To my swashbuckling Dad -- Happy Father's Day!

For the most part, it’s an asterisk sort of day. It’s wedged tightly in between the end of Mother’s and Memorial days and the Fourth of July celebration.  It seems as if the Hallmark and the bad necktie industry long have conceded that fathers need their day of acknowledgement, too. Besides, why pass up a chance to make a few extra bucks?

Father’s Day must have been a real drag for Adam and his Dad, in the post-Eden age. Sibling rivalry affects more than its actors.

Let me tell you about my Dad. George “Buck” Stuteville grew up hard during that Great Depression. Served his country, saw buddies die and had the tattoos on his arms to prove he had seen the elephant show and was not eager to see the sequels. When it was time to go home, he did. Dropped most of his GI vices, got married and then got about the business of becoming a father, a process played out three times between 1953 and 1964.

MerryMobiles and philosophical Injuns

The grass was cut, yet my front lawn still seemed to hiss and pop, fueled on by that angry, broiling star 92 million millions away. I plopped down on the front porch bench and took a long, hard draw from the pristine Gucci bottled water.

And that’s when I heard it down at the end of the street. It could have been It’s a Small World After All or an early Led Zeppelin tune for all I Know.  Then it came in to site – a battered white van with faded painted images of popsicles and ice cream cones. The driver slowly nosed down the street, a cigarette clenched between his teeth; his head swiveled lazily from left to right looking for customers.

None to be found. So he goosed that jalopy, tossed his smoke into my neighbor’s yard and continued on to the next block.

And there I was back in my old boyhood neighborhood. Country Club Manor in Evansville, circa the early and mid-1960s. Streets bearing regal names such as Kensington, Stratford, Tremont, Sheridan, Colonial and so forth. Mostly tiny and well-kept homes occupied by WW2 veterans who used the GI Bill to put roofs over the heads of their wives and offspring.

With school out that first week of June, summer did not officially begin until you first heard that tantalizing distant sound: the tinkling approach of the MerryMobile, playing crisp songs from a small PA horn. We would stand curbside and eagerly await its arrival.

It was quite a vehicle, more precious to a kid than any convertible Corvair or Sting-Ray bicycle. This was a shiny red, white, and blue vehicle, shaped like a carousel. In reality, it was an oversized, glorified golf cart. No way were you ever going to parallel park that wagon. And almost always, the MerryMobile was piloted by a late-aged teen boy more than likely a college student earning summer bucks.

Democracy's death greatly exaggerated in Wisconsin

By now, the video from last night (June 5) is beyond viral.  The voter's tearful words in response of his support of Gov. Scott Walker’s recall vote defines spur-of-the-moment goofiness and an utter lack of understanding the most fundamentals of civics.

After the projections were in, and Walker’s position reaffirmed, the emotional man whined to reporters, “We’re not just disappointed! This was the biggest election in America. Democracy died in America tonight!  This was it. If we didn’t win tonight, the end of the USA as we know it just happened!”

His proclamation is so lame I don’t know where to begin. For starters, let me make this clear: I don’t know a whit beyond the sound bites which have been spewing out of Wisconsin the last few years about Walker wanting to curb state pensions and being at odds with powerful unions.

Don’t know enough about any of these things since my only concern for that state purely is that families are safe, well fed and employed; that Harry Houdini’s heritage is being well preserved in Appleton; and that the Green Bay Packers always will remain a contender in the NFL.

In some slim measure, I can grasp this young man's outburst. Obviously, he was a passionate advocate for a cause. It afflicts us all from time to time. He was emotional and speaking from an anguished heart.

Reality: His team lost. That’s politics, my man, and the pendulum doesn’t always swing the way you like. For good or ill.

One bright morning in the dark of night...

One bright morning in the dark of night,

Two dead boys got up to fight.

Stood back to back, and faced one another.

Drew their knives and shot one another.

The deaf cop responded when he heard the noise,

He came and killed those two dead boys.

If you don’t believe it and think this story is odd,

Ask the atheist ‘cause he heard it from God!

Only two days into this week and that little ditty I vaguely recall from my boyhood reminds me just how strange things can seem or occur at any time.

It began early yesterday morning when returning a voicemail to Sears, claiming I was delinquent on my account and would be charged $100 and some change if I didn’t pay immediately. A wondrous thing given that I have a zero balance with the iconic store where America use to shop. 

I finally connected with a real human named “Ellen” whose cheerful voice carried a trace of Bollywood. After we busted the language barrier of my backwoods Hoosierisms and her all-too-stilted English, we fixed the problem.

Later in the day, an out-of-state news reporter calls me. He wants to interview one of our physicians about a cardiac procedure that person helped pioneer eons ago. I explained the good doc was no longer with us and had moved on to another institution years ago and didn’t know where.

Bad news, convertibles, vasectomies and an ode to joy

I was driving to my office and listening to the news on the radio, slumping deeper in my seat with each report. New murders overnight; more bloviating balderdash spewing from politicians and pundits of every stripe on every conceivable issue; woeful economic news; protesters protesting other protesters; and so forth. And that was just the news in my beloved Indy.

Then I came to a stop sign on McFarland Road. Ordinarily, I would look in all directions and make sure it was my turn before moving on, but something caught my eye that kept me in place. There was a white-haired woman on a porch swing – not just sitting there slightly moving back and forth, but really pushing and swinging the same way a youngster does on a playground.

As I watched, I also noticed the old woman – who was wearing a short-sleeved top so loud in color that it would make Jerry Springer blush – had this wonderfully big, goofy grin on her face. Her hands were clasped behind her head as she continued to make that porch swing move faster and a bit higher. I think she might have singing, too, or revisiting some great thing from memory lane. She didn’t seem to have a care in the world.

The woman seemed to be experiencing something far deeper and more lasting than happiness. I think I was witnessing pure, unabashed, unbridled and unbelievable joy.

And Jesus laughed

The gospels (official and not so official) and few historical accounts about Jesus don’t necessarily portray him as having much of a lighter side. And over the centuries, the imagery on stained glass, paintings and statues shows a sad-eyed fellow, reinforce his solemn image: Here’s a guy with a staff quietly wading through sheep in gridlock, holding the requisite fingers upward when making an important point during a parable. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed Galilean morosely moving through a world clutched in the fist of Rome.

Never  smiling. The one described in John in what is the shortest verse in all of the Scriptures: Jesus wept.

On the surface, who could dispel this portrayal? After all, Jesus had a job description and goals set for him that no Lean Six Sigma guru ever could achieve. Not to mention his earthly mission statement: to transform the lives of creatures of free will and redeem them.  That's a pretty tall order.

When reading between the lines of both the official and unofficial biographies of Jesus, it becomes clear to me that he was one quite capable of a good quip or joke. A clever twist of words that made the haughty religious cops in tall hats jiggle their phylacteries nervously.

Say, y’all – hear the one about the Pharisee and tax-collector going into the temple to pray? Well, quite piously the former thanked the Almighty he wasn’t like the most folks, particularly the bean-counter standing behind him. Then the collector stepped forward just asking to be forgiven for who he is and what he has done.  Remember this: if you think highly of yourself you’re pretty low. And if you have some humility, you up your odds in the view of the one who really counts.

WWJD?

"I'd like to thank our young brother for such a heartfelt tune. Coming up in just a few minutes -- after I deliver my meditation on the Gospel of St. Fred Phelps and the Book of Al Sharpton's Lamentations -- we're gonna invite our youth choir up here to sing a medley of inspirational songs about why there also ain't no place in Heaven for cripples, women and them there so-called minorities in management roles, registered Democrats and turncoat Republicans, people with cancer and heart disease, tree-huggers, anti-bully advocates, any believer not of our liking, scooter riders, PBS donors, community garden supporters -- and we know they are communists -- and Justin Bieber fans. '

As you know brothers and sisters, just like the Good Book says: "Nothing is better for thee than Tea! Can I get an amen!... Okay, who's the joker in the back pew who just yelled out 'Akbar?' "

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2agsAZcA3fU