For some time now, I've been intending on publishing for internet availability some letters and other documents related to my family history. Here are three letters that were written in pencil on lavender-colored paper, so they were difficult to transcribe. They were sent from Esther Knight to her son/my great-great-grandfather, Ebenezer Knight, shortly before her death in 1879. Spelling and capitalization remain true to the original letters.
"Myers Valley
Potawatomie Co. Kansas
April 28. 1875
My dear son
I have been waiting for a letter from you but it seems in vain. You will not write and I am so trembling that I scarcely know how to. When i think that my only two sons should now on my account feel so bad one to the other, I must leave this painful subject. I want you to write me and let me know how your wife and children are. And let me know how Matilda Rogers and her family are. If you see them give my love to them. Also how Mrs. Combs and Mrs. Glasco are. I have never ask you my son for any think before but I should be very glad if you spare me a trifle now and then to buy me some tea. For ever since the grasshoppers destruction they have never used coffe nor tea and David's wife sold her cow because they had no feed so they have been deprived of milk and butter. So that it has gone hard with them, and as it happens often one trouble don't come alone. About a month ago their other [illegible] colt died. I must close for I am to nervous I can write no more at present.
From your
affectionate
mother
E. Knight
Answer this as soon as possible and don't keep me in suspence. May the blessings of God rest upon you it is my fervent prayer."
Letter 2:
"It is nearly 9 months since your brother David sent you a letter, but we have heard no answer. I have been very sick and am still very weak. My memry is very bad, but I have not forgot i have a son Ebenezer who had a wife + family. I hope when you receive this letter you will read it directly. If you do not I shall think you have disowned your mother and brother altogether, but remember you are as dear to me as when the Lord first gave you to me. Remember we ought to forgive if we expect to be forgiven. Now your brother feels no [illegible] toward you than he did this winter. He was in great trouble at the time and you did not answer the letters he wrote, but I will say no more about it. Your brother is in hope you will write so soon and let me know how you all are getting along. I had such a bad cough in January that i thought I was going home, but The Lord as been pleased to spare me but I am very weak and feeble. But I feel strong in the Lord and the Power of His Might. My son I hope if we never see one another again on Earth we shall meet in Heaven where parting will be known no more. Give my love to your wife and children when ever you can't find time to write."
Letter 3: [apparently written to one of Ebenezer's children]
"I received your letter with the pictures and was much pleased that I was not quite forgotten by my oldest son. Finally I was glad to hear you enjoyed yourself on Christmas day. I am not able to comply with your wish to send my picture. Your aunt Esther Kreutzinger as got me and your grandfather Knight, in one and if at any time you should visit you can see it. Whenever your sister Ellen can spare the money I would like to have her and her brother David James picture together. Give my love to Thos. and his wife and tell them i wish them all the happiness the world can offer them and that is but little at the best. Tell them thou I never espect to see them on Earth I hope to meet in heaven where parting will be knone no more."
Note, written in ink, apparently by David Knight:
"This is all I can find of Mother's last writing. I would have written for her but for the reasons given on this sheet, she would not allow it.
D.K."
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Samson Sidney Turley
From a 1951 book published by Pfrimmer's Chapel Evangelical United Brethren Church, Corydon, Indiana:
SAMSON SIDNEY TURLEY
October 15,1874 - December 15, 1950
S.S. Turley was the son of William Harvey and Elizabeth Rosenbarger Turley and was raised in this community. He was converted at our church when he was a boy.
He was received into Indiana Conference at the 81st session held at Dale, Indiana August 25, 1909. His first charge was at Crandall, Indiana. He was ordained in 1911. He served the church at Hartsville during 1912 when there was eighty-seven converts. In 1914 he organized a United Brethren Church at Sardinia and in 1915 he organized one at Grammer.
In 1918 he went to Beatrice, Nebraska and was transferred from Idiana Conference in 1919. While serving at Beatrice, Nebraska he was wed to Miss Rose Meredith.
He began evangelistic work as a Evangelist At Large September 24, 1920. Mrs. Turley assisted with special music. They held services in every state in the United States, In Washington, D. C. and in twelve foreign countries. They educated two native Japanese boys for the ministry and attended the weddings of each of these boys in their native country.
His remains were placed to rest in the Grover Memorial Mausoleum in South Park Cemetery at Greensburg, Indiana.
SAMSON SIDNEY TURLEY
October 15,1874 - December 15, 1950
S.S. Turley was the son of William Harvey and Elizabeth Rosenbarger Turley and was raised in this community. He was converted at our church when he was a boy.
He was received into Indiana Conference at the 81st session held at Dale, Indiana August 25, 1909. His first charge was at Crandall, Indiana. He was ordained in 1911. He served the church at Hartsville during 1912 when there was eighty-seven converts. In 1914 he organized a United Brethren Church at Sardinia and in 1915 he organized one at Grammer.
In 1918 he went to Beatrice, Nebraska and was transferred from Idiana Conference in 1919. While serving at Beatrice, Nebraska he was wed to Miss Rose Meredith.
He began evangelistic work as a Evangelist At Large September 24, 1920. Mrs. Turley assisted with special music. They held services in every state in the United States, In Washington, D. C. and in twelve foreign countries. They educated two native Japanese boys for the ministry and attended the weddings of each of these boys in their native country.
His remains were placed to rest in the Grover Memorial Mausoleum in South Park Cemetery at Greensburg, Indiana.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
My Early Education Helped Shape Me
On a discussion forum I frequent, one of the regulars posted a photo of an old abandoned 1-room schoolhouse he used to attend, and made the following comments:
" K through 4.
"No Internet
No phones
No gym
No sports
No indoor plumbing
"No wonder I'm such a bitter, gun-toting domestic terrorist."
The school where I spent first grade in 1961 was a lot like that...although they did have indoor plumbing. Now an historic landmark known as the Leora Brown School, it had been the "colored school" in town before the school system integrated. When we "baby boomers" overwhelmed the capacity of our 1914-built grade school, a couple of "overflow" classrooms were set up a couple of blocks away when they put up a partition wall in the formerly-one-room "colored school."
Mrs, Bickel--who had been my dad's first-grade teacher in 1936, back when she was Miss Miller--was my teacher. The other classroom went to Mrs. Merk, the wife of the principal at the junior high. [Mr.Merk had been my dad's senior English and Latin teacher in high school...and Dad hated him.]
The only phone in the building was one that hung on the wall in the back hallway, and its purpose was for use in case there was an emergency, so the principal at the main grade school could be notified. There was no gym, and the only sports were whatever we could work into a short recess on the part-gravel, part grass-and-mud playground. I use the term "playground" quite loosely, since the only play equipment there--besides our own imaginations--were three 2x12's u-bolted to a crude pipe frame to approximate some teeter-totters.
While "busing" was something that caused some strife under court-ordered integration in Louisville in 1975--and still causes some controversy even today--it was nothing new to us. We rode the bus to school, except for the kids who lived close enough to walk. At the "Annex," we rode the bus the 3 blocks to the main grade school for a cafeteria lunch...at 25 cents a day for that meal [Extra milk was 2 cents for a half-pint carton...and chocolate milk was ONLY allowed on "special occasions', with an extra carton costing 3 cents.]. And we rode the bus back to the "Annex" for afternoon classes...and then we rode the bus home. Black kids and white kids all rode the same buses, and we all managed to get along. No, we didn't sit an a circle holding hands singing "Kum-Ba-Yah" at school; we were too busy teasing each other about who had a crush on what girl, or playing "catchers" ["TAG! YOU'RE IT!"] or some other game that normal first-graders play.
We weren't taught how to be "politically correct" back then. The environment? Well, they tried to teach us to clean up after ourselves, and not to waste things, with varying degrees of success...but I guess that's that's the heart and soul of effective environmental protection--cleaning up after yourself, and not wasting resources--isn't it?
In the community where I grew up, owning a gun was not only accepted, but it was almost expected. Back then, most everyone either hunted or fished, many did both, and we skinned or scaled and cleaned and gutted and cooked and ate what we shot or caught...or gave it to someone who WOULD cook and eat it. "Catch and release"?? Only if the fish wasn't big enough to be a "keeper." Often we seined our own minnows, and usually threw back the crawdads and hellgramites that we occasonally ended up with...although some folks used them for bait, too.
So I guess growing up as I did, I never understood the need for any of the "politically correct" BS we keep hearing abut these days...because we knew better than to pollute the places where we hunted and fished, among other things, because we wanted to continue to be able to hunt and fish there. And we knew who our friends were, and didn't care if they were black or white becaus we all grew up riding the same school buses, and shared the same classrooms, lunchrooms and restrooms at school anyway.
And in my eyes, it's a shame it's taking the rest of the country so long to try to learn what I was being taught in first grade, at what used to be the old "colored school."
" K through 4.
"No Internet
No phones
No gym
No sports
No indoor plumbing
"No wonder I'm such a bitter, gun-toting domestic terrorist."
The school where I spent first grade in 1961 was a lot like that...although they did have indoor plumbing. Now an historic landmark known as the Leora Brown School, it had been the "colored school" in town before the school system integrated. When we "baby boomers" overwhelmed the capacity of our 1914-built grade school, a couple of "overflow" classrooms were set up a couple of blocks away when they put up a partition wall in the formerly-one-room "colored school."
Mrs, Bickel--who had been my dad's first-grade teacher in 1936, back when she was Miss Miller--was my teacher. The other classroom went to Mrs. Merk, the wife of the principal at the junior high. [Mr.Merk had been my dad's senior English and Latin teacher in high school...and Dad hated him.]
The only phone in the building was one that hung on the wall in the back hallway, and its purpose was for use in case there was an emergency, so the principal at the main grade school could be notified. There was no gym, and the only sports were whatever we could work into a short recess on the part-gravel, part grass-and-mud playground. I use the term "playground" quite loosely, since the only play equipment there--besides our own imaginations--were three 2x12's u-bolted to a crude pipe frame to approximate some teeter-totters.
While "busing" was something that caused some strife under court-ordered integration in Louisville in 1975--and still causes some controversy even today--it was nothing new to us. We rode the bus to school, except for the kids who lived close enough to walk. At the "Annex," we rode the bus the 3 blocks to the main grade school for a cafeteria lunch...at 25 cents a day for that meal [Extra milk was 2 cents for a half-pint carton...and chocolate milk was ONLY allowed on "special occasions', with an extra carton costing 3 cents.]. And we rode the bus back to the "Annex" for afternoon classes...and then we rode the bus home. Black kids and white kids all rode the same buses, and we all managed to get along. No, we didn't sit an a circle holding hands singing "Kum-Ba-Yah" at school; we were too busy teasing each other about who had a crush on what girl, or playing "catchers" ["TAG! YOU'RE IT!"] or some other game that normal first-graders play.
We weren't taught how to be "politically correct" back then. The environment? Well, they tried to teach us to clean up after ourselves, and not to waste things, with varying degrees of success...but I guess that's that's the heart and soul of effective environmental protection--cleaning up after yourself, and not wasting resources--isn't it?
In the community where I grew up, owning a gun was not only accepted, but it was almost expected. Back then, most everyone either hunted or fished, many did both, and we skinned or scaled and cleaned and gutted and cooked and ate what we shot or caught...or gave it to someone who WOULD cook and eat it. "Catch and release"?? Only if the fish wasn't big enough to be a "keeper." Often we seined our own minnows, and usually threw back the crawdads and hellgramites that we occasonally ended up with...although some folks used them for bait, too.
So I guess growing up as I did, I never understood the need for any of the "politically correct" BS we keep hearing abut these days...because we knew better than to pollute the places where we hunted and fished, among other things, because we wanted to continue to be able to hunt and fish there. And we knew who our friends were, and didn't care if they were black or white becaus we all grew up riding the same school buses, and shared the same classrooms, lunchrooms and restrooms at school anyway.
And in my eyes, it's a shame it's taking the rest of the country so long to try to learn what I was being taught in first grade, at what used to be the old "colored school."
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Growing Up In Downtown Corydon
When I was a kid, I pretty much grew up in downtown Corydon, IN. And since my dad and grand-dad ran a business in town, I knew most of the businessmen [and women] as well. So anyone who grew up in Corydon during our era might well remember:
*when the Krause Hotel at South Capitol and Poplar Streets burned down;
*the Corydon Jaycees' annual Pancake Festival, which used to close off all of Elm and Beaver streets for carnival rides every May;
*the old Blaine Hays law office on the southeast corner of Chestnut Street and Capitol Avenue;
*the Eureka Telephone Company's green-glazed building;
*the Elm Restaurant [bonus points for having come and gone through the side door];
*Foley's Barber Shop, on the south side of East Chestnut street;
*Dwight Harper's barber shop, when it was between Berlin's and Davidson's Pool Room;
*Ledford's Grocery...as well as Johnny Frederick's;
*Rick Warrick's Buick dealership, on the "Mauckport Hill", across from Claude Windell's Shell station;
*Corydon Auto Supply, across Capitol Avenue from the courthouse;
*Hobie Poellein's Western Auto store, where we got most of our bicycle accessories;
*Nelson's Firestone, on Chestnut Street, where we got the rest of our bike stuff;
*Ordner's Variety Store...bonus if you remember when they were over by the Corydon State Bank;
*North Side Garage, operated by Kelly Hardin;
* West Side Garage, operated by Tom and Doug Robson;
*the original Hamburger Castle, and the pinball machines in the back that cost a nickel a game, 6 for a quarter;
*Roy LaHue and Sons mens clothing store;
*the A & P grocery [and the smell of freshly-ground coffee when you walked in the door];
*the Marathon station just before Parks Chevrolet;
*the Mobil gas station on the West Hill;
*Sherrill's Roller Rinks...the one on the hill AND the one at the fairgrounds;
*the rampside Corvair appliance delivery truck from Hurst-Miles Hardware store;
*home milk delivery by both Sealtest and by Kannapel's Dairy.
These are but a few of my childhood memories of growing up in Corydon. I'm sure you have your own, and some will be different from mine. But these were a part of growing up in an isolated small town, and with the interstate highway system, the kind of childhood we had can never happen again.
*when the Krause Hotel at South Capitol and Poplar Streets burned down;
*the Corydon Jaycees' annual Pancake Festival, which used to close off all of Elm and Beaver streets for carnival rides every May;
*the old Blaine Hays law office on the southeast corner of Chestnut Street and Capitol Avenue;
*the Eureka Telephone Company's green-glazed building;
*the Elm Restaurant [bonus points for having come and gone through the side door];
*Foley's Barber Shop, on the south side of East Chestnut street;
*Dwight Harper's barber shop, when it was between Berlin's and Davidson's Pool Room;
*Ledford's Grocery...as well as Johnny Frederick's;
*Rick Warrick's Buick dealership, on the "Mauckport Hill", across from Claude Windell's Shell station;
*Corydon Auto Supply, across Capitol Avenue from the courthouse;
*Hobie Poellein's Western Auto store, where we got most of our bicycle accessories;
*Nelson's Firestone, on Chestnut Street, where we got the rest of our bike stuff;
*Ordner's Variety Store...bonus if you remember when they were over by the Corydon State Bank;
*North Side Garage, operated by Kelly Hardin;
* West Side Garage, operated by Tom and Doug Robson;
*the original Hamburger Castle, and the pinball machines in the back that cost a nickel a game, 6 for a quarter;
*Roy LaHue and Sons mens clothing store;
*the A & P grocery [and the smell of freshly-ground coffee when you walked in the door];
*the Marathon station just before Parks Chevrolet;
*the Mobil gas station on the West Hill;
*Sherrill's Roller Rinks...the one on the hill AND the one at the fairgrounds;
*the rampside Corvair appliance delivery truck from Hurst-Miles Hardware store;
*home milk delivery by both Sealtest and by Kannapel's Dairy.
These are but a few of my childhood memories of growing up in Corydon. I'm sure you have your own, and some will be different from mine. But these were a part of growing up in an isolated small town, and with the interstate highway system, the kind of childhood we had can never happen again.
Organizing the Garage: An Exercise In Futility
Ever since the days of the caveman, the "man-cave," also known in modern vernacular as a "garage," has been disorganized. Man has, through the centuries, invented many storage devices to help organize this "man-cave," and yet nearly all have utterly failed in this purpose. Man has even used "wo-man" to help organize the "man-cave," but this arrangement has proven unsatisfactory because "wo-man" has different ideas on what is important and what is junk than does Man...and once "wo-man" organizes the "man-cave," Man can never again find what once was close at hand and extremely necessary. So the failure is one of the "cave-man" who utilizes his "man-cave," rather than the reverse. And it has been so since the time of the Neanderthals...and will most likely continue throughout the time of the George Jetsons and beyond. It is our nature, written in our DNA, it seems.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Tales Of Deer Camp and Beer Bread, 2010
Got an F-U phone call for my son awhile ago.
Seems he and my deer hunting buddy Alan have a history of pulling practical jokes on one another. Well, until last weekend Alan and my son had an unofficial truce going on. I gather that's over now.
Now, one of the staples of our deer camp is beer bread; and another is chili. Alan is the guy who made the chili the ONE night my brother spent with us in deer camp. My brother vowed never to return after we all sat down to some deer camp chili that Saturday night. Everyone ate their chili without incident except my brother, who broke out in sweats, palpitations, and tears, swear words, and mystical incantations before he finished his bowl. It was only about a year later that we finally learned that Alan had added the amount of cayenne reserved for an entire POT of chili into my brother's single bowl. My brother still thinks we have an inhuman capacity to ingest fiery creations while at deer camp, and being the type of manly men we are, we've said nothing to dispel that notion.
My son is a fan of all things spicy...so a week or so ago I took him to peruse the well-stocked hot sauce section at the local Bass Pro Shop. He didn't buy any hot sauce; instead, he picked up a mix for beer bread. I don't recall the name, but I believe it was something to do with scorched donkey parts. All I noticed when my son was mixing it up was that the package contained what I considered to be a HUGE pouch of cayenne or similar pepper spice. [As a culinary note, my son made a special trip to the liquor store to pick up a regional brew by the Bluegrass Brewing Company, called "Horse Pi$$" beer, to make the bread. Nothing but the best for OUR deer camp, apparently.] In contrast, our normal beer bread at deer camp consists of self-rising flour, sugar, and beer, and is usually a non-threatening side item served with chili, as well as a base for an occasional sandwich.
So my son made a loaf of that stuff from the mix with the donkey on the package. No, it wasn't a brown colored bread; it actually had a reddish cast from all the flecks of peppery potency throughout. After chasing down about six slices with 12 cold brewskis, my son asked me to deliver the remainder to Alan at deer camp last weekend.
So how'd it go for Alan? After telling me that "it's on" once again, Alan proceeded to tell me how he believes that not only did the beer bread lead him to sweat profusely, to suffer a red face, watery eyes and a runny nose, and to ingest an inhuman number of barley pops to get it down--because at deer camp, we NEVER, EVER back down from a challenge [at least not the FIRST time]--but he's pretty sure he melted some porcelain bathroom fixtures [and possibly some important body parts as well] as he bid adios to the digested remains of said beer bread the following day. And apparently deer hunting buddy Gary suffered a similar fate.
So I guess the game is afoot once again. Of such adventures are the tales of deer camp woven.
Seems he and my deer hunting buddy Alan have a history of pulling practical jokes on one another. Well, until last weekend Alan and my son had an unofficial truce going on. I gather that's over now.
Now, one of the staples of our deer camp is beer bread; and another is chili. Alan is the guy who made the chili the ONE night my brother spent with us in deer camp. My brother vowed never to return after we all sat down to some deer camp chili that Saturday night. Everyone ate their chili without incident except my brother, who broke out in sweats, palpitations, and tears, swear words, and mystical incantations before he finished his bowl. It was only about a year later that we finally learned that Alan had added the amount of cayenne reserved for an entire POT of chili into my brother's single bowl. My brother still thinks we have an inhuman capacity to ingest fiery creations while at deer camp, and being the type of manly men we are, we've said nothing to dispel that notion.
My son is a fan of all things spicy...so a week or so ago I took him to peruse the well-stocked hot sauce section at the local Bass Pro Shop. He didn't buy any hot sauce; instead, he picked up a mix for beer bread. I don't recall the name, but I believe it was something to do with scorched donkey parts. All I noticed when my son was mixing it up was that the package contained what I considered to be a HUGE pouch of cayenne or similar pepper spice. [As a culinary note, my son made a special trip to the liquor store to pick up a regional brew by the Bluegrass Brewing Company, called "Horse Pi$$" beer, to make the bread. Nothing but the best for OUR deer camp, apparently.] In contrast, our normal beer bread at deer camp consists of self-rising flour, sugar, and beer, and is usually a non-threatening side item served with chili, as well as a base for an occasional sandwich.
So my son made a loaf of that stuff from the mix with the donkey on the package. No, it wasn't a brown colored bread; it actually had a reddish cast from all the flecks of peppery potency throughout. After chasing down about six slices with 12 cold brewskis, my son asked me to deliver the remainder to Alan at deer camp last weekend.
So how'd it go for Alan? After telling me that "it's on" once again, Alan proceeded to tell me how he believes that not only did the beer bread lead him to sweat profusely, to suffer a red face, watery eyes and a runny nose, and to ingest an inhuman number of barley pops to get it down--because at deer camp, we NEVER, EVER back down from a challenge [at least not the FIRST time]--but he's pretty sure he melted some porcelain bathroom fixtures [and possibly some important body parts as well] as he bid adios to the digested remains of said beer bread the following day. And apparently deer hunting buddy Gary suffered a similar fate.
So I guess the game is afoot once again. Of such adventures are the tales of deer camp woven.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
AMERICA, LAND OF THE … VICTIMS
These days, I'm having a hard time figuring out conservatives [well, I'm having a hard time figuring out liberals, too...but that's a different topic for a different day]. It seems it's now fashionable for them to decry “victimhood” while at the same time they are embracing it.
What the hell am I talking about? Tune into ANY conservative radio talk show [as if there was any other kind, other than sports radio talk shows], and the subject will ALWAYS turn to a look at America, and how sad it is that we've become a nation of victims. Of course, these talking heads are referring to folks on welfare, or to folks who are unemployed, or to minorities, or to anyone, apparently, who is not “them.”
But if you take a moment to analyze what these talk show hosts are saying—and, unfortunately, what a lot of Americans are buying—their rants boil down to the fact that THEY [and those who think like them] are ALSO victims. Interesting that these folks go on and on at great length about how America needs to shed this attitude of “victimhood,” and yet if that were to occur overnight, these radio hosts would have NO audience at all.
It appears that conservatives think they are victims of the people on welfare. They are victims of those on unemployment. They are victims of government spending, unless it's spent in their district on a project they approve of. They are victims of high income taxes, and of estate taxes even when no one close to them has died with an estate valued highly enough to trigger the “death tax.”
But most recently, they are victims of the propose building of a mosque and an Islamic community center within blocks of the site of the former World Trade Center. Supposedly, the mosque would “desecrate” the “hallowed ground” of what they refer to as “Ground Zero.” They take personal offense at what they perceive to be a symbol of Islamic victory over “infidel” America.
I find it quite ironic that the same people express ZERO outrage at Islamic services being held DAILY not just near, but INSIDE the walls of The Pentagon, another target of the September 11, 2001 terror attacks. But if the building of a mosque just blocks away from their hallowed “Ground Zero” is an outrage, then exactly WHAT about the holding of Islamic services INSIDE not only one of the buildings that was targeted, but the HEADQUARTERS of the ENTIRE US MILITARY ORGANIZATION is LESS offensive?
No, it's not the symbolism of the Muslims establishing a beachhead, if you will, inside the command center of the US military that offends these folks. It's the idea that the Muslims would be so insensitive as to build a mosque in the vicinity of the LARGEST MONUMENT TO AMERICAN VICTIMHOOD SINCE PEARL HARBOR.
On September 11, 2002, my workplace shut down for 30 minutes to hold a ceremony in honor of what's commonly referred to as “9-11.” I refused to participate. It's not that I wanted to show a lack of respect for those who died in the terrorist attacks of a year before; rather, I refused to be a part of a CELEBRATION OF AMERICAN VICTIMHOOD. I stayed on my job, and worked the production line until it was empty at my station. To me, THAT was how we best honor those who died on 9-11: by NOT giving into the celebration of victimhood, by continuing to work and produce goods and services, to show the terrorists and their sympathizers that they in fact did NOT cripple America with their attacks, that America continues doing what it has done so well for so many years DESPITE the actions of radicals and fanatics.
It turned out that I was a minority of one that day. My colleagues instead actually embraced an anniversary of mourning, a celebration of America's victimhood. And in that respect, on that day the terrorists won. They managed to disrupt America's lifestyle, to show that the America that for years had triumphed over tragedy was over.
Somehow, America cannot get past the victimhood of 9-11. When the American fleet was the victim of a dastardly surprise attack at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, the American reaction was so different from the 9-11 reaction. First there was outrage, then there was sorrow at the loss of life...and then America got to work doing what America does best. We didn't have national days of mourning on December 7th, and we didn't have gatherings “celebrating” our victimhood. We went about building planes and ships, and gathered our national resolve that THESE COWARDS WILL NOT WIN. After the war, we built homes and cars and TV's to show these folks that they didn't stop the American way of life, and during the Cold War we showed a national resolve that WE WOULD NOT BACK DOWN from those who would try to destroy us and our way of life.
How totally different from today.
Now, we are still arguing about the shape, size, and scope of the monument we plan to build to 9-11, the day America became a nation of victims. We curse and shout and cry about plans to build a mosque several blocks away from the “hallowed ground” of America, the nation of victims. Instead, we should be telling Muslims everywhere: “BUILD YOUR MOSQUE WHEREVER YOU WANT. BUILD AS MANY AS YOU WANT. THE AMERICAN WAY OF LIFE, AND OF FREEDOM, WILL NOT BE SIDETRACKED BY WHATEVER ACTIONS YOU CHOOSE TO TAKE. AND WE REFUSE TO BE A NATION OF VICTIMS...ESPECIALLY VICTIMS AT THE HAND OF ANY RELIGION.”
Unfortunately, that will never happen. Those words will never be spoken by any American leader...elected, appointed, or even self-appointed, such as the hosts of the talk radio programs. They're too busy decrying America as becoming a “nation of victims,” while at the same time they embrace the concept of America as a nation of victims from 9-11, and apparently are unwilling or unable to move forward as long as the fear they sell, the “victimology” they sell, remains popular. During the dark days of the Great Depression, President Franklin Roosevelt inspired America with his words declaring that the only thing Americans had to fear was “fear itself.” Now, it's fear—particularly fear of Islam, but also the sense of fear inherent in the idea that since 9-11 we are all victims—that “inspires” us. But it is inspiring us toward our darker nature, to the idea that freedom is BAD, especially when it comes to allowing Muslims the freedom to build their mosque and cultural center wherever the laws allow them to build.
And when we allow these fears to curtail the exercise of freedom, guess what? Game over. The terrorists have won. They have managed to take away that which made America special: our love of freedom. And they will have done it by converting the hearts and minds of Americans...not necessarily to their religion, but to their idea that freedom, such as practiced in America prior to 9-11, is inherently evil. And those who cultivate the culture of America as a nation of victims over 9-11—yes, the Rush Limbaughs and the Glenn Becks and the Sean Hannitys—shall have been their [I would hope] unwitting accomplices.
What the hell am I talking about? Tune into ANY conservative radio talk show [as if there was any other kind, other than sports radio talk shows], and the subject will ALWAYS turn to a look at America, and how sad it is that we've become a nation of victims. Of course, these talking heads are referring to folks on welfare, or to folks who are unemployed, or to minorities, or to anyone, apparently, who is not “them.”
But if you take a moment to analyze what these talk show hosts are saying—and, unfortunately, what a lot of Americans are buying—their rants boil down to the fact that THEY [and those who think like them] are ALSO victims. Interesting that these folks go on and on at great length about how America needs to shed this attitude of “victimhood,” and yet if that were to occur overnight, these radio hosts would have NO audience at all.
It appears that conservatives think they are victims of the people on welfare. They are victims of those on unemployment. They are victims of government spending, unless it's spent in their district on a project they approve of. They are victims of high income taxes, and of estate taxes even when no one close to them has died with an estate valued highly enough to trigger the “death tax.”
But most recently, they are victims of the propose building of a mosque and an Islamic community center within blocks of the site of the former World Trade Center. Supposedly, the mosque would “desecrate” the “hallowed ground” of what they refer to as “Ground Zero.” They take personal offense at what they perceive to be a symbol of Islamic victory over “infidel” America.
I find it quite ironic that the same people express ZERO outrage at Islamic services being held DAILY not just near, but INSIDE the walls of The Pentagon, another target of the September 11, 2001 terror attacks. But if the building of a mosque just blocks away from their hallowed “Ground Zero” is an outrage, then exactly WHAT about the holding of Islamic services INSIDE not only one of the buildings that was targeted, but the HEADQUARTERS of the ENTIRE US MILITARY ORGANIZATION is LESS offensive?
No, it's not the symbolism of the Muslims establishing a beachhead, if you will, inside the command center of the US military that offends these folks. It's the idea that the Muslims would be so insensitive as to build a mosque in the vicinity of the LARGEST MONUMENT TO AMERICAN VICTIMHOOD SINCE PEARL HARBOR.
On September 11, 2002, my workplace shut down for 30 minutes to hold a ceremony in honor of what's commonly referred to as “9-11.” I refused to participate. It's not that I wanted to show a lack of respect for those who died in the terrorist attacks of a year before; rather, I refused to be a part of a CELEBRATION OF AMERICAN VICTIMHOOD. I stayed on my job, and worked the production line until it was empty at my station. To me, THAT was how we best honor those who died on 9-11: by NOT giving into the celebration of victimhood, by continuing to work and produce goods and services, to show the terrorists and their sympathizers that they in fact did NOT cripple America with their attacks, that America continues doing what it has done so well for so many years DESPITE the actions of radicals and fanatics.
It turned out that I was a minority of one that day. My colleagues instead actually embraced an anniversary of mourning, a celebration of America's victimhood. And in that respect, on that day the terrorists won. They managed to disrupt America's lifestyle, to show that the America that for years had triumphed over tragedy was over.
Somehow, America cannot get past the victimhood of 9-11. When the American fleet was the victim of a dastardly surprise attack at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, the American reaction was so different from the 9-11 reaction. First there was outrage, then there was sorrow at the loss of life...and then America got to work doing what America does best. We didn't have national days of mourning on December 7th, and we didn't have gatherings “celebrating” our victimhood. We went about building planes and ships, and gathered our national resolve that THESE COWARDS WILL NOT WIN. After the war, we built homes and cars and TV's to show these folks that they didn't stop the American way of life, and during the Cold War we showed a national resolve that WE WOULD NOT BACK DOWN from those who would try to destroy us and our way of life.
How totally different from today.
Now, we are still arguing about the shape, size, and scope of the monument we plan to build to 9-11, the day America became a nation of victims. We curse and shout and cry about plans to build a mosque several blocks away from the “hallowed ground” of America, the nation of victims. Instead, we should be telling Muslims everywhere: “BUILD YOUR MOSQUE WHEREVER YOU WANT. BUILD AS MANY AS YOU WANT. THE AMERICAN WAY OF LIFE, AND OF FREEDOM, WILL NOT BE SIDETRACKED BY WHATEVER ACTIONS YOU CHOOSE TO TAKE. AND WE REFUSE TO BE A NATION OF VICTIMS...ESPECIALLY VICTIMS AT THE HAND OF ANY RELIGION.”
Unfortunately, that will never happen. Those words will never be spoken by any American leader...elected, appointed, or even self-appointed, such as the hosts of the talk radio programs. They're too busy decrying America as becoming a “nation of victims,” while at the same time they embrace the concept of America as a nation of victims from 9-11, and apparently are unwilling or unable to move forward as long as the fear they sell, the “victimology” they sell, remains popular. During the dark days of the Great Depression, President Franklin Roosevelt inspired America with his words declaring that the only thing Americans had to fear was “fear itself.” Now, it's fear—particularly fear of Islam, but also the sense of fear inherent in the idea that since 9-11 we are all victims—that “inspires” us. But it is inspiring us toward our darker nature, to the idea that freedom is BAD, especially when it comes to allowing Muslims the freedom to build their mosque and cultural center wherever the laws allow them to build.
And when we allow these fears to curtail the exercise of freedom, guess what? Game over. The terrorists have won. They have managed to take away that which made America special: our love of freedom. And they will have done it by converting the hearts and minds of Americans...not necessarily to their religion, but to their idea that freedom, such as practiced in America prior to 9-11, is inherently evil. And those who cultivate the culture of America as a nation of victims over 9-11—yes, the Rush Limbaughs and the Glenn Becks and the Sean Hannitys—shall have been their [I would hope] unwitting accomplices.
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