Happy Halloween

Some pictures of the weekend activities

Why I Don't Play Basketball

Growing up as an Army brat had its ups and downs. On the negative side, we were always moving every year or two. Until high school, I never had the benefit of a "lifelong childhood friend." Every bond made was temporary, and friends were disposable and soon forgotten after moving. Having gone to high school in a non-military town, I felt distinctly at a disadvantage. All of my friends had known each other since kindergarten. I had to forcibly insert myself into their lives.

However, on the positive side, moving every two years provided a much needed fresh start. This was particularly useful for me since I was a weak and nerdy kid who was often teased. In the years of elementary school through junior high school, when kids are unbelievably silly, cruel and hurtful, nicknames are given, and these names attach themselves to you like tar. Names like whitey, spaz, and, one of my most hated names, D.W.E. (which lovingly stood for Dick With Ears). Ugly names like these have a scarring effect on the life of a kid, whether he's eight, ten or sixteen. So it was always a great relief that every year or two, there was a way to purge the demons from one place, move on, and begin collecting fresh new demons in a new home.

This all leads me to my favorite nickname, which I will reveal to you later. I say "favorite" now because the mercy of time and age has softened the hurt, and I find myself more amused and nostalgic about the name with 27 years lapsed.

I was never a strong athlete, but my parent signed me up for various after-school sports. Despite my lack of coordination and, more importantly, confidence, I did enjoy the sport activities. I wasn't very good, but I enjoyed playing. So, in third grade, my folks signed me up for an after-school basketball league.

It was a brisk winter's evening on our first practice. We were walked into the gymnasium of our school after hours. It was wonderful and strange to be in the school in the dark of night. The coach was a young black GI, very tall and athletic. He was probably a staff sergeant or something who was volunteering as a coach after work. He probably had a kid on the team. I remember liking him at once and looking up to him immediately. He started us off with some basic drills: bounce passes, dribbling, chest passes. I was having fun. The smell of the gym at night, the squeak of the shoes on the highly polished wooden floor--it was all so new and exciting to me.

There were about thirty of us kids, all different ages--some of the kids were little third-graders like me, and there were bigger kids in sixth grade, and everyone in between--a real mix up of ages. We practiced for a half hour until one of the boys had to pee. Heck, then we all had to pee. Coach called a break and sent us to the boys' room. We all rushed for the doors, but when we all slammed up against the exit bar, the door wouldn't give. The gym was locked off from the school. We had no access to the regular part of the school, including the bathrooms. What were we going to do?

Being an enterprising guy, Coach decided to do the only thing he could do. He sent us all outside. Lining up against the brick wall of the school that brisk winter night, all thirty of us kids started peeing. We must have been quite a site, a chorus line of boys with all our hips all flexed forward decorating the beloved wall of our school.

I don't know what gets into the head of a hyperactive eight year old, but at that moment, standing there, I wasn't happy with my position in line. I had to be at the other end of the line. I don't know why. And the shortest distance was right down the line. Without thinking, I jumped in front of the firing squad. Oh my God. What have I done? Realizing my mistake, I sprint for the other end of the line. But it's way, way too late. The throng of boys turn into a Jedi rodeo, wildly wielding their yellow light sabers at me. Instead of accidentally peeing on me, they begin aiming for me.

It's probably one of the first instincts a boy has upon potty training, to aim for a target when peeing. My own kids really didn't understand what peeing in the potty was all about until I gave them a target or two to aim for, usually a piece of colored tissue paper shaped like an elephant or a giraffe. Even the airport at Munich makes use of this phenomenon, placing a painted housefly in the porcelain of the urinal. Well, that night in Babenhausen, my head was the porcelain fly. It was a massacre!

Drenched in urine, I began sobbing. The coach rounded up the other boys, and I could hear him chastising them. "Even if he ran in front of you, you shoulda cupped your hands over yourself!" He demonstrates the cupping motion with his hand over his crotch. But I could tell by the note in his voice that he wasn't totally buying that. It's what he had to say. Even his own natural reaction would have been to take aim and fire away. He was holding a chuckle under his breath, trying to act the proper adult role.

Still sobbing, I ran home. When I arrived at home, crying viciously and smelling of urine, my parents were horrified. What had happened?? How could this be? My Dad asked me to explain, but I told him, "No. I won't tell. You'll laugh."

"I won't laugh, Scott. Tell me. What happened?" he said.

"No, you'll laugh," I replied.

"I won't laugh," he said very seriously. "Tell me."

So I told him. And he erupts with laughter. My mother, choking back a laugh of her own, reprimands my father, "Warren! It's not funny."

My father is laughing so hard tears are forming in the corners of his eyes. My mother takes me upstairs and begins to clean me up.

For the remaining months after the incident, before moving on to Heidelberg, I was formally known as "Peehead". Everywhere I went, people who never noticed me before cheerily called out, "Hello, Peehead!" Or I'd overhear, "Did you ever hear about Peehead? One night that kid decided...." It was agony.

It was the most disgusting and hated name I had ever owned. And I deserved it, which was the worst thing. Damn, why had I done that? I just couldn't explain it. But having suffered my "basketball trauma" (as it would later be called), I would never again set foot on a basketball court. The association of this incident with basketball was too strong to overcome.

As a parent now, I want to protect my kids from everything evil and hurtful in the world. But it's incidents like this one that make me realize that I can't. My kids will have to live their own lives, and the best I can do is to try to choke back the laughter and provide them a measure of compassion. Just like my parents did.

Some new pictures from the new camera

Some pictures with the new camera. Click on the picture for larger images.

Gotta love the Sakoontra Duck!

A nice close-up test

Hemmervogue!

My new Elantra

A panoramic view from my office window

Pre sunrise shot, low light.

Detailed macro-lens test

Low-light no flash test.

Macro with flash test

Test for color, clarity with flower shot using macro lens

New Camera

After the unhappy and premature demise of my Canon PowerShot S400, I picked up a Pentax Optio S6. I am very happy with this camera. It has all the features of my once beloved S400, but it's slimmer, faster, and has 6 MP. Hopefully, it will be more reliable than the Canon!

I'll post some of the pictures tonight.

Becoming Episcopal

I've been researching the Episcopal faith.... which is basically the
American Anglican church, or a first derivative of the Catholic Church.
I like what I see. Apparently, I have been Episcopal all along and just
didn't know it. It much more closely lines up with my belief system
than the present day Catholic system.

For one, they don't require confession. Big plus. I always had a
problem with telling some priest my sins, and didn't like the Catholic
Church's explanation of that. (The priest is the extension of God...
hooey!)

They don't believe that the communion is the ACTUAL body and blood of
Christ (which is a neat parlor trick, but not required for spiritual
significance, in my opinion.) They believe that Christ is present at
the holy communion in spirit and that's good enough for me!

They are much more tolerant in their beliefs, and less guilt oriented.
Committing "mortal sins" does not expel you from God's infinite grace.
They also believe that all Christians, and even non Christians are
offered the grace of God. In other words, you don't have to be Catholic
to be loved and accepted by God. Isn't that closer to Jesus's teachings
and examples than the exclusionist policies of the Catholic faith?

Finally, priests are interviewed by the parish, not simply assigned to a
parish. The parish gets a say in the selection of their priest!! How
progressive! Not to mention that they accept women priests, allow the
priests to marry, and tolerate people of all lifestyles. I like the
sound of that. They've had a recent schism with the homosexual priest
thing, but hopefully, we'll find that the particular parish in our town
isn't divided or beleaguered on this issue. It certainly isn't as bad
an issue as the whole priest pedophilia scandal!

I found this "comparison guide" on the Internet comparing and
contrasting the two faiths. I found it very useful. I'm pretty sure
we're going to make the switch.

http://www.pttw.org/peek/beliefs.html

And now, for my father's story

Preface: I am not really into astrology, but the fact remains that I am a Virgo. Astrologers will tell you that Virgos are compulsive, anal-retentive, completists. They cannot stand an incomplete set. Musicians like Wynton Marsalis feed mercilessly upon Virgos with their constant publishing of album-sets like "Standard Time Vol. 1, 2, 3, ..." A Virgo must own them all! Virgos tsk-tsk when witnessing a lesser zodiac stick a dinner glass in the wrong kitchen cabinet or clench their teeth when a science fiction book gets shelved into the modern fiction section of their personal library. All of which must be noted for discrete correction as soon as conveniently possible. ("Has Becky shown you her sewing? Go see it. Now. Please.") Therefore, having confessed this, I feel perfectly justified in "completing the set" of writings about my parents. Symmetry must be maintained. And so......

I've come to a part in my life where I've felt the strong compulsion to record my childhood memories. Part of me yearns to write, though I am probably only an average writer. Part of me just wants to chronicle my life before dementia sets in. Who knows when it will?

At twelve, in Piper, Kansas, I was a ninety pound eighth grader--two years too small for my age. Prepubescent and stunted by Ritalin, I still had a year before I would catch up to my older peers physically. Naturally, I was mercilessly teased, bullied, and picked on by boys, and largely ignored by girls. That's okay. I had my model cars and rockets, my aquarium, one of the first real computers on the market (an Epson QX-10 CPM machine!), two good geeky friends who were my same age (but two years behind me in school). I had all the diversions an intelligent pre-teen needs to keep him busy and mostly out of trouble.

Mostly. There was still trouble. Usually it was trouble inflicted upon me, rather than trouble I sought myself. (I must note at this point, that my vent for this was my little brother, Michael. Poor kid, he took the brunt of my angst because he was the only one I could physically dominate. But that is a story for another time.) The list of bullies in that short time at Piper are as clear to me today as they were over 22 years ago.

There was the red-mullet-headed kid with freckles and the meanest eyes you ever saw. He would hunt me down between classes and punch me for no reason. There was the sandy-haired redneck Kansas punk who sat behind me in Algebra class and would continuously punch me in the back of the head when the teacher wasn't looking. And there was Van somebody, who was brown haired, taller than me, and pretty intelligent. Not your typical bully, but he enjoyed putting me down, usually verbally, occasionally otherwise.

My Father, who was a Major in the Army at the time, stationed at Ft. Leavenworth, was my hero. This guy got paid every day to look tough and wear BDUs. Nevermind that he was bald and drove a powder blue VW rabbit. In his BDUs, he was tough!

Dad was not a violent man ever. But Dad knew my struggles, and being the good father, tried to teach me some basics about being tough. (It's like trying to teach a cat how to whistle.) He would show me the correct way to make a fist, let me strike his palms a few times, and tell me that old saw, "If you stand up to a bully, he'll back down. Bullies are cowards at heart."

I felt emboldened. This time I'd really do it. I'd stand up for myself, and they'd all respect me after that.

In the coming days, I took the confidence of a boy named J.D. He was a good-looking, pretty popular kid who seemed to take an interest in my cause. J.D. was experienced in martial arts. I grew closer to him, and had him over to my house for a few sleep-overs where he taught me some basic martial arts kicks and punches. After a few weeks, I was feeling ready. I would challenge Van the next time he messed with me.

It didn't take long, and Van did mess with me. It probably happened the next day. So I told him, "Van, I'm sick of it." Van pushed the issue, not backing down quite as quickly as I thought he should, and I found myself with an appointment to fight after school. Not exactly what I had in mind.

The local fighting spot was a small duck pond near school. The school set atop this large steep hill, surrounded mostly by meadow, and at the very bottom was the duck pond, surrounded by just enough trees to make it a discrete spot for doing "boy things" like hiding Playboys and fighting. This was to be my destination for the afternoon.

Of course, word got out, and I found myself with a crowd of morbidly interested onlookers... like people who can't turn away from a horrible car wreck. The anticipation was obvious in their drooling little mouths.

The fight quickly began, and before I could even plot my first move, Van lobs a Bruce Lee karate kick right into the fat of my nose. Goddammit! In a flash of a second clarity hits me, and I realize that J.D. has been coaching Van as well! Sonofabitch! That asshole just wanted to see a good fight! Well, I'll show him. There'll be no show today, folks. I proceed to get the ever-living you-know-what beat out of me.

Just then, a miracle occurs. My father is suddenly driving the VW rabbit down the freakin' hill! Now, I realize that a powder blue VW rabbit is no Humvee, but he's going like 30 mph down this hill in a rabbit! The car is bouncing up and down like crazy and he isn't stopping for anything!

What's miraculous about it is that he never ever picked me up from school! Not once. He usually worked late and got home late from the fort. But for some reason, this day, not only was he there, but he knew I needed his help. It was probably fatherly intuition. Send your kid off with a headfull of "don't take their crap" advice, but maybe, just maybe getting off work early the next day isn't such a bad idea.

Anyway, he was there. And all the kids stopped what they were doing, even Van. And we all just stared. And when he got out of the car, he was in full Battle Dress Uniform, black boots shining, cap on tight! And he was tough! And do you know what? I wasn't at all embarrassed. I probably should have been, but I wasn't. I was proud of him and how he drove that damn car right down the hill! To me, it was Gen. Patton to the rescue in his M-1 tank!

One thing you have to understand, which I've failed to mention, is that we lived about 30 miles off post. My Dad was the only military man in the entire town. So this had a big effect on all of us. Funny, because after that, one might think I was teased even worse for "my Daddypoo saving me." But that wasn't the case. I don't remember ever being teased again at that school. I reconciled with Van and we almost became friends. (I never really liked him, but I liked him liking me.)

That summer, I went off Ritalin, hit puberty, and grew 30 pounds and six inches. I came back to 9th grade a whole different kid. People didn't mess with me anymore. I was still scarred by the reputation I had, but the nice thing about being a military brat is the fresh start you get every time you move on somewhere else. Mississippi, and the greatest years of my childhood, were only one school-year away.

Now, I reflect back on all the good times with my Dad. I often chuckle at his chronic "uncoolness", but it's only with the deepest of affections. I love it when he gets the lyrics wrong to songs, though he is pitch-perfect in singing them. His choice in music (talk radio) drives me nuts. I love the fact that the big, strong Colonel man gets woozy when he helps my brother get his warts burned off. I laugh at the thought of him crying in movies like Beaches.

Together as adults, we've laughed so hard playing board games that we've been brought to tears. We've seen the northern lights together fishing and exploring in Canada. We've spent great family times in Cancun chasing the ladies (or the grandbabies, which is really more accurate!). And we've shared brandy together, though not nearly enough times.

Dad has always been nothing less than my absolute hero, even today. There is not one person in this world I would rather be than him. It's incredibly sappy, but I really don't care. People are always saying that they regret not telling people how they really felt, until it's too late. Well, we had a little scare this year with Dad. And we didn't know how it would turn out. So far, it has turned out great. But I don't want to miss the chance to let him know that I love him, and I want to be him when I grow up.

Now, if only I could find a powder blue Volkswagen Rabbit.

Some pictures of the camping

Well, I did manage to get these pictures off my camera before the memory card totally crapped out. These aren't the best pictures, but at least I got a few from the weekend.

Camping weekend

We went camping this weekend with Sharon and Desi (and their kids) and Pam and Phil (and their kids). It was a really wonderful time. Camping in the fall is so nice. The nights are very cool and the days are hot enough not to need jackets.

I would have augmented this posting with pictures, but my darned Canon digital camera has a "Memory Card Error" which is driving me nuts. If I lose those pictures, I'll be getting a new camera!

Anyhow, back to camping. We just got a great new tent from my parents, a Eureka Tetragon 1610 from Cabela's. It was really nice, very large inside, yet compact and easy to erect.

By the evening of the first day, the kids were roaming the damp woods and came up with numerous salamanders. I have never seen salamanders in the wild before, and thought they were pretty amazing. The largest one, which Gabi caught, was such a dark purple that it looked black except for the translucent parts of its feet. It was covered with white spots. I couldn't find it in my books yet, but it was huge--about 5 inches from head to tail. The rest they caught were brown with a lateral orange stripe, and quite small (perhaps 2.5 inches). Becky and I are still debating whether they are salamanders or skinks.

So the kids pretty much entertained themselves the entire weekend catching salamanders and setting up "habitats" for them in plastic cups. They would gather moss, twigs, rocks, etc. and pack them all tightly into the cups and then spit into the cups to keep them moist. Jeez, the poor salamanders were probably being digested alive. This, however, was the kinder fate, as the lovable Maura, who loves her pets to death, accidentally squeezed (hugged?) one of her salamaders so hard that it puked its own GI tract out. Poor thing.

The humans fared much better. The first night, Pam and Phil made bratwursts and weisswursts with kartofelsalat and three-bean salad. Very tasty. Then, for breakfast, Becky and I made eggs and bacon, and Becky served her choco-banana-nut bread and zuchini-nut bread. Very delicious.

For lunch, we all just made PB&J's, except of course, Luke, who will only eat cheese sticks.

For dinner, Sharon and Desi made Beef Bourgignon and noodles. Again, very tasty, especially with red wine. Between the six of us adults, we went through six bottles of wine, which is really not much over the course of two nights. That's like two drinks per person per night. (Yeah, I probably subsidized Becky's share... I know.)

Anyhow, not sure how this story turned into a cooking show, but for breakfast this morning we all had pancakes and bacon. Becky kept tsk-tsking at my pancake cooking ability. If they were too black, she'd let out a concerned "Mmmmm." If they were too runny to flip, she'd gasp in a huge intake of air, as if I were about to drop a booger on them. Needless to say, everybody got fed and liked it, dammit! So much for the cooking show.

On the first night, it was like 65 degrees, and I swear to God, I don't know how he does it, but Eddie managed to find the only hornet that hadn't closed shop for the winter. Yep, he got stung on the leg. Damn, that kid must taste good or something! Every time he's been stung, whether at cub scouts, at a kids party, whatever, there's always like 8-20 kids and it's always Eddie getting stung. Every time. Poor kid. If anybody deserved a complex for bees, it's Eddie. Of course, his leg swelled up and itched all weekend, and we had to make a run for Benadryl. But he was a champ through it all, and didn't complain at all. (He did suffer the heebee jeebees the rest of the weekend.)

On night two, we tried to do an "Indian Naming Ceremony," Sharon's idea, but I guess we waited too late, and the kids weren't really in the mood. Our intention was to give them Indian sounding monikers and place a glowstick around their heads. Really cute idea... if the kids would cooperate. Sharon's kids were all for it, but Pam's kids, particularly Andrew, wouldn't tell us the name he wanted, and my kids were jockeying and fighting for particular colored glow-sticks. Poor Sharon. I felt sorry for her. If it's any consolation, my kids enjoyed the glowsticks anyway!

We tried to give the kids names that were derived from North American wildlife (as would be apropos for an Indian name), but Luke absolutely insisted on being "Hungry Ape". We earnestly tried to explain to him that there are no apes in North America, but his mood only worsened. He was tired. It broke down into a crying fit about the color stick he got or didn't get or was about to get, and he basically pouted the rest of the night until bed.

For what it's worth, here's the kids' names I can remember:

• Maura - Night Raccoon - because she's just like a raccoon, getting into stuff
• Eoin - Hungry Bear - because the kid's pretty big, and always hungry
• Ronan - Little Oppossum (Hungry Ape, Jr.) - His Mom wanted him to be the former, but because Luke (pronounced "Yuke" to Ronan) was Hungry Ape, Ronan had to be Hungry Ape. You can see how this all was breaking down.
• Eddie - Hunting Mojave Rattlesnake - He was enchanted with the latest Jeff Corwin show on Animal Planet, and it has left this indellible mark upon him.
• Luke - Hungry Ape - Should have been Stubborn Exhausted Mule
• Gabi, Andrew, and Zach - I just don't remember. It was all breaking down pretty quickly.

Anyhow, we had a nice weekend. Despite the fact that the first night's wood was soaking wet (which we paid good money for!), we were able to get enough of a fire going to keep us warm. The second night's wood, which Desi bought at a local orchard, was much better, and kept us toasty through the night.

Everybody complained about the cold, but I found it refreshing. There's something enchanting about waking up in a dark tent at night, snuggled in your sleeping bag, watching the glow sticks swing from the roof, while your wife and kids toot up the mushrooms and onions from dinner. Good thing we're all hermetically sealed in our own sleeping bags. (Mine was no rosebed either!)

The only bad thing? I guess it must be age, but it seems when I'm home in a warm house, I can sleep through the night no problem. When it's 50 degrees outside and howling wind, I have to get up three times to pee in the night.

Next time, I'm saving the water bottles.

Mother's Day comes early

This weekend, we went camping, and I remembered a story that meant a little something to me.

I was never what you would call a wild child, and even through my teen years was relatively trustworthy, tame, and (to my parents' great joy) boring. Of course, despite this, I had a rivalrous relationship with my mother.

From the age of thirteen through fifteen, much as every teenager does, I became embarrassed of my parents. Even though I had majorly cool parents who took me on camping trips through France, Spain and Italy, took me on seemingly clandestine car and train rides through communist East Germany to reach Berlin, took me on ski trips to Switzerland and Austria--despite all this, I still felt they were total and complete dweebs. (One can hopefully be forgiven their adolescent idiocies.)

As I passed into college, my relationship with my mother was sometimes not as respectful as it should have been. I had grown physically larger, and felt physically and intellectually superior to her in every way. (Which says nothing at all about my mother--who is wonderful--but everything about my growing ego and diminishing inferiority complex. As we grow more confident in life, I suppose we trod upon those who are safest to us... our parents, siblings, etc., on our way to complete self-confidence.) I remember now being able to catch her well-deserved slaps in my hand, and biting back at her verbally. A difficult time for us both.

After going away to college, for a couple of years and coming back home one vist, I was at the peak of asserting my independence. My folks took me to an Atlanta Braves game. Sometime around the seventh inning, a fifty-something man several rows in front of us began having a heart attack. I was so frightened by this, I couldn't even look at the man.

Suddenly, my mother, a practicing RN with a lifelong career in the OR, was jumping over the chairs to reach the man. She assisted the man while simultaneously comforting his wife. She stayed with the man until the paramedics came, gave them all the details and helped him out of the stadium.

I was amazed. My mother was a superhero. One of my biggest fears is of giving first aid to someone (and screwing it up), and my mother jumped into the situation like it was just instinct. Perhaps it was. But it was also bravery.

I have always loved my mother, very much. And although even today I may tease her about her eccentricies, I still love her.

But on that summer day, I also learned to respect her.

I've never told her this story, and I doubt she even realized it was important to me. But it's time she heard it now. She's about to head down to Mississippi to help once again as a nurse and a volunteer care-giver. And I couldn't be more proud of her.

A nice picture of Luke

This is a nice picture of Luke and his Clone Trooper Transport.

High on a hill was a lonely goatherd...

High on a hill was a lonely goatherd
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo
Loud was the voice of the lonely goatherd
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo

Folks in a town that was quite remote heard
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo
Lusty and clear from the goatherd's throat heard
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo

[the Children:]
O ho lay dee odl lee o, o ho lay dee odl ay
O ho lay dee odl lee o, lay dee odl lee o lay

[Maria:]
A prince on the bridge of a castle moat heard
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo
[Kurt:]
Men on a road with a load to tote heard
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo

[the Children:]
Men in the midst of a table d'hote heard
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo
[Maria:]
Men drinking beer with the foam afloat heard
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo

One little girl in a pale pink coat heard
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo
[Brigitta:]

She yodeled back to the lonely goatherd
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo

[Maria:]
Soon her Mama with a gleaming gloat heard
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo
What a duet for a girl and goatherd
Maria and the Children:
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo

[Maria and the Children:]
Ummm (ummm) . . .
Odl lay ee (odl lay ee)
Odl lay hee hee (odl lay hee hee)
Odl lay ee . . .
. . . yodeling . . .

[Child:]
One little girl in a pale pink coat heard
[Maria:]
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hoo hoo
[Child:]
She yodeled back to the lonely goatherd
[Maria:]
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo

[Maria:]
Soon her Mama with a gleaming gloat heard
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hmm hmm
What a duet for a girl and goatherd
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo

[Maria and the Children:]
Happy are they lay dee olay dee lee o . . .
. . . yodeling . . .
Soon the duet will become a trio
[Maria:]
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo

[Maria and the Children:]
Odl lay ee, old lay ee
Odl lay hee hee, odl lay ee
Odl lay odl lay, odl lay odl lee, odl lay odl lee
Odl lay odl lay odl lay

[the Children:]
HOO!

Germany in the next decade

As a "Deutschophile" (if there could be such a word), I have been keeping up with the latest German elections and the forming grand coalition government in Germany.

Future chancellor Angela Merkel, one can hope, is just what Germany needs to break through this time of unsupportable welfare-statism. With an aging and growing non-working population, combined with low birth rates, Germany must break up its bureaucracy and deregulate itself to remain economically relevant on the global stage.

I read an interesting article from the Mises Institute (a very interesting foundation supporting and promoting free market economics), regarding how the minority East German Communist party has played the "swing vote" role in the recent elections, depriving Mrs. Merkel from an outright majority and forcing the grand coalition with the SDP and Gerhard Shroeder.

Read the article here.

After reading the entire article, it's ironic to note that Mrs. Merkel, who finds herself in staunch opposition to the East German Communist party, and is the strongest proponent of free market economics, was born and raised in East Germany. Her father was an idealistic minister who actually immigrated into East Germany from West Germany as the wall was being built.

Luke's Rock Tumbler

For his birthday, Luke received a rock tumbler from Nana. It is not a "toy" rock tumbler, but an actual hobbyist tumbler of a very high quality. The unit holds 6 quarts of rocks!

We started this weekend tumbling our first batch--the rocks that came with the unit. It looked like a mix of quartz, jasper, etc. It is now quietly churning away on my workbench.

Stay tuned for the results!

Luke's Birthday Party

This was a pretty swell party. All the kids (and a few grown-ups) had quite a lot of fun!

I shall dream of Batgirl forevermore.

Jumpin' Jehosaphat, Batman! It's Batgirl!!!

Sandi is ready to come home!

Mom had such a chaotic time, she said she just couldn't take it any more and had to come home. Frankly, I think she's at the end of her rope.

Dulles Day

I took Eddie to Dulles Day today. Here are some of my favorite pictures.

The Spray

These are some pictures of The Spray, the 30 ft. sailboat owned by Capt. Steve Anderson and Aunt Ruth. It's a beautiful boat that they've sailed all the way from Key Largo. They spent two altogether-too-short days with us. As you can see, the boys really enjoyed seeing the boat!