When I was a boy, my dad
hired a high school student
named Dick Schmidt to help
around his
auto repair shop. My dad
liked Dick -- Dick is one of
those kind of
guys who everyone tends to
like -- because he was
good-natured,
honest, and had a ridiculous
sense of humor. These were
three
qualifications my dad looked
for in an employee, and so
Dick was
perfect as the parts gopher
and clean-up guy. He is
about 10 years
older than me, so I remember
him then as being almost
grown-up when I
was still quite small. Even
so, I remember Dick as an
outrageous
teenager, even as he is an
outrageous man of nearly 70
today.
What do I mean by
"outrageous?"
Well,
for example, Dick
Schmidt has a deformed ear.
It has been this way since
birth, but
since it is too complicated
to explain all of this when
someone asks,
"What happened to your ear?"
Dick just responds, "It
was bit by an
alligator." Anyone
foolish enough to pursue
this
line of questioning further
is then regaled with a
detailed, blow by
blow description of the
alligator wrestling match in
which this
occurred, and this leads
eventually to Dick making
the claim to be
the foremost alligator
hunter and wrestler in
Michigan history. Which,
as far as I know, he is; not
that Michigan has much call
for
alligator hunters and
wrestlers, though when you
hear him tell it,
turns out that there is more
need for this sort of thing
than you might think. And
this is how he earned the
nickname,
"Gator."
After
working for my dad
while in high school, Dick
Schmidt graduated to working
as the
produce manager for the
Giant Super Market, which
used to be here in
Alma, Michigan on the south
side of town, right next to
the Pine
River. Part of our family
ritual was to spend 'most
every Saturday
afternoon shopping for
groceries at Giant, and part
of the ritual of
the owner and manager, Ken
Hicks, was to chase children
around in the
store and, when they were
captured, entertain them
with fingers to
the ribs and Donald Duck
impersonations. Actually,
Mr. Hicks was
entertained by this a lot
more than I was, so I
usually stuck close
to my dad when we went
shopping at Giant. While my
mom and sisters
shopped, we would head back
to the produce department
where Gator
Schmidt worked.
Now
part and parcel of this
alligator business was the
fact that both Gator and my
dad shared a
mutual affection for the
same TV show: Deputy
Dawg.
Deputy Dawg was
a
cartoon show
in the
early 1960's that was set
in the swamps of southern
Mississippi, and
some of the featured
characters besides Deputy
Dawg himself, were
Muskie Muskrat, Vincent
van Gopher, Moley Mole, Ty
Coon, Possible
Possum, Pig Newton and
Alligator. All were, of
course, based upon
broad, southern
stereotypes. Most kids had
parents who tolerated
them watching cartoons,
but in our house my dad
not only insisted,
but tuned them in and sat
right there laughing
harder than we did,
especially at Deputy
Dawg.
One of the few arguments I
can ever
remember my parents having
was
when my mother suggested,
at the urging of the PTA,
that The
Three Stooges
be
banned from our television
diet. Not on the old man's
watch. They
were his childhood heros
and, through the miracle
of television, he
insisted that they would
have the chance to be
mine, too. And so
they were. We watched them
together, and it's not
like I ever missed
an episode of Deputy
Dawg,
either.
Anyway,
one of Gator and Dad's
favorite episodes of Deputy
Dawg
contains a cartoon called,
"Seize You Later,
Alligator." In this one,
Alligator gets a job in a
gator wrestling exhibition
in
Miami, and when Deputy
Dawg and Muskie go to
visit him, they find
that the exhibition
consists of a giant Indian
named Chief
Caloosahatchee, who
entertains the crowds by
beating Alligator to a
pulp. After one such
brutal performance,
Alligator makes the
desperate plea, "You gotta
help me, boys!" Muskie
devises
a plan in which the Chief
gets his, and Alligator
returns victorious
to the Mississippi swamps,
carried on the shoulders
of Deputy Dawg
and Muskie, and
proclaiming himself the
"greatest alligator
wrestler ever."
Thus
inspired, the mythology of
Deputy Dawg became
twisted
into
the mythology of
Dick Schmidt, and my dad,
his ready accomplice and
erstwhile straight
man, acquired the nickname
"Muskie" in honor of the
plucky
muskrat from the cartoons.
When, on a typical
Saturday afternoon, my
dad and I would head back
to the produce section at
Giant, we would
be greeted by a nearly
breathless Gator Schmidt,
who would rush out
from the stockroom to
confide in my dad the
latest escapades in his
secret life as not only
produce manager, but gator
hunter
extraordinaire, at the
Giant Super Market.
Looking around as if to
make sure no one could
hear him confide the
shocking news to follow,
and then speaking loudly
enough so that anyone
nearby could hear, the
conversation would go
something like this:
"You
won't believe what happened
this week, Muskie."
"What,
not again?"
"You
bet. A really big one this
time. At least a ten footer:
maybe even
twelve."
By this
time, the ears of the now
curious shoppers were
leaning in to catch
the details.
"How
did he get into the store?"
"You
know how they do it, Muskie.
They're smart. This one hid
in a crate
full of oranges. They're a
lot smarter than people
think. They only
play dumb to trick you. He
hid in that crate of oranges
we ordered
from Florida, and the
oranges got lifted up on a
truck, and the truck
got unloaded here, and the
next thing you know, I'm
chasing a twelve
foot gator around the
stockroom with a broom."
"You
caught him with a broom?"
Gator,
half disgusted: "You can't
catch a big one like that
with a
broom. He's got to be
wrestled and subdued."
"So,
did you wrestle him right
here in the store?"
"I
tried to, but it was too
dangerous. I was afraid he'd
get out of the
stockroom and out onto the
floor. Got to put the safety
of the
customers first. I let him
out into the parking lot so
I had room to
go after him, but he took a
nip at me and got away."
"He
took a nip at you?"
"He
sure did. Look at my ear! I
was lucky; he just missed
taking my
head off. Then he took off
for the river."
"And
you took in after him?"
"I
sure did. But they're fast
in the water, and he got up
to the dam
and got around it before I
could get to him, and the
next thing I
know, he's swimming up the
millpond. I decided to head
him off at
Conservation Park."
"How
did you get him to go for
the park?"
"I
ran there ahead of him and
lured him with a duck call.
Gators love
duck, so I made a sound like
a wounded duck and he came
running --
old Indian trick. And before
he knew what hit him, I was
on him."
"He
must have been tired from
swimming all that way
upstream."
"You'd
think so, but he put up a
terrific fight for an hour
or better. The
big ones are strong! He
finally slipped up and I got
him in a half
nelson and was able to drag
him back to the store.
Florida game
officer picked him up."
"Did
anybody see you?"
"No. I
was lucky, because it was
all in broad daylight, too.
That's a
good thing, because people
would panic if they knew of
all the gators
that make it up here from
Florida. It would scare
folks half to
death if they knew how smart
they really are -- and how
fast!"
By this
time, there would usually be
a small crowd gathered, and
Ken Hicks
would show up to tell Gator
to get back to work and to
give me a
finger in the ribs and a
Donald Duck. Sometimes my
mom would get
done shopping and come to
collect my dad and me, and
she'd ask Dick,
"You got any new stories,
Gator?" He would call out on
his
way back to the stockroom,
"Muskie can tell you all
about it, Mrs.
Muskie!"
When I
look back at my childhood, I
sometimes marvel that I grew
up as
normal as I did.
Every
Gator Schmidt story was a
variation on this basic
theme, and while
the details would always
vary somewhat as to the size
of the gator
and the ensuing wrestling
match and capture, and, as
time permitted,
some stories were much more
elaborate and embellished
than this one,
each invariably ended in the
secret knowledge of a gator
conspiracy
and the need to protect the
public from the "awful
truth"
of this self imported
menace. This created a
"gator problem"
and gave all of this an air
of Cold War paranoia that in
retrospect
was both hilarious and added
the perfect punchline to
every tale. It
was a subtle touch that I
never fully appreciated
until I was much
older.
This
was my dad's touch and it
was reflected in the
influence he had on
Gator Schmidt's deeper
perception of reality, the
world around him,
and the way this played
itself out in a Deputy
Dawg inspired
mythology
of alligators
infiltrating the northland
to wreck havoc on an
unsuspecting
population. If you are now
wondering if perhaps this
gator
conspiracy wasn't an
attempt by the South to
gain revenge upon the
North for the Civil War,
then you're beginning to
grasp how this all
works, because this
conspiracy theory has
actually been suggested
and
discussed at some length.
When an
individual connected with my
dad at this level and
participated in
his gentle madness in this
way, he would say that he
had "ruined"
that person. What this meant
was that this person now saw
the world
in the same somewhat twisted
and yet somehow more deeply
perceptive
way that he did, and was no
longer able to participate
in the true
madness of what most
perceived to be the "real"
world.
My dad
ruined Dick Schmidt in this
way and he ruined me, and
because Gator
and I share this in common,
it gives us a bond such as I
suspect
insane brothers might share.
He ruined many others,
including my
youngest sister. The gator
conspiracy continues to this
day, and
when circumstances were such
that reports appeared on the
news of
alligators turning up
unexplained in northern
states recently,
Michigan included, I asked
Gator about this and he
replied
defensively, "I retired."
The theory of people
releasing
alligators held as pets
makes a nice cover story,
but we know better,
don't we?
What I
know of politics, I learned
from my father. As a man who
saw the
humor in everything in which
humor is contained, and
especially in
people who take themselves
too seriously, (which he
certainly did
not), the political sphere
was endlessly entertaining
to him. And
his object lessons to me
usually centered around the
theme of the
danger of taking all of this
too seriously as, in his
opinion, too
many did. For him, Dick
Schmidt's endless and heroic
pursuit of
imaginary alligators was an
allegory to all of the
supposed real
world importance that
politicians give to
themselves. His point
being, of course, that the
game of politics and
politicians was to
convince the public that
whatever imaginary alligator
they were
pursuing was the real issue
of the day, and the real
purpose behind
this was the siphoning off
of the public's money so as
to see this
gator wrestled and subdued.
His understanding of
politicians was
that they publicly
substituted a false altruism
and a concern for the
greater good for an egoism
and avarice that sought
their own
aggrandizement, as they
lined their pockets with
their take from the
funds they raked in from
their wealthy supporters.
One
such object lesson took
place when we were on
vacation in Lake City. We
arrived at the downtown
motel where we had
reservations to find
none other than G. Mennen
"Soapy" Williams, the former
governor of Michigan,
campaigning for the Michigan
Senate seat then
held by Robert Griffin. This
was in the summer of 1966,
and I would
have been 12 years old at
the time. Governor Williams
was handing
out campaign literature and
had a small crowd of maybe a
dozen people
assembled around him on the
sidewalk.
My dad
pulled in and parked our
black, 1960 Buick Invicta a
few feet away
and said to me, "Come on, I
want you to meet somebody."
Sensing that he
was up to something with the
potential for
embarrassment, my mother
intoned her usual, "For
God's sake,
Irv..." but it was too late
and he was out of the car.
I got
out of the car behind him
and we walked over and
joined what turned
out to be a rather
unenthusiastic group of
voters. Governor Williams
looked tired, and even as a
12 year old who cared much
about the
Detroit Tigers and very
little about state politics,
I knew his
campaign wasn't going well.
He would eventually lose the
election in
November. My dad proceeded
to cut through the small
crowd and in the
warmest, friendliest and
most cheerful manner he
could, thrust out
his hand and said, "Hello,
Soapy! How are you? Irv
Ropp!"
As if
on cue, the famous smile
emerged, it was like lights
went on, and the
tired and spent looking
Williams of a moment before
disappeared, and
in his place stood the
former governor on center
stage. He grabbed
my dad's hand as if it were
a lifeline and warmly said,
"Hello,
Irv! Glad to see you! Is
this your son? Hello, young
man! How are
you doing?"
"Fine,
sir," I managed.
Glancing
over at the car, Governor
Williams continued to my
dad, "How's
the wife and the rest of the
family?"
"We're
all fine, Governor," my dad
said earnestly, "How's the
campaign going?"
Williams
looked my dad in the eye as
if it was a conversation
between just the
two of them, and said
energetically, "Well, Irv,
as I was just
telling these fine folks..."
He went on to lay out his
campaign
and his strategies for this
and that, and gave the
finest example I
have seen to this day of
what I would later learn is
called a "stump
speech." More people
gathered, the crowd must
have doubled, and
my dad tugged at my shirt
and we walked back to the
car as the speech
continued. I was duly
impressed and somewhat taken
aback that my dad
was such close friends with
such a famous man.
"Wow!"
I exclaimed. "I didn't know
that you knew G. Mennen
Williams!"
"I
don't," my dad replied.
"Never saw him before in my
life,
and he doesn't know me from
Adam."
"But
he even knows about our
family and everything!" I
protested.
"Let
that be a lesson to you," my
dad said. "That's politics.
A friendly
face in a bored crowd and
I'm his best friend for five
minutes. Once I walk away, I
go right back to being a
stranger."
My
dad's overall view on
politics held it to be a
necessary evil. He
was a patriotic man who
voted in every election,
though usually did
so holding his nose. I
suppose you could say he was
an Eisenhower
Republican in search of an
Eisenhower. He didn't trust
Nixon but
liked Kennedy (and
especially Kennedy's father)
even less. Johnson
disgusted him, but he feared
Goldwater. His take on the
presidency
was that anyone who could
get the nomination of either
party must be
so thoroughly corrupted on
the climb to the top that
there was no
chance anyone of true
character would ever make
it. Because of what
I suppose we would call
today the "red state
mentality" of
small town, small business,
Midwestern America, and his
conviction
that less government and
lower taxes were always more
beneficial to
the greater good, he
identified himself
politically as a Republican.
However, it was certainly
not a political identity
that he held with
any great devotion or
affection. He was much more
a vote the man not
the party kind of person,
and usually found great
displeasure in the
quality of the man offered
on either side of the
ballot. It isn't
fair to say that he really
believed in politics or the
political
process, and held it all at
arms length with a certain
disdain and
even contempt.
What my
dad did believe in was
people. He didn't consider
anyone's politics
to be a determining factor
in their character or worth,
and had
friends of both persuasions
that placed on all rungs of
the social
ladder from top business
leaders, bankers and college
professors to
those who couldn't reach the
first rung. When my dad died
in 1985,
we held a small service for
him in Florida and then a
graveside
service in Michigan. Over 200
persons jammed into the
cemetery to
pay their last respects, and
in the crowded hall where we
held the
luncheon afterward, one of
his old friends laid a hand
on my shoulder
and said, "Some people
collect cars, some collect
coins or
stamps, and all too many
just collect money. But your
dad collected
people. They were all the
richer for it, and if a
man's worth is
measured in his friends,
then he was the richest man
of all." That old
friend was Dick "Gator"
Schmidt.
So my
dad didn't die a rich man,
though he could have. He was
a master
mechanic and ran a very busy
shop, and I never knew
anyone who worked
harder than he did. He
didn't see his job as fixing
your car as much
as fixing your problems, and
there were many, many nights
when he had
to go back to work after
supper because he had spent
his day
listening to the troubles of
his customers, offering
advice, sharing
a laugh, or, even better,
turning tears to laughter,
which he was
very, very good at also. My
mother ran his office and
the business
end of the shop because when
my father did it, he almost
went under
by giving too much away. As
it was, my mom was on him
continually to
charge more for this or that
and to stop doing so much
work on
credit.
I
remember seeing an old 1948
Chevy one ton stake truck
come in on the
hook of Art Condon's wrecker
one August day. The left
front wheel
dangled from a broken
spindle, and as Art helped
us get it situated
with cement blocks propping
up the left front he said,
"Good
luck with this one, Irv. The
rest of it isn't much
better."
Behind
the truck came a local
Mexican man with a terribly
forlorn and
frightened looking man
behind him. From his
clothes, it was obvious
he was a migrant worker, and
the man with him, a friend
of my dad's,
served as his interpreter.
This man, his family and
another family
were from southern Texas and
traveled the northern crop
circuit in
the summer. The truck was
their livelihood and their
transportation.
They had just finished
picking pickles in Gratiot
County and were
about to leave for their
next job in Pennsylvania
when the truck
broke down. They had been to
another garage and had been
refused
service because the job
couldn't be paid for until
they received
their check for the work
just completed, which would
be after they
were on the next job in
Pennsylvania. When this
story was told at
his church, my dad's friend
said, "Come on, I know
someone who
can help."
The man
at the first garage had said
it would take $300 to fix
the truck. My
dad said, "Ask him if he can
afford $300." The exchange
took place in Spanish and
the man shrugged. "He says
'yes,' but it will
be very hard for them." My
dad said, "Tell him
I'll do it for $200 and tell
him I won't let him haul his
wife and
kids around in a piece of
junk like this." This was
translated
and the response didn't have
to be, as I know just enough
Spanish to
know what "Gracias, gracias,
gracias" means.
I spent
the next two evenings as my
dad's shop helper. He put
new parts in
the front end of the truck
on both sides, and after
finding a similar
truck in a local junkyard,
called in favors and got
other parts for
cheap. The $200 and more
ended up spent on parts, and
my dad must have
put in
10 hours or more of labor
that I knew of, and probably
much more. He
went through that truck from
one end to the other, fixing
whatever he
could find that needed it.
And there was plenty. He
never told the
man from Texas about all of
that, because he wouldn't
have hurt his
pride for the world. He did
tell him that the truck
would get them
to Pennsylvania and home to
Texas, and it did. And in
spite of my
mom's fears about letting
the job go out of town on
credit, a money
order for $200 arrived in
the mail two weeks later
with a very
gracious note that
translated roughly to
"Gracias, gracias,
gracias."
During
the countless other nights I
served as shop helper,
holding the light
and passing wrenches and
other tools, I heard my
dad's whole
philosophy of life
expounded; his views on
economics, his disdain for
politics and politicians,
and his belief that the
evils of the world
could be easily overcome if
people merely learned to
take care of one
another. He didn't believe
the government could or
should do this,
but he did believe that if
you and I did, that others
would, and that
this would eventually make
the world a better place. He
believed in
cash flow economics; that
the more cash that flowed
the more everyone
would have. He once said,
"If I was rich I'd show them
how to
do it. I'd spend it so damn
fast it would make their
heads spin." If
you were out with him and he
had $10 that meant you had
$5. If
you went out to eat, he
grabbed the check. If he had
it and you
needed it, he loaned it to
you, and if you needed it
more than he
did, he gave it to you. When
my wife and I got married, I
had to ask
my old man for $5 to put gas
in my car so we could drive
to the
wedding. He gave me a twenty
and said, "A man can't get
married
without a few bucks in his
pocket." He was not only my
dad but
the best friend I ever had.
The
years rolled by and my wife,
Jean, and I ended up owning
a little
cottage resort in Leelanau
County. One day the Gator
Schmidts found
us, and they became regular
guests and we had a lot of
fun getting
reacquainted with Dick, his
wife Char, and their
daughter, Tammi.
Gator
Schmidt used to go down to
Bass Lake and poke around
under the boats
and in the weeds and such
until one of the other
guests would ask him
what he was doing. He would
then explain that it was his
job to
check for alligators and
give the "all clear." He
reprized
the gator tales to fit
northern Michigan, and
claimed that the gators
had figured out how to
endure the winters by hiding
in beaver lodges.
They'd come out lethargic in
the spring after fattening
up on beaver
all winter and that made
them easier to catch and
wrestle. He now
traveled up north regularly
to help the Michigan
Department of
Natural Resources monitor
the gator situation, and he
was concerned
because there were more of
them all of the time, and by
moving in
with the beavers they were
now able to stay permanently
and establish
residency. From the Cold War
of the 1960's to the illegal
immigration of the 1990's,
the alligator menace managed
to adapt
itself to the times.
One of
the joys of seeing the
Schmidts regularly was
getting to know
daughter Tammi. Tammi was
born with Down Syndrome, and
is pretty
profoundly affected by it.
She can only manage a few
words, and Dick
and Char communicate mostly
with her through sign
language. When our
youngest daughter, Martha,
came along in 1996, Tammi
Schmidt was
excited and overjoyed. When
the Schmidts would arrive
for a visit,
Tam was the first one to the
door and would enter our
home office
repeatedly calling out one
of the few words she could
speak, "Baby!
Baby! Baby!" The first order
of business was always
bringing
the baby for Tammi to see,
while Char would offer
apologetically,
"Tam just loves babies." And
so she did. She would gently
cradle Martha in her arms as
Jean helped her hold her,
and her smile
and the sheer and
unqualified love for the
child on her face made Tam
seeing the baby as much our
priority as hers.
Times
change as they do, and when
Dick bought a second Better
Made Snack
Foods route, we saw less of
the Schmidts. Jean and I
sold out our
home and business in
Leelanau County in 2003 and
bought the Santa
Rosa Hotel in Sebring,
Florida. When the Santa Rosa
was destroyed by
Hurricane Jeanne in 2004, we
made the decision to move
back to
Michigan and ended up back
in Alma in 2005. It had been
a number
of years since we had seen
the Schmidts when Char
invited us over to
their house for dinner
shortly after we got settled
in Alma. When we
walked in, Tammi was
ecstatic at seeing us, and
ran to hug Jean and
I. She hugged daughter Liz,
and then looked around in a
near state
of panic and said, "Baby!
Baby! Baby!" Dick pointed to
Martha, who was now a girl
of eight, and said, "Baby!"
Tammi looked at
us quizzically and asked,
"Baby?" And then
the panic began to set in
again. What had happened to
the baby? Dick
took Tammi over to Martha
and signed the word "Baby"
into her hand and pointed
and nodded towards Martha.
Suddenly, the
realization hit home, and
Tam's eyes got big, and her
face lit up, as
she grabbed Martha and
hugged her as tight as she
could while jumping
for joy and calling out,
"Baby! Baby! Baby!" She had
found
the baby, and as for our
reaction, well, I tear up
just writing this
down for you.
After
dinner we got caught up with
the Schmidts. Dick informed
me of all
the latest trials and
tribulations of the gator
problem, and confided
that he was getting a little
too old for the hard,
physical strain
the wrestling represented.
He still liked to tangle
with one now and
then, but said he had to
admit that it was a younger
man's game. He
was contemplating
retirement. Char, who has a
knack for ignoring all
of this, wanted to know
about our family, and so we
exchanged
information and learned that
we were all blessed to being
doing quite
well, especially Tam, who by
this time was nearing 40 and
in good
health, which is somewhat
unusual for those challenged
with the
various health issues that
go along with Down Syndrome.
The remark
that Char made that stayed
with me after that evening,
and which I
think of often to this day
was this: "We were lucky we
had Tam
when we did. Back then we
had to fight to raise her at
home and not
institutionalize her, now
the fight would be to let
her be born."
Now,
being pro-life is not
anything new for me. When we
learned Jean was
pregnant for our second
daughter, Rachel, back in
1983, I had just
lost a business, I had no
job and we were deeply in
debt. When
someone suggested to me that
we could "fix the problem,"
I
recoiled in horror at the
thought, and Jean wouldn't
even entertain
the idea. I got a good job
the week that Rachel was
born, and we dug
ourselves out of debt, and
life went on -- for all of
us. "You'll
be all right," my dad said.
And so we were.
Jean
and I and our daughters Liz
and Martha became Catholic
converts in
2002, and we were soon
introduced to the pro-life
movement and the
March for Life, and we've
always appreciated the
Catholic Church for
her willingness to stand in
the public square and be
heard in support
of this most basic and
worthy of causes -- the
right to life for
everyone. When our daughter
Liz, now a college freshman,
had the
chance to go to Washington
and participate in this
year's March with
St. Mary University Parish
at Central Michigan
University, we were
excited for her, and it
brought the March closer to
home for us, and
we found ourselves moved
towards an even deeper
commitment for life.
That remains.
For
a number of years, Jean
and I have published Radio
New
Jerusalem,
which began as a website
dedicated to Christian
shortwave radio, and which
has evolved into a
daily Catholic news portal.
We provide links to a wide
variety of
Catholic news sources and
other resources, and we
feature a daily
update of Catholic news
headlines. We promote a
daily feature story
which is usually from a
Catholic source or which is
pertinent to
current events affecting
Catholics. Every year, we
dedicate this
promotional space to the
March for Life and post
stories pertaining
to the March in specific,
and life issues in general,
for a week or
better. Since this site is
dedicated to the Catholic
faith, and
represents those news
sources that support the
teachings of the
Catholic Church, those who
use it know where we are
coming from and
we get little criticism or
comment. We mostly represent
what's out
there in the mainstream of
the Catholic media and do
our best to give
our viewers ready access to
all of it.
More
recently, I have
started using Facebook. This
has had some good points, as
it has
been fun to connect with old
friends from years ago, and
there are
certainly a lot of positive
aspects to it. Overall, I'm
not a
particularly outgoing or
social person, and I can see
where perhaps
social media may not be all
bad for me.
During
the week of March
for Life, and perhaps a
little more zealous than in
the past because
of Liz's excitement at
participating in the March
in Washington DC,
we prepared for the big
event by posting numerous
pro-life stories
from Catholic media to my
Facebook Timeline. What I
was not prepared
for was the venomous and
vitriolic response I got to
some of these
articles, which inflamed the
socially liberal
sensitivities of some
who have not known me in a
long, long time and who were
apparently
caught unawares that I take
a socially conservative
approach to
pro-life issues
specifically, and in general
follow the teachings of
my Catholic faith as the
Church I love so instructs
me to do. In
short, none of the articles
were penned by me as this
one has been,
and I offered no comment of
my own. Still, for posting
these stories
I have been labeled a
"rightwing nut job," a
"rightwing
hater," and an "Obama
basher," and I have been
told in
no uncertain terms that if I
am pro-life then I am also
pro-death
penalty, pro-war, pro-drone
strikes, pro-nuclear
weapons, pro-guns,
pro-torture, pro-land mines
and, apparently, pro any
number of evil
things that must somehow
travel with my pro-life
point of view.
In
truth, I am pro-non of
the above except life. In
fact, as far as the death
penalty goes, I
see that as a pro-life issue
also. When it comes to
criminal
justice, I favor restorative
justice and the Scandinavian
corrections
model, which puts me on the
far left in that area. I'm
not pro-guns per
se, but I see no
reason why someone
who can handle a
firearm and the
responsibility shouldn't own
one -- or more. I have
a small town, rural
viewpoint on this because
that's where I'm from. As
for pro-war, I'm an extreme
pacifist according to the
tradition of
my Mennonite ancestors, and
from growing up during the
Vietnam era,
and I admit that the
Catholic "just war" doctrine
makes me
wince as it does a lot of
other like minded Catholics.
Like most
folks, I am very
conservative on some issues,
very liberal on others,
and overall travel somewhere
near the middle of the road
on most. I
believe that the views of
all politicians need bashing
at some point,
but there's a difference
between bashing the politics
and bashing the
person. My dad didn't see
eye to eye on much
politically with G.
Mennen Williams, but that
didn't stop him from liking
him enough as a
person to interject himself
into a situation where he
could win him a
few votes, even though I'm
pretty sure Bob Griffin got
his that
November. I don't see eye to
eye on much with Barack
Obama, but that
doesn't give me any cause to
be discourteous to his
person, and I
have not been. Given the
chance to speak with him in
person, I would
be cordial and I'm sure I
could expect that in return
from the
president. The other side of
the lesson I received that
day in Lake
City was that those at the
top are as deserving of our
respect as are
those at the bottom. And so
everyone in between. My dad
was an
easygoing man, but he didn't
tolerate disrespect or
meanness in any
way, shape, or form, and I
was taught to exhibit a type
of
congeniality towards all
that in the South is the
result of what they
call "upbringin'."
Because
I am my father's
son and was raised to see
all persons as worthy of
respect, love and
appreciation, I have friends
who are adamantly
Republican, adamantly
Democrat and many who fall
in between to one degree or
another. I
know many people of goodwill
among both parties who
should not be
judged by any label,
political or otherwise, but
merely by that. My
family remains split in this
way, but we manage to love
and
appreciate each other and,
though perhaps split, we are
in no way
divided.
I
have found that most
people are, or want to be,
people of goodwill. They are
found in
every circumstance. And
every circumstance has those
who are out for
their own selfish gain. The
key is to organize as people
of goodwill
and not according to any of
the pejorative labeling of
either
political party, or through
any divisiveness that the
human condition
seems so prone to. Do this
and it will guarantee a
majority. To be
so simplistic as to assume
that a person's worth can be
judged by his
political or religious
affiliation is what brought
the world the
horrors of Nazism and
Communism, and in Roman
times it is what led
Jesus to the Cross.
Much
of the political
debate in the United States
does come down to wrestling
imaginary
alligators, at least in the
sense that most issues can
be debated
again and solved in some
different way if the first
choice doesn't
work out. If the gator gets
away, we can chase him up
the millpond
and catch him in the park
with a duck call. New gators
come along
and we are want to debate
the best means to wrestle
and subdue them,
but the debate on these
issues does not define us,
it merely occupies
our minds with seeking the
right solution. Hatred is
never the
solution and always the
problem, and love is always
where the
solution to the problem is
found.
Our
nation and our world
will be ultimately judged
upon the way in which we
love one another,
and when Jesus returns if he
is able to find faith on
earth, this
will be the reason why. To
have faith in him means we
must have
faith in each other, and the
devil only conquers us when
he divides
us. And regardless of what
we come up with for
government
programming, the need still
remains to reach out to
those in need and
get our own hands dirty
fixing a man's truck and
giving him a break,
so he can get to
Pennsylvania, so he can
continue his quest to lift
his family out of poverty.
Government programs that
mire people
deeper in poverty rather
than giving them the tools
to rise above it
are wrong, and handouts
without love, and absent of
belief in the
people whom they are for,
create slaves and not free
men.
The
issues of life and
death, however, are not
imaginary alligators. They
are, well, issues
of life and death. Love
seeks life and not death. It
is through
God's love for us that He
became man and offered
Himself up for us at
the Cross that we might have
life, have it more
abundantly, and have
it for eternity. Life is
heaven's gift to us and it
is be to
respected like no other, and
at all stages from cradle to
grave.
The
Tammi Schmidts of this
world teach us that if our
situation were reversed and
the Down
Syndrome people were put in
charge of the earth, they
would be the
last to murder us in the
womb. They would, like
Tammi, demand to see
the baby.
That's
Tammi's lesson for
us. Love the baby. Seize you
later, alligator, but demand
to see
that baby.
|