Will the real American Nazi Party Please stand up?

Prescott Bush

“The American Axis” by Max Wallace

www.maxwallace.com

[The following is an excerpt taken from “The American Axis” by Max Wallace pp 349-350. I found this book researching my personal investigation into who financed Adolf Hitler]

“… One of the partners of the Union Banking Corporation, the man who oversaw all investments on behalf of the Nazi-affiliated owners, happened to be Prescott Bush, grandfather of the American president George W. Bush. Through the connections of his father-in-law, Bert Walker (George W’s maternal great-grandfather), who has been described by a U.S. Justice Department investigator as “one of Hitler’s most powerful financial supporters in the United States,” Prescott Bush specialized in managing the investments for a number of German companies, many with extensive Nazi ties. These included the North American operations of another Nazi front, the Hamburg Amerika Line, which was directly linked to a network set up by IG Farben to smuggle agents, money and propaganda from Germany. According to a 1934 Congressional investigation, the Hamburg Amerika Line “subsidized a wide range of pro-Nazi propaganda efforts both in Germany and the United States.” Both Walker and Bush were directors of a holding company, the Harriman Fifteen Corporation, that directly financed the line.
“Shortly before the government seized the assets of the Union Banking Corporation, in fact, it had also seized American-held assets of the Hamburg-Amerika Line under the Trading with the Enemy Act. A few weeks after the government seized Bush’s shares in Union Banking, it seized the assets of three other Nazi front companies whose investments were handled by Bush – the Holland-American Trading Corporation, the Seamless Steel Equipment Corporation, and the Silesian-American Corporation. The paper trail indicated the bulk of Prescott Bush’s financial empire was being operated on behalf of Nazi Germany.
“According to former United States Justice Department Nazi war crimes investigator John Loftus, who has investigated the Bush family’s considerable ties to the Third Reich, Prescott Bush’s investment prowess helped make millions of dollars for various Nazi-front holding companies, and he was well paid for his efforts. ‘The Bush family fortune that helped put two family members in the White House can be traced directly to the Third Reich,’ says Loftus, who is currently president of the Florida Holocaust museum.
“In his own investigation, Loftus discovered a disturbing trail connecting the Bush family’s money laundering efforts to the Thyssens and their role in building up the Nazi war machine. He believes these connections deserve more scrutiny: ‘There are six million skeletons in the Thyssen family closet, and a myriad of criminal and historical questions to be answered about the Bush family’s complicity.
“Fortunately for Bush, who was later elected a United States senator, his name never surfaced in the news when his Union Banking shares were seized by the U.S. government. The only media reference related to the seizure was a brief 1944 item in the New York Times announcing that ‘The Union Banking Corporation, 39 Broadway, New York, has received authority to change its principal place of business to 120 Broadway. The article neglected to point out that the company’s assets had been seized under the Trading with the Enemy Act or that 120 Broadway was the address of the U.S. Alien Property Custodian. If the news had been publicized, it might well have derailed Bush’s political career as well as the future presidential aspirations of both his son and grandson. According to Loftus, however, the potential scandal did affect the short term career plans of Prescott’s eldest son, George Herbert Walker Bush.
“As the government investigation into Prescott’s Nazi dealings heated up, Loftus reveals, the eighteen-year-old Bush abandoned his plans to enter Yale and enlisted instead in the U.S. Army in an attempt to ‘save the family honor’. Meanwhile, Prescott Bush, in an effort to avoid potential government prosecution, volunteered to spy for the OSS, precursor of the U.S Central Intelligence Agency. These efforts at cleansing his Nazi ties appear to have been successful. He was never indicted. In 1951, Union Banking assets valued at $1.5 million were released back to the Bush family.

[Go to Google search and punch in Prescott Bush for more information on this subject.]

The National Debt

With a “Noble” Solution

Richard E. Noble

A few presidents ago the National Debt was the most pressing thing that our political leaders and political hopefuls had on their minds. Ronald Reagan in his campaign for the presidency in 1980 told us all about a stack of dollar bills stretching from the planet earth to the moon. This stack of paper money was to represent the one trillion dollar mark in our advance to national bankruptcy. Our National Debt had not yet reached this benchmark in fiscal irresponsibility and Ronald Reagan was to be our knight in shining economic armor who would stop this catastrophe from happening.
Today this stack of dollar bills is probably bumping up against the planet Pluto but we hardly hear a murmur of the once prophesied impending catastrophe. I wonder why? Was the National Debt not really a legitimate problem? Was the Great Communicator merely communicating greatly or grandiosely? What the heck is the National Debt anyway?
The National Debt is the total amount that the government currently owes from all of its past borrowing. I guess that we could safely say that it is the mortgage that our governments, past and present, have borrowed on the United States of America. A budget deficit, on the other hand, is the amount by which expenditures exceed receipts in a single year. Today there is a simple way for the lay person to distinguish between these two things - the deficit is tabulated in Billions and the National Debt is now tabulated in Trillions.
In the two hundred years B.R. (before Ronald Reagan) the entire accumulated debt of all of our previous presidents amounted to 909.1 Billion dollars. So B.R., our country’s National Debt had not yet reached one trillion dollars - that stack of dollar bills had not yet reached the moon. Now, remember, that figure included all the debt accumulated from George Washington through Jimmy Carter. That 909.1 Billion dollars included all the monies borrowed for the American Revolution, the Civil War, World War I, World War II, Korea and Vietnam.
By the time that Ronald Reagan left office in 1988 the National Debt was 2,601.3 Billion or 2.6 Trillion. In just eight years Ronald Reagan had more than doubled what all the previous presidents from Washington through Carter had accumulated in the prior 200 years.
Okay, let’s give Ronnie a break. Let’s kick it up a notch. Let’s go to George H. W. Bush - Number Forty-One, as he is so lovingly referred to today.
Number Forty-One is the Yale graduate who accused Ronald Reagan of advocating Voodoo economics. By the time Number Forty-One left office in 1992 the National Debt was 4,002.1 Billion or approx. 4.0 Trillion dollars. If Ronald Reagan was practicing Voodoo, one must hesitate to ask what Number Forty One’s economic principles were based on. And, you know, these presidents today have a Council of Economic Advisers. The only problem with the Council of Economic Advisers is that when a Council member disagrees with the president or speaks out publicly against a president’s economic policy, he suddenly finds himself in search of a new Council to counsel.
But this is all beginning to sound like Republican bashing. Let’s go to B. J. Clinton. In my neighborhood B. J. stood for something other than Billy Jefferson, but we won’t get into that. So B. J. came into office in 1992 and by the time that he left, the National Debt was 5,606.1 Billion or 5.6 Trillion dollars. So Reagan gave us 2.6 Trillion, Number Forty-One gave us 4.0 Trillion, and B. J. gave us 5.6 Trillion.
Everyone says that what B. J. accomplished was good. Well, when it is compared to what Ronnie and Number Forty-One did, I suppose? Sounds to me like saying; Well, my Grandfather was hanged, my Daddy got the electric chair and now I’m serving life in prison. Guess that I am doing better than they did, huh? - I suppose, but most of us wouldn’t consider life in prison all that much of an accomplishment.
Today we have Bush Number Forty-Three.
Number Forty-Three has the debt up to somewhere between 7 and 8 Trillion. It is estimated that by the time that Number Forty-Three leaves office the National Debt will be somewhere around 10 Trillion dollars - give or take a Trillion. Like some famous politician once said; “A billion here and a billion there and pretty soon you’re talking some real money.” Billions no longer matter, it’s trillions now.
So there you go. And what does this all mean? I was listening to one economist on the TV the other day and he said;
“Economically, we are like the man who just jumped off the top of a one hundred storey building. The falling man passes the eightieth storey and a guy sticks his head out of a window and screams to the falling man; ‘How’s everything going?’
‘Everything is O.K. so far,’ the falling man replies.”
But, let’s not be pessimistic about this - you know - is the glass half-empty or is it half-full. Let us be “half-full” about all of this. It does no good to be half-empty because we are a lot worse off than half-empty. If we were only half-empty that would mean that we would still have something in our glass. At 10 Trillion dollars in debt we don’t even have a glass anymore. But whatever - let’s be positive.
Some politicians claim that the National Debt doesn’t really matter because it is money that we owe to ourselves. So even when the federal government just pays the interest on the National Debt it is infusing dollars into our economy - like giving a tax cut to the rich. But since Reagan, unfortunately, this is no longer true.
Before Reagan our government’s borrowing was financed by Americans. After Reagan our National Debt became so enormous that Americans didn’t have enough money to finance the Government’s borrowing - so we borrowed from foreign countries. Or would it be more economic to say that we sold our debt to foreign countries. In other words, we sold the mortgage, or foreigners bought our mortgage. Now countries like Saudi Arabia, Japan, China, the U.K etc. own a good part of our mortgage. If in the last few decades, it has appeared to you that your government has been acting like a foreign country, this may be a part of the reason.
But certainly, one day, we will pay off this mortgage and the American people will once again own their country?
This does not even seem to be in the realm of possibility. Politicians talk of balancing the budget as they did in the year 1999 for the first time in many decades. By the way, this supposed surplus that we had, momentarily, was only accomplished by pilfering money from the Social Security Trust Fund. Excess monies had been accumulated in the Social Security Trust Fund because of an increase in the Social Security tax in 1983. An increase was mandated to compensate for the baby boomers. From that year on, the Social Security had a surplus but everybody from Reagan to Clinton used the Social Security surpluses for other general fund spending purposes.
Balancing the budget - or having a year in which the government does not produce a deficit by spending more money than it receives - only manages to pay the interest on the National Debt. A balanced budget pays nothing on the principal or the debt itself. In order to pay down the debt itself, the government must create a surplus - spend less money than what it takes in every year. And then use those surplus monies to buy back Debt (treasury bonds).
Is this a possibility? Seems not. I have never heard a politician in my lifetime talk of paying down the principal on the National Debt. The political answer to the National Debt seems to be like our policy towards gays in the military - don’t ask; don’t tell.
So, I was thinking, why don’t we sell all of our mortgage to foreign countries and then claim bankruptcy. The only way these countries could get their money is if they have a bigger army than ours.
Or maybe these foreign countries who own our debt would forgive our debt like the World Bank sometimes does for under-developed countries - or like we did after World War II for a number of countries. But, of course, this is all ridiculous - we’re the richest country in the world, remember? Well, if we are the richest country in the world, why don’t we just pay everybody off?
Because we don’t have the money. So we are the richest country in the world but we don’t have the money to pay our debts - our mortgage anyway. I have many friends who are rich in a similar manner. How can we be rich and, at the same time, be the biggest debtor nation in the world? Are we rich, or aren’t we?
But don’t despair, I have more realistic solutions to this problem than depending on the charity of the rest of the world. I wouldn’t expect or hold my hope out for a European Marshall Plan for the U.S.A. either folks. My solutions are dynamic and they don’t involve raising taxes.
Today we have approximately 200 million working people, or tax paying people in America. These 200 million people pay about 1.2 trillion dollars in taxes each year. If we can increase the working population of the United States about 10 times its present number and we tax them all at the present rate, we would have a national income of 10 or 11 trillion a year. So then, if we could get our government to put one trillion aside each year, we could pay off the National Debt in about 10 or 11 years. I admit, this solution has its problems but, come on - is the glass half-empty or is it half-full? This would take care of any Social Security short fall also, I might add.
My second idea is even better. We don’t need any new taxes or new workers. This idea is a classic.
We simply continue with Number Forty-Three’s borrow and spend policies. As all of us economists know this can do nothing but increase the rate of inflation - but that’s good. If we can get the inflation rate to rise faster than the rate at which Number Forty-Three and his successors can borrow, one day we will have more pieces of paper with pictures of dead presidents on them than we have debt to pay.
This is that same idea that they told you about a few years ago. Remember they said; Buy yourself a big house that you can barely afford now, and pay off your balloon mortgage – twenty years later - with cheap, inflated money from your naturally escalating high paying job.
The Germans tried this print-more-money idea after World War I. It worked real well. They had a few minor problems. Like trying to figure out how many wheelbarrows full of paper money it would take to buy a loaf of bread. But so what, I mean, look at Germany today? They’re doing all right.
So there you go - is the glass half-empty or is it half-full. What me worry? Just call me Alfred E. Newman. To tell you the truth when I look at the past illegal immigration rate and the true rate of inflation over the last few decades, I think that my two suggestions are the government’s plan - or has been anyway. In 1974 I bought a Chevy van for $3,400, today a similar van sells for $34,000. I think that the inflation rate has been somewhat greater than the presently claimed 2.2%.
My advise to the next two generations of Americans is - buy wheelbarrows.
I have one other idea.
When the government spends more than it collects every year - it borrows. It prints up Treasury Notes and Bonds etc. Then it has the Federal Reserve - its personal banker - sell them to Americans and foreigner investors and foreign countries, at a specified interest rate. This is what makes our National Debt. This puts the government in a catch-22 situation. It can’t raise taxes - nobody likes that. It can’t charge tariffs on products coming into the country and put the cost of our government onto foreign countries and foreign manufactures. It could do this, especially when one considers that we now import 80% of what is sold here domestically - but it can’t, because we believe in “free trade”. Besides, most of our imports are from American based companies who went over seas to avoid paying taxes and hire cheaper labor in the fist place. Raising tariff rates would spoil their whole plan. So then how else could the government earn some money to pay its bills?
It could rent out rooms at the White House - but that is how we finance our political campaigns. So what can the government do?
Well, how about just printing up so much money every year and buying back some reasonable portion of our debt, without going through the debt making process of selling Treasury Notes, Bonds and Bills etc. via the Federal Reserve?
The first thing that everybody yells and screams about this idea is that it is inflationary. Yeah? And borrowing and creating more debt via the Federal Reserve and selling our country to China is better and un-inflationary? I suggest that we pass a law allowing only a certain percentage to be printed up in this manner - taking into consideration GNP and Inflation and the predictable population and economic growth.
The second problem with this idea is that it is against the Constitution. Yeah! So who gives a flying flip? This hasn’t stopped the last five or seven administrations from doing anything. Why should it stop us on anything as important as this? Besides, the Constitution on this particular point could very easily be reinterpreted - we wouldn’t even be forced to change anything or seek a Constitutional Amendment.
The next complaint with this idea is that when the American people and the other nations of the world find out about this shenanigans they will lose faith in our government.
I don’t think so - no one understands economics anyway. And if you think that will be the case, don’t tell them. As the debt miraculously goes down gradually every year, just tell everybody that it is because of good business management on the part of that particular administration - cook the books; or just add it to the total of taxes collected, nobody will know the difference; or tell everybody that it is a miracle. Everybody believes in miracles these days. When the press investigates and discovers that what is happening is economically impossible - just lie to them, like we do on everything else. What is the problem here?
As for the American people? What the heck do they care? They’re too busy trying to make a living to start trying to comprehend economics - least of all the Federal Reserve System. And need I point out that at this point in world economics – if the U.S. currency fails – the entire world economy fails. U.S. dollars are now used around the world in place of Gold. The U.S. dollar is today’s gold.
The bottom line is this: Printing money and skipping the Federal Reserve will no doubt create some inflation. But, using that money to buy back Treasury Bonds (Debt.) will be anti-inflationary. On the one hand, we are printing money to put into circulation, but using it to take money out of circulation by reclaiming debt on the other. If it is done properly - with due diligence - the one will cancel out the other and America will one day be debt free and it will cost nobody anything. This will not be a loss or gain - it will simply be a monetary transfer. We will transfer a bunch of one type of paper for another type of paper. If it is done right, nobody will know the difference. And if we want to add an additional check on inflation, when we start buying back our treasury bonds from the Federal Reserve with our “free paper”, temporarily raise the required reserve security demands. In other words, if the banks are required to hold 10% in reserve - raise that requirement to 12% or whatever. Then as time goes on and we see that inflation is under control, lower the requirement.
The last criticism that I can think of is that this idea would be putting trust in our government to do the right thing and keep things under control. In other words, somebody has to be sure that they don’t print up too much money every year. So set up an oversight committee - with the Federal Reserve Board, if that will make you happy. They will not like the basic idea in the first place - but they will just have to deal with it. As it is now, they (the Banks) are the only ones who profit from this National Debt business - so they like it; but if the debt is allowed to continue growing, it will mean possible bankruptcy for them and everybody else. As it is now the only hope for the world economy is continued projected economic growth, coupled with reasonable inflation. Today we have inflation and debt. With this suggestion we will still have the inflation - but we will eliminate the debt. And it is the Debt that will eventually kill us, not the inflation. The world can live with a controlled inflation - it has for centuries. And if this is done correctly we will have no more inflation than what is currently being created. Besides, there aren’t any good choices here; you can trust your government or you can trust the Federal Reserve and the International Banking community.
As I said earlier, facetiously, Germany did this but failed and bankrupted their country after World War I. But the Germans wanted to bankrupt their currency. They didn’t want to pay off their war debts and the smart money wanted to turn the middle class against the occupation government. So they simply printed up paper until it filled wheelbarrows. They did not use due diligence and have proper controls. They didn’t care. What they did was not a accident. It was a planned bankruptcy. You can be sure that the big boys in German currency had all their cash in something other than the Mark. Of course, there is the possibility that our National Debt is also planned. The design of the plan being to keep the general population thinking that they are broke, so that they won’t be suggesting any “free” social programs for the “welfare” state. I mean, you must have noticed that no matter how large the National Debt, we always have enough money for another war.

SOCIALISM

Commentary

by Richard E Noble

I’ve lived in the South now for about the last twenty-five years or so. I’ve lived up in ‘Yankee’ territory for an equal number of years. In any case, I don’t ever remember hearing so much talk about Socialism as I have in the last few years. I don’t know if this is a new topic in both the North and the South but, regardless, I find the whole dialogue rather interesting.
I live in Florida - the southern part of Florida, which, as all of us Floridians know, is the northern panhandle. Southern Florida is where all them damn Yankees live. All us rebels are hiding up here in Tallahassee, and Apalachicola. Every time I pick up a newspaper in this neighborhood, somebody is screaming about Socialism. To tell you the truth, I really don’t think that most folks down here know what Socialism actually is. But from what I see in the papers and the letters to the editor, it seems to be something between pagan devil worship and Adolf Hitler. In any case, it is a very bad thing. And I hear about how bad it is from both rich and poor. It is the enemy of freedom. It’s the antithesis of individualism. It’s mediocrity in the work place. It’s ... why it’s ah, prostitution and selling drugs to children; and it is everywhere and it’s right here - right here in this little town where I live in the Florida panhandle.
Boy, this is scary! But when I analyze this little Panhandle community I now call home, I find all this talk somewhat confusing.
I live in what most would call a poor community - traditionally, very poor. Many folks around here are on what they call - disability. From what I can gather, most of them think that getting disability is like getting an inheritance from some long lost relative, or winning the lottery. At best, they think it to be an early age retirement program of some kind. Now I don’t mean to scare all of you folks downtown but that check that you are getting comes from the state. Now don’t run out and tell this to all of your independent Capitalist friends and neighbors, but you are participating in an act of SOCIALISM! (Is that a felony or a misdemeanor?)
Other poor Capitalists in this community, buy their groceries with food stamps, or they used to. That’s a big RED Socialist no no, my good friends.
Like a lot of children in this community, my mother raised me from age thirteen to age eighteen on a widower’s pension. Sorry kids - single mommies and daddies - you’ve just been Socialized! (That’s kind of like getting ‘slimmed’ I think.) Then again, if you are on ADC (Aid to Dependent Children) you didn’t even have to become a widow, or even get married, and you got all of us good capitalists sending money to support you and your little bastards. [Bastard = a child born out of wedlock.] This may sound strange to all of you young women today, but back in the ‘old’ days a woman used to be ashamed to have a baby without first getting married - and married to a MAN. How chauvinistic! Can you imagine? I certainly hope that our society doesn’t regress to such male-dominated, anti-liberated, freedom inhibiting, antiquated standards such as the above ever again.
Interestingly enough, the biggest single employer in this area is the ... government. Nearly anybody who is anybody around "these parts” is a retired General or Admiral from the Military service. Sorry guys and gals but MILITARY (American flags and all) means employed by the state - means salaries coming out of taxpayers dollars. From the good capitalist point of view, your service and wounds all aside, any of us good capitalists would have done whatever it is that you think you did, if we were ‘called’. Even our current president supports that notion. Besides, why do you people all think that you should get a check for the rest of your life for just doing what you were supposed to do in the first place? Yours was not exactly a sacrifice. It was your DUTY, not to mention a steady job and the pay check you got for all those hours of sitting around on your ass and doing nothing in peace time. (Capitalist point of view - not the author’s). What about all of those extra coffee breaks and the free board and room supplied by us ‘capitalist’ taxpayers, for all of those years when nobody was shooting? Talk about sucking the system dry! (PS: that was a conservative talking, not me.) Besides, you certainly couldn’t get more Socialistic than the all-for-one one-for-all military. If it ain’t Socialist, it is outright Communist. You don’t even get your “inalienable” rights when you’re in the Military. They decided that your Constitution and the Military are not compatible. You can’t have a democratic Military, for God’s sake.
The last prominent group here in my little town, are “good old boys” who left the farm, went to the big city, and have since retired from some union job. Well I don’t know if you would call ‘unions’ socialist ... you might like the word communist better. In case you have never noticed, the words worker and capitalist are not exactly synonyms. The whole socialist/communist movement in America was the brainchild of unionism. Workers are supposed to negotiate separately. Ganging up on the boss is not fair. What chance do the poor bosses have? It was the labor unions who were the first to be prosecuted under the anti-monopolistic Sherman Anti-Trust Act - it was not the big business Robber Barons, you know.
Workers joining together for better working conditions and better wages was against the law in this country right up until the Franklin Roosevelt administration. Before that, it was considered a conspiracy in restraint of trade and against the property rights of the bosses. It was unconstitutional.
And I hate to tell you this but “retirement” is no capitalist idea. You can bet your child labor laws that no red-blooded, American capitalist ever thought up the ridiculous idea of starting up a RETIREMENT FUND for lazy employees who think that they are too old to work - not without being pressured in one way or another by some Socialist/Communist union anyway.
What are you people crazy!!? Get your butts off them lawn chairs and get a damn job. As a famous ex-capitalist once said, let me make myself perfectly clear:
If you work for the State - pssstt don’t tell anybody, but you are engaged in a Socialist enterprise. And if you don’t like this arrangement, you can write to your congressman - but don’t mail it, because you certainly wouldn’t want to encourage that Socialistic postal system. Post office ... of the state, by the state and for the state.
If you are retired from some union, you’re not even good enough to be a Socialist, you’re a damn Communist and you know it! Everybody has known for decades that labor unions are Marxist, and that’s even worse than Socialist.
If you are retired from the Military you are just adding insult to injury. You had better just crawl up under your bed, my friend, because there is absolutely nothing democratic about the Marine Corps. As a soldier, not only are you a damn government employee Socialist, but you are also an active member of a right wing, radical, totalitarian organization - that kills people! No doubt about it, when you join the United States Military, you have just moved to another country. A country in which every dictator in the world would feel very much at home.
If you tell the Admiral that you wouldn’t follow his sorry butt to the latrine for fear that he would pee between the urinals, an you find yourself in the hole, or someplace worse, don’t waste your breath screaming about your Constitutional rights, because “they done gone, boy! We don’t have no Constitution he-ahh boy. And we don’t have no IN-DI-VID-U-ALS neither. You get me BOUY!”
If you are one of those who are complaining about living on a fixed income, and you want your COLA’s increased, you had best not fight for the abolition of Socialism here at home, because when they cancel your Socialist Social Security check, you will probably find yourself bagging groceries at your local ‘Hop and Stop’ in your new (bought with your own hard earned damn money) capitalistic, secondhand wheelchair.
Have you been to the hospital recently? Better check your Medicare. Whoops Medicare? Was that a capitalist program started by Henry Ford? You can bet your mass production, assembly line, sixteen hour day that it wasn’t, it isn’t, and it never will be.
You are out of work, and your unemployment checks are running out? Go talk to your Republican (I’m a capitalist) Senator, or Mr. Conservative (buy some bigger boot straps) news commentator, or newspaper editorialist, or rich radio talk show host. Unemployment checks? Why the newspapers are full of jobs. Turn in that Socialist government check and get a damn job. You probably belong to some damn union too. Socialist PIG!!
Speaking of pigs, do you work for the police department? the fire department? the Marine patrol? That’s all state employment. A no-no in a free capitalist society. By the way, do you work for the health department? the driver’s licensing burrow? the DNR?, the IRS? Urban renewal? the environmental protection agency, the J.P.T.A. (that’s Government funded, boys and girls) you’ve just been slimmed.
Did the boss give you a bucket of acid, instead of water and now you are collecting workmen’s compensation? Hang your head, my friend. Turn in that check, and get a job.
You’re receiving a Veteran’s check? A capitalist idea? I think not, Comrade! Turn it in! Get a job!
Your retirement is secure. You’re vested, you say. Another Henry Ford idea? Not hardly - Socialism, good buddy.
Is your book over due at the public library? Do you work at the public library? For God’s sake, become a capitalist and buy your own darn books, will you! Why should good capitalists like us pay out our hard earned dollars for books so that parasites like you can read for free? There is no free lunch, or book of the month, for that matter.
So you have a nephew who is a Forest Ranger? Your cousin works at a National Park - a STATE park? You enjoy having the family reunion at the COUNTY Park. Why don’t you and your Socialist-commie family celebrate in your own damn back yard, like all us good capitalists do. My God!!!
Are you a little behind on your college loan? Did you get your education through the GI bill? Are you in business due to a minority grant? Do you work at the Public Defenders office? Are you a Public Defender? Capitalist idea? In your dreams baby. Late for the PTA meeting at your neighborhood “public” school? Boy who thought up that tax gouger? Not an independent capitalist, that’s for sure.
Your Mom was a school teacher? Did she start her own school, and charge the neighborhood kids, like a good capitalist? Or did she teach at one of those pinko public institutions? I suppose that she belonged to one of those commie teacher’s union and is now retired and receiving her teacher’s pension check ... RIGHT ALONG WITH HER SOCIALIST SECURITY CHECK. Damn, what’s a good capitalist supposed to do?
A COUNTY hospital? Who the Hell is paying for that? State asylums? You have a COUNTY job? You work for the Federal prison system? the STATE prison system? the County jail?
Had your hospital bills paid by an Insurance Company? Work for an Insurance Company? Own an Insurance Company? The very idea of “insurance” is SOCIALIST or Communist inspired. Unions and worker fraternal organizations thought up that one. Today’s independent insurance company thought up how to take the not-for-profit union idea and turn it into billions for themselves. In the Capitalist world everybody takes care of themselves. They don’t “chip in” and share the load like a bunch of old time Communist Christians. Oh Yes, Yes Yes Yes - Christianity, original design’? Pure Communism.
You like the idea, “all for one, and one for all.” That is Socialism, MAN!
Love your neighbor as yourself? Don’t meditate on that too, too long you commie, socialist, pig!
Insurance is Socialist. The Capitalist part comes in when the owner of the insurance company claims bankruptcy, absconds with the employee’s retirement fund, or simply refuses to pay because your claim is too high, or too many of you “poor victims” have all claimed at the same time. That’s called “Laissez Faire”, pursuing one’s personal self-interest, or as any good Capitalist might say; Screw the woman and children, it’s every man for himself.
Had a disaster recently? One of them nice folks from the SBA or FEMA drop by? Give you a little money, did they? You’re employed by the SBA? Come on?! Have a little capitalistic pride. Turn the damn money in, and get a real job, man!
Just retired from running your own business all your life? Going to take your Socialist Security check and move into the government subsidized rent controlled apartment complex?
You know, before ya’ll start screaming “Socialist”, you had best scope out that signature on your own paycheck. It may be that you used to hate them, but now you is them. But please don’t blame me. I went to a for-pay private school to learn all of this, unlike most of you public school commies. And we weren’t chartered, either. You like Charter schools? Slimmed again.
Do we have to count the fact that my mother paid for my private education with her public Socialist Widow’s Pension?...Naa.
Hey, I think I have a new word. If not a pure-capitalist. I'm a rationalized-capitalist. (I certainly wouldn’t want to be an impure-capitalist.) A rationalized Capitalist - that’s kind of like a liberated-housewife, or a Baptist freethinker or a Southern Democrat.
PS: If you are employed by the Federal Reserve you should be intelligent enough to know that you are a Socialist. In fact, if you work in a bank – any bank – you are a Socialist. You are working for a Socialist organization. It is a perverse Socialist organization, I must admit, since only its failures are Socialized – the Savings and Loan fiasco followed by the Commercial banking failure. As long as banks are profitable they keep their profits. It is only when they go under that Socialism takes over. The Banking industry was bailed out by the American Taxpayer in the largest bank Collapse in World history. And they received this kindness with no payback required – no workfare for the wealthy bankers. It’s below their dignity, I suppose.
If you work for an insurance company – large insurance company – you have pretty much the same deal. When the profits are high the Insurance Company keeps them but when they become marginal the State or the Federal Government takes over – that’s us, the taxpayers.
Interesting to note; statistically the great majority of us do not get seriously ill until we reach 65. It is at this age that everybody is turned over to the Government Medicare System. Which means, that when the odds are good and the profits high the “Capitalist” Insurance Companies keep the profits, but when the pay-outs start, us Socialists take over? What a deal! Once again – no paybacks are required. We Socialist pick up the bill for the Insurance companies for free.
Railroads and Airplanes are also federally subsidized, along with farmers, tobacco growers and any large corporation that is deemed as “too big to fail”. We may inherit the entire pension plans of all of America’s past Corporate Giants – Ford, General Motors – whoever decides that they aren’t going to pay in the future.
It is interesting to note that Socialism has always been used to bail out Capitalist failures – the biggest contrived disaster in 1929 - But these Socialist activities are only ridiculed when they go to the poor or the workers, or the population at large. As long as these Socialists practices go to the wealthy, the Corporate Giants – even to the World Bank and the IMF, we hear not a peep from Congress or anybody else for that matter. By the way, when any bank in the WORLD has a problem – you’re going to bail it out, whether you want to or not.
Isn’t it time that us Socialists smartened up? If we are going to bail everybody out, back everybody up, take over their obligations and promises, subsidize, and finance the whole world – even our enemies - why don’t we, the general public, get a piece of the action WHERE’S THE MONEY! Where’s our money.

Richard Edward Noble is a freelance writer and author. He has published 6 books. All his books are available on Amazon.com or can be purchased direct from Noble Publishing. A 40% discount is offered to anyone purchasing 4 or more books - postage paid. richardedwardnoble@fairpoint.net

The Eastpointer

Welcome to Mississippi

By Richard E. Noble

We were hobo-ing our way through Mississippi. We stopped to enjoy the view from the banks of yet another beautiful Mississippi lake. While we sat on this giant boulder enjoying the scenery and wondering where they ever found a rock this size in Mississippi, a young man pulled up in a dilapidated pickup truck. He grabbed his fishing gear from the bed of his truck and strolled up beside us and started fishing. We chatted for a bit and then decided to hit the road once again. As we walked away the young man said, "Well, welcome to Mississippi. Have yourself a good time here and ya'll come back and see us again sometime."
When we got back to the van, I mumbled to the wife somewhat sarcastically, "Who the heck was that guy - the grandson of the guy who owns Mississippi?"
Being raised in an inner city slum, it would never occur to me to welcome a stranger to my hometown. I certainly would never suggest to anybody that they return. My goodness, that would certainly be adding insult to injury. Nor do I ever remember having the feeling expressed in the song "New York, New York what a wonderful town!" I never felt ownership of my area of the country. This kid in Mississippi felt that he was Mississippi. He was a roving, unappointed ambassador for the State of Mississippi.
In a K-mart parking lot in California, a lady came to her car that was parked next to ours. She smiled at us and said, "I love your orange juice." She had noticed our Florida license plate and felt the need to compliment us on Florida orange juice. I felt like saying, "Yeah, well pick up a gallon on me next time you go to the grocery store. When you get to the cashier, just mention my name – everybody in Florida knows me." What the heck is this lady talking about - she loves my orange juice! Here was another one of those who felt because a person lived someplace, they owned that place.
This nice lady then proceeded to invite us to follow her back to her home where she said that we could camp in her driveway and met the whole family. She explained that she and her family did a lot of camping and traveling and they had always wished that somebody would extend to them such an invitation.
Once again my city slicker background said, Is this broad nuts? We could be Bonnie and Clyde or two serial killers. It also occurred to me that she could be a member of the Manson killer family or one of them people-eating kind. Sure, why don't you join us for supper? Yeah right! Here she is inviting two strangers she just met in a K-mart parking lot to come back to her home and meet her family? What am I missing here?
Next we were at a campground in Michigan. We were cooking our breakfast over a wood fire. A camper who was camped up on a rise above the lake spotted us. He came wandering down to speak with us. He was fascinated by the fact that we were using wood to cook our breakfast. I showed him the bundles of wood that we picked up before leaving any campsite and strapped to our spare tire. We did this to save on Coleman fuel. He thought this was the greatest idea since sliced bread. He left and returned an hour or so later with his wife.
"Hey, hop in the car. We will show you around our town."
We climbed into the back seat of the vehicle and went on a tour of his hometown.
He took us over to see his parents. His mom and dad cooked us all breakfast. Then we went driving all over heck seeing the sights and meeting more of his friends and relatives.
I must admit, I have never felt this sense of ownership anywhere that I have ever lived. I still don't quite understand it but I know I liked the feeling when people bestowed this welcome on me. I remember every instance from my travels where this happened.
As a result of these experiences, every time I now meet a stranger, I become an ambassador. If they are from a foreign country, I welcome them to my country - just like I own the place. If they are from out of state, I welcome them to Florida and wish them an enjoyable stay. If they are from someplace else in the State of Florida, I welcome them to Franklin County and tell them to have fun. I do this not because I now somehow feel that I own America or Florida or Franklin County but simply because I remember the good feeling it gave to me when other people performed this rather strange ritual.
The next time you meet a stranger passing through, try it. Every time I do it I suddenly feel like I am the mayor of America or something. It is strange but, I don't know, it gives me a kick.

Richard Edward Noble is a freelance writer and has been a resident of Eastpoint for 30 years. He has published 6 books. They are all for sale on Amazon.com. If you would like to stock his books in your store or business he can be contacted at richardedwardnoble@gtcom.net. Noble Publishing offers a 40% discount on the retail price for any purchaser who will by 4 or more books.

Benjamin Harrison 1833-1901

President from 1889-1893

By Richard E. Noble

Benjamin Harrison is a victory for the old politically established, corrupt machine. He lost the popular vote by over a hundred thousand, but by graft and payoffs both in his home state of Indiana and in Grover's happy hunting ground back in New York he pulled out the Electoral College victory.
He is credited as being honest, but inept and without "charm." He hits the presidency on both popular barrels being a Civil War general and a lawyer. In 1862 he rousted up his own army of volunteers and was promptly placed in command as Colonel. By the end of the War he was a Brigadier General. He was a religious fellow. He taught a Bible school for men and was superintendent of a Sunday school. He was considered to be a moderately reasonable Republican, if such a thing is really possible. Tariffs and treasury surpluses were still plaguing the new post Civil War Government. Supporting Tariffs seems to be like being a Communist. At one time or another anyone with a heart, no matter what party, race, color, or creed seemed to be in favor of them. Only the consumer appeared to be universally opposed.
The alleged, corrupted James G. Blaine of New York and the extremely wealthy John Wanamaker of Philadelphia supported Benjamin. Blaine got Secretary of State and Wanamaker became the Postmaster General. Despite Harrison's Campaign promises of Civil Service reform, Wanamaker started firing Democrats. He fired over thirty thousand in the first year. They were all replaced by Republicans.
Harrison reversed Cleveland's Civil War pension ideas. He gave out pension dollars by the millions and passed a law making anyone who had served in the Union Army for ninety days or more, eligible.
Farmers, laborers and immigrants were pretty much ignored while businessmen, railroad tycoons, and industrialist were encouraged. The rich were getting richer and the poor were getting poorer once again.
A new concept in living was emerging ... the city. The Black Hand of the Mafia appears for the first time. Seven acquitted Mafioso are released and then lynched in New Orleans.
Lynching is rapidly becoming the most popular spectators sport in the South. The Civil War is over, slavery has been abolished, and suddenly nobody is concerned with blacks anymore. Certainly makes one think that the Civil War was a "white thing" doesn’t it?
Benjamin declared war on Chili. What the hell that was all about I have no idea. Queen Liliuokalani started acting up in Hawaii and Stanford Dole calls in the Marines.
The Populist Party appeared and among many other things demanded direct election by the people for Senators, rather than appointment by State Legislatures.
Benjamin capitalized on the "Old Log Cabin" campaign technique of his grandfather William Henry Harrison. It worked.
The Republican Party machine payoffs and train loads of wandering, itinerant fraudulent voters didn't hurt either.
By the time Benjamin left office the Treasury vaults were about empty.
Pensions, payoffs, and money problems over silver and gold continued to cause problems. I don't quite understand it but it seems that there was once a time when silver and gold had something to do with paper currency.
It does make one laugh to see what people in the olden days once concerned themselves with. In any case, by the time Grover Cleveland got back in office, the country is nearly bankrupt. The U.S. Treasury is on empty.
Interestingly enough Republican Herbert Hoover and Republican Ronald Reagan and Republican George Herbert Walker Bush and his son Republican George W. Bush all managed the same economic accomplishment. It does make one curious as to how the Republican Party gained a reputation for fiscal responsibility. My guess is that their personal financial status was in better shape after their “tour of duty” than the treasury of the nation they represented.

Lawrence - My Hometown

Nell’s Variety Store

By Richard E. Noble

Nell’s was one of our corner hangouts. It was a little variety store on the corners of Center and Exchange Streets in North Lawrence. Before it was Nell’s it was Contarino’s. I know because they had a pretty little daughter named Anita. We migrated between Nell’s and Walter’s which was on Center and Spruce Streets.
Nell’s was owned by the Shaheen family. One of their children, Peter, went to school with most of us. George was the dad and Emily was the mom.
It wasn’t until I was an adult and working for a buddy of George, Eddie Solomon, that I found out what a problem our little gang was to poor George and his family business.
Eddie Solomon had a mid-sized grocery store on Broadway. George used to stop in for a little afternoon libation a few times each week. I was a butcher and meat cutter and I was helping Eddie out part-time at his store.
I was really pretty shocked to find out George’s side of the story. Most of us kids thought that we were an asset to Nell’s Variety. After all, didn’t we run to the store to buy bread and milk for mom? Didn’t we contribute to their business buying soda, potato chips, candy bars and the like? Why there were at least 20 to 30 of us guys who hung out at that store on different occasions. We had to provide their little store with a lot of revenue, right?
Well, not really. It seems that we frightened more customers away than what we were worth. Many of George’s friends and relatives were afraid to stop at his store. Ten to twenty kids hanging around the outside of the store was intimidating to most folks. Even the folks who lived in the neighborhood would head to the opposite corner rather than pass through our ranks.
We would be flipping coins up against the wall, or sprawled all over the sidewalk playing poker or forty-fives. We’d sit on people’s steps and even warm up in a tenement hallway on cold winter afternoons. We didn’t think anything about it. We had done it most of our lives. Of course we never hangout in front of our own tenement houses. Our parents wouldn’t tolerate it. You would think that would have given us a little message. But no, it never even entered our minds. And when people in the neighborhood yelled at us or told us to go home, we just ignored them. Our attitude was that they were just grumpy.
George and Emily even moved their store to try to escape us. He rented a store up on the next corner. It was on Lawrence and Exchange Streets across from the Howard playground. When we all came down to the old corner and everything was closed up, we couldn’t figure it. Almost immediately we wandered up to Lawrence Street and started to hangout up there.
As usual the cops arrived on the scene. They always tried to break us up or chase us off. But we were accustomed to that. The cops were like a part of our hanging out tradition. They didn’t make a dent.
Finally instead of trying to chase us off, this one cop pulled up to the Nell’s corner, got out of his cruiser and came over and spoke with a bunch of us. After a long conversation where we supplied all the negative answers to his suggestions, he said, “Why don’t you guys just go across the street and hangout at the Howard playground?” We all snickered. We had been trying to hangout at the Howard for years. The cops had thrown us out time after time. The minute any of the neighbors on Birchwood Road saw us gathering on the wall or up around the baseball dugout, they would be on the phone and the cops would be there in an instant.
“Okay, I am going to give you permission to hangout over at the Howard.”
Was he kidding or what? The chief would have his butt in the office in two minutes.
“Okay,” we all said with a laugh. “We need your name so when the other nine hundred cops come wandering up here, we can tell them that officer so and so gave us permission to hangout at the Howard.”
He told us his name and he wrote it down on a piece of paper. I don’t remember what his name was, but every time another cruiser pulled up to chase us off we would all chant in chorus, “Go see Officer Johnson. He has granted us permission to hangout at this park.”
In the weeks that followed, we saw Officer Johnson many times. When the tenement dwellers and owners on Birchwood Road would call the police station, Officer Johnson would pull up in front of their home. We would watch him knock on their door and step inside their apartment. We couldn’t believe it, but from that time on the Howard was our hangout and George and Nell’s had a corner all to themselves. Officer Johnson even started an inter-corner volleyball tournament, and the gang from the Howard won. We even got our pictures in the Eagle Tribune!

Richard E. Noble was raised in Lawrence, Mass and is now a freelance writer. He has published six books - two of them with Lawrence as their setting, A Summer with Charlie and Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother. A Little Something is a book of poetry much of it inspired by life in Lawrence. Hobo-ing America is a workingman’s tour of the U.S.A and The Eastpointer is selected pieces from his award winning column about life in a sleepy fishing village in the Florida Panhandle. Noble Notes on Famous Folks is his latest production and it contains humorous essays on historical figures from Constantine to Bill Clinton.

Wittgenstein

Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889-1951)

Philosopher

By Richard E. Noble

Well, here we are again, another in a long line of whacked out, out-of-their mind German philosophers.
His father was a head strong self-made millionaire, but little Ludwig would have none of it. He gave away all of the money his father left him. Ludwig, himself had a couple of minor problems in life. His first problem is that he wanted to be dead. He eagerly entered into World War I to try and get himself killed, but for some strange reason he just couldn't seem to get the job accomplished. I don't know why. He had three brothers who provided excellent example, all completing the task on their own and at relatively early ages. Second problem, which may have precipitated the first problem ... he was a homosexual. He was partial to big rough, bad boys. From what I have read of the man thus far, my guess is that, spank me, beat me, kick me were some of the sweet nothings that he liked whispered in his ear.
He stammered a lot and had a great deal of trouble in explaining himself. (No kidding?) He was confused ... all of his life. He finally got cancer (which was not self-inflicted) and died a happy man. "Tell them, I have had a wonderful life," were his last words. He was concerned with the interpretation of words, and we must get his definition of 'wonderful' in order to interpret this last statement. If he lived a 'wonderful' life, I have obviously been living a life of ecstasy without even realizing it.
Oh, by the way, he fought for Germany in World War I, and England in World War II. I would imagine that the fact that he was partially Jewish had something to do with that bit of indecisiveness. Being a loyal, faithful German and at the same time a loyal, faithful Jew probably explains why he wanted to kill himself. His failure in this regard probably tells us that he was more Jewish than German.
He wrote Tractatus, which is said to be only seventy-five pages long, and then later, Philosophical Investigations, which is, among other things, a criticism of the Tractatus. I really don't know if I should read the Tractatus, or wait until he makes up his mind.
The tragedy of Wittingstein was that Prozac was not invented within his life time, and from what I can see from perusing the spectrum of German philosophers, along with Fluoride, the Germans ought to consider Prozac in their drinking water.

The Royal Family

The Eastpointer

Kennedy and the Royal Family

By Richard E. Noble

One of my more successful and I assume politically active customers came bursting into my shop over in Carrabelle this one fine morning. He stormed up to my ice cream case and began yelling at me and jabbing his finger out in my direction.
“Did you see the news last night?”
“I think so. But I don’t remember anything extraordinary happening.”
“Oh you didn’t! You didn’t happen to notice that a U. S. Navy Destroyer was out there roaming off the coast of New England looking for one of them Kennedys!”
John F. Kennedy’s son had crashed his small plane into the Atlantic and they had been searching for him or any survivors.
“Oh yeah, I saw something about that. Did they find anybody?”
“Who cares?”
“Well, I don’t know. I would imagine that probably many people do. He was kind of a famous guy.”
“And if you or I crashed out there do you think that they would have sent a destroyer looking for us?”
“Well, my guess would be that the destroyer, if there was one out there, just happened to be in the immediate vicinity. I can’t imagine that there would have been any need to send a destroyer on that particular mission. There is plenty of Coast Guard and that sort of stuff that get paid to do that.”
“You don’t!”
“No I don’t.”
“Well, they did!”
“Okay, so what?”
“So what? Do you know how much fuel a destroyer burns per mile out there in the ocean? Do you know what it costs to send a destroyer out there hunting for some useless Kennedy?”
“This is all very interesting but why are you yelling at me? My name ain’t Kennedy. My name won’t be in the will of any Kennedy either. I never even met a Kennedy. There were no Kennedys living next to me in my slum tenement house up in Lawrence, Mass. either.”
“Yeah but you’re a Yankee.”
“If you are referring to the Civil War, I wasn’t there; my daddy wasn’t there and my grandparents weren’t there. All my ancestors were over in Europe somewhere digging up black potatoes or starving some place else. And if you are an American Indian, I’d like to clear the record right now - none of my family had anything to do with it. I never even saw a buffalo never mind kill one. All those typhoid fever infected blankets that you guys bought? None of my ancestors had anything to do with it. I heard it was the British.”
“Yeah, but you’re from Massachusetts ain’t ya?”
“I was raised in Massachusetts.”
“There you go!”
“There ya go what?”
“You’re one of them Liberals. You think them Kennedys are America’s Royal Family. Well, we don’t have no Royal families here in this country.”
I don’t remember how I got out of this conversation but I do remember that the guy went on and on and on. And long after that event I still remember his face and how angry he was.
What I can’t figure is what the Kennedys did that caused this man to harbor such hatred.
Joe Kennedy who all the Conservatives seem to hate committed the grave sin of somehow amassing as much money as many of their “kind.” He did it in the most evil way too. When all the rich WASPs were selling out America during the Depression, he was buying everything up. When they were all swindling everybody on the stock market, he swindled them and made bunches. He made a fortune saving the famous Yellow Cab Taxi Company from a plot on the part of the big boys to do them in. He even got hired by President Roosevelt to patch up all the loopholes and dirty tricks that it had taken others so long to incorporate. He later claimed that patching up the stock market was his greatest act of patriotism. Unfortunately, recent conservative dominated administrations removed all of Joe Kennedy’s “patches.”
He then went down into the Irish slums and ghettoes and opened up a bank whose policy it was to loan money to his fellow Irishmen.” It is in banking that his wife Rose claimed that Joe made the really big money.
But then that upstart SOB got one of his war hero sons elected president of the United State of America. Another of his sons died in a plane crash while serving in the Air force. I’ve read one book that alleged that he may have been on a dangerous, secret mission and his plane exploded prematurely and he was killed. Joe also had a daughter who was killed in an accident in Europe around the same time.
But have no fear some wacko blew his son John’s brains out in Dallas, Texas.
Not too long after that another nut cake killed another of his boys in the back of some restaurant.
And now the son of the assassinated president crashes in the Atlantic Ocean and is missing and this guy in my little shop is POed at anybody in America who he thinks might have even the remotest association with the Kennedy family.
What is that?
Honestly, I felt very badly when John F. Kennedy Jr. died in that tragic accident. I never gave the destroyer a second thought - maybe I should have. I don’t know. I really and honestly wish that nobody had to die - even Republicans – well … maybe “some” Republicans … Well, ah, certainly there is one Republican here and there that God in his infinite mercy might chose to salvage. I suppose anything is possible when it comes to the mind and infinite mercy of God.

Hobo-ing America and A Summer with Charlie are two books written by Richard E. Noble. They are now both available on Amazon.com. If you would like to stock my books in your store or business, e-mail me at richardedwardnoble@gtcom.net for discounts and special offers.

Bertrand Russell

Bertrand Russell 1872-1970

Philosopher

Richard E. Noble

Bertrand Russell was a scientist, mathematician, educator, and philosopher. From the philosophical point of interest he stands out most prominently because of his avowed atheism. Most people, me included, have a great difficulty in understanding atheism. How can anyone not believe in God, asks Oprah Winfrey and a host of others.
Well Bertrand, as with most else, explains himself very simply and reasonably. His defense of his atheism goes something like this.
If God is defined as the Creator of all that is, and all that is, is inclusive of evil, then God must have created evil.
If God created evil, then He must be evil or at least partly evil, and if God is evil and it is illogical and against common sense and reason to believe that God can be both good and evil; and if there is then something that is truly evil and not just apparently evil; then God must, by rational definition, be evil. And so concludes Bertrand, I refuse to believe in a God that is evil.
So, when Bertrand denies the existence of God, in his mind, he is not denying 'goodness', but affirming the existence of 'evil'.
He defines evil not as war and murder, or rape and human cruelty and injustice entirely but as the basics of nature; natural disasters, floods, volcanoes, typhoons, disease, defects of birth, the predatory survivalist nature of creatures (animals eating one another to survive) sickness, pain, and death. So, says Bertrand, since there is objective evil, if there is a God, He too must be evil. This leaves a reasonable man with only two choices, either believe in a God that is evil, or not believe in God at all. For my part, states Bertrand, I choose not to believe in a God that is evil. So I do not choose to believe in God at all.
Because of this point of view Bertrand was not very well appreciated by any of the religions of the world. There is no other way to win the hatred of more human beings of all colors and types at one time than to deny the existence of a Creator to the universe. When Bertrand became deathly sick one time in India or the Orient, his hospital was immediately surrounded by believers who prayed, sang hymns, chanted and spun prayer wheels calling to God for his death. Despite all the prayers, Bertrand did not die. In fact, he lived to be almost one hundred.
It does seem, strangely enough, that possibly God was not as offended by Bertrand Russell and his point of view as the majority of God professed followers. And though Bertrand Russell was a preacher of a 'creed' there has not been, as of yet, a 'religion' established in his name and memory, which does seem surprising.
I can see no more fit ending for this piece than the words of a famous poet from my home town of Lawrence, Mass., Robert Frost.
"God forgive my little jokes on Thee, and I will forgive your great big one on me."

Mabel, Violet, Bill and Harold

Lawrence – My Hometown

Mabel, Violet, Bill and Harold

By Richard E. Noble

Jack Sheehy, Frank Duchnowski and me were VIPs at the 5 O’clock Club. We had our reserved seats at the back bar directly behind the cash register. It actually seems like we spent an entire lifetime sitting there. In truth, I suppose that it was only ten or twelve years – and then only the summers. It was kinda the old Nell’s how-to-start-a-corner-theory, I suppose. Sit and hangout and “they shall come.” If it was summertime and anybody was looking for any of us, they knew where to go. We were a part of the art deco. We were the gang from “Happy Days” maturing and drinking competitively.
One of the challenges of our sentry positions behind the cash register at the Five was to sit there each evening drinking continuously from 5 or 6 p.m. to closing at 1 a.m., and then rising from our stools and walking to the front door as if we were sober. That involved a number of pretenses – no stumbling, no stuttering, no unreasonable laughing, no knocking over chairs or tables, and saying goodnight to Mabel, Violet and Harold on the way out without slurring. Bill was usually with us each night at the bar so we already said goodnight to him. I guess we were kinda like the Walton’s of the Five – goodnight John-Boy.
Mabel, Violet, Bill and Harold were the owner family who ran the 5 O’clock Club at Salisbury Beach. They were a wonderful bunch and we had a great time teasing them. I think their last name was Nabhan. Over the years we became friends. I even delivered chickens to their mother’s place out on Seabrook Beach. I owned a little meat market in Lawrence and she said she loved “my” chickens. I tried to explain to her that they weren’t really “my” chickens and I just bought them from John the Chicken Man at S.H. Brennan’s. But she wouldn’t buy that simple explanation. She felt that I had put my touch onto these chickens and they were special. After awhile she actually had me wondering. Maybe it was me? Maybe I had the Midas “Chicken” Touch. It could happen, I suppose!
Harold was the Commander and chief, Bill was an enlisted Air Force man who had married Mabel. Mabel was a challenge; she was very serious. Violet, on the other hand, could have been named Marilyn or Niki. She was very giggly and silly. One could stare at Mabel and get nothing but a curious glance in return. Violet could not take the pressure. If you looked at her, she laughed. Bill was one of the guys. He laughed joked and teased. He caught on to our routines instantly.
Violet, Mabel and Bill were always buying us free drinks. Harold on the other hand was a hard butt. He considered himself to be a reasonable and practical man. He was an officer in the Military and a West Point graduate – and I think he served in the military of the United States of America after graduation as opposed to the French Foreign Legion or something like that. On top of that he was a lawyer. He didn’t practice though. He was too busy tending bar, checking IDs and watering down our drinks at the Five.
Violet and Bill were the best pourers – heavy on the booze and light on the “filler.” Harold, on the other hand, had to be watched closely and coached constantly. “Harold, Harold! You were a little quick on the gin. You want to try that again and this time I’ll count to three for you.”
Harold did have occasion to use his legal expertise though. He told us of one interesting case that he said set a precedent in the Seabrook annals of juris prudence.
Now I may have this a little upside down so don’t sue me Harold, but this is the way I remember it.
Harold who was no spring chicken at the time – maybe in his mid-thirties had, at long last, met the girl of his dreams and fallen in love. Harold asked the young lady for her hand. She accepted and Harold went shopping for a ring. He bought his girlfriend a lovely and very expensive engagement ring. She accepted it and promised to be his bride.
But Harold was of a very suspicious nature. He didn’t get to be single in his mid-thirties by just “jumping” into things. He had been hearing rumors. He was going to hire a detective to follow her around but then decided that he should do it himself. The fact that it was cheaper to do the tailing himself was really not the issue – he explained. This involved honor not money.
Duchy criticized Harold’s approach to the matter. “If you don’t trust somebody, you shouldn’t marry them,” Dutch advised.
Harold smirked, indicating Duchy’s naiveté.
In the weeks and months that followed Harold deployed many disguises and aliases culminating at a second floor bedroom window expose’. It seems that Harold was so shocked at what he saw that he nearly fell off his ladder. His promised bride to be was making mad passionate love to another of Harold’s old girlfriends. Now even as I write this tale I become dubious of my memory but this was Seabrook, a community much ahead of the times.
Harold was so distraught over this discovery that he sued his prospective bride for breech of promise. He wanted his expensive ring returned. Duchy contended that this was not the action of a compassionate man. He told Harold that the ring was a gift to Harold’s chosen bride, someone that he once loved, and it should be forgotten. Harold’s eyebrows rose and his nose elevated. “Really,” he said. “And this is what you would do if you were in my situation?”
“Of course,” Duchy replied. “A gift is a gift. You made a mistake and now you should be man enough to accept the consequences.”
“Well,” Harold said, “returning to the world of reality and the LAW. I took her to court, won my case, and got my ring returned. You see LEGALLY the ring was not a “gift.” It was a contract. The ring was given on the condition of the acceptance of marriage. She failed to meet the understood conditions of the proposal and therefore she was required to return the ring.”
“Yeah but she didn’t say that she wouldn’t marry you,” Jack interjected.
“Yeah, but I ain’t going to marry her when she’s sleeping with my ex-girlfriend for god’s sake.”
“So then YOU broke the contract and she should get to keep the ring,” Dutch expounded.
“No, no, no, no. You can’t be engaged to somebody and go sleeping around with other people.”
“Really, did you guys know that?” Duchy asked.
“Well, all I know is Nancy Mahoney got caught screwing her best man after the wedding in his car out in the parking lot behind St. Patrick’s Church and she didn’t give back her engagement ring or her wedding ring,” Jack said.
“Yeah but the guy Nancy Mahoney married was Freddy Grogan and he got caught with Nancy’s bride’s maid in the lady’s room. He couldn’t really ask for his ring back after that.”
“Not only that, Freddy borrowed the money for the ring from Nancy in the first place. So whose ring was it really?” Jack added.
“Oh my god,” said Harold. “You can’t talk to you guys from Lawrence about anything serious. You guys live in another world down there.”
“Oh yeah? … And Salisbury and Seabrook are in the real world, I suppose,” offered Jack.
“I’ll tell you what, I’m going to give you all a round on the house and let’s just change the subject.”
“Okay, start pouring and I’ll count to three the correct way – one a thousand, ahh … two a thousand, and ahhh … Dutch are you timing this with your watch?” Jack asked.
“I left my watch at home,” Dutch confessed sadly.
“Three,” said Harold, “and that’s it.”
You see, one had to be good to work a free drink out of Harold.

Richard Edward Noble is a freelance writer and columnist. His local column, the Eastpointer, won the first place 2007 humor award from the Florida Press Association. He has published several books. All of his books can be viewed and purchased on Amazon.com. He can be contacted at richardedwardnoble@gtcom.net for discounts and volume sales.

The Eastpointer

Sitting on the dock of the bay

By Richard E. Noble

Our first year oystering on Cat Point was what some might call a “religious” experience. The bay was a miracle, we were told.

In those first few years that we were here - from 1982 to 1985 - the oyster crop was abundant. There were more oyster boats on Cat Point in those years than there has ever been since, I’m sure. In fact paranoia had set in.

New people came to Apalachicola Bay from all over. There were people here from Alabama, Georgia, Chesapeake Bay, Louisiana, Mississippi, and all parts of Florida. Carol and I were from Massachusetts. But Carol and I were a fluke. Most of the others were here because they had heard about the bumper oyster crop. They came here specifically to catch oysters.

Finally a year arrived where the local oystermen could make a little money and people were coming from everywhere as if Apalachicola Bay was Sutter’s Creek and it was 1849. There were meetings at the courthouse. Most oystermen wanted to protect the local oyster crop from this foreign invasion. What could they do?

As Carol and I would sit out on the dock at the Island View Campground and look at all the boats on Cat Point, we would speculate on how long our migrant experience here in Franklin County would last.

In those days we were migrant workers. We went from one area to another harvesting apples, oranges, peaches or whatever. We were completely mobile. If there were no oysters here next September we would be off to Michigan to pick apples. And from what we could see, we were convinced that this was just another short run working experience. With all those boats smothering Cat Point, it would be a miracle if there were even shells left come next year. We weren’t worried but the locals were. We had a rented boat and an old motor that cost us $300. We could throw the old motor away and we’d still be ahead on this work stop.

We asked the owner of the campground about this situation. He was a dealer, and a lifetime oysterman. He laughed. “This is nothing,” he said. “I’ve seen times when this bay was so thick with oyster boats that you could walk from one boat to the next from here to the Island and never get your feet wet.”

We discounted his testimony as that of a businessman who was making money off the influx of “foreigners.” Bosses love to see lots of available workers; it keeps wages low and profits up.

We decided to go to the meeting at the courthouse and listen to the locals and the guest experts. There were advisers here from numerous government agencies. They we here to explain the options to the outcry of concerned oystermen.

The oystermen wanted restrictions. Some wanted permits to be sold only to residents of Franklin County. Others suggested that the number of licenses sold should be limited and on a first come first serve basis. In the future oyster licenses would be handed down to family members or sold by the license holder. There were numerous suggestions, but the experts from the DNR and all the other agencies shot down the possibilities one after another.

The experts suggested charging more for an oystermen’s license. A license sold for $5.00 and you could buy one at the courthouse any time of the year. The experts suggested the possibility of a $500 license. The oystermen gagged. Were these guys kidding? That price would not only restrict the outsiders but the locals as well.

It was the workers responsibility to find work. If there were no oysters in Apalachicola next year, the oystermen would have to become something else. Carol and I had already set ourselves up to find other options. If there were no more oysters, we would move on down the road to the next job. We knew how to survive. That was our whole idea. We would not be trapped by an expensive house and a job at the local mill - or oyster bar. We would carry our home on our back and move it to wherever the work was.

But when that next year arrived, there were as many oysters on Cat Point as there were the year before. As the years went by the Cat Point crop varied but there were always oysters. So we hung around. You might say we fell into the “security trap.”

We’re still here. We’ve moved on from oystering. There are new problems and new worries for the oystermen but the oysters are still here. Most of the Dealers are gone. The Marine Patrol is gone and so are their Miami Cigarette Boats and helicopters. The DNR is gone. The check stations are gone. But there are still oysters and there are still oystermen.


The Eastpointer is R.E. Noble’s latest publication. It is a selection of columns from the Franklin Chronicle. It is for sale on Amazon along with his other works. Richard Noble is a freelance writer who has lived in Franklin County for thirty years.

Lawrence – My Hometown

She says she’s a mop

Richard E. Noble

Lawrence is, of course, the Immigrant City. In Lawrence your ethnic heritage was a thing of pride and all your friends knew what nationality you were. I never thought much about it until I settled in the South.
In the South ethnic heritage is more simply defined – you are either black or you are white; you are a Yankee or you are a good old boy (Redneck). I have managed to pass for white here in the South but I have never gotten past being a Yankee. The minute I open my mouth some guy who looks like Baby Huey and has a whole pack of cigarettes in his mouth that he is attempting to eat but can’t seem to swallow says, “You ain’t from around here, are ya?”
Many guys “way down yonder” are named “boy.” I would imagine their sisters are named “girl.” In the South they are not much on imagination or diversity. They are all “American.”
I told somebody who came to my little ice cream parlor that I was part English. The rumor went around town that some “foreigner” from Britain owned the ice cream parlor in Carrabelle. British tourists would come into my shop and ask me where in England I was raised. Many locals in this neighborhood think New England is a country in Europe. It is mixed in somewhere among those other countries like Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Spain, France and New England. I told one guy that Massachusetts was in New England. He said, “No way man, Massachusetts is right here on the east coast of the United States.” I decided not to pursue any further debate on the issue.
But in Lawrence a person’s ethnic heritage was something to take pride in. The majority of my buddies had a parent or grandparent who spoke something other than English. When some old grey haired woman stuck her head out of a second storey window and began chattering in gibberish, it was no big deal. From my point of view all grandmothers spoke some sort of gobblygook. It didn’t bother me or any of my buddies.
Mr. Reardon, who lived next store, was Scottish. Mr. Reardon spoke English, he wife said, but whatever he was speaking was Greek to me.
He would pick me up in his 1934 Chevy four door with the red, spoked tire rims on his way to church. He would mumble something and they would both turn and look at me sitting there in the back seat of their car. After a few moments of awkward silence, his wife would say, “He wants to know how you are doing in school.” It would continue like this all the way from Chelmsford St. to the Immaculate Conception Church. He would mumble. She would look at my bewildered face and then translate and I would answer.
My grandmother spoke no English that I remember. Her usual greeting was, “You workie, Richie?” As long as I “workie” she would give me a smile.
I would sit in her living room as a little boy for hour after hour listening to a Polish radio station playing Polish polkas. Every half hour or so the guy on the radio would say something in English. It went like this, “Pierogui goumphki mushtuski Heffern’s gas station. Or in the middle of a long line of gibberish the announcer would throw in a Breen’s funeral home, or an Essem hot dogs. I thought it was all some kind of comedy show, like Sid Ceasar’s Show of Shows. Even the music was funny. I would laugh and Grammy would laugh because I had laughed and we both had a great time. I didn’t know what she was laughing at and she didn’t know what I was laughing at, but it was all laughs so who cares.
One day we had a minor calamity at 32 Chelmsford St. My uncle Clayton and my aunt Amelia were moving out of the apartment upstairs. They were buying their own home over on Exchange St. across the street from the Polish Bakery. A new family was moving in. The little tenement was a buzz with rumors. What would this new family of strangers be like? My mother was snooping around for information. She couldn’t get much out of my uncle. She saw my grandmother sitting out on the front porch. She decided to go out and grill her. My mother spoke Polish. I could hear them jabbering. It was summer time and the windows were up with the screens in place.
They were talking for some time when suddenly my mother burst into laughter. She came running down the corridor and into the house. She couldn’t stop laughing.
“What’s so funny,” I asked.
“The new lady upstairs, she’s a mop.”
“She’s a mop?”
“Grammy was talking to the new lady and Grammy asked the lady what nationality she was. Grammy said that the lady told her that she was a mop. Grammy shrugged her shoulders and asked me if I knew what country mops came from? I couldn’t figure it. I asked Grammy if she knew the lady’s last name. The lady’s name is Ciardello.”
“She ain’t a mop. She’s a wop.”
“Yes, Mrs. Ciardello told Grammy that she was a wop and Grammy never heard of the word wop, so she figured she meant mop. So Grammy thinks Mrs. Ciardello is a mop.”
“So did you straighten her out?”
“I tried. I told her that Mrs. Ciardello was a wop and not a mop. But Grammy said that she knew of no country called Wop or Mop. I tried to explain to her that people who come from Italy are called wops but Grammy said, wops, mops it doesn’t matter to her as long as the lady pays her rent she can be a mop or a wop or whatever she wants to be.”

Richard Edward Noble is a freelance writer and columnist. His local column, the Eastpointer, won the first place 2007 humor award from the Florida Press Association. He has published several books. All of his books can be viewed and purchased on Amazon.com. He can be contacted at 1-850-670-8076 or richardedwardnoble@gtcom.net for bookstore discounts and volume sales.

Nietzsche (1844-1900 A.D.)

Philosopher

Richard E. Noble

Frederick Nietzsche is the only so called philosopher whom I have delved into so far that I can sum up in one word ... MAD.
Little, puny, sickly, hate-filled Freddie didn't have to fall on his head, as his father had, in order to go completely berserk. Freddie did it all on his own. The last ten years of his life were spent in the nut house, a situation on which his poor mother commented something to the effect, "It is so nice to have my little baby back once again."
When I first began perusing Nietzsche, I realized very quickly that I had already done all of this. I had already read Adolf Hitler and Nietzsche's modern day, theoretical little step daughter Ayn Rand.
Nietzsche actually says that there will come a time in the future when the world will no longer be divided into B.C. and A.D. but B.N. and A.N., before and after Nietzsche.
There is also the theory that little Freddie was suffering from either congenital or acquired syphilis. There exists the same theory as regards to Adolf Hitler. I have heard no such rumors as with regards to little Ayn, but I'm sure they are in the making.
It seems that little Freddie actually considered himself THE anti-Christ, whatever that is.
Freddie was the son of a preacher man, and a devout Christian mother. Everybody in the family loved Freddie but little Freddie himself.
I am convinced that one hour of reading our man Frederick could turn even the most devoted atheist to seek God, and redemption.
Freddie is the man who announced in his Thus Spake Zarathustra that, "God Is Dead!" in case you have always wondered who mouthed that one.
Need I tell you that our man B.N./A.N. had a little problem with suicide? He has confessed, himself, to the notion of putting a revolver to his head. Boy, if only he had some of that "Superman" strength that he told us so much about, and had the courage to pull the damn trigger.
There is also a legitimate theory that the entire German nation may be subject to lunacy. Ger-mania - Ger meaning war ... mania meaning crazed or insane behavior. This might well be the subject of a serious psychological investigation. We could then follow up this study on the basic tendency of Mankind, in general, towards self abuse and personal destruction. I'll leave such an investigation to a more dedicated and younger investigator. Good luck, who ever you are.

Lawrence My Hometown

Clarence Darrow, F. Lee Bailey and Morris Ravitch

By Richard E. Noble

I have written about this event in my mini-novel A Summer with Charlie, but now here’s “the rest of the story.”
The Salisbury police busted into our little castle on Old Town Way and threw a bunch of us into the pokey. Those of us who were the victims of this brutality on the part of the Salisbury police decided that we would take this group of ruffians to court. After all, we were all mature, responsible adults at the time of our arrest and it was unanimous that these make believe, wannabe flatfoots had grossly overstepped their authority. Who did they think they were dealing with here - a bunch of kids? So what if we had a few beers and were a little rowdy. We were old enough to drink – most of us. We paid for our booze. We paid our cottage rent. We contributed to the financial success of the 5 O’clock Club, and the Normandy, and the Kon Tiki, Mac Jenney’s, the Edward’s Hotel and the Bowery and everywhere man! We were a positive attribute of the Salisbury economic community. We should have been treated with some respect! We weren’t a bunch of punk kids sitting out on the corner no more. We were adults and should be treated accordingly. We worked for a living. We collected paychecks. We were big boys now. We had this same cottage for the last three years in a row. We didn’t get thrown out. The place had not been condemned or anything like that. We decided to contest our fines and seek damages for being abused, mistreated, manhandled, harassed, and humiliated. We got a court date.
In the weeks before our day in court, we decided to solicit character witnesses from our beach neighborhood on Old Town Way. Most of the neighbors agreed that we had not caused a disturbance on the night in question. Of course, many of them were guys we knew who were also from Lawrence or Lowell or Haverhill and had rented their own cottage. Nevertheless a number of them agreed to come and testify on our behalf.
This was all well and good but we needed a “credible” witness. There was good old George and his family who lived across the way and few doors down. He was a nice guy. We had him and his wife over to our place many times for a beer and some pizza or an Italian Hogie from Lena’s or Tony’s (Papalardo’s) Subs. He was not only a real person but also a retired cop from Haverhill. We decided to go over and talk to him about our situation.
When we told him that we had been arrested for disturbing the peace he was shocked. He was right there in his cottage that night and he never heard a thing.
“Would you come to court and testify for us, George?”
“You are darn right, I will! These guys down here aren’t even real police. They’re a bunch of part-time bozos who want to be important. I don’t know how they get off arresting you guys.”
“All right, George!”
When our day in court finally arrived, we gathered up all our buddies and went and got George. As we wandered, nervously around the court house, who do we bump into? Why, none other than the most famous barrister in all of Lawrence, Morris Ravitch.
When Morris found out that we were defending ourselves in this endeavor. He shook his head sadly and said, “That could be a big mistake, boys. You know the old saying; A man who is his own defense often ends up with a fool for his attorney. If I were you guys, I wouldn’t go in there without a lawyer.”
“Yeah, but we can’t afford no lawyer.”
“What the heck are you talking about? How many accused do we have here?”
“There’s six of us.”
“Okay, you got ten bucks each?” We all began shuffling through our billfolds and we each gave Morris ten bucks.
“Okay boys, you’re all set. I’ll see you in court.”
“Don’t you need to know about our case?”
“Oh yeah, what happened to you guys anyway?”
We told Morris our whole story and introduced him to George and all the rest of our witnesses.
The Salisbury cops gave their side of the story first: We were loud and noisy. All the neighbors had been calling. We were all drunks. We were out in the middle of the street waving beer bottles around. We were sitting on top of cars. We were yelling and screaming and using abusive language. We had the radio blearing. There were half naked, underage girls everywhere, and yeahti, yeahti, yeahti – the same old same old we had heard a million times.
We were all dressed in our Sunday best. One by one we told the judge of the physical and psychological abuse that had scarred our personalities – probably for the rest of our lives. We showed the judge the marks still on our wrists from the handcuffs. We contested the drunken issue and why shouldn’t girls be half naked – this was Salisbury Beach for god’s sake. Everybody is half naked at the beach. If any of the girls were under age they weren’t under by much and they had never mentioned it to any of us. Yes we may have been sitting on cars but they were our cars, parked in our parking spaces. But we took a special exception to the noise accusation. At this point Morris started calling the neighbors to testify.
The judge didn’t seem to be buying a word of it until Morris brought up old George, the retired Haverhill policeman. The Judge even knew George. Morris asked George if he had heard the aforementioned social disturbance.
“I’ll tell ya, I didn’t hear a thing. These kids are all great. I live right across the street. I have even been over to their cottage. These are all good boys.”
“You didn’t hear a lot of screaming and yelling?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“You didn’t hear anything?” Morris emphasized. “You live right across the street and you didn’t hear any noise? You didn’t hear the alleged loud music? You didn’t hear boys and girls screaming and yelling?”
“Nothing! I didn’t hear anything.”
“My god, are you deaf or what?” one of the accusing cops burst from his seat.”
“Well,” George said. “I have been having a little trouble lately. The doctor says that my right ear is completely gone but my left ear is still working at about 50 percent. I don’t hear everything these days. I have to keep the TV volume up pretty high. But I’m getting by.”
The judge fined each of us forty bucks apiece. We didn’t get any jail time though. Thank-you Mr. Morris Ravitch, attorney at law.

Richard E. Noble was raised in Lawrence, Mass and is now a freelance writer. He has published six books. Two of them have Lawrence as their setting, A Summer with Charlie and Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother. A Little Something is a book of poetry -parts of it inspired by life in Lawrence. Hobo-ing America is a workingman’s tour of the U.S.A. The Eastpointer is selected pieces from his award winning column about life in a sleepy fishing village in the Florida Panhandle.

Cat Point

Cat Point

Leroy “Bubba” Richman – Southern Democrat

By Richard E. Noble

I have this sorta friend. His name is Leroy “Bubba” Richman. He lives in the Plantation on St George Island. He is very, very rich. I know this because he lets me know how truly wealthy he is in every conversation we have or have ever had. His taxes for the year are more than I have ever earned in a year – maybe two years. I know what his taxes are because he has told me – many, many times. His home on the island is worth several million, he says.

I first met Leroy shooting pool at Charlie’s bar in Eastpoint many years ago. He is originally from Alabama. He made his fortune the hard way – selling aluminum siding. Before the aluminum siding he sold mobile homes.

For some reason he likes to hang around poor people. That’s how we became friends. He is into politics. Well, he isn’t into anything but he talks a lot of politics. He says that he is a Democrat. I told him that he was no such thing. I know a Democrat when I hear one. I told him that he was a Southern Democrat aka a Redneck Republican. He said that he was not a Redneck Republican but a true Democrat. He is just not like those “weird” Democrats that they have up North. He really didn’t use the word weird. He had his own synonym. It rhymes with words like deer and leer.

One of the many things that he doesn’t like is volunteer fire departments. He says, “If them boys want to play with fire trucks they should buy their own and not ask me to pay for it.”

Because Bubba Richman pays substantial income taxes along with his substantial property taxes, he feels like he is paying for everything, including everyone’s salary.

When he gets done eating at any local restaurant that he enjoys, he will tell the owner that he will be “supporting” him in the future. That means that he will be back again to eat.

He spoke out (at Charlie’s) against the volunteer fire department when they were first considering a local fire tax to support the department.
I thought he wanted something better. That was not the case. He wanted something worse.

“If them boys want to play fire chief, let ‘em do it. They aint getting’ paid now and they love it. Why start paying ‘em.”

“Well, the tax isn’t for salaries it is for more professional equipment and training. At the moment in Eastpoint they have an old fire truck that was built at the original Ford motor company and if they can get it started they tie a shrimp boat mooring line to the back bumper and drag a water truck behind it.”

“So?”

“So that’s good enough for you and your ten million dollar home on the Island?”

“Listen son, if my home burns down, I will just build a new one. I don’t care nor do I need a fire department. The fire department is for my neighbors and folks like you. You folks want it, you should pay for it, not me. I don’t need it.”

“But aren’t we all members of a community? Shouldn’t we all chip in and do our part?”

“You can do your part by buying some insurance. If everybody had insurance, we wouldn’t need a fancy fire department. As long as that truck on a rope gets there to wet down the ground around the burning house, who cares. That’s good enough. And all those volunteers can play fireman all they want to.”

“Well, you know if I were a volunteer fireman and I thought that everybody thought like you, I wouldn’t volunteer any more.”

“Oh yes you would.”

“Why would I?”

“Because you like playing on fire trucks.”

“I don’t like playing on fire trucks.”

“Not you, but them guys that do that.”

“You just don’t want to pay any taxes.”

“I pay enough taxes. With all I pay in taxes we should have a fire department here in Franklin County like they have in New York City.”

“Why don’t you move to New York City? Then with all the taxes you pay you would have the fire department that you deserve.”

“I like the fire department I got right now. An old water truck on a rope is fine. That’s all we need around here. You are the one that wants a better fire department.”

“I didn’t ask for a better fire department. I have an old junk trailer. If it burns to the ground, I’ll go a find another old junk trailer.”

“See, now your thinking like me. Let me buy you another beer.”
“No way man. You start buying me beers and somehow you’re going to think that you own me. I don’t want your sorry butt “supporting” me too.”

“See, now you are becoming a Southern Democrat, instead of one of them “funny” Yankee Democrats they got up there where you come from.”

[Please don’t show this column to anyone currently volunteering on our local fire departments. I love people who volunteer for anything. I wish that they could all get paid. I wish that volunteers had a union. I am not a Southern Democrat. I’m a damn Yankee Democrat.]