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SCOTUS on Prop 8 and DOMA

891651_10100669254725536_1828519658_oAll of these legal theories hurt my brain. I tried to use my powers of clairvoyance, but they have been lacking in the last few months. I’ve lost nearly every game of poker that I’ve played recently. However, I’m hoping that I can at least offer you some encouraging words to hold on to until the Court decision is handed down – possibly in June.

In our country, we freely throw around the terms “Freedom of Speech”, “The Right to Vote”, “1st Amendment Right”, or even “2nd Amendment Right”. On some level, all of us are familiar with the rights guaranteed to us under our Constitution in the Bill of Rights. These first ten amendments were deemed necessary to ensure that our government did not try to abridge these ten rights that were assumed to be granted to us as free, self-determined people.

Marriage is not one of those rights they enumerated. Why not?

Because then as now, it could not be conceived that the government would ever deign to tell a free, self-determined person to whom they may commit in a loving relationship. That it could every be stripped away or denied or that we would ever need protection from such action was beyond contemplation.

If you think this is my wild imagination, then consider this: even the people for whom society has no forgiveness, a prisoner on death row, who is afforded no right to vote, has no right to bear arms – they have the right to marry. From Turner v. Safley in 1987, the Supreme Court decision stated that, “Prisoners have a constitutionally protected right to marry…”

A right, I might add, that you do not have.

In 1967, Chief Justice Earl Warren wrote in the unanimous court opinion for Loving Vs Virginia, “Marriage is one of the “basic civil rights of man,” fundamental to our very existence and survival…”.

We all understand this. This is not news to us. However, it seems, at times we are yelling at a brick wall when explaining this to our opposition.

You must understand, though. The people that are fighting against us don’t really care about legal arguments because legal arguments won’t assuage their fear. Somewhere in their past their is a darkness, that terrifies them, and some have turned to religion to construct defensive walls that keep this terror at bay. This is not all religious people. This is only some. However, their fear is real and they are to be pitied not hated. However, those that would use this fear for political gain are despicable.  They are the ones holding this country back.

Our culture is filled with references like, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” or “If we open a quarrel between past and present, we shall find that we have lost the future.”

Think to when you were younger and dreamed that one day you too could live in the past. Wait…you didn’t did you? Isn’t interesting how as a species we daydream of what the future will BE like, that we instinctively look forward, rather than backward? We’re all familiar with the craziness of people waiting in line for days for the newest iPhone. Can you imagine people waiting in line for days to be the first person to own a rotary telephone TODAY? or a portable cassette player TODAY? Of course you can’t. That’s in the past. We don’t want the past. We want the future!

If it doesn’t come about this time around. It will come. It is inevitable and it is a future I believe is worth working for.

 

 

 

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We Get by with a Little Help from Our Friends

A few weeks ago, my son, Xavier, decided to move out west, to Colorado Springs, to search for new opportunity for himself and his family. I’m not claiming the East Tennessee isn’t a beautiful place to live, but if you are a young couple at the lower end of the socioeconomic spectrum without a college education, the best you have to look forward to is a labor job and a community addicted to prescription painkillers and meth labs. Having a two year and one year old child, Xavier and his wife, Megan, made some hard choices. Breaking apron strings and getting away from bad influences is a big leap of faith.

To accomplish this task, Xavier had secured a new apartment, purchased discount plane tickets for the family and had his vehicle shipped, with as much personal belongings as he could pack into it, to its new home. The only things they were taking with them were what they could check in baggage on the airplane or carry-on luggage. Three days to go before they leave this Wednesday and the clock is ticking.

Xavier knows what it’s like to start over and to have nothing. He’s been there before. Although he’s been nervous about this move, he’s had a good plan and he’s had a couple thousand dollars stashed away to get him started. Not everyone is so lucky though. A friend from the army recently got evicted from his home and had no place for his young wife and baby to stay. Xavier invited them to stay in his home this past week – he could always use an extra hand to help pack for his move.

To celebrate his last weekend in Tennessee, Xavier and Megan went out Saturday night leaving the homeless couple at their home alone. When they returned, the couple was gone – and so was Xavier’s nest egg. I know what you’re thinking, but it will do no good to criticize him for keeping that much cash in the house. It’s already too late and I’m sure the lesson has been learned.

The police have been called and a report has been filed, but I doubt we can expect a recovery.

As you can imagine, Xavier is under enormous stress about arriving in a new in two days no funds and starting fresh. I’m asking my extended family and friends to send gift cards to local retailers (Walmart, Target, Kmart) or anything they can do to help him get established. Imagine you were just getting started and had nothing. What do you think you would need? Yep. He probably needs it too.

If you would like to send something directly, a family friend lives in Colorado Springs and can receive packages or mail for Xavier until I get his new permanent address:

Xavier Vandewalker
c/o Andrew Hatfield
3453 Shrikes Tail Heights
Colorado Springs, CO 80916

Of course, being a techie, I’ve put a handy widget in my side-bar if anyone would like to use that to donate! :-)

Also, if anyone is interested in buying a bedroom suit for their child: http://knoxville.craigslist.org/fuo/3687966136.html

EDIT: It means a lot to me that people I haven’t seen in 20+ years would my child – no matter how small. What I’d like is for it to mean a great deal to my son, Xavier. For him to be overwhelmed with many small tokens from people who only knew his father may end up having a very great impact on him.

 

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Magazine Capacity Limits Saves Lives

I’ll try and be brief. In the wake of the recent massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary, the discussion of gun regulation has once again surfaced in public debate.

Many are calling for a ban on the sales of assault-type weapons. However, I’ve seen many claim there is no such thing as an assault weapon. Just today, Rush Limbaugh stated on his nationally syndicated radio show:

Let’s go through these gun terms just for the heck of it here, for what it might matter. “Assault weapon.” “Assault rifle.” There is no such thing. Go to a gun store and tell ‘em you want an assault weapon, and the guy will look around and show you his entire inventory and say, “Pick one.” But there is nothing — no brand, no label — that identifies the weapon as an assault rifle or assault weapon.

I don’t even want to go there. I don’t care. However, the amount of bullets a weapon can fire before reloading – that is something I care about.

Why?

It saves lives. I know this from first hand experience.

On July 27, 2008, Jim Adkisson pulled a semi-automatic shotgun from a guitar case and fired three shots into my church congregation at Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church. After the third shot, he was subdued by five brave and unarmed men: John Bohstedt, Robert Birdwell, Arthur Bolds, and Terry Uselton and visitor Jamie Parkey. I can still remember him yelling that they were hurting him. They had broken his arm.

Why only three shots?

Typical shotguns sold in the United States have a tubular magazine with a capacity of 6-8  cartridges (shells). However, most states have game and fish regulations which limit the magazine capacity of a shotgun to three shells for migratory bird hunting. In other words, we want to give the ducks a sporting chance. As a hunter, you do not want to get caught in the field during duck season with a shotgun holding more than three shells in the magazine – even if you’re hunting something else – like deer.

Most hunting shotguns are arguably used for duck hunting while many deer hunters, but not all, prefer rifles. Because of this, most shotguns are sold with a magazine plug installed. This magazine plug limits the amount of shells that can be loaded into the shotgun to three. A knowledgeable gun owner that is mechanically inclined could easily remove the magazine plug. There are even instructions in most owners manuals for how to install and remove this plug. For instance, on page 11 of the Remington Model 870 Semi-automatic Shotgun Owner’s Manual, provides step-by-step instructions.

Thankfully, Jim Adkisson wasn’t a knowledgeable gun owner. Had he been and and removed this magazine plug, five more shots would have been fired before he was stopped.

Considering all the recent mass shootings, how many more people would be alive had the shooter’s weapon had a limited capacity of rounds and they had to stop and reload?

 

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Where’ve You Been?

Great Grandpa Crone

There was a time I thought myself to be invincible and that I would live forever. It’s funny how that point of view has changed as the years have slipped by.

I’m not THAT old. I’m only 41. However, with last year’s head injury, the aches I feel in my body after a day of honest labor, and all of the medication I’m on, it’s not difficult to understand why I contemplate mortality.

If you’re like me, you envision death surrounded by your closest friends and family, passing peacefully, knowing that you’ve made a positive difference in the world. It doesn’t really have to be that grand a difference. Knowing that I’ve influenced just one life can, at least, give my existence some meaning.

I haven’t thought about my great grandparents in a while: Abigail and Benjamin Franklin Crone. They lived in a small house behind my maternal grandparents. Whenever I see that house, I imagine, briefly, they’re inside in their favorite chair taking a nap.

Grandpa Crone had a small blacksmith setup and I used to play with his tools and not put them back. He was never too happy about that. He had the biggest ears I’d ever seen on a man, yet he was deaf. He was also plagued by cataracts and was considered legally blind. To recognize me, he would pull me close and eyeball me for a minute before recognition set in. He loved to chew tobacco. A spittoon was never far away.

I remember watching television with him as images of astronauts performing effortless acrobatics in the zero gravity environment of Skylab danced on the television. As we watched he would strain his eyes at the screen and point, “You see them wires?”

He continued, “Man ain’t never been on the moon. Why, the moon’s the size of a basketball. You can see it for yourself. If man was on the moon, you could see him sittin’ right there.”

Grandma Crone was sweet and soft. She always made me feel special. She also had a unique talent for communicating with and putting up with Grandpa. While talking to me, he would complain that she was being too loud and waking him from his nap. A few minutes later she would ask him a question and he would tell her, “Damn it, woman! I can’t hear you. You know I’m deaf.”

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

I don’t remember very much else about them. However, I once asked Grandma about her childhood. She shared a heartbreaking story:

I was about eleven or twelve. We lived out in the country. Mom and Dad had to take the wagon into town for supplies. Back then, it took more than a day to travel to town and back.

They left me in charge of my little brother. He was about four years old. I’d put him down in the house for a nap.

I went about doing my daily chores. After a while, I got tired and sat on a pile of hay in the barn. Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep.

When I awoke, I heard something terrible. I ran out of the barn to find that the house was on fire. I couldn’t get to my little brother. He died in the fire. I was so sad. All I could do was cry and watch the house burn. When my parents returned the next day to find the house in ashes, I had to tell them that he was dead.

Even though they were a part of my life throughout my childhood, I didn’t keep in touch after I moved to Tennessee as an adult. I regret that now. I wish I had been closer, more inquisitive. I wish I had something to tell my grandchildren about them.

The details are a bit hazy, but there came a time when they both had to be put in a nursing home. They were kept apart for their last years. It was my understanding that they shared rooms with someone of the same gender because the men and women were housed separately.

I was told they were brought together occasionally. I don’t think they spoke, but merely held hands or enjoyed knowing the other was in the room.

It got to the point that Grandpa could not longer speak, see, or hear. He would make hand gestures to his mouth indicating he wanted a chew of tobacco.

Grandma was suffering from dementia. She would frequently forget names and faces.

One day, the family went to visit Grandma Crone. She asked, “He’s gone, isn’t he?”. Somehow, through her mental fog, she knew that her love had passed before anyone told her. She wasn’t lonely for very long as she soon went to join Grandpa. I imagine they found one another once again.

Each time I think of them, I can’t help but think of that damn Kathy Mattea song that was released right around the time they passed away. I’ve included it below to torture the reader.

I can’t bear to think of Jaime and me ever being separated whether through age, sickness, or death. Sometimes my intuition tells me I’m not long for this world, but my heart wants to live forever. My heart knows that’s how long it will take to show my love how much she means to me. I hope we have many more years together. There is so much I need to share with her, but I’m still learning how.

Where’ve You Been? [click to play]

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Carports Full of Crap

Funny…trust me, you’ll like this one.

Years ago, in 1999, in an email from my mother, she disclosed her plans for the weekend:

“no time to write right now, but I wanted all of you to know I have been thinking about you and praying for all three of you. I am headed to work. I am going to work for Titanic for the Sat. afternoon matinee. Your dad is going to stay home and clean the carport. If you can believe that. I will write you later to let you know if any progress has been made. Got to go. Talk to you later. Love and hugs MOM”

Knowing that my father is a bona fide horder, I had little faith that he would make a dent in his project. Being ever the pessimistic smart ass with no internal filter, I drafted a response to my mother.

“I can tell by Dad’s own enthusiasm toward the carport that it is his own personal underworld of suffering  As to where most of us would say to the question, “What are you doing this weekend?” I would reply, “Oh, being tied to a whipping post and the life force thrashed from me,” Dad would answer, “Cleaning the carport”. You see, it’s the same for him as endless torture. If you believe there is any truth to the statement, “We create our own suffering,” this is definitely true for Dad’s relationship with the carport.

Years drag into decades and now the next millennium is fast approaching. Will the carport continue to plague the Aldridge family for the next 1000 years? The possibility is scary but painfully likely.

Generations from now, when the history of the world is recorded and historians make their way to the small town of Shannon Hills, the carport of the Aldridge’s will be it’s greatest legacy. With enough metallic and non-ferrous material to shelter the Aldridge home from nuclear fallout and a direct nuclear blast at ground zero, the home will stand as a monument to those that survived the post-apocalyptic nuclear winter which will eventually come one day.

History books will record the keen insight of Melvin Aldridge, whom they will refer to as the “Father of Mankind”. For because of his efforts he and his family were one of the few to survive, and therefore the Aldridges repopulated the once great republic of the United States.

Following his example, the children of the future are taught in school the fundamentals: reading, math, history, wire stripping, and nail straightening. The national anthem will include the words, “waste not, want not.”

And so it is our legacy, nay, our destiny, to be rulers of a great nation, The Salvaged States of America.

God save the King!

Mom got a kick out of the email. Dad…not so much :-)

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