Argue With All the Facts

My Flag Flies Everyday

Dear Senator Durbin;

I tried to call your Washington office today but the call volume was too high and the system shut me out. Therefore, I write this e-mail.

I listened to your argument today during the Health Care Summit. I have to admit that you are very eloquent in your speaking ability. Your argument about the cost savings related to Tort Reform however, is flawed. I am sure the statistics you quoted on the amount of money awarded and the savings are correct. I do not refute you on that point. I do, however want to argue that you have left out the invisible cost of defensive medicine that the medical profession practices every day, in every office and every hospital in the country. Medical staffs are loaded with highly paid people whose sole function it is to document everything a doctor does, prescribes, and orders. Hospitals are loaded with staff sitting at terminals documenting everything that occurs with a patient. Why? They document in order to defend themselves against a possible lawsuit.  None of this documentation comes cheap.

I do not argue that a doctor who operates on me and removes my right arm instead of my left should be punished and the patient compensated. I do argue that I should not have to be tested four times a year when, statistically, once would be enough.  As for documentation needed for payment, why should I have to pay a premium for a failure on the part of government run Medicare and Medicaid’s inability to maintain a fraud free system?

It is my opinion that the hidden cost of Tort reform is a thousand times greater than the actual awards granted for real mistakes.   

Do not support the Health Care Reform Bill for the following reasons:

  1. The cost of one trillion dollars will bankrupt the country. The accounting trick you are proposing to collect money for six years and to offer services for four years is bogus. If a bank wanted to collect your mortgage payment for six years before it let you into the new house you just bought, you would be writing a law to prevent them from doing it. Why be a hypocrite on this matter to sell me the idea. It is morally wrong.  I expect better from you. Do not support this bill.
  2.      I am positive that the Supreme Court will find the requirement that I purchase insurance by law is unconstitutional.  Why do you insist on supporting legislation that is so obviously flawed? Do not support this bill
  3. Say no, to a government takeover of the Health Care system. Why do you support a system that will give mediocre care to everyone in the country after openly admitting that we currently have the best system in the world? I also wish I could believe what I heard about this bill, giving me the same plan as the one you and Congress enjoy. What a dolt you must think I am. In addition, I did not hear anything in the discussion today that explained why federal funding for abortion is a basic right. Are you kidding me? Abortion is murder. If I came into your office and shot you dead, I would be arrested prosecuted and sentenced.  Yet the bill insists that it is the basic right of a grammar school girl to have the federal government (me) pay for the murder of her unborn child. I would sooner pay for the prosecution of the abortionist. Do not support this bill.

 Respectfully yours,

 Grumpa Joe

Prince Albert

             Grampa Jim left a ladder up against the farmhouse. It was a homemade ladder, and was very heavy.  I was too small to be able to lift it or carry it, so finding the ladder in place presented an opportunity.  Before I climbed up, I made sure Mom was doing something, and would not catch me easily.  Up the ladder I started.  Lifting my short legs up to each rung felt like stretching to my shoulder.  The first few rungs were easy. About half way up, I began to feel the bounce of the ladder.  I was terrified, but kept on climbing.  Once I got on the porch roof I felt safe again, as long as I stayed away from the edges and didn’t look down

            The main house had a gable roof.  The porch roof was flat but sloped down.  At the end was a door to access the attic of the house.  The door was square and low, and locked with a hook. It was easy to open. 

            I unhooked the latch, and pushed the door open. The space was the dark, and hot air hit me in the face.  It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.  I stepped onto one of the several boards placed across the ceiling rafters.  There was no insulation and the ceiling showed between the rafters.  One slip and I would go crashing through.  I was still small enough that I did not have to duck low to clear the rafters as I walked on a plank. A few steps into the darkness, I began to see the outlines of some very large, very brown leaves laying flat on the boards.  What are these and why are they here?  I asked myself. Then I remembered that Grampa had a few tobacco plants on the farm.  The dry brown leaves looked just like the tobacco I saw growing.  The attic was less of an adventure after that day, and I did not go back until much later, but for a reason.

            Gramps had a boarder living with him.  The rent kept Grampa Jim in Camels and his daily bottle of beer.  His name was Cszilag, Pista, which translated from Hungarian read Star, Steve.  For some reason, old country people call or refer to someone by the Sur name first, then their given name.  Steve Star became a central character in my life later on.  At this time, I got a brainstorm to play a prank on Steve.   He was a lonely old man who worked in the pickle factory in Coloma.  All we knew about him was that he liked to get drunk on wine.  He boarded with Gramps for many years.  When we came to the farm, Mom set the rules and he had to live by them or hit the road.  One rule was “no drinking”.  He lived up to the charge. 

            After supper, Steve enjoyed a smoke on his corncob pipe.  He sat on the log chairs under the willow and packed his  pipe with tobacco from a can of Prince Albert. The tin can was always in his hip pocket.  The Prince Albert cans were unique in shape because the fit into a pocket very nicely.  The hinged lid insured the smoker would not lose it, and it snapped shut.  Empty cans littered the house and yard.   Steve had a habit of leaving them wherever they became empty.  Gramps used them to store nails and screws, although they made lousy storage for those types of things.

            One day I asked Gramps what the leaves were in the attic.  After interrogating me about how I knew about them and lecturing me on the hazard of climbing shaky ladders, he told me it was tobacco.  Gramps tried the tobacco and did not like it, but left the leaves in the attic.  They were several years old, and so dry that the slightest touch caused them to crumble.  I got the idea to test the tobacco, but not by smoking it myself.  I found a Prince Albert can that looked new.  The ladder was still against the porch.  I snuck into the attic and crumpled enough tobacco to fill a Prince Albert can.

            While Steve was at work, I sneakily placed the can on his dresser.  The remainder of my day felt like eternity while I waited for him to come home.  We ate supper and he finally went outside to smoke.  He pinched a wad of tobacco for his pipe, and noticed that it was dry.  Smoking tobacco, I learned, is moist, even though it is brown from age.  He continued to fill and lit up.  It only took one drag for him to be convinced that something was seriously wrong.  I could not contain myself any longer and started laughing hysterically.  He looked at me as he puffed out and began coughing uncontrollably.  When he finally stopped, a string of Hungarian words, which I had never heard before came from his mouth. I can only assume that these were words on Mom’s list of ‘forbidden’s’.  At the instant that I burst into laughter, and Steve started cussing, I broke into a run. I ran as fast as I could to get away.  Steve Star had finally put it all together and was emptying the contents of the Prince Albert can on the grass.  When Gramps heard the whole story, he smiled.  When Mom heard the story, she scolded me for being so mean.

I Feel For Toyota

During my fifty-three year career in manufacturing, I developed a flair for solving a problem. It is not easy.  In order to find the root cause you have to continue to ask why until people think you are nuts.  My last job was manufacturing a product that we made in the billions. The item is relatively simple in appearance, but it is highly functional. The product is a cable tie. The original purpose of the cable tie was to hold wires together.  Over the years, people have learned to find many applications for this unique item.

My team designed the product, designed and made the molds that produced the product, and set the quality requirements of the manufacturing process. Often we received a complaint. Usually, a customer told us the ties were breaking. He wanted us to fix the problem. Our sales staff immediately replaced his defective product. Most of the time, it was a single package.  My engineers always asked for samples of the failures and any unused samples from the package that the failure ties came from. The failed tie often contained clues to why it failed.  The unused samples gave us some product to test in our lab. If we were very lucky, the Quality Control number was still on the package. That number allowed us to trace the manufacturing process variables.

Usually, I received a handful of broken ties from the complaint. With those samples, it became my job to determine what caused the failure.  I will not bore you with the details of how I proceeded, but if I could not duplicate the problem in the lab, I was looking for a needle in a haystack. Many times, we shut down our highest producing mold until there was an answer.  Talk about pressure to do something.  I can only imagine what is going on within Toyota right now, but I have a good feeling for what it is. I feel for the engineers whose job it is to solve the problem.

Currently, I drive a 2005 Toyota Avalon. I have rehearsed my reaction to a runaway acceleration many times. I only hope that if it happens that I have enough time to react appropriately before I kill myself or someone else. I have dubbed my car the Death Star. At this writing, I am listening to the Senate questioning of the CEO of Toyota. The man, Akio Toyoda from Toyota, said their fix might not be the answer to the acceleration problem. That is a nice way of saying they still do not have a clue about what is causing the problem.

I also studied the quality process taught by US guru Joe Duran, and utilized by the Japanese car companies. In this program, Duran taught that it is cost effective to shut a line down when you find a problem, and leave it down until you fix the problem.  That is a hard concept to swallow. Most manufacturing companies do not buy into it. Mine often did, but the justification for shutting down a mold had to be great. In Toyota’s move to stop selling cars, and to shut down their factories until they fix the quality problem, they practice what they preach. They will come out as winners in the long term.

In the meantime, I bet there are at least a thousand engineers running like chickens with their heads cut off trying to duplicate the problem. As they analyze every aspect of the design, they will come up with ideas that are very probably the answer, and they will implement solutions. They may even stumble upon the root cause and re-create the problem. That is when I will believe they have solved the problem, and until then I drive the Death Star.

One Vice In Life

     If Grampa Jim had one vice in life, it was smoking.  I never saw him without his cigarettes.  He carried stick matches to light up.  Occasionally he asked me to find him a match, but he was never without his cigarettes.  He smoked Camels.  I never saw him with any other brand.

     When Gramps did not have enough money to buy Camels, his second choice was a sack of Bull Durham tobacco with papers. When he wanted a smoke, he made one. He was an artist when rolling a cigarette. First, he opened the sack, and pulled a single sheet of paper from the packet. He curled the paper to form a trough, and carefully shook tobacco onto it. Next, he clenched the drawstring of the bag in his teeth and pulled the bag closed. I watched in amazement as he closed the bag while balancing the open paper without ever losing a single flake of tobacco. Once the bag was back in his shirt, he held the cigarette with both hands. Carefully, he rolled the paper into a cylinder. When he finished, the paper surrounded the tobacco except for a short edge. He carefully lifted it to his lips, and swiftly gave a lick against the exposed paper. He folded the moist edge over the cylinder, and welded it shut. He was ready to light up.

      Gramps grew tobacco on the farm. His friends grew tobacco, so he grew it too.  He did not grow much. I never saw more than four plants. The plant grew as tall as corn, and had large green leaves.  When the leaves were ready, he picked them, and strung them on a pole to dry in the attic.

     The leaves turned from green to golden brown during drying.  He crumbled the dry brittle leaves by hand into millions of little pieces. He stored the shredded tobacco in a bag until he was ready to make cigarettes.

     He had a second way to make cigarettes that utilized a little machine made of wood. It worked by turning a hand crank. First, he placed a sheet of cigarette paper into the machine, and sprinkled some tobacco onto the paper.  A single turn of the handle wrapped the paper around the tobacco.  Finally, he moistened the overlapping paper to make it stick together. This method enabled him to make several smokes at one time.

Problem Solved

     What a genius I am, I thought to myself. I am smart.  I have come up with a solution to a large segment of the illegal alien problem. Many of the illegal’s are coming across the U.S.-Mexico border. We try like hell to keep them out, but they keep on coming. It is not easy trying to secure a border that is 1969 miles long. Build a fence, is what some people say.  Others want to transfer our troops from Iraq and Afghanistan to protect this border. In other words, let us build the U.S. version of the Iron Curtain. We could build guard towers every three hundred feet and staff them with border patrol people who will shoot to kill. Clear a swath several hundred yards wide along the border to give the sentries a clear shot. Even better yet, mine the field so the poor bastards coming across are blown up.

     Drastic measures have to be taken or the illegal’s will destroy our economy before Obama and his pirates can do it. The solution is so simple, but not one that is easy to swallow for either side. I began to do some research to find facts to support my premise. It occurred to me that I should Google the idea to see what is already available on the subject. Surprise, surprise, I got 43,600,000 hits on the idea.  I guess it was not such an original idea after all. Or, maybe I should say my idea has a lot of merit since so many others have had the same thought.

     The reason the illegal’s are such a problem, is that we have legislated too many ways for them to get all the neat free stuff we give to our own citizens. Health Care, Education, Food Stamps, Social Security, and driver’s licenses, are available to these people and they do not pay a cent for it. Well, let us change that by making them pay. How? Annex Mexico as the fifty-first state. Instantly they become citizens who are obligated to follow our laws, and to pay taxes. Since they have to get minimum wage like the northerners do, there is no advantage to hiring them in the upper fifty. That means the jobs they have now will have to be taken by the poor northern boys who are out of work. Maybe some of the Acorn people would like to do something productive for a change.

     Another advantage is that this move will stop the flow of manufacturing jobs to the south. Why? The economic advantage is lost. The jobs will have to go to some other third world nation. The liberal progressives and Obama will like that. Spread the wealth baby.

     The phone companies could program all calls north of the state of Mexico to open with “Dial One for English.” South of the border the call would say “Dial one for Spanish.” You know what? It wouldn’t piss us off anymore either, because we are all U.S. citizens

     The Federal Government could eliminate the US Border Patrol because there would be no need to check for jumpers any more. Think of those tax rebates we would get from that move. The Border Patrol people will transfer to the IRS. No doubt, we would need extra people to collect all those new tax payments.

     I could go on and on with lots of great reasons to annex Mexico, but with forty-three million hits on Google there are too many words occupying cyberspace on the subject already.

A Lenten Prayer

I was baptized Catholic. I was raised Catholic. I was educated in Catholic schools for sixteen years. I still practice my religion. I am a Catholic. If this offends you, the choice is yours to proceed further.

One of my favorite practices during Lent is a prayer ceremony called The Way of the Cross. Every Catholic church has a set of fifteen scenes on the wall. They are spaced to form a circular journey around the perimeter of the church.

As a kid in a Catholic parochial school, we made the journey every Friday afternoon during Lent after class let out at three.  We assembled in church with our class, and waited for the priest to come accompanied by three altar servers. All of them were dressed in black cassocks and a white surplus. One of the boys carried a pole with a cross at the end.  The other two servers carried a candle stick with a flaming candle. The priest followed.

Usually the service began with the group assembled in the sanctuary at the foot of the altar. The priest read the opening prayer with a response from the congregation. Then the procession began to the first station. As they walked slowly to the first station of the cross, we sang a sorrowful hymn written expressly for this rite. ‘The object was to reflect on Jesus’ journey from his trial, up Calgary to be crucified, and ultimately his resurrection. 

 I clipped the prayer below from a Catholic website. My memory is not that good to be able to recall them here. The paintings are by a  Tucson artist. The originals moved me to tears, my pictures don’t have the same effect.

Pray with me. . .

1. Jesus Condemned

Pilate brought Jesus outside and said to the people, “Look at your king!”

At this they shouted, “Away with him! Crucify him!”

Then Pilate handed Jesus over to be crucified.

“Behold your king,” says Pilate.
“Away with him,” the people shout.
And they sent you to your death.
Lord Jesus, Word made flesh,
Light for our dark world,
God come to save us,
may we never send you away.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

2. Jesus carries his cross

Jesus was led away,
and carrying the Cross by himself,
went out to what is called
the Place of the Skull, Golgotha.

You were led to Calvary, Lord,
carrying the cross by yourself.
Yet was the cross only yours,
or was it also mine you bore?
By your holy cross, O Jesus,
make me strong and able
to take up the cross I must bear.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

3. Jesus falls for the first time

Jesus emptied himself,
and took the form of a slave,
being born in the likeness of men.
He humbled himself,
to death and a Cross.

How strange to see you fall
as anyone does who cannot go on.
And yet you rise again
to take the few steps more you can.
By your first fall, O Jesus,
give your risen grace
to those who fall and cannot rise.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

4. Jesus meets his mother

Simeon said to Mary his mother: “This child is destined to be the downfall and the rise of many in Israel, a sign that will be opposed. And you yourself shall be pierced with a sword, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be laid bare.”

O Mother of my Savior,
you stand beside your Son.
With love beyond all telling,
you share his grief as one.
How shall I know your sorrow,
your tears beyond compare?
Deep in my heart stand watching,
and call my memory there.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

5. Simon Helps Carry the Cross

A man named Simon of Cyrene, was coming in from the fields, and they pressed him into service to carry the Cross.

Simon, coming in from the fields,
was pressed to carry your cross.
Did he come to know you, Lord,
walking by your side?
By your meeting with the Cyrenean,
may we find you in the stranger,
and in the needy we meet.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

6. Veronica wipes Jesus’ face

He who welcomes you welcomes me; and he who welcomes me, welcomes him who sent me. And I promise that whoever gives a cup of cold water will not want for a reward.

A woman named Veronica
kindly washed your face with a towel.
Such a simple thing!
A towel, a cup of water, a loving word.
By your meeting with Veronica, Lord,
help us value such small things,
so great when given in your name.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

 

7. Jesus falls the second time

But I am a worm and no man; the scorn of all, despised by the people. All who see me scoff at me.

Can God fall, a mighty God,
whose hands uphold all that is?
By your second fall, O Lord,
remember how weak we are,
remember our helplessness,
remember our human frailty,
and come to our assistance.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

8. Jesus meets the women

A great crowd of people followed him, including women who beat their breasts and lamented over him.

Women wept as you passed
and you said, “Weep not for me
but for your children.”
Keep the grace of this meeting
alive in our hearts, Lord.
Keep us concerned
for humanity’s children.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

9. Jesus falls the third time

I am like water poured out; all my bones are racked. You have brought me down to the dust of death.

Like water poured out,
your strength is gone.
You fall as if to the dust of death.
By your third fall, O Lord,
give us courage before our trials
and patience to go on.
Help us in our need.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

10. Jesus is stripped

They stripped off his clothes
and began to mock him saying:
“All hail, king of the Jews!”

They divided your garments
and cast lots for your clothes.
Stripped of all dignity,
you had nothing of your own.
By your despoilment, O Lord,
clothe us in your mercy
which is rich beyond words.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

11. Jesus is nailed to the cross

After carrying his Cross, Jesus came to the Place of the Skull (in Hebrew, Golgotha). There they crucified him and two others with him.

Nailed to the cross,
you know how many feel
who, bound by circumstance,
year by year get nowhere.
By your riven hands and feet, Lord,
help those fixed to a cross
by long illness or misfortune.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

12. Jesus dies

Jesus said, “I thirst!” and they gave him wine.

“It is finished”!” he cried, and gave up his spirit.

Once the prophet said:
“Who can believe our report?”
God’s Servant, crushed in sorrow,
pierced for our offenses!
Shall we not stand watching, Lord,
mourning the sins you bear,
rejoicing in the pardon you bestow?

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

13. Jesus is taken down from the cross

When the soldiers came to Jesus and saw that he was already dead, they did not break his legs. But one of the soldiers thrust a lance into his side, and blood and water flowed out.

Resting in your mother’s arms
when taken from the cross,
you died trusting a Father’s care,
faithful unto death.
By your holy death, O Lord,
give us an unfailing trust in God,
commend us to your Father’s hands.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

14. Jesus is buried

Joseph of Arimethea asked Pilate for the body of Jesus, and wrapped it in perfumed oils. Then he buried Jesus in a tomb close at hand.

You were buried in a garden tomb,
like a seed fallen into the ground,
waiting to rise again.
Lord, help us rise again
after dying with you.
May all who have fallen asleep
rise again.

Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be

Christ rises

On the third day he rose again.

Suddenly, without warning,
Jesus stood before them and said, “Peace!
Do not be afraid!
Go and carry the news to the others
that they are to go to Galilee
where they will see me.” Matthew 28

PIMA AIR MUSEUM

     Several times, I drove past a place I have wanted to see. Time was always my enemy, and another time it was the weather. This year, Peggy and I had the perfect day, and the timing was right.  We were driving from Bisbee to Tucson on Interstate-Ten when an information sign cited the Pima Air and Space Museum.  Without thinking or asking her if she was interested, I pulled the Death Star Avalon off the I-10 at exit 267. The rest was easy. We followed the signs to the museum entrance.

     I was not attracted to a building filled with old airplanes as much as I was to taking a tour of the United States Air Force’s surplus storage facility at Davis -Monthan Air Base. The airbase is immediately adjacent to the museum.  We parked and spoke to a volunteer who was directing people to various attractions. He told us that tour tickets of the airbase were available inside the museum.  The next tour was an hour and a half away, so we bought entrance into the museum, and the airbase.

     The first plane we saw after passing the gate into the museum hall was a full-scale replica of the Wright Flier hanging overhead. The plane impressed me as being much larger than I had imagined. I have seen ultra-light planes that are smaller. I always envisioned something a bit larger than a hang glider.

     The first room was loaded with older planes hanging from the ceiling and more parked on the floor. Many of these were from the thirties, and I had never seen them in real-life, only pictures. I gawked and took pictures.

     We passed into the next room and I almost fainted. There in front of me stood a SR 71 Blackbird. Until a few years ago, when it was retired from service, this plane was the most confidential in the fleet.  The history of the plane is now leaking out in anecdotal accounts on the internet.  After the Russians shot down Gary Powers in the original U-2 spy plane, the US needed another way to see what our enemies were doing. This plane was the answer. It flew higher, and faster, than any plane on earth.  No one tells what top speed it is capable of, but the stories mention 2500 mph. The stories also mention pilots who out ran missiles fired to destroy them.

     In the same room with the SR 71, there were a couple of WWII seaplanes. I remember these from newsreels about the war that I saw in the movies as a kid. Again, I was amazed at the size of these things.

     It was time to leave for the tour. We still had not seen the airfield outside loaded with B52’s, C5A’s and every kind of big plane ever used by the Military. That will be a reason for returning.

     Because we were entering a military base, the tour leader called our names and matched our picture ID to the names on his list. There were about forty people on this tour. The bus was air-conditioned and comfortable. Our tour guide introduced himself as a retired Air Force Major who flew an F105 during Viet Nam. His used the call name “Cappy.”

     Cappy took us through the gates and down a special avenue cleared for tour buses. The scene that unfolded amazed me. The estimated value of the surplus aircraft in storage here is thirty billion dollars. There are row after row of airplanes of every type; attack, fighter, radar, bombers, transports, etc. They go on for miles. All of them are neatly parked, and packaged for long- term storage.  Many of the planes are reserved for future deployment. They cannibalize another bunch for parts to keep the current fleet operational.  The facility also acts as a parts depot for planes from foreign countries. I heard a statistic that for every dollar of cost spent to operate this facility the Air Force gets ten dollars in return. That is not bad for a government operation. Maybe the Air Force should run the Post Office.

     Major Cappy told stories about every plane we passed. His knowledge of the aircraft was credible. The tour lasted an hour, but felt like fifteen minutes. I want to go back and see the remainder of the museum soon.

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