reality is Annie and I like to stop at Pour Girl’s on the way through to get lattes; it’s an incentive whose worth is immeasurable.

When it comes to blowing up bridges, I am a demolition man...

The question is, “Have I obliterated this bridge over the chasm, or can it be repaired?”

Ask me after the election, when I no longer have a swath of black bands running down my back

.

Sleep Well

Yummy. Too bad you can't both have it, and eat it.

Sleep Well

One thing is certain: This volatile election is taking its toll on personal online friendships. Time, distance and philosophical differences render the process of maintaining any degree of closeness challenging enough as it is, without tossing in a national election, as divisive a tool as has ever been invented.

The liberals versus the conservatives. Those who view President Obama as a knight in shining armor, and those who view him as black, period. Those who are so disenchanted with corruption in high government places, that they seek a maverick such as the Republican candidate. 

[Editor’s note: I have yet to be able to convince my fingers that this is all real, by actually typing the letters to this man’s name. I’m working on it.]

As ancient as the hills is the old axiom about not discussing politics or religion, if you want to remain friends with folks. Religion rarely enters the arena for me, simply because I have absolutely no interest in either participating in any form of organized worship, or prattling on about it. 

Politics, unfortunately, is not so easy to ignore, because this year’s election has so many features never before witnessed on the national stage. Racism, sexism, morality, values… They are all being bandied about like so many ping-pong balls waiting to be selected in the upcoming bingo game.

The difference is that each of the ping-pong balls in a bingo game

is exactly the same, except for a random number. The issues being bounced around for this election, strike much deeper at the basic components of our society, creating this polarity between “liberals” and “conservatives.”

I see the blatant racism the exudes from every pore of the Republican candidate, and it sickens me to the core of my existence. Over my life I have seen the full circle of desegregation, beginning with the civil rights protests and continuing through to the present, where political correctness reigns supreme.

How our nation, the land of freedom and equality, can embrace a candidate who clearly does not see all citizens as equal, defies explanation, and I simply will not go along with his agenda. If someone supports the Republican candidate for President, then that individual is also accepting this candidate’s beliefs as far as racism go. You cannot have it both ways.

"I am a star so i can get away with it."

By definition, even if you are voting for your guy because the opposing candidate is inordinately corrupt, you are supporting a racist agenda. You may not like that element, but you cannot deny it. Protest until the cows come in, explain your rationale thoroughly, but the fact remains that you are going along with a racist agenda.

I can’t even discuss the sexist component of the Republican candidate, without grimacing, but once again, if you are a supporter of this man, you are also a purveyor to the rape culture of this country. This is the culture which allows a college athlete to commit rape, and then draw a twelve-week “sentence,” because the judge did not want to wreck a perfectly good life, by holding the perpetrator accountable for his actions.

Get used to it.

You can once again explain to me why you are voting for your guy, and rationalize away his agenda as being a “necessary evil,” in order to avoid corruption in high government, and I may nod my head accordingly. But I will not agree with you.

You can’t have your s'mores and eat 'em too. If corruption in high government bothers you more than having a racist/sexist President, then knock yourself out at the polls.

Just accept the fact that you are supporting a racist/sexist agenda, and then sleep well at night. That way you will  never notice that you have one fewer "liberal" friend on social media.

But hey, we are bound to run into one another at Geiger's some day, or even better, the post office, and we can pretend to be friends for a moment or two. We'll smile brightly and exchange hugs.

And then go about our business.

How sad.

President Wanted: Club G.R.O.S.S. of 'Merica

President Wanted: Club G.R.O.S.S. of 'Merica 

Dear (The) Donald supporter,

As enjoyable as the entire experience has been, I must now remove myself from the political arena, because I am obviously not smart enough to recognize what you and all of your NASCAR friends have been able to see: The Donald is the Answer. 

Hell, I can’t even figure out the question.

Gosh, does that make me feel inadequate. Y’all do doublespeak so effectively, I am left on the tarmac, flattened by your rapier-like wit. I am not the fastest Formula One on the track.

I ask you how you can support a man who has such a low opinion of women, and you tell me it’s because Bill Clinton had his lollipop licked by an intern.

I ask how you can support a man who feels that women have no value past age 35, because, well, you know, fun is fun, and sagging breasts and droopy buttocks are such a turnoff to men, especially white, powerful men. You respond, “Because Hillary is a crook.”

I stay the course, and ask how you can support a man, who has to continuously restrain himself from “grabbing a little pussy?” You enlighten me that that comment was made ten years ago, and besides, Bill has done what The Donald only talked about.

Huh? Seriously, I repeat-for emphasis, in caps-HUH?

I find it the most challenging experience in the world because every single point of contention about The Donald, is rerouted back to Hilary or Bill, whose name(s) I never mention.

It’s like asking someone what time it is, and having her tell me that it is Sunday. It makes as much sense. I ask her, "What difference does it make if a man makes a comment like The Donald did today, or ten years ago?" The contempt and revulsion I feel for this man and his sexist attitude, is immeasurable.

Please, when I ask you a question about The Donald, respond with an answer that addresses the question. It's a small thing but would make me happy.

The Donaldo is the kind of individual who creates an uphill battle for decent men everywhere, who are as repulsed by this alleged candidate for the nation’s top office, as clear-thinking women. What if The Donald should be in the midst of a debriefing with a female world leader, and feel so compelled to grab a little something/something, that he can’t control himself?

What if his star status isn’t enough to get him a free grope, and she has the unmitigated gall to snivel about it? To the media? What then?

My personal objection to The Donald is that he represents the America that I detest. Like America, and its earlier innate belief in the right to all land “from sea to shining sea,” he takes what he wants. A lot of ‘Mericans like his style.

He is loud, he is vulgar and he is a star.

Supporters have bought The Donald's party line that all Muslim immigrants are ISIS soldiers in disguise, and that these immigrants are slinking around STEALING benefits more rightfully due veterans, and that has all the Donaldo’s supporters in a lather.

As if there isn’t enough money around for both.

The Donald is, of course, a guns rights kind of guy; guns are good for business. The Donald keeps his words short, he repeats them a lot and he doesn’t worry whether or not the words are true.

It is a proven fact that if you repeat something often enough, and everyone around you agrees, that it must be true.

Repeat after me, “The Donald would make a great President!”

OK, here goes, “The Donald would make a great president... of Calvin and Hobbs’s G.R.O.S.S. club: “Get Rid Of Slimy girlS.

That’s the best I can do.

Sincerely,

Markie