Too much politics and other bad news, I’ve decided to share an excerpt from my book “Birds With Broken Wings” for those that might be interested in something quite different:

    The parts of the puzzle concerning the relationships between men and women keep suggesting themselves in a myriad of ways. I suggest the writing of love letters as a mechanism to explore the ways in which men and women think; an attempt to understand your own thought processes. And women should, I maintain, receive such letters.

    A courtship should definitely be comprised, in part, of such writing. It is to the benefit of both the man and the woman in order to understand each other. The man in the writing, the woman in response to such, will give both a better grasp of the real intentions, the real thinking and feelings in a relationship.

    But not all men are poets. Is this an excuse for the letters to stop, if in fact they ever began? No.

    So, what is the answer? I'm going to go on to a few other stories, which are all a part of an attempt at the answer.

    I was called to an emergency a few days ago. The man told me he needed help and he needed it at once! Knowing him well, I immediately got in my car and drove to his place.

    The emergency involved his youngest daughter. The man had found her in her bedroom with two boys and they had been there all night. The girl is only fourteen.

    This man and his wife are not bad people. They are not bad parents. But the girl is from the man's first marriage and another teenage girl in the home is from the wife's former marriage. His and Hers. This complicates things.

    There are a host of other problems. The dad, a recovering alcoholic, uses marijuana. This brings him into a relationship with some unsavory people who deal. The daughter is exposed to this. He also has a foul habit of profanity, and often shouts embarrassing the girl. Her own background of a drug using mother (the cause of the father having custody) has led her into disastrous choices with boys in seeking love and someone who cares.

    I spend about an hour in private talking to the girl. Then I go to speak with mom and dad. I can only give them my counsel as a friend. I tell dad to knock off the vulgar language and give up the pot. This might help. But the thing I emphasize to both mom and dad is the fact that they better concentrate on their marriage. The girl, because of the insanity of our laws, can run away if she wants and there is nothing they can do about it.

    But if they concentrate their attention on each other, if they concentrate on making their marriage work and provide a proper home, they will at least offer some hope to the children of a standard, of a man and woman, mom and dad, who love each other. The security children need, the loving environment they need, is only possible when mom and dad have their priorities straight. And that priority is each other! This is the best anyone can do for their children. I think dad, in this case, should start with a love letter.

    The following story is often the result of the lack of such letters:

    I'm sitting on the badly torn and soiled couch of a young welfare mother of three. It's cold as there is no propane for heat or cooking. It's still three days to her welfare check, but she is getting drunk and smoking pot with a friend elsewhere and probably won't make it back home tonight. The children are used to this.

    I'm sitting between a little girl about three, and a little boy about five. The oldest boy, twelve, is off somewhere with my son, Michael. I'm reading a Dr. Seuss book, which is lying on my lap, to the two little ones while trying to keep my arms about them in an attempt to keep them warm.

    It is then that I notice the little girl's shoes are on backwards. For some reason this strikes me with a sudden and melancholy sadness. She is one of the sweetest little girls I have ever met; absolutely a little heart breaker.

    I say to her “Sweetheart, your shoes are on wrong.” She ponders the statement solemnly for a moment as only a small child can, and then slowly we begin the process of putting the shoes on right. I wonder how long she has had them on wrong? I only arrived a short time ago and they are already calling me Grampa, and so very happy to have someone to hold them and read to them, to pay attention to them.

    The house is a shambles with leftovers of nondescript foodstuffs; rice and oatmeal in various stages of having been prepared and/or eaten. Clothes are strewn about all over. No washing machine and no money for the Laundromat. It isn't that the young mother doesn't love the children; it's just that a hopelessness of anything ever being any better has taken control. She uses the drugs and alcohol in a vain attempt to escape the misery and hopelessness of her life and that of her children.

    The husband and father is in prison with a four-year stretch ahead of him. The girl has no delusions about his ever returning or being able to hold a responsible job, of ever having any interest in caring for a family. It's an altogether too familiar situation and I've been working with such people for too many years. Grampa is getting tired of so much to do and so little he can do.

    Michael and his girlfriend return with the eldest boy and I take them all to Burger King, a real treat for the little ones. We get back to the run-down trailer they call home and I read and tell the little ones stories until they drop off to sleep in my arms.

    I make them comfortable on the badly soiled and torn couch (their bed) and roll out my sleeping bag. I sleep in my clothes as I'm not sure what the night may bring and am used to having to be prepared to hit the ground ready. A broken window keeps it cold in the trailer in spite of a piece of cardboard over it, and I make sure the little ones are well covered. I'll awaken a few times in the night from the cold and make sure they are still covered.

    Mike sleeps on the floor and his girlfriend on another couch. A young man I don't know shows up for a roof for the night. He is to help Mike in the morning with his car, one of the reasons I am here; I have the tools and the expertise if the unexpected becomes too much for Mike and his friend. Once I have helped him out, there is another young welfare mother who needs my assistance.

    My son made the introductions of this girl and her children to me as he mixes with the welfare society in the area. His own choices have made it rough for him but he is a good-hearted young man and knows his dad will help wherever possible. Fixing and keeping junkers going is one of my specialties (along with being a professional Grampa).

    I sleep not too soundly from about 1 a.m. till daybreak. I get up and check the children. Then, getting some coffee crystals I make a cup of cold coffee. No gas so no hot water. I watch the sunrise and then awaken the boys. It's time to go to work. They are soon doing the things necessary on the old car and I get to supervise until it's time to check wiring, timing, and adjust the carb. The old car is soon running as well as it's going to without “major surgery.” Mike will have to get some junkyard accessories, but I've trained him well and being very intelligent and a quick study he can handle it.

    Mom has come home about 9 a.m. and gets busy caring for the children. Different people of the “society” come and go throughout the morning. It's going on noon when I have to take my leave to go help the other girl and then return to Bakersfield. I have a meeting to attend that night and will come back tomorrow if necessary (and it probably will be).

    It's time for a hug and a kiss from Mom. There would be more, but she knows of me and she respects my feelings about such things. “Thanks for watching the kids. They really need a dad (It's more of a question than a statement).” I hear that a lot from the moms. But at my age, I make a better Grampa. My gray hair may make me look distinguished, but it is also a constant reminder of the fact that I'm no longer twenty. As compensation I now do some things better and am far more tolerant of the mistakes of others.

    I know what Mom means though, and I grieve for the need; the tragedy of our society that has made such a need so acute in the lives of so many young women and children. It's hard to say goodbye to the little ones but I will be back. Welfare Valley is filled with such families.

    It's another time and another visit to different family. This mom has been arrested for failing to attend drug counseling as a part of her probation. This leaves the three children alone. The eldest boy, fourteen, called me. They have mom's welfare check and the rent and electric bills are due. But how can they cash the check?

    They can't; legally. I know what is going to happen. We have to call the caseworker and explain the situation. Lacking a responsible family member who is willing to take care of the children, the caseworker will place the children in protective care until disposition of the mother's situation. In the meantime, they will have to give up the rental house and hope for the best.

    I know the situation and know this is the best recourse. Left to themselves, the little girl would wind up molested. I know this from my observations of the children in time past. I've already seen what the smallest boy, only three, has learned of sex. This because of the routine of men filtering in and out of their lives and the associations of welfare, alcohol and drugs. They might have a better chance without mom in this instance and I make the necessary call.

    In my political writings, I tell of my research into the “Black Hole” of the government's intrusion into our lives by an infamous agency: Child Protective Services (too often an oxymoron). I actually took a job with the agency in order to get the inside story. I learned very quickly how the system operates and how it has made its contribution to Birds With Broken Wings. The power and authority of this agency to destroy families and children is massive, unparalleled in our society.

    But how to confront the actual abuse of children by the monsters in human guise that prey on them without such an agency? That is the theme of another book. And I'm working on it.

    R- is a beautiful woman. She has two adorable little girls. But mom is a prostitute to support her girls and her drug habit. As I write I have in front of me a crayon drawing by one of the little girls. It is a beach scene with the bright sun overhead, coconut palms and the sea lapping against the sand.

    I was sitting on the couch in the living room of her home when she had asked me if I would like her to draw a picture for me. I answered I would certainly appreciate that. When she had finished the drawing, she put my name at the top and signed her name at the bottom.

    I had met R- in one of the local bars when I was doing my work on this book. We didn't actually date, but she came to rely on me as a man who wasn't going to abuse her. She was a beautiful, sensitive intelligent woman but was hiding from ugly men. I became a kind of protector and confidant to her and her little girls.

    R- is a loving mother and keeps her business far removed from her children. My visits to her and the children were, she said, something that gave her hope that things would change for them. I'll never forget the night at one of the taverns when she bowed her head and whispered: “I know I should be your girl.” But we both knew her drug and alcohol addiction, the kind of work I am doing precluded that ever happening.

    I keep the drawing as a constant reminder of what might have been. And I keep in touch with R- and the girls. They desperately need that kind of hope in their lives there are men that don't use and abuse women and children.

    In dealing with life in the raw, life most draw away from, the Glory of Evil and the Dark Side play their necessary role in separating, in understanding the difference between the diabolical and the divine. The cross wasn't an offense and shame to Jesus. The shame and offense covered those that put Him there. Thoreau in prison was no shame to him even for one night, but a shame to his countrymen.

    Just the other day I was considering the marriage feast in Cana in the Gospel of John, and I recalled performing the marriage ceremony for a couple some time past in a bar. Every minister they had approached with their unique request had turned down this couple. I told them I would do the job. Having fallen so far from grace in the eyes of my colleagues, one more proof of my slide to perdition couldn't hurt.

    It turned out great. I wondered at the time if the environment weren't more like that marriage in Cana than more respectable places. One of the reasons, of course, was the story of Jesus turning the water into wine. And make no mistake; that must have been the real McCoy. Not only that, if those jugs really held twenty to thirty gallons apiece, that meant Jesus provided a hundred and twenty to a hundred and eighty gallons. This after they had already run out! What a party that must have been! No wonder those Pharisees accused Him of being a drunkard!

    Now I haven't heard any fundamentalist preacher tackle this story from this point of view. Nor do I ever expect to. To accuse Jesus of being a Party Kind of Guy? Unthinkable?