Politicians are always arguing about the pros and cons of gun control. Every time there’s a mass shooting, the pressure ramps up to increase legislation. I have to agree. Why in the world would any normal human being need an assault weapon in order to get through life? On the other hand, people have always had guns in this country. It’s how the West was won, as the saying goes. But we didn’t always have video games. In the year 2011, the United States Supreme Court ruled that any regulation of the content of video games violated freedom of speech. Consequently, in the past ten years, mass shootings have tripled in this country. It’s obvious: Scotus OK’d violent video games –and it was a bad decision.
This week, a 14 year old girl broke into a Florida home, and used the owners assault weapon to open fire on sheriff’s deputies. Her 12 year old accomplice later told investigators that the 14-year-old had said, “I’m gonna roll this down like GTA,” referring to the video game Grand Theft Auto.
An international study published in 2018 looked at more than 17,000 adolescents, ages nine to 14, over a period of 4 years.. They found that playing violent video games led to increased physical aggression over time. . High levels of violent video game exposure are linked to delinquency, fighting at school and during free play periods, and violent criminal behavior.
Scotus ok’d violent video games in 2011. Since then, mass shootings have tripled.
In 2017, the American Psychological Task Force on Violent Media found that violent video game exposure increases aggressive thought and behaviors. Such games can also desensitize people to violence. The longer that children watch these games. the more likely they are to have aggressive behaviors, thoughts, and feelings. In addition, they show less empathy and understanding of others.
The ruling made by the United States Supreme Court in regard to the regulation of Video Games was made in 2011. That was then, and this is now. It’s time for them to go back and look at the evidence. Their decision has resulted in a tripling of mass shootings in the United States. The court shouldn’t have ok’d unregulated, violent video games.
Graveyards have always fascinated me. Most of them will take you centuries back into history. My grandfather supervised the cemetery near his farm for many years, so it was a place I visited many times as a child. We even had picnics there. Positioned at the bottom of a hill, overlooked by towering trees, it was serene and fragrant with the smell of country grasses. Many of my ancestors were buried there, including a great great Uncle Ren White, who’d served in the Civil War. I still make the annual Memorial Day pilgrimage to put flowers on my family gravestones, but find it sad that so many graves appear to be forgotten. Who will visit your grave? Or will you even haveone?
Most people who pass away in this century will not have a traditional burial. It’s estimated that by the year 2040, 80% of us will choose cremation. Most will not have a gravestone to visit, although some will chose to have their ashes buried in a cemetery next to their spouse or family members who preceded them in death.
But even if you do have a gravestone, it’s no guarantee anyone will come to visit it on Memorial Day. Many people are actually afraid of cemeteries, and will avoid them at all costs. That’s because cemeteries remind them of their own mortality.
Who Wil Visit Your Grave? Cemeteries are a place of peace for some, and fear of mortality for others.
And yet, for me, as the only remaining member of my immediate family, a flood of memories stream into my consciousness at the gravesites: My oldest sister braiding my hair and reading Grimm’s fairy tales to me. Middle sister, blonde and giggly, yet kind enough to let me into her bed on the nights when I was scared. Her twin brother’s ashes are up in Michigan, but I remember him buying me shoes with his paper route money. My mother’s wonderful cooking, and Daddy taking us to the fireworks and the beach all summer long.
I feel the tears coming on, and try to distract myself. They no longer allow flower planting at the cemetery, but they let my Grandpa’s 100 year old peonies continue to bloom every year. To this day, I’m a sucker for peonies.
So yes, I’m one of those people who love to visit the cemetery. And I’m not alone. There’s always someone visiting a grave when we enter the driveway. And many graves have fresh decorations on Memorial Day. Driving away , out onto the crowded highway, I feel refreshed and restored. Just for a while, I’ve had my family back again—if only in my heart.
On Memorial Day, we still see a few WWII veterans at ceremonies commemorating those who served. My husband and I were were both children of that era, and our lives were forever changed. We remember rationing, air raid drills, and uncles who went to war, some of whom did not return. Several years ago, my husband published his memoir, A Preacher Called Sinn, and devoted several chapters to that historic period. One of his most vivid memories centers around the Bruning Air Force base that sprang up near his family farm in Nebraska. As a result, It changed the local economy, and brought the war close to home. Especially on the day when he found a young man who had parachuted to his death. In honor of the missing pilot who lost his life , I’m sharing chapter 6 from my husband’s memoir:
THE MISSING PILOT
IN HONOR OF THE MISSING PILOT. When the Army built Bruning Air Force Base, a boy’s life was changed forever.
Less than a week after the Bruning Air Base was finished, the Army Air Corps moved in and began their maneuvers. Our chimney was a turning point for B-19 liberators on their sorties. The roar of airplane engines hammered the once quiet skies, swooping down to frighten the chickens and spook the cattle. When Grandpa and I went into town so he could play cards, the men talked incessantly about the war effort. I didn’t want to say it out loud, but it seemed to me that the evils of Mussolini and Hitler had actually made things better for the folks in Thayer County. The stores around the courthouse square, once struggling for survival, were crowded with customers. New shops and restaurants opened up, and they added an extra shift at the bakery.
One warm afternoon in September, I looked up North across the pasture and saw my cousins on two small ponies galloping toward our house. Having finished my chores, I ran out to greet Herb and Irvin. They were short robust boys whose pink cheeks glowed with innocence and good health
. “What shall we do today?” I asked, hoping each of them would offer me a turn to ride, as they usually did
. “We’re collecting milkweed pods,” Irvin announced. “You want to help?” The boys jumped to the ground, tied up the ponies, and produced a burlap onion bag. I looked at the dirty bag, feeling a rush of disappointment.
“What do we care about some old weeds?”
Irvin shot me a look. “Not weeds. Pods. It’s for the war. They use the silk inside the pods to make flotation devices. We might save a pilot’s life if we do this.”
Reluctantly, I trailed after them. The wind across the prairie scratched our eyes, and the prickly pods stung my fingers. I collected more pods than the two of them together. As we searched the brush and weeds alongside the road, I remembered the time when all we could hear on a Sunday afternoon was the mooing of cows and the honking of geese. Now, aircraft droned overhead, and the roads were clogged with convoy trucks.
An approaching jeep rumbled along the road in a cloud of dust and jerked to a stop. “What you boys up to?” asked one of the men.
“Collecting pods,” I replied.
The soldier in the driver’s seat tapped me on the shoulder. “We need your help. It’s urgent.”
I felt a stir of inner excitement. ‘Sure, what do you want us to do?”
“We’re looking for some wounded men.”
“They’re missing?” My pulse quickened. Had the war come right here to Thayer County? There had been worry we might be invaded when the government built the air base.
The soldier nodded. “Yes, one of our B-19’s lost an engine and the men bailed out. They could be hurt. You three boys spread out and see if you can find them, and have your folks call the base if you do.”
I took charge. “You go thataway,” I told Irvin, pointing to the tree row at the edge of their farm. “And you, Herb, go down toward the river. I’ll head for the pasture behind Grandpa’s house.”
Search planes thundered overhead, casting huge terrifying shadows across the land. At first, I ran so fast my lungs were on fire. But soon, I slowed down to catch my breath as I approached a field where stalks of wheat stood brown and ripe in the blazing sun. I imaged myself actively engaged in a military operation, feeling important and yet afraid of what I might find.
I saw it then: a flash of white blowing in the wind, the parachute billowing out like a tablecloth. My heart sped up as I saw the familiar drab green fatigues on the twisted body of a man lying on his side next to the fencepost.
My hands trembled. The guy must be in terrible pain. I had witnessed gory farm accidents and seen cows in agony during childbirth, and hated that gut wrenching feeling of helplessness in the face of suffering.
My knees went weak as I sank to the ground. The airman’s cap had come undone; his coppery hair gleamed like a new penny against the crusted earth. Upon the ghostly pallor of his face, his lips were dark as blueberries. His half opened eyes looked toward heaven. When I gasped his long thin fingers, they felt clammy as a Blue River Catfish.
They told us later he had broken his neck when he hit the fencepost.
That evening, there was leftover fried chicken for Sunday supper, but no one was hungry. I picked at my food as we sat around the big oak kitchen table. I wondered if the pilot had brothers and sisters, and thought of how terrible his parents would feel when they heard about their son’s fatal accident. I knew that someday I might have to go in the service, and hoped I would have the courage to face death in a place far from home
As if reading my thoughts, Mom touched my hand. “Don’t you worry, Son,” she said. “We’re going to win this war real soon, and after that, we’ll all live in peace. There won’t be any more wars in your lifetime.”
Here in Indiana, Hoosiers are gearing up for another weekend of partying during the Indianapolis Motor Speedway 500 mile race. Fifty years ago, it was the one place where getting drunk and naked in public wouldn’t get you arrested. The excitement began on Carb Day, the Friday before the big event. Even if you didn’t care for the races, many of your friends and co-workers came back with pictures of drunken parties where men and women stripped and streaked with wild abandon. However, things have really toned down since Covid-19 changed everything. Last year, they scheduled a race without any fans at all. This year, they’ve canceled Carb Day, and only half as many tickets to the big race will be sold. But it doesn’t really matter, because naked’s not novel anymore.
Naked’s not novel anymore. Thanks to Netflix, the sight of naked strangers partying at the Indy 500 is not as exciting as it once was.
Netflix and other streaming services have watered down the novelty of seeing naked strangers. Almost every other movie or TV series has at least one scene where someone isn’t wearing any clothes. Not only that, sex education is provided in the form of video demonstrations of the act. Consequently, there’s so much sex and nudity on television that it’s not even titillating. Remember when ankles were considered so erotic that porches were built so that a man would not see a lady’s ankles while ascending the stairs? Nowadays, who would get aroused at the sight of a woman’s ankles?
Anyone who grew up in Indiana has probably attended at least one Indianapolis 500 race. For most of us, it was about as exciting as watching paint dry. The only thing to relieve the boredom of seeing cars drive around the track was a hefty supply of alcohol in the cooler under your seat. Nevertheless, diehard race fans thrive on the possibility of carnage when a driver hits the wall at a speed of 257 miles per hour.
As a result, there’s still a lot of hype surrounding the race. The city throbs with excitement, and you see women in ball gowns entering hotels at all hours of the day and night. There will always be sponsors who host festive galas. It’s probably the highlight of the social season in Indianapolis. Still, you wonder what will happen to attendance now that naked’s not novel anymore.
It’s hard to believe, but I had never seen a cicada until last night. Some of you may not have heard of them, so I’ll explain. They’re insects that only come out of the ground in the eastern United States of America every 17 years. They make noises that some find offensive, but to me they’re more like a chorus of chirping birds in a nest. Seems their only purpose in life is to mate, lay eggs and die about 6 weeks later. The eggs hibernate for 17 years, and emerge at a predictable time of the year when the earth is warm enough . It’s very mysterious, but to me, these bright squishy cicadas have a message.
They say some people eat the cicadas. I suppose if you were starving, it would make sense. Apparently, they’re a good source of protein. But fried cicadas? Baked cicadas? Cicada Stew? No thanks.
Back to my first spotting last night. About ten of them were crawling on my deck while I watered the flowers. They didn’t like getting sprayed . Some of them simply squiggled around or fell on their backs when the water hit. Although they’re much bigger than bumble bees, they aren’t at all aggressive. In fact, they strike me as wimps. They didn’t come after this giant who stood over them, rudely intruding on their day in the sun.
Soft squishy cicadas have a message. Life goes on, in spite of plagues and wars.
What are cicadas trying to tell we human beings? To me, they’re saying that life comes and goes, and that we haven’t nearly as much control as we’d like to believe. They have a message: Just do whatever you were destined for on this earth, but don’t expect the good times to last forever. . Wars may be fought. Nations may rise and fall. Glaciers will melt. But the cicadas will come out every 17 years, no matter what.
Before the pandemic hit, my husband took me out every Sunday for brunch. It didn’t seem like anything that spectacular—just a way to make the day a bit more special, and relieve me of having to cook a meal. And then the covid-19 pandemic gripped the nation. At first, we weren’t too worried here in the Heartland. Only one or two new cases a day. And then it began to skyrocket. Hundreds of cases, numerous deaths in what we had considered our safe little city. The Sunday brunches we had taken for granted came to a grinding halt. And now, finally, after sixty Sundays of frying bacon & eggs, fixing toast, peeling oranges, making hot chocolate– my days of fixing Sunday brunch at home had ended. Hallelujah!
And yet, as I was preparing to get dressed, I was surprised to feel a bit of social anxiety. What should I wear? There were clothes hanging in my closet from two summers ago, that I hadn’t worn since. During that last, lost summer, I wore nothing but old jeans and shorts and t shirts. After all, I was wearing a mask. No one would recognize me at the supermarket. . There was no point in wearing makeup, or caring about my appearance at all. Now, I was going out in public, barefaced. . It gave me a bit a stage fright.
Surprisingly, my old pants and tops still fit. I’ve gained a pound or two, but not enough to bump me up a size. That was a big relief. But was my summer apparel outdated? Were people still wearing culottes? I finally decided on an outfit that hadn’t been worn since the summer of 2019. Consequently, looking at myself in the mirror surprised me. I looked okay. When we were ready to leave, my husband and I eyed one another with approval. It had been a very long time since we had been that “dressed up.”
Finally, after sixty Sundays, we seniors could go to a restaurant without wearing a mask.
The restaurant was nearly full, and few customer’s wore masks. The wait staff was still masked, and I felt sorry for them, knowing how hot and sweaty they feel after an hour or so. Otherwise, things seemed pretty normal. There were no surprising new fashions to make me feel out of date. People were dressed much the same as they had sixty Sundays ago. Men in shirts and shorts, women in slacks and sundresses. Little kids so excited that they could barely finish their meals. As we walked out the door, a wave of contentment washed over me. Finally, after sixty Sundays, things were getting back to normal.
Most of us never give a thought to our electricity. It’s either on, or off. Power outages leave us at the mercy of providers like Duke Energy. If we’re dissatisfied with some aspect of our service or the fees we pay, there is absolutely nothing we can do. We may complain, shout, threaten. But to them, we’re a tinkling cymbal or sounding brass. They know they have us in a chokehold. We have to have electricity, and they’re the only game in town. Utility monopolies squelch complaints.
Electric utilities squelch complaints about potentially dangerous situations. Rather than asking someone to trim a tree, they’d rather wait for an actual power outage.
We live on the edge of town, surrounded by ancient trees that are often uprooted or drop massive limbs after a storm. In an odd arrangement decided decades ago, the electric company placed poles in every other yard, rather than on each customer’s own property. In this particular case, a neighbor’s tree dropped a huge limb as it lurched forward, hovering over the pole and power lines leading to our house.
We’ve experienced power outages before, and they are not fun if you don’t own a generator, have a gas stove, or other source of energy. The house is dark and cold. You can’t make coffee or heat up a can of soup. If it goes on too long, you try and find a motel where you can spend the night.
Consequently, I called the electric company to alert them to a possible power outage if the neighbor’s leaning tree and pole continue their downward trajectory. In addition, several lines are entangled in the wayward tree limbs, causing the lines to sag under their weight. I asked if someone could come out and evaluate the situation. They rudely replied, “we don’t trim trees and we can’t ask a homeowner to trim his tree.” This translated to a refusal to spend a few minutes checking on a potentially dangerous situation. Yes, I argued and complained, but they didn’t budge. It appeared they would rather wait for the tree or pole to fall , rather than doing anything to prevent a power outage.
In desperation, I resorted to an analogy. I said, “What if I called the police and reported that some deranged person had an unauthorized gun. Should they check it out or fall back on some legal reason not to? Would you agree with their decision to ignore the situation until the gun was actually used to commit a crime?.” The Duke Energy representative had no response. I think the question had her flummoxed.
Electric utilities squelch complaints in Indiana. But some states are eliminating electric company monopolies.
When I called the city engineer and contacted the mayor’s officer, I hit a brick wall. After I repeated the above analogy, I heard the same mantra:: ‘the electric company is a private entity, over which the city has no control.” Therefore, what I’m hearing is that no one controls the electric utility company service in our city. They can do what they please, and get away with it.
As a result, we must live in suspense, watching and waiting to see if the tree and utility pole’s forward movement continues, which would destroy our fence and cut off our power. It may not happen. But if it does, it will be a costly accident that could have been prevented. Utility monopolies squelch citizens complaints and should be abolished.
