Needfully Obscure

Over the course of the last several months people have derided me for not supporting Donald Trump for President. Others lambasted me for failing to support Hillary Clinton as well.

Honestly, I haven’t publically supported a candidate for political office since 2005 when former Nevada Governor Jim Gibbons was running for office. I supported his candidacy openly because I know him personally.

My support garnered me one attack after another, until those who disliked my stance found a way to ‘publicly humiliate’ me by subjecting me to a full-blown ‘journalistic ethics review’ at the University of Nevada-Reno in which I was not invited to take part. The lesson was further engrained upon me, when Dean Heller, whom I supported because I know him too, turned out to be a Progressive Republican masquerading in Conservative duds.

(My apologies to Sharron Angle.)

And since I had people on both sides of this presidential election pissed at me for not saying who I would or would not vote for, I feel I did a good job at being needfully obscure. There is a reason for my obscurity: the truth.

While I said very little about who I would toss my ballot to, I did go in search of news and quotes (which I posted mostly to Facebook) that I believed best told the story from my Libertarian/Conservative/Constitutional slant. Oddly enough, I used the Progressive media to fulfill this quest.

And now that we are on the other side of the election, I can tell you that I was never going to support Clinton. Time and time again, I proved beyond a doubt that she is dishonest, power-hungry and generally dispossessed of good character to be anywhere near the Oval Office.

It was also a certainty that I wasn’t going to vote for an avowed Socialist (which is as good or bad as a Communist) like Bernie Sanders to hold sway over our federal life. Had the stars aligned properly — my choices would’ve been Ted Cruz and Rand Paul.

Furthermore, I certainly was unwilling to throw my support to a third-party candidate not fully Constitutionally committed. Unfortunately, none of the third-party run-ups were ever in a position to garner enough votes, popular or electoral, to make much of a difference in the current structure of our nation’s private corporation’s political machinery.

That left one choice – Trump – which still gives me heartburn. I had to settle on one issue alone to help me push through what I still see as a very Progressive candidate, now President-elect. That issue came down to abortion and the fact that Trump made campaign promises to cut federal funding to Planned Parenthood.

Yes, I know that campaign promises are jus’ that – promises, but I am a man of faith and I must have faith until proven otherwise. That brings me back to the subject of doing my best at obscuring my endorsement for Trump until the latter days of the campaign.

From where I am stand, I cannot see what his ‘game plan’ is moving forward as he builds his cabinet. After all, Trumps first move was to name a known Progressive Republican elitist as his Chief of Staff, Reince Priebus, whom I prefer to call ‘Rinse Pubis.’

I can smell the ‘payback’ from here — can’t you?

Yesterday, Trump nominated Elaine Chao – the wife of Progressive Republican elitist Senator Mitch McConnell – for Secretary of Transportation. All I can see from this nomination is more pork-barrel spending on wasteful projects that feed McConnell’s ego and does nothing for the betterment of the U.S.

Making matters worse, Trump selected Steven Mnuchin, a man known for his direct connection with Goldman-Sachs, as his future Treasury Secretary. This becomes disconcerting as our nation continues to face financial problems brought on by the bailing out of such monetary institutions.

Plus, Trump keeps wining and dining Mitt Romney, another known Progressive Republican elitist, who not only lead a ‘never-Trump’ campaign, but bragged in 2012 about how his personally designed healthcare system in Massachusetts, where he was governor, became the blueprint for Obamacare. Couple this to the fact he purposely lost the third and final debate with President Obama, leading to his second presidential election, and you know the man cannot be trusted.

It’s because I cannot see into the future that I no longer endorse candidates. So much can go wrong afterwards and there is no way of taking the endorsement back once given with out a massive amount of egg on your face.

(Ask Joe Heck about this.)

Finally, I’m worried that we’ve been taken for fools again as Trump’s administration begins to take shape. It is also because of such foolishness with appointments and nominations among other stupidities (like attacking free speech) that I will never run short of material to wordify on as this country attempts to pull itself back from the chaos of the last eight, miserable years.

And while I don’t get what it is Trump is up too yet, we can always hope that he is true to his word.

The Myth of Fidel’s Redemptive Qualities

Cuba’s literacy rate has only increase by 20-pecent between the 50’s and today, according to UN figures. Compared to El Salvador’s’ increase from less than 40-percent to 88-percent or Peru’s increase from 50-percent to 95-pecent or Brazil’s 50-percent jump to 93-percent and the Dominican Republic’s rate which rose during the same time period rose from under 40-percent to 92-percent.

As for healthcare Cuba’s made even less progress. In fact, by 2012, the life expectancy for most Cubans had dropped with Chileans, Costa Ricans and Mexicans living slightly longer.

Back in 1960, Chileans had a life span seven years shorter than Cubans, and Costa Ricans lived more than two years less than Cubans on average. In 1960, Mexicans lived seven years shorter than Cubans.

Meanwhile, U.N. Director-General Irina Bokova, still drinking the ‘cool-aid,’ offered condolences for UNESCO on the passing of Fidel Castro‎ Ruz. In a letter addressed to Dictator Raul Castro, Bokova recalled Fidel’s “leadership in steering his I country through difficult times, fighting for the right to education, harnessing the power of achieving free and inclusive education for all through his initiative, ‘Yo si puedo,’” which translates to ‘I can.’

On the other hand, the Reverend Franklin Graham didn’t mince his words when he wrote, “Loved by few, hated by millions, his communist revolution deposed a dictator, but ushered in a socialist police state that drove the entire Cuban nation into complete poverty and oppression and to think that Bernie Sanders, Hillary Clinton, Senator Elizabeth Warren, Representative Keith Ellison and others wanted socialism as a model for our country today!”

Graham also warned: “The socialists are regrouping in great number right now, and they will come back strong, organized, and more determined than ever. This battle isn’t over.”

As for me, and as one who has fought Communism and other non-Constitutional forms of oppression in various places around the globe, I’d like to add that I hope your new life in Hell is more miserable than the life you created for others while you lived. And don’t expect me to pray for your soul anytime soon, you dirty, rotten bastard, as I’ve seen what you’ve done!

What’s in My Wallet?

My son decided to treat me to a movie, “Dr. Strange,” which turned out to be a pretty good movie. Anyway, we parked in the back lot and walked the block long distance to the theater.

One of the things I am in the habit of doing is removing my wallet and putting it away while driving. I’ve found that if I sit on it, it causes my back to be off-center and adds to the pain that I experience everyday.

After the movie, we walked around the nearby mall window shopping and such. Once back at the truck, Kyle discovered that he’d forgotten to lock the passenger side door.

Instantly, I knew someone had been in the cab as my knit cap was on the floor board when I had specifically placed it on the seat between the driver and passenger seat.

Realizing this, I looked inside my wallet which was still in the center console where I had forgotten it. Everything, but the $101 in Christmas cash I’d managed to save over this year, was missing.

My immediate reaction was a desire to be pissed off at whoever did this. My next was to be angry at Kyle for no locking the door.

Instead, I decided to be mad at myself for leaving my wallet in my truck in the first place. Unlocked door or not, it is too great a temptation for evil-doers not to find someway to get into a vehicle to steal stuff.

Besides, Kyle lives in a world of electronic automatic locking car doors. And I drive a mid-sized dinosaur from the last century in which nothing is automatic, let alone electronic.

So the best thing I can do is learn from this mistake and move on, while trying to maintain a sense of humor about it all. Too bad GoFundMe won’t allow me to set up a donation site based on my stupidity.

Faded Glories

After reading one of my article’s that talked about Del Norte High School in Crescent City, California having an athletic hall-of-fame, my wife asked, “Weren’t you an athlete?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Well,” she wanted to know, “When are they going to invite you to be a member?”

I smiled, “Never.”

“I don’t understand,” she replied.

With a snicker, I shot back, “Because I was only a sprinter and the school district lost money on the track program all four-years I was in school.”

Mom’s Portuguese Egg Pudding

After going through every box in storage, I finally found it.  This was one of my favorites that my mom used to make around Thanksgiving. I can taste it now…

Ingredients:

1 ½ cups milk
½ cup sugar
½ cup all-purpose flour
Zest of half a lemon
3 eggs
Cinnamon (enough to cover top of pie)

Directions:

  • Place the milk, sugar and the flour in a saucepan. Whisk together and cook over medium heat. Add the lemon zest and stir until the mixture thickens to a cream consistency.
  • Turn off the heat, place the mixture in a large bowl and allow to cool until lukewarm.
  • Preheat the oven to 350 F.
  • Separate the yolks from the whites. Beat the egg whites until stiff peaks form and set aside.
  • Mix lightly the yolks with a fork, and then stir in the lukewarm milk, sugar flour mixture.
  • Gently fold in with a spatula the whipped egg whites.
  • Pour the mixture in a deep dish pie plate; sprinkle the top with cinnamon, enough to cover completely.
  • Bake for 20 – 25 minutes until the top is well puffed and firm, even top may be cracked in a couple of places.
  • Remove from the oven, allow to cool to room temperature and serve.

Gene Clauson, 1955-2016

gene clausonSeveral of my friends and acquaintances have passed from this world this year. Most recently was country music artist Holly Dunn, whom I got to know more than 25 years ago when I was still doing radio.

And nearly four months ago, my friend as well as my son’s god-father, Gene Clauson passed away.  It happened suddenly and came as a shock that left me more than a little rattled as I found myself looking hard at my mortality.

And in all honesty, I’m jus’ now getting beyond the grief enough to write about him, though I had written a piece of fiction about him a few years back with the hope of snapping him back to his senses.  You see, Gene was an addict and his addiction had a strangle hold on him and he was in a deep depression.

It was during the height of his depression that he told me he was going to sell everything, buy a ticket to Europe, backpack around the continent for a year and then end his life with a ‘hot shot’.  After hearing this, I wrote that short-story sharing my idea of what this world would be like without him.

Moved by the reality I laid out, he decided he wanted to make a change in his life. That’s when he began the long, hard journey to get clean and I was so proud of him.

His three daughters and I are still in touch with one another through Facebook, which I’m thankful for nearly everyday. Anyway, I wrote Gene’s obituary for them as a way of soothing my hurt and taking some of the pressure off them.

Though simple, I’d like to share it:

Gene Clauson passed away suddenly at his home in Hayward, California on August 26, 2016 at the age of 61. He was born to Rosa Marie Haberman and Dale Larry Clauson in Hayward, California on March 12, 1955.

Gene attended various grade and high schools in the Bay Area. He worked radio broadcasting in Reno, Nevada and later as a club DJ in Tampa, Florida, before returning to California to continue his education as a substance abuse counselor.

Gene is preceded in death by his parents and step-parents. He is survived by his daughters; Elyse (Clauson) Fryling, her husband, Dustin and granddaughters, Alyssa and Rylee of Medford, Oregon; Lauren Clauson and grand daughters Sierra, Ella, and Kand of Lake view, Colorado; and Renee Clauson, of Central Point, Oregon.

If his death hurts like hell for me, I can only image how his girls must feel.

The Missing Bar of Soap

As a kid, I knew I’d been thoroughly punished after being forced to take a bite out of the Ivory soap bar for lying or some such similar act. It is a taste that doesn’t leave your mouth for a long while – and Ivory dish soap — if they still make it — is even worse.

Two days ago, as I was preparing to get in the shower, I got out a new bar of Ivory soap. I had unwrapped it and set it on the sink while I do other stuff.

Promptly – and as I’ve found happening more often – I forgot the bar of soap and proceeded to take a shower. Lucky for me I still had the sliver of the old bar in the shower still.

Following my shower, I toweled off and got dressed. Knowing it was on the counter, I wasn’t too worried because I figured it would still be there when I used the bathroom later.

It was slightly after noon when nature called and I finally walked back into the bathroom. That’ when I found the wrapper to the soap on which the soap had been sitting – sans the soap now.

Not to worry – I looked in the shower knowing that I sometimes do things that I’ve completely forgotten about later. But there was no Ivory soap bar where it should have been.

“Hmm,” I naturally questioned, “What the hell could I’ve done with it?”

That began the search as I back tracked my movements from throughout the morning. I mean I checked everywhere including the refrigerator and the dishwasher.

Still – no soap bar. I even resorted to digging through the kitchen trash and the garbage can in our garage, without positive result.

Like other things – my favorite pen included – I had to let it go and tell myself it had dropped into that ‘black hole,’ where objects disappear only to reappear at some point later. If I don’t play this little trick on my mind – I’d go bat-shit crazy.

(By the way – who decided bat-shit was the craziest shit? Anyone ever have to re-dig a used outhouse? Okay, I’m off topic…)

Forty-eight hour later, I am no longer concerned about the bar of soap. We have more in the hallway closet and life goes on.

That’s when I look outside and see our newest dog, Buddy, blowing bubbles out his ass. Upon closer investigation I can see his turds — filled with flecks of white, half-digested soap.

And while I feel bad for Buddy and his indigestion problem, I must admit that I am terribly relived that I really am not losing my mind and becoming frightfully forgetful. But then again, I concluded that I ought to write this all down before it slipped my mind.

‘Rocky’ Peterson, 1919-1941

peterson-roscoeWhen I saw the name in a recent online edition of the Del Norte Triplicate, I had a sudden flash of memory of Dad and Pearl Harbor veteran Tom Gooch, talking about ‘Rocky’ Peterson. This is the sort of history I wish my high school teacher had taught us.

Born Roscoe Earl Peterson in Ashland, Oregon sometime during 1919, ‘Rocky,’ his parents, Arthur and Gladys and four siblings, Dorothy, James, Richard and Lyle moved to 742 2nd Street in Crescent City in 1929. Rocky graduated from Del Norte High in 1938 after being a standout athlete in both baseball and basketball.

While Peterson is best remembered for his skill on the baseball diamond, he was also a good basketball player, starting as a forward on the school’s varsity team. Peterson was so good that he drew the ire of Arcata High’s basketball coach William McKittrick.

In February 1936, McKittrick complained that Peterson was ‘too good,’ which caused him to be declared ineligible for the rest of the season. Not to be phased, Rocky picked up a job coaching the Crescent Elk Middle School’s basketball team.

Three years prior, when Rocky was 14, he joined the local semi-pro baseball team, the Crescent City Merchants. Though still in his junior year of high school, Peterson was playing professionally using his middle name with the Yakima, Washington Pippins, and after two-years, with the Lewiston, Idaho Indians.

He had plans to move to Portland, Oregon and play for the Portland Beavers, but instead joined the U.S. Navy on October 21, 1940, enlisting at San Francisco. Peterson officially reported for duty aboard the U.S.S. Arizona on December 30, 1940 and served aboard the ship for less than a year.

On December 7, 1941, he died along side 1,176 of his fellow shipmates during the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor by the Japanese. His remains rest among the 900-plus souls still aboard the U.S.S. Arizona.

The 22-year-old Seaman Second Class was posthumously awarded several medals including the Purple Heart, the American Defense Service Medal w/Fleet Clasp, the Asiatic-Pacific Campaign Medal w/Star and the WWII Victory Medal. On Independence Day in July 1943, Crescent City, California to change the name of Plaza Park at D and Sixth Streets to Peterson Park.

In September 2016, Rocky Peterson was named to Del Norte High School’s Hall of Fame.

How to Chase Off a New Neighbor

Let’s face it, I should have by now, learned to keep my pie-hole shut. Because I yap too much, our new neighbors have moved out even before they moved in.

The young couple was unloading furniture on Saturday and moving it into the rental next to us. The following day, the woman and I were talking about our dogs.

They have a Bull Mastiff puppy named Brutus, who at the time we were talking had crashed out on the living room floor. I offered up the fact that we have four dogs.

“In fact, we jus’ got the fourth one because the man who lived in your house passed away,” I added. “We took it in as a favor, but now he’s ours.”

She made a sad groan as she replied, “That’s so sweet of you.”

There was a slight pause as I could tell she was thinking, preparing to say something else. She grimaced, asking, “He didn’t die in the house, did he?”

My hesitation must have been too long before I answered, “Yes…but I thought you knew.”

Obviously, their landlord hadn’t told them.

She tried hard to smile as she shook her heads sideways. I could tell that the information distressed her as she fumbled for something to say.

“I’m sorry,” I told her.

She sighed, “I think were going to move.”

She and her husband, or boyfriend, or what ever he is to her, haven’t been back since that night and the house is still vacant. I really thought that they knew.

The Price of a Brain-fart

Some 37-years ago I had a friend whose wife was having a baby. He asked me to buy him lunch that morning, handing me a 20 dollar bill, which I promptly stuffed in my pants pocket.

By the time lunch rolled around, I had been so busy that I’d completely forgotten about my friend and the money. So when I stuck my hand in my pocket and pulled out that Andrew Jackson, I was pleased as punch, thinking I’d found cash that I didn’t know I had.

I promptly went to the hospital’s mini-BX and purchased a large jar of Planters’ Peanuts, a couple of Coca0Cola’s, a large Milky Way bar and a People Magazine, as I wanted to find out the low-down on Erik Estrada’s motorcycle accident.

It was evening time and I was heading out the door from a long-ass day in the office seeing patient after patient, when to my horror, I recalled the fact that the now-long spent green-back belonged to my friend. Worse than that was the knowledge that I’d forgotten to get him lunch as I’d promised.

“Totally embarrassed” is how I would describe myself the next day when I saw him in order to return the twenty and tell him what I’d done. He said it was okay, that the nursing staff had fed him as waited for his daughter to come into the world.

A couple of days ago I went to the local market and bought a large Snicker’s candy bar for my friend, Kay’s birthday. She told me that she didn’t want anything, but I can’t let her go the day without a gift and a nice card.

Yesterday, as I sat in front of my computer, bored, tired and unable to think I looked over at the Snickers as it rested on my desk. Without any thought I picked it up, tore it open and took a healthy bite.

At that second, I gasped, realizing what I’d done — I was eating Kay’s birthday present and feeling stupid. When I called to wish her a ‘Happy birthday,” I informed her that I had eaten her candy bar and that I’d have to buy her another one.

This time though, my brain-fart only cost me a buck-thirty-four.

What Goes Up…

My wife and I were watching television when a promotional advertisement for a new show came on. In it, two men were in a restroom stall with an inflatable raft and one of the men pulled the handle that allowed the raft to fill with air.

It caused me to recall the fact that inflatable rafts do not fill with slowly. In fact, it happens very quickly and even quicker than one can react to it.

At the time it didn’t seem too funny, but looking back, it’s hilarious.

One of the Marines purchased a Vietnam-era ‘rubber boat’ from a local Army-Navy surplus store and to show it off, he brought it into the squad bay. Once there, we all gathered around to hear bout the grand deal he had made.

That’s when some smart-ass reached over and yanked on the handle. I had leaned over to stop him, but it was too late.

In the blink of an eye, the raft inflated, flinging me into the ceiling.  And no sooner had I slammed into the ceiling — I dropped to floor with a thud.

How they managed to get the damned thing out of the barracks without getting busted, I never knew. I had to be taken to the infirmary for the night as I was suffering from a concussion and a dislocated left wrist.

Ending Green Tax Incentives and Cronyism

Wonder where Nevada lame-duck Senator Harry Reid fits into all this cash being tossed around?

Between SolarCity, Tesla Motors Inc., and the rocket company SpaceX, Elon Musk’s interests has gotten at least $4.9 billion in taxpayer support over the past 10 years. Now, the Senate Finance Committee and the House Ways and Means Committee have launched a probe into the tax incentives paid to SolarCity, which is set to be purchased by Tesla.

In 2013, SolarCity received $127.4 million in federal grants. The following year, in which it received only $342,000 from the same stimulus package, total revenue was just $176 million and the company posted a net loss of $375 million.

As an aside, Musk’s cousins, Lyndon and Peter Rive operate SolarCity. With such shady goings-on between family members — a favorite Harry Reid feature — it isn’t hard to believe that the soon-to-be-gone Senator is somehow benefiting from the arrangement.

Rosco Goes ‘Hogan’s Heroes’

It is truly a joy having people I don’t even know threaten me while on my own front porch. One of my neighbors’ dog got out of his yard and was hanging around my fence, visiting with my pups.

The escapee, a Rottweiler, whose name is Rosco, has managed this feat before. So I go out and sit with him until his human realizes he’s missing.

Today however, a large man walking a small dog, yells at me to call ‘my fucking dog’ back or else. I respond that he isn’t my dog – then I add, “Or else what?”

“Don’t get smart wise ass!” he shouts at me.

Now, to be honest, I suffer from ‘Short man’s disorder,’ and I don’t give a shit if this guy with the purse-sized dog is six-foot-four, out weighs me by at least 75 pounds and is at least 20-years my junior, I will not let that stand. So I remain seated as I mouth-off, “You’re the asshole who got stupid by demanding I call my dog — so don’t go giving me any lip, shithead.”

That stunned him as the look on his face told me that he was thinking twice about tangling with me, which is a good thing. Though my adrenaline was up, I would have more than likely gotten hurt, if not severely killed.

“Second god-damned time this has happened to me today,” he complained as he continued to walk by.

“Well,” I called back to him, “that’s not my fault now is it?”

In the mean time, Rosco, sensing he was not being appreciated by the big guy with the tiny dog, came and sat on the porch next to me and drank all the coffee from my cup. I could see him ever-so gently quaking, anticipating what might happen next.

Now, it might be my imagination, but I think Rosco was ready to pounce on the dude had he been anymore threatening towards me — and I’m not even his human. Perhaps I owe Rosco a big steak the next time he goes ‘Hogan’s Heroes,’ for keeping my name out of the obituaries.

Patterns

It began with baseball; the Cleveland Indians and the Chicago Cubs matching up in the 2016 World Series. The Indians hadn’t been in the series since 1948 and that was the trigger to my recognizing a pattern.

1948 is the year that the U.S. supreme Court rules that religious instruction in public schools violates the U.S. Constitution, while the Universal Declaration of Human Rights was adopted by the United Nation. Also, during that same year, the State of Israel was reconstituted

Within seconds, other dates were tumbling out of my mind, like the 1967 ‘Six Day War,’ in which Israel had to defend itself against several Arab aggressors. The 50-year anniversary of that war is next year.

Every 50th year in the Old Testament Israel was the “Year of Jubilee” when all the land was to be restored to the original owner; all debts were to be cancelled; and all slaves were set free. It was the year of release and deliverance – a time for celebration and joy when families were reunited and given a fresh lease on life.

The 1967 fight over the land that is Israel came about because of the Balfour Treaty of 1917, which is more of a letter, expressing the British government’s support for a Jewish homeland – which was also a period of 50 years. Also in 1917, the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia occurred.

Both the Balfour Treaty and the Bolshevik Revolution will see their 100th year anniversary in 2017. Also of interest is the fact that the in May 1917, three Portuguese children experienced the miracle in which Mary, the mother of Jesus, appeared at Fatima which also happened to be the 500th anniversary of the Protestant Reformation.

And I can’t help but think about the Blood Moon’s this year or the solar eclipse in August 2017. I don’t know what any of it means, but remember I’m the kid that tried to talk our family priest into believing that the Statue of Liberty in New York’s harbor was like the statue from King Nebuchadnezzar’s dream.

The Road to Reconstruction II Begins Here

It has been an uphill struggle the last eight years as I’ve tried to get the message out to those who would listen that our nation is in grave peril from within. Be for Barack Obama was elected, I began researching him, his past and those he associated with and what I found was terrifying.

Back then though, hardly anyone would listen what I was saying. Those that I told, poo-poo’d me, claiming that I was making a mountain out of a molehill and that I had read too much between the lines as I dug through Obama’s background.

The night he was elected in 2008, I was working at a local radio station and I was an emotional wreck. I vibrated between acute fear for American and extreme sadness, crying off and on throughout the night and early morning.

(No, I do not mind sharing that aspect of myself as it is the real me; I have always been a rather emotional being, even in childhood.)

The second time Obama was elected, I lost it and proclaimed a ‘purge’ was headed our way. This nearly caused an all out fist fight between myself and another announcer at the station.

Instead of being sad, I was irate – too the point that I was out of bounds, both professionally and within myself. The fact that people could not see the damage – the lies – the destruction – this man wrought from his position in the White House and golf course was beyond my ability to understand.

After nearly four-years I had concluded that this nation, as I had known it as a child and as a young man was done for, finished and never to be seen again. Especially with the likes of Hillary Clinton assuming the mantle of Democratic presidential candidate, I knew instinctively this country would not survive.

To that end, I decided to forgo sharing daily articles to my blog, and instead focus my time, my research and my writing skills to Facebook for the purpose of educating those who’d take the time to honestly read what I was posting. Because of this, I have lost a lot of friends and even some family over the course of time and in all honesty, I still do not know if such losses will have been worth it in the long run.

Last night, a couple of minutes after Fox News grew a pair and finally announced what everyone else knew, that Donald Trump had won the election, I sat quietly, bowed my head and prayed for him, for our nation and for you and me – what a difference from 2008 and 2012.

It is comforting to know that I am not the heartless beast, the all out verbal warrior, the Mr. Hyde I had come to think of myself as during this process. As I laid in bed, I found myself feeling sorrow and pity for Hillary Clinton, as I imagined the bitter hurt of being rejected so publically – and it does hurt no matter how tough one might claim to be.

It is a new morning, a new day in the United States. Where we go from this point, only God can say as he’s has made Donald Trump his instrument and we God’s children must bear him up in prayer as that instrument if we wish to undo the damage the Obama administration has done to this nation and her people. Though I am not in charge, my first prayer is that we (as President-elect Trump said,) ‘bind up our wounds,’ forgive each other, return to civilized activity such as a ‘good morning,’ and ‘how are you?’

Lastly, as I’ve told you before, I wanted to be a preacher at one time, but I now understand why God never allowed that to come to fruition – I am too emotional, too foul mouthed, to warrior-like and too politically incorrect in my approach to serve as God’s messenger to the gentler Christian’s among us. For all these things I apologize, if I have offended you – but like war, the battle in defense of the U.S. Constitution and our Constitutional Republic is not meant for the faint of heart and those not willing to hurt and be hurt.

God, bless America and hold Mr. Trump’s feet to your righteous flame.