Bad Golfers Association

I Didn’t Plan It, It Just Happened

2011-12-22T11:00:00.000-05:00

We tend to think that the plans we make allow our lives to proceed in a linear manner. Go to school, get married, raise a family, etc. With the gift of hindsight, let me show how little of what we plan really matters. What seems to matter is that we remember to be kind to others because it will come home in ways that we could never anticipate. My tale goes like this…

“Marburg 2? Who do you know to get in Marburg 2? That’s where VIPs go for recovery.” So said Fran, a friend, a kidney transplant recipient, and now a volunteer at Johns Hopkins Hospital, when she ran into Mrs. Commish in the corridors of the hospital in late November 2011.

This was my second encounter with the famed institution.

Some 60 years before, my mother was told by Dr. Arnold Lavenstein, her pediatrician, that he didn’t know why her infant son was having convulsions. What he was sure of, though, was that someone he knew at Hopkins could figure it out.

That was my first experience at Hopkins.

In the intervening six decades a remarkable “Butterfly Effect” of coincidences and choices made and not made wove the tapestry that became my life. Now I can see how so many seemingly random and unassociated events put me in a place to be saved from a feared sentence of leukemia as a child (it turned out to be a “simple” ascorbic acid deficiency) and from the very real incidence of prostate cancer as I approached my retirement years.

I have always been dog person, a “Big Dog” person to be precise. No yappy little barkers for me. In fact Chow Chows were the smallest dogs I ever had and then in June of 1969 I bought a Persian kitten. It wasn’t for me, of course; she was a surprise wedding gift for my lovely bride-to-be. Despite the fact that “Misty” peed on my tuxedo going from the church to the reception hall, she turned out to be the perfect gift.

Misty was the first “butterfly” in this saga.

The second butterfly was borne out of tragedy. Mrs. Commish wanted to have kittens and, like so many foolish young people, we bred our pet Persian to another pet Persian we had acquired in Rochester, N.Y. and anxiously awaited the kittens’ arrival. A botched C-section by a “dog vet” left a dead mother cat and us with five newborns. We found a cat breeder that said she would try to help us but that there was little chance for the kittens to survive. This was how we met Louise Otto of Chatalain Cattery. To this day neither of us can remember how we found Louise; but even with her assistance all of the kittens died.

From this sad experience we became life-long friends with the Otto’s and learned how to be serious cat breeders. For the next 30 years, long after Louise had passed away, we bred and showed many Best in Show Persians with more than our share of Regional and National winners and Grand Champions.

Wanting better facilities for our cattery, we moved from Baltimore City to build a new home in Sparks, Maryland in 1978. North of Hunt Valley, Sparks was country. No neighbors, just woods and the occasional moo of a distant cow. From here we were able to create our own bloodlines and a distinct “look” for our show cats. When you are breeding for top show animals there are also many terrific pets that need to have homes also. One of the nicest couples we ever sold a kitten to was the McCullochs, Duncan and Kitty. Since we seldom advertised, it was less than a 1 in 100 chance that we would have an ad in the Sunday paper but this one particular Sunday we had placed an ad and that particular Sunday Kitty was bereft because her long-time pet had died. She saw our ad, we lived close by, and later that day she and Duncan came to our home and purchased the only 2 kittens we had.

They were to become the next “butterfly” in this tale. Throw in a legendary gambler and railroad tycoon, gourmand, and philanthropist from the roaring nineties (that’s 1890’s folks) and all of the pieces were finally in place for this last butterfly to save my life some twenty-five years later.

Kitty and Duncan loved the two Persian boys they bought that day and invited us to visit “Rusty and Buffy” and have dinner with them. This happened many times over the next few years and I later learned this was out of character for Kitty since she was a very private person but they treated us not just as friends but as if we were family. Anyway, the directions to their home took us through the campus of Oldfields School (a boarding school for girls). We knew exactly where they were because we sent our daughter, Gwaltney, to a pre-school program that Oldfields had recently opened. When she was 5 years old she left Oldfields pre-school and went to Montessori for a few years before going to public school for 3rd grade. Gwaltney had gone to Oldfields because it was close and convenient. She went to Montessori because a good friend of ours (and a fellow cat breeder) taught French there and loved the school. She went to public school because the schools in the Hereford Zone were excellent and they cost thousands less than what we had been paying.

Duncan, a good Scotsman, showed me how single malts are the only way to enjoy Scots whiskey and how to concoct “Kilt Lifters,” the only acceptable way to adulterate scotch. We enjoyed solving the world’s problems over a wee dram or two; and then, way too soon, he became a widower as Kitty became ill and died. Several years later he remarried and we got to know Beth, his second wife. In the ensuing 15 plus years, Beth has become as close to Mrs. Commish as a sister.

Beth was not a country girl and to acclimate herself to the area she began having Duncan entertain more. As she learned about the area she also learned about the McCulloch family and their history in the area. When we would go to a cookout at their home, more often than not there would be teachers and staff from Oldfields. I didn’t think anything of this since it was necessary to go through the campus to get to their home. We later found out that Beth had been instrumental in getting Duncan and the rest of the McCullochs once again involved in the school that they had founded just after the Civil War. In fact, Duncan’s father had been the headmaster when Duncan had been a youngster. Beth was also key to getting Duncan re-involved with Immanuel Episcopal Church, the little church we attended that was just across the street from the school. From this we also found out that Duncan’s Grandfather had been the second Rector of the church.

For over a decade Duncan and I had discussed politics, sports, religion, etc. and never once did any of his personal history come out. There is more too, like the precedent-setting Supreme Court ruling of McCulloch vs. Maryland and all of the historic homes he had lived in like Filston, Clynmalira, and other “Carroll” family connections but the Oldfields connection leading to his involvement with Immanuel Church is my butterfly effect.

Not long after 9/11, Duncan led an adult education course at the church. Since it was going to be more of an historical look at the first millennium rather than a “doctrine” class, I decided to attend. It was a free-ranging class and we had great discussions not only amongst the 8 or 10 regulars but also with guests such as the head of Baltimore’s Islamic Center. Through these discussions I was introduced to a couple I had seen at some of Beth and Duncan’s cookouts but really had never spoken to, Drs. Alex and Emily Haller. They went to the same church I did (admittedly I didn’t go very regularly) but I didn’t know it because they liked to go to the early service and when I did go it was always to a later service. Anyway, Alex was an extremely brilliant fellow but humble and as soft spoken as he could be. Even though I immediately liked him, if I hadn’t gone to these sessions we probably would not have known each other except to occasionally wave when we passed on the road.

Now to wrap this all up…

After a biopsy in October 2011 I learned that I had prostate cancer. Not knowing anything about it, I thought I should get a second opinion since I was not really comfortable with the surgeon, but where to go? Mrs. Commish was worried and talked with Beth McCulloch who told her not to let me do anything until she spoke with Alex Haller. Alex said he would talk with his friend at The Brady Urological Institute at Hopkins, Patrick Walsh, and get me a second opinion. Dr. Walsh was no longer taking patients but put Alex in touch with his associate, Dr. Jacek Mostwin and I got an appointment for a second opinion. Since Alex had recommended Dr. Mostwin and Mrs. Commish and I were comfortable with him, when he recommended surgery we scheduled it for as soon as possible, about 2 weeks later.

After a biopsy in October 2011 I learned that I had prostate cancer. Not knowing anything about it, I thought I should get a second opinion since I was not really comfortable with the surgeon, but where to go? Mrs. Commish was worried and talked with Beth McCulloch who told her not to let me do anything until she spoke with Alex Haller. Alex said he would talk with his friend at The Brady Urological Institute at Hopkins, Patrick Walsh, and get me a second opinion. Dr. Walsh was no longer taking patients but put Alex in touch with his associate, Dr. Jacek Mostwin and I got an appointment for a second opinion. Since Alex had recommended Dr. Mostwin and Mrs. Commish and I were comfortable with him, when he recommended surgery we scheduled it for as soon as possible, about 2 weeks later.

Another one of our good friends from the cat fancy is a nurse at Hopkins. In the 20 years we have been friends I never knew what unit she was on but it turned out that she was one of the head nurses on Marburg 2. She did scold me for not letting her know in advance so she could have gotten me the best care but after she found out who my surgeon had been she calmed down and said, “He is the best. Period. But I still could have gotten you a better room!”

Well, it seems that Dr. Mostwin is not only Professor of Urology and Director of the Division of Neurological and Reconstructive Urology at Hopkins but in 1982 along with Dr. Walsh they had pioneered this particular surgery (radical prostatectomy) and are the world’s foremost experts. Not a bad recommendation, do you think? Thanks again to the Hallers.

Speaking of the Hallers, I was talking with my mother about the surgery and mentioned that a friend from church, Alex Haller, had called Dr. Mostwin and set up our meeting with him. She asked me if Alex Haller been a doctor at Hopkins.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Was his wife also a doctor? Were they both pediatricians?”

Again I told her, “Yes, why?”

It turns out that Alex Haller was the Hopkins pediatrician that Dr. Lavenstein had sent me to when I was having convulsions as an infant. I had been Dr. Haller’s patient some 60 years prior and neither of us knew it, but, once again, he was instrumental in my return to good health.

One last thing to wrap up. Remember I was in the James Buchanan Brady Urological Institute at Johns Hopkins? I thought that Brady was some great doctor that they named the hospital’s urologic division after but I was wrong. My pastor from Immanuel came to visit me just before surgery on the day before Thanksgiving (he was there for a checkup himself) and he asked me that same question. The answer is that James Buchanan Brady was a famous gambler better known as “Diamond Jim.” Diamond Jim Brady was cured by Hopkins doctors of some undisclosed condition (syphillis?) that was preventing him from eating the prodigious amounts of food that he loved to consume. He was so grateful for the cure that he funded the creation of the urologic institute that is named after him.

In essence I owe my entire good fortune to a gluttonous gambler with intestinal problems and a kitten that peed on me many years ago. From that little kitten forward, friends and people who love me in spite of myself have created a series of events that put me where I needed to be at the time I needed to be there.

And the ripples don’t just end with me. Some 10 years after leaving the Oldfields pre-school program, Gwaltney suddenly said that she had always wanted to go back there for her schooling. With her persistence and the McCullochs assistance she was able to attend this remarkable school for her high school years. The extent of those ripples are still yet to be determined.

We may never know how our actions affect others but be sure that “the Butterfly Effect” is not an illusion. It is real, only it can’t be seen except by hindsight. With this in mind a little selflessness will go farther than you can ever imagine. You just might not be aware of who it helps down the road.

Thank you, everyone.

Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow

2011-10-27T12:53:00.000-04:00

Today we played our last round of golf for the season. In so many ways it was just like any other round this year, yet it was very different.

Like so many other times this year, the weather was wet and threatening when we teed off. Unlike most other rounds, I striped my opening tee shot straight down the middle.

Like so many other rounds my score was not what I wanted it to be. Unlike other rounds, I didn’t really care.

Like too many other rounds when the scores were totaled I bought the beer. Unlike other rounds I didn’t go to the nineteenth hole so I paid my tab in the parking lot.

Unlike other rounds this year, I didn’t sleep well last. A chest cold has been dogging me since last week and last night I was up most of the night with a hacking cough. I used this as my excuse for not going to the bar for a couple of cold ones. In a way it was true, too

Yesterday I got my biopsy results back. Unlike other days, today I became a cancer patient and having another poor round of golf didn’t seem as important as it used to be.

Yesterday is gone. Today I feel numb. Tomorrow I start on the road to becoming a cancer survivor. Hopefully, next year when I have a poor round of golf it will once again make me pissed off.

The Wall of Good Deeds

2011-10-11T14:11:00.002-04:00

Makai, my Anatolian Shepherd, and I were taking our morning walk and Fall was announcing its presence. Leaves were beginning to accumulate in and around our woods and there was just a bit of a “nip” in the air. Since Terrible Tim, a red “Ori-Per”(half Oriental Shorthair and half Persian), chooses to walk with us, too, I looked back up the lane to make sure he was coming along. No Tim, but then I had to smile because he was plodding along as usual but his coloration blended so perfectly with the fallen leaves that he practically was invisible. As Mak stopped to leave his pee-mail message on a tree that some buck had previously PM’d on (PM... that’s pee-mail for the not so swift that are reading this, you know who you are), Timmy caught up with us and the three of us walked down the lane and out onto the road.

Most mornings I keep a wary eye peeled for cars so that when one approaches I can pick up Timmy and hold him until it passes (just so Tim can’t do his “squirrel” imitation and get squashed). By now most of the drivers look for the three of us and wave and smile at the old man holding a cat and hanging onto a huge dog that looks like a yellow lab on steroids. Thankfully, Tim no longer scratches me to get away; but, this morning we were alone, just the three of us… and my thoughts.

Looking up at the sky as daylight was breaking through the cloud cover, I saw leaves lazily drifting down from the old stand trees that line our country road. One leaf would float gently down, back and forth, left to right, as another fell more swiftly making a pleasing and very calming tableau. In fact, I began to feel like I was in a movie, a cartoon actually, as life was imitating art and I could envision a young Bambi watching nature and all its wonders.

“THWACK!!!”

I literally could see the words and accompanying stars surround my head as Mother Nature scored a direct hit with an acorn hurled from some 60 feet above. So much for the pastoral setting and I began to notice that “my” acorn was not a single shot, they were falling as fast as rain drops so I left my personal movie and continued on my walk.

“No Good Deed Goes Unpunished” 
Yesterday I had a conversation with a client where they had done something nice for someone and instead of being thanked they were being besieged by requests to do even more for this person. Where a simple “Thank You,” would have been appreciated, the request to do more was not. Hence our conversation ended with me reminding her that, “No good deed goes unpunished.”

This was what I was thinking about after escaping from the acorn barrage and then I had another thought. Once again I could see the light bulb coming on above my head as I was back in cartoon mode. Why not do something that recognized some of the nice things I do for others? Luckily I refined this initial thought somewhat and here is the final product of Mak’s and my walk this morning…The Wall of Good Deeds.

I recently completed construction of a dry stone retaining wall. Thirtysome years ago I also completed construction of this same wall but it was not a dry wall. Gravity and my lack of experience finally brought it down last winter. This new wall is built like a castle, about 7-feet high and back-filled with rubble and rock. I expect it to last longer than I will and, as I told my daughter (Gwaltney) and her husband (TBND…”That Boy Next Door”), it’s their problem 30 years from now, not mine.

Anyway, I have this beautiful wall and I have decided that anyone who has done a good deed for another is invited to sign the wall as recognition of their being “nice.” If you visit us and feel that you have done something nice for someone other then yourself, then you are invited and encouraged to sign the “Wall of Good Deeds.” It’s graffiti with a purpose and best of all, you decide if you are worthy of being enshrined forever on The Wall of Good Deeds.

I cannot call it just “The Wall” because, to me, The Wall has only one meaning, The Vietnam Memorial, and my wall is neither as important nor emotionally powerful as “The Wall” but the criteria for being on my wall is easier to meet because you decide if you are worthy. Much easier than being MIA or KIA. For instance, I signed the first rock because Mrs. Commish had to work late and I made dinner for her. A chuck roast with rosemary from our garden, herb and garlic rigatoni, and fresh-picked stringbeans, also from our garden. Then while we ate I let her choose the program to watch as I switched off Monday Night Football. I felt that was deserving of recognition. Don’t you?

I do have to admit that I left the dishes for Mrs. Commish and after we finished I did flip back to MNF and that did chase her upstairs. Hey, football deserves to be watched on the 54” screen, doesn’t it? And, unless she reads this, she doesn’t know that I used her best nail polish to sign “my rock.” Hey, it’s about “good deeds” not perfection.

Because I do think “The Wall of Good Deeds” is a pretty good idea, I will be starting an e-Wall soon on Facebook so that those of you who will never be able to sign the real “brick and mortar and rock and rubble” wall can be recognized, too. It is time to put an end to that old saying and instead pat ourselves on the back for the little unrecognized things that we do from time to time.

P.S. Here is the link to The Wall of Good Deeds (TWGD) so that you can post a pat on the back to yourself or someone else.

http://on.fb.me/pCrbQM

If your name appears on TWGD then you have made life a little bit better for someone else. Congratulations for a job well done.

Delete to Strengthen

2011-05-04T10:46:00.000-04:00

Ah yes, Mrs. Reminschneider. How I do remember her even if I can’t quite remember how to spell her name. She holds the distinction of being the only teacher to ever crack me across the knuckles with a ruler. Totally uncalled for, of course. I was innocent, really. So, I must admit that I don’t have too many fond memories of the old girl whom I am sure has gone to her reward since she was at least 100 way back when I had her for Journalism 101 at Towson High.

However she had a phrase that has stayed with me and even gains in veracity as the years fly by. “Delete to strengthen,” was her mantra. Not words to live by if you get paid by the word but certainly good advice if you are writing a news article or if you find that you are trying to pack too many things into too little time.

Delete to strengthen meant that extraneous adjectives and phrases were not necessary to tell the story of an event. They should be saved and used judiciously when you some day write The Great American novel. In much the same way, we really don’t have to pack our lives with so many activities that we almost stroke out if traffic delays us going from one thing to the next. You know it’s time to reassess when you see a horrible accident and your immediate reaction is frustration because you are going to be delayed. This is the time to see if deleting a few things might actually strengthen your life.

Last night I left my office and was waiting at a traffic light to make a left onto Padonia Road. The light changed and a full 3 seconds later a car ran the red light and made a turn in front of me. I had hesitated because I have learned to expect people to make wrong choices when driving. I suspect that way too many of us have personal “tunnel vision” and have lost the ability to see the cause and effect results of our actions. The driver was someone I recognized, she goes to my gym and must have been late for a workout.

I, too, was going to be late for a 7:00 p.m. meeting but fortunately for me and Mrs. Commish we have “deleted” some of the things we once tried to squeeze into our schedules and thereby have “strengthened” the things we choose to do. Waiting those few extra seconds saved serious damage to my car and possibly even saved our lives. Thank you Mrs. Reminschneider from whatever level of Hell you now dwell within.

Twenty years ago I would have tried to squeeze in a workout, rushed through it, showered and run out to race towards this meeting that we “had” to go to. As soon as that light changed I would have been into the intersection trying to get a jump on traffic as I raced to the next traffic light. For me, that is no way to live. Even though I look forward to working out and even feel like I have missed something when plans change and I can’t go to Brick Bodies as planned, I now find that it makes sense for me to do fewer things but get more satisfaction and enjoyment out of the things I do.

Simon and Garfunkle once said, “Slow down, you move too fast; got to make the morning last, just kicking down the cobblestones, looking for love and feeling groovie.” Do fewer things, enjoy the things you do more fully, and feel groovie, man. Or simply, “DELETE TO STRENGTHEN.”

Psychic Vampires vs a Night Well-Slept

2011-01-20T13:04:00.000-05:00

The last TV program worth watching is over and it’s time for bed. You complete your nighttime rituals, turn out the lights, and … Nothing. Still awake. Tick…Tick …Tick. The small clock across the room that you didn’t even know made a sound announces its presence and in the stillness of night every sound is magnified. And, what’s worse, you’re awake and hearing every noise.

We know that a good night’s sleep makes everything go smoother the next day but problems, anxieties, and Psychic Vampires conspire to keep sleep away. I started using the term Psychic Vampires thirty-five years ago to describe what it felt like being around a certain relative who shall remain nameless. After leaving a family function, be it an everyday dinner or, even worse, a holiday gathering, I would feel so spent both physically and mentally that I felt like a walking advertisement for psychotropic drugs.

Psychic Vampires aren’t just people we would rather avoid. They are not Aunt Matilda who talks constantly about people and things you have zero interest in; they are not the cousin that always has a get rich scheme that he wants you to invest in. Psychic Vampires are those people who are so negative that you can literally feel your energy just escaping your body. If you discuss the birth of a child, they go on and on about the difficulties of parenting; if politics is the subject, they monopolize the talk with bombastic rants about this S.O.B. or that jerk of a Senator. Health? Well, no one has had things tougher than they have and then they proceed to re-tell all of their problems beginning with the time they were in an accident in 1937 and continuing to the present where those damn doctors who can’t do anything right …etc. etc. etc.

After getting home, sleep would not come. Reading helped but some nights I could read 100 pages or more on a lively topic like Richard Feynman and quantum physics before sleep would come. Then, more often than not, if I fell asleep I would drop the book either on Mrs. Commish or the poor dog sleeping next to the bed.

Between Psychic Vampires and “normal” worries triggered by other things we are plagued with in this hectic world, my sleep rhythms were not very rhythmical. I had trouble turning off my mind so that sweet oblivion could overtake me. Then one day Mrs. Commish and I discovered a sure-fire way to go to sleep literally almost before our heads hit the pillow.

First, I check before family functions and if “The Vampire” is coming I suddenly get a 24-hour flu and have to stay home that day. Secondly, and most importantly, we listen to Books on CD when we get ready for sleep.

It doesn’t matter what the book is. We have “read” 1000-pagers like “Pillars of the Earth” and fluff like Harry Potter or True Blood novels and never do either of us stay awake for even 10 minutes. We fall asleep so quickly that most of the books we get from the library have to be renewed so that we can find out the ending. It is wonderful as our minds don’t dwell on the day’s troubles and we listen to someone reading to us. It’s almost like being a child again at bedtime.

How do I know I fall asleep in 10 minutes or less you ask. Well, it’s easy to tell because the tracks on most stories are about three minutes long and we have to find where we last remember the story and it is never, never ever three tracks from where we started the previous night. In fact, more times than not we don't make it to the next track.

Having trouble falling asleep? Rid yourself of those Psychic Vampires in your life and replace them with a story about real bloodsuckers! Try it and I’m sure you will look forward to bedtime and refreshing sleep without the need for pharmaceuticals.

Hide the Silverware, Congress is Back

2011-01-04T13:07:00.000-05:00

As Makai, my huge Anatolian Shepherd, and I took our walk this morning, the sun was just thinking about rising for the day, the eastern sky was a beautiful red-orange, and the cold, crisp 16 degree morning was full of peace and promise. The holidays were over and they had been nothing but a wonderful time. Even Makai seemed to walk at a more brisk pace, as if he, too, were enjoying the beckoning day.

Why, I wondered, was everything so perfect this morning? Then it hit me. For the last couple of weeks I had assiduously avoided thinking about politics, politicians, and the crumbling of my country. What a pleasant time it had been; but, now it is early January and Congress is back in session, so to paraphrase Will Rogers, “Hide the silverware, Honey, Congress is back in town.”

Our Elected Betters just can’t help themselves. They spend; they are addicted to the mother’s milk of politics…money. If any of the rest of us Great Unwashed out here had to straighten out these problems, it could be done in a heartbeat because Congress and the lawyers that draft their legislation have made everything so complex that we are moribund. Fear of offending any group has made us totally unable to make logical and sensible changes in the way our government operates. We, the Great Unwashed, are used to offending people and making choices that are right for us and our families and letting others make their own choices and then letting them live with the consequences of their own decisions.

So, herewith are a few of my suggestions that I would make if tomorrow I became “King for a Little While”:

We have unfunded mandates, such as pensions, so from today forward all government hires will be encouraged to invest in their own 401K or IRA programs as defined pensions are no more.
Congressional pensions for all future electees are also eliminated with the same proviso as above;
Congressional salaries are doubled and congressional staffs are halved. Congressional sessions will be three months in Washington and then three months returning home to their districts. This simple change will allow our Elected Betters to stay in touch with their constituents. Senators and Representatives that live in the DC area and do not return to their home districts will be deemed in contempt of the Will of Congress and be expelled.
All Departments will have their budgets frozen at the current funding levels for 5 years;
Every bill will be single subject legislation; no more “Christmas Tree” bills. Line item vetoes will also be in effect.
Withholding taxes make things too easy for us Great Unwashed to forget that we pay taxes; therefore, they will be phased out over a five year period. Then, every April 15 we will have to pay our taxes instead of being happy that the Government is giving us a refund;
Bring home our military from overseas. Let the people who live in Korea, Japan, Kuwait, Germany, Philippines, Bosnia, etc. protect themselves. I no longer want to be the “Policemen of the World.”
United Nations headquarters and the den of thieves that inhabit it will be forcibly encouraged to relocate in one of the third-world countries that they wish to help so much.
Every new bill submitted for consideration will also have a list of 10 current bills attached to it. From this list of 10, Congress will choose 5 to be eliminated before any new legislation is signed into law.
No troops can be committed for more than 180 days without a Declaration of War by Congress;
No state or jurisdiction can aid illegal aliens with public funds. If churches or private organizations wish to help them with food and shelter then that is their right. However, that being said, illegal means illegal and when found they will be detained and/or deported. Employers hiring illegals are subject to heavy fines and/or imprisonment.
America needs petroleum and until alternatives are practical then we will exploit all oil resources.

I believe this is a good start for the first 90-day session. Admittedly, many Senators and Representatives will not be met with happy constituents and perhaps might even lose their next election. I don’t see a downside to this. After all, they will have done their public service and then returned to private life, just the way the system is supposed to have worked.

In the next 90-day session we might think about how to handle illegal drugs, organized gangs, social security, etc., etc., etc. But, at the very least, we will have begun.

An American Tragedy, Part Deux

2010-12-01T14:02:00.000-05:00

As Makai, my huge Anatolian Shepherd, and I were walking this morning, I felt a sense of relief that I hadn’t felt in several months. For those faithful readers who have commented on my “disappearance” since last August, please take comfort in the fact that “rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.” In fact I have written quite a lot for our Bad Golfers Association website and also as a guest blogger for Brick Bodies, a local fitness center that Mrs. Commish and I belong to. However, after writing about Uncle Cletus on these pages I have not had the strength to continue to deal with his problems and write in a manner that I felt would be compelling for others to spend their valuable time reading. I thank you for asking about Cletus and, as requested by several of you, am writing a follow-up article.

If you have not read the first story, please skim it because this will make much more sense with a little background into Cletus, the Russian mob, police visitations, and mail scams. It was posted in August 2010 and is titled “An American Tragedy.” While that article had much pathos in it, hopefully this one will provide a bit of humor to go along with it.

Cletus is still suffering from some form of dementia. He has been hospitalized four times in the past 3 months for fluid buildup around his heart. Each time, after he has been stabilized and released, we have worked with the hospital’s social workers to secure visiting nurses to check on him and his medications. Each time they have had to stop their visits because Cletus will not stay home and if he can drive then he cannot get the visitations. He simply starts his car and drives wherever he wants to go. Nobody will ride with him anymore, you can guess why, but there is no way to take away his driving privileges. No wonder we have so much danger on the roads if we refuse to take away the right to drive from repeat drunk drivers, I guess it makes just as much sense to let senile drivers on the road. After all, he hasn’t killed anyone, YET.

Trying to accept all of this, Mrs. Commish and I do what we can to help him but realize that we are going to lose in the end. Cletus will call and cry that no one will help him. Then, in the next breath, he says that the nurses don’t know what they are talking about. He seems to be proud that he takes 22 pills plus insulin 3 times a day. The problem is that he mixes up his times and all of that medication seems to exaggerate his mental fogginess.

For a brief month, Mrs. Commish or I would talk to Cletus thrice a day to remind him what meds to take before each meal and which ones to take after eating; and how much insulin to take depending on his readings, etc., etc., etc. This seemed to work as he stayed out of the hospital, seemed less confused, and complained much less about everyone he knew being dead, an inevitable byproduct of living a long time.

One problem still existed, scams in the mail and on the telephone. Cletus still freely sends off about $500 a month to various sweepstakes and “You Are a Winner”-type mailings. He admits to spending over three hours each day reading all of the junk mailing that come to him and then, because they tell him to send $39.95 to enter the next stage of whatever “contest” they pretend to be, he does send them a check. A check and his phone number so he can be “contacted if he is one of the Grand Prize Winners.”

Surprise, surprise he gets contacted at least twice a month and has to have an additional $995.00 to hand to the sweepstakes representative when they come to present him with his “Big Prize” the next morning at 9:00 a.m. When he called to ask me if I thought everything was okay, I told him not to be home alone because it was a scam and you don’t know what they will do to get his money. When he sounded doubtful, I convinced him to call the police and ask them what he should do. Of course they told him not to let anyone in and to stop answering the phone when his call waiting said the call was from Jamaica or the caller was “unknown.”

The next morning I got a call at the office from the police. A neighbor had called because Cletus was driving up and down in front of his house honking his horn, crying and begging for help. He didn’t sleep all night and was worried about strangers coming to his door. The police were wonderful. Again they told him all of the things that he had been told before but they were able to sit with him and get the phone company to give him a new and unlisted phone number. While they were there the officer threw away fifteen new solicitations that he was getting ready to send money to. We followed through and changed all of his bank accounts, again.

Thanksgiving came and Uncle Cletus drove to our house and we enjoyed a nice dinner and he finally gave us permission to have his mail sent to us so that we could screen it and remove all of the scams. He left early to visit a friend, Eddie, who has just been released from the hospital. Eddie, 92, is a few years older than Cletus and was home but confined to bed. We told him to drive carefully and to call us when he got home so that we would know he was safe.

That is why I had this feeling of relief as Makai and I were taking our walk this morning. Things were getting straightened out with Cletus. But, before you get too happy for me let me tell you just a little bit more.

When Cletus left us early Thanksgiving afternoon, we expected to get a call in a couple of hours. We live about an hour away and his friend is about 10 minutes from his home. After four hours we tried calling Cletus but got no answer. Finally at almost 11:00 p.m., seven hours after he left, he called us. He had gotten lost driving home! We have lived in our house for over 30 years and Cletus has lived in his for even longer so he has made this drive a few times. After getting lost he could not get his cell phone to work so he had to wander about until he found something familiar and ended up at Eddie’s home. He honked and honked but no one would come out to help him walk in so after ten minutes he left and went home angry, without seeing Eddie. Not only had Cletus gotten lost but he forgot that Eddie was confined to bed and couldn’t help him even if he had wanted to.

Beware, Cletus is out there driving and I doubt that he is the only “questionable” driver amongst us.

An American Tragedy

2010-08-17T10:25:00.000-04:00

As Makai, my huge Anatolian Shepherd, and I were walking this morning, I could not let myself just enjoy the beauty of another gorgeous daybreak in the North County. The deer were still grazing on “bushy tail” grasses that Mrs. Commish planted, the sky was full of the promise of a rare summer day with low humidity, and the gravel in the lane to my home was still in my driveway—always a good thing after the storms of the previous night. There was nothing to indicate that this morning’s walk, with apologies to Samuel Clemens, was going to be “a good walk spoiled.”

As you probably know, Mark Twain was responding to what he thought about golf. As for myself I am referring to what should be a celebration of a life well-lived but, instead, one that has become a true American tragedy.

Mrs. Commish has a favorite uncle named Cletus. And he is typical of many in the generation before mine. Cletus grew up in depression-era Baltimore and was poor in every way except those things that really mattered. He was an only child raised by a single mother who was widowed when Cletus was a mere lad but he grew up amongst a large family of cousins, aunts, and uncles. They did not have much, but they had a sense of family.

At seventeen Cletus left high school and was proud to serve in World War II. A hero? No, Cletus was just another young American doing what he thought had to be done.

In 1946 Cletus got his discharge and came home. To make a long story short, he got his G.E.D., went to college and became a teacher. He spent most of his teaching years in tough schools in the City. He never left for the county school system because he felt that he made a difference in the lives of some of “his kids.” Cletus stared down knife-wielding thugs posing as students on at least two occasions and verbally, not physically disarmed them. When he finally retired in the late 1980’s Cletus had a doctorate but had never left the classroom for the cushier life of an administrator. His “kids” still needed him.

All of the pieces were in place for the American Dream but something has gone horribly wrong. Cletus is Mrs. Commish’s favorite uncle, we talk to him a couple of times a day; and, even though he lives an hour away we usually see him several times a week. But not often enough.

Cletus never married and during the course of his working life he bought, lived in, and sold at least a dozen homes. While he never made as much as $20,000 a year, he was able to provide for his mother and himself. When his mother died after a lengthy period of decline, I think Cletus lost his direction in life. He no longer felt needed.

Today he gets, literally, two dozen requests for money every day in the mail. He believes that every request is real and sends out between $600 and $800 every month to save the whales, to save Social Security, to save American Indian children, to save the Democrats from the evil Republicans, to save the Republicans from the stupid Democrats, and to things like Citizens with Arthritis Concerned About Neighbors with Diabetes. He reads every mailing and believes in their pleas because “they wouldn’t be writing to me unless they really needed my help.” Now, finally, he believes his karma is being rewarded and he can help even more because Cletus has become “qualified” to be a sweepstakes winner.

We can no longer count the number of checks Cletus has written for $7.95, $19.95 and even $49.95 for fees “required” to redeem his possible prize. He grew up in an era that produced this feeling that Americans looked out for each other and he will not accept that anyone would try to scam him. After all, he has led a good life and tried not to hurt others. He does not comprehend how anything that says “Official” or “Express Mail Delivery” can be a scam. Now he is receiving telephone calls from persons with eastern European accents requesting him to meet with the “prize director” to receive his check for up to $400,000.00 that he is guaranteed to have won. All he needs is to have $1495 dollars in cash or cashiers check to hand over for “processing and qualified international fees.” At least on these occasions Cletus has taken the Commish’s advise to meet at his attorney’s office and never at his home. Of course these “prize directors” never want to meet in the presence of sane and rational persons; and, in fact, have become abusive over the phone and even cursed Cletus severely for not trusting them and not really wanting the sweepstakes money and then they abruptly hang up. They always call back.

Cletus has become an emotional wreck. He sort of realizes that the calls are from potentially dangerous people but he still can’t quite believe it. After being cursed at and hung up on, Cletus, for a short while, understands that he has managed to escape from a scam. However, before our phone call is even over he reverts to saying something like, “I can’t believe that someone from The Official Sweepstakes Redemption Center would treat me like that.” The scamming is forgotten and he awaits a call from someone with a nicer phone presence to call him with word of his winner’s check.

Most of Cletus’ friends have died, an unfortunate by-product of living a long life. He complains that no one comes to visit him and that all of his time is taken up by the mail. We just don’t understand, these are important letters. The mail is central to his daily routine, he cannot throw it out without reading every word and it piles up on every flat surface in his home. He says it has become the bane of his existence.

A few weekends ago, Mrs. Commish took Cletus to visit several independent living communities. Here he could make new friends, have his own condo, and, best of all, escape all of the daily solicitations that the mail plagues him with. Cletus broke down and cried saying if we forced him to go into one of “those” places he would but “no one would ever visit him and if we stopped his junk mail than no one would ever write to him either.”

Cletus can afford to enjoy his remaining years but he cannot let himself use his accumulated savings on himself. Those depression-era lessons run deep, much deeper than I can understand.

Today Cletus is still in his own home. So far he has not talked to us since we “tried to take him from his home.” That is my American Tragedy and I can’t stop thinking about it.

Don't Let Your Sons Grow Up to Be...

2010-06-02T16:20:00.001-04:00

This morning as Makai, our Anatolian Shepherd, and I were walking past a field, I looked out across the expanse and saw a single deer about 300 yards away. It was at the far edge of the field and could have disappeared in the surrounding woods in less than a heartbeat. But it didn’t. It was content to munch on whatever was growing and to watch what Mak and I were doing. We were on a time schedule, the deer wasn’t. I think of myself as a free man but it is far from true; take Mak on a walk, be at the barn by 7:00 a.m. to do goat herder stuff, then off to the shower and then to the office by 8:30. Certainly not the same degree of freedom that the lone deer was experiencing.

I felt a lost kinship to that deer. Our American psyche has always been different from that of other countries. Not necessarily better, but certainly different. And, I think, that American character is wrapped up in our romanticized view of “The Cowboy Life.” The lone stranger, the reluctant hero, the one man who would do what was right just because it was right and then just mosey off into the sunset.

This national character is getting us into trouble in this modern world. We believe that we are doing the right thing when our Elected Betters lead us into policing the world and righting the wrongs that man does to his fellow man. How else can we explain our involvement in Bosnia and Somalia and continuing to stay in Iraq and Afghanistan? We used to think it was great that Chechnya wanted its freedom from Russia; but, later we found out that Chechen rebels were also Moslem and some of them extremists and therein lies another set of problems. We aid the Bosnian Moslems and the Albanian Moslems and darn if they don’t support our enemies in other actions we undertake.

The point in all of this is that we did not have to make their problems our problems. We are no longer the lone cowboy who can solve a town’s problems with a gun and a “pure” heart. Truth to tell, our form of government is not the best form for every group and some day, like today, we should face that fact. Once we accept that, we need to realize that we are not responsible for or capable of solving everyone’s internal problems. Hell, don’t we have enough of our own internal problems to keep us busy for a very long time?

As for our military, they are so capable that our Elected Betters are much too anxious to use them. Any U.S. Senator that consents to send our troops into harm’s way without understanding that “collateral damage” will occur, needs to be involuntarily retired. If a situation is bad enough for us to go to war then we need to kill as many bad guys as possible, as quickly as possible. We will break things, we will hurt, kill and maim innocents by mistake because they are in the vicinity of our enemies and, sad to say, we should expect and accept those facts before we commit our flesh, blood and treasury in a military pursuit. Our Commander in Chief is responsible for the use and/or misuse of our military but our Senators have to stop hiding behind “continuing resolutions” and vote aye or nay when it comes to putting our sons and daughters in the field. And, when they put them in harm’s way, they need to let them perform their duty and cease being meddling politicians looking for leverage and advantage when things go badly, and in war things always go badly at some point.

After we finish with the military operations, come home. If we don’t like the idea of posting our troops on own city streets (remember posse comitatis) what makes us think that we won’t wear out our welcome posting troops in foreign cities? If we must act like a gunslinger, then after we smash things and kill people, get our troops home. We can neither win nor have the continuing will to police a foreign country and its citizens. Like a town in the Wild West, after it is cleaned up by the cowboy the townspeople have to take its governance on themselves.

So, “Momma, don’t let your sons (and daughters) grow up to be cowboy politicians.” There is nothing wrong with being a cowboy—brave, honest, willing to put yourself in danger for someone else--but only cowards and lame politicos risk the life and limbs of others so that they can be pretend cowboys.

Things I Have Learned Since Kindergarten and 9-11

2010-05-04T12:35:00.000-04:00

As Makai and I went walking this morning, I was thinking about the best selling book, “All I Really Need To Know I Learned in Kindergarten” by Robert Fulghum. I admit I really have not read this book but I have heard excerpts and the wisdom he writes about is universally true. I have, however, learned a few more things as I approach my second childhood and, by gum, I plan to tell you some of them and also ask a few questions.

You might ignore politics but politics will not ignore you.
Why do “Liberals” or “Progressives” refuse to discuss issues with people who have differing opinions?
Why do “Conservatives” feel that their values are the only values worth having?
Why do “Libertarians” feel that an open border policy is okay for America?
When did compromise mean you must give in to my view?
Very few good deeds go unpunished; but, keep doing them anyway.
Why do we apologize to Muslims when we refer to “Islamic Terrorists”?
Nothing is new under the Sun. While reading about the Krakatoa explosion in 1883, I discovered that Islamic terrorist from the Middle East were fomenting revolution and killings in Indonesia then and they are still doing so today. By the way, Anak Krakatau (“Son of Krakatoa”) has rebuilt itself and is getting ready for a do-over.
Why do we still have troops stationed in Germany?
What makes us think that we can “give” democracy to other societies?
Why isn’t the United Nations moved to a third world country so that diplomats can see their handiwork up close and personal?
Why are countries named “SomethingOrOtherStan” almost always home to terrorists?
Was Pakistan trying to tell us something when they named their capital city “Islamisbad”? Oops, my bad. It’s spelled “Islamabad.” Nevermind.
Why is it okay for Islamists to threaten to kill people who draw illustrations of The Prophet? What makes their prophet more important than someone else’s prophet?
Is the History Channel and Discovery afraid to do a show about “The Historical Muhammad” when they have no problem with “The Historical Jesus” and “The Historical Buddah”? Personally, I think these were terrific shows and would love to see one about another great religious figure. I am particularly interested in how Muhammad was able to justify robbing caravans and killing merchants unless they were mono-theists.
The threat of Global Warming pales in comparison with the threat of Global Cooling. Snowball Earth was not a pretty sight.
Over 99% of species on the Earth have gone extinct without any help from us.
Armadillo can be tasty if cooked properly.

Did You Know…

2010-04-30T12:55:00.000-04:00

As Makai, my big and lazy Anatolian Shepherd, and I were walking this morning I reflected upon nice golfing weather finally getting here to the heartland of Maryland. While we have continued to play our rounds of Bad Golf, I now have to come up with real reasons for the scores that I am going to post. Oh well, if that was my only problem then I guess I would have nothing to complain about. If you want to see what devastation bad golfers can do then just click here to see in B&W (and maybe some other colors) how badly this wonderful game can be played.

Actually, today I have nothing to complain about. In fact I am going to actually talk about golf.

Long before golf club manufacturers began numbering their clubs (i.e. 3 wood, 4 iron, etc.) each club had a specific name. I’m sure you have heard of a “brassie” or a “niblick” but do you know what that means? Well, you are in luck because following is a listing of oldtime club names and their contemporary equivalent:

    We used to call it a:    Today it is a:
    Driver.............................1 Wood
    Brassie...........................2 Wood
    Spoon.............................3 Wood
    Cleek..............................4 Wood
    Baffy..............................5 Wood
    Driving Iron...................1 iron
    Mid Iron.........................2 iron
    Mid Mashie....................3 iron
    Jigger..............................4 iron
    Mashie............................5 iron
    Spade Mashie.................6 iron
    Mashie Niblick...............7 iron
    Lofter..............................8 iron
    Niblick............................9 iron

Your Vision for My America? No Thanks!

2010-03-29T15:15:00.000-04:00

Makai and I took our daily walk again this morning and I reflected on how he interprets this time as compared to how I use the time. Mak, our Anatolian Shepherd, enjoys checking out each clump of grass, grazing upon certain particular blades and then moving about 10 feet to check out each individual blade of another clump of grass. If he had his way our morning walk would last just about three and a half hours and then he would eat a little chow and take a nap. On the other hand, I look at our morning walk as a time for a little exercise for both Mak and myself. A brisk little half-mile jaunt during which I can enjoy the fresh air and perhaps clear my mind and get ready for what the day will bring. I allow about 10 minutes for this endeavor and then off to the shower and office.

Which one of us is right? If you answered NEITHER then I think you are on the right track. We both enjoy our walk together but for totally different reasons, neither of which is right or wrong; just different.

America used to be this same way. Your pursuit of happiness was protected by the Constitution and also by the collective “American thought.” As long as your concept of “happiness” did not infringe upon mine, then go for it. When did this change? Why did it change?

Today every one of our Elected Betters has his or her “Vision of America” as they “fight” the good fight to shape our country and thought into what they perceive to be a “brighter and more just America.” Their only requirement is that we passively follow where they lead. When did we abdicate the pursuit of our happiness to the pursuit of Our Elected Betters Concept of Happiness? I think it happened when we realized that it is hard to think for ourselves. It requires effort and even results in some failure to realize our dreams while if we let the elected officials make all of the decisions it is so much easier.

Look how easy our cattle have it compared to the wild deer. The free roaming deer have to contend with traffic, bad weather, predators, possible famine and even disease. In the end they learn to fend for themselves and adapt to the encroachment of people into their space. Cattle have it so much easier. Their Selected Betters (us) bring them their food, bring them into the barn during bad weather, treat their illnesses and even carefully transport them to the slaughterhouse. How much happier they must be than their hard-living ruminant cousins, the deer. Their Selected Betters supply them with everything they could possible need and the only thing required in return is for them to quietly give up their lives for our comfort and eating enjoyment.

Is it just me or does it seem to you, too, that our Elected Betters treat us pretty much the same as we treat our cattle. Everything is going to be okay as long as we don’t ask questions and just keep putting them back in office. Sure some of us will die in Afghanistan but look at the big picture. Sure some of our property will be seized by eminent domain and given to private developers but look at the increased tax dollars. Sure some of us will have a hard time paying for required health insurance but so what, that’s why the Healthcare Bill also hired 16,500 new IRS agents.

Until we take back our responsibility to pursue our own happiness, then we are going to get the type of government we are getting. Believe me, there are plenty of people who are more than willing to tell you what to do if you just pull their lever. Resist the easy way and, even though it hurts, think before you re-elect the same crowd that has populated Washington and Annapolis for the past 50 years.
When in doubt, throw them out! Term limits. No more than 12 years of “public service” then they have to work in the private sector and experience the results of their legislation. Sure we might lose some good people but that makes way for more good people to shoulder the responsibility. No more “cushy” retirement for Our Elected Betters, let them fund their own IRAs just like the rest of us.

America once was the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, let’s try to make it that way again.

Healthcare Reform as Seen by The Commish

2010-03-12T12:43:00.002-05:00

Finally Makai and I are able to resume our morning walks. The snow has receded and my driveway no longer resembles a bobsled run. This presents me with the time once again to ponder some of life’s problems, and often I am able to find at least a little humor in the situation. Today, however, I intend to present proposal for providing a framework to advance healthcare in these United States. Trust me, it will be less than 2200 pages long and it will contain far fewer citations and references that serve to obscure what the document really says.

If you read my last blog then you should be aware of the fact that I think the size of our country has made it ungovernable and becoming primed for disintegration. Issues like the healthcare proposal that Harry Reid, Nancy Pelosi, and the Obama Administration are going to force through Congress only serve to further divide Americans and cause less trust and belief in the federal system. When you no longer trust those who govern you, then why should we continue to elect and pay them?

That begins my proposal. First, the government has become bloated and self-important. It seemingly exists for us to serve it, a departure of 180 degrees from its original purpose. Therefore, no one in federal employ shall be recompensed at a rate greater than $100,000 annually. If they protest that they can make more in the private sector than don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Trust me this country has plenty of qualified people who would serve in your capacity. Secondly, a 3% across the board cut in every department of the government. This level of funding will be held at a constant rate for 5 years. “Held at a constant rate” means just that, no annual cost-of-living increases. This 5-year period without governmental growth would allow for the reduction of employment by attrition without huge, sudden disruptions.

Now, the monies that we have saved from the 3% cuts will provide the basis for beginning our new healthcare program. It is illogical to believe that our Elected Betters have any idea of what is needed for our healthcare. Would you trust one of those “535 Temple Monkeys in search of bribes” to tell you what is best for your child’s health? I doubt it. So, let’s begin in a manner that would allow any errors to be corrected before they become institutionalized in one huge bureaucratic nightmare.

It is a given that there are areas of the nation that are more in need of additional healthcare services than other areas so that is where we begin. Doctors and nurses can be educated tuition-free for the promise of 10 years of government service after their internships. After such time, they are free to enter the private sector or remain in government service if they so choose and are deemed well-qualified. If they go into private practice they should be essentially debt-free so the need for high fees to pay for the high cost of education is no longer an issue.

These government physicians and nurses will provide free healthcare for those who come into their office or hospital. In return, patients will have no legal recourse for suing the physician or hospital unless they can show gross negligence. In such cases damages will be limited to $1,000,000 which would be repaid to the government by reducing by 15% annually the salary of everyone who was involved, including the hospital administrator. Administrators would be free to quit but doctors and nurses would still have to complete their 10-year commitment or be subject to repayment of their entire educational costs.

Individuals would be able to choose either the private sector doctors and hospitals as they can today or else go to the government hospital for free treatment under the conditions above. Indigent patients who arrive at private facilities would be transferred to the government hospital when they are stabilized. This should reduce the costs that private facilities now have to pass on to their paying clients and also reduce their patient load and costs.

Who would advise and run these government hospitals? Qualified doctors and administrators would be glad to help. There are so many truly wonderful healthcare providers who would gladly give their expertise to establishing this type of free clinic where they could give great medical treatment without having to do dozens of cover-my-ass tests that are done to establish alibis in case of future lawsuits. In Baltimore, Dr. Ben Carson of Johns Hopkins has expressed his desire to assist. However, if we continue to pile layers of bureaucracy on top of our doctors then nothing good will come to pass.
If this plan works, then we can open additional government healthcare facilities (either hospitals or clinics depending upon need) in other cities and towns. Within a decade we should know what Americans want and what we don’t want from our government health plan. If this plan has weaknesses then we can listen to the doctors and administrators who are providing the care and make adjustments accordingly.

Just think, all of this began with a walk down my drive allowing me to think about why my blood pressure medicine was so expensive. One of the meds I was taking was called “Lotrel 5/20” and it was costing about $350 every three months. I asked my physician if we could try something else since my deductible was $2500 and I never reach it so he gave me two prescriptions. Now get this, the 5/20 was the dosage of two medications that had been combined into a single pill so, for the same medicine, just not combined, the two prescriptions cost me less than $20. Why wasn’t this prescribed from the start? It is time to THINK and start acting as if the money saved in healthcare was your own!

Break Up the U.S.A.?

2010-02-16T16:24:00.000-05:00

Again today Makai and I were unable to take our morning walk. For the past two weeks we have been snowbound in the suburbs of Baltimore. Incredible. The snow amounts have now topped 84 inches for the season in an area that averages barely 13 inches of snow a year. With the use of my Kubota tractor with a front end loader and a lot of help from my son-in-law, we are now able to leave our hill. Since the driveway looks and acts like a bobsled run, Makai and I have postponed our morning walks until spring. Normally at this point I would make an inane comment about needing about fifteen more degrees of global warming or wondering if the inventor of the internet and the subject of “Love Story” (Mr. Al Gore) could help me accelerate the local climate’s warming processes, but today I will refrain because I am not in a humorous mood. Sadly, this leaves my mind free to ponder some of the darker aspects of life rather than the beauty of our North County. My thoughts turn to politics.

For at least 25 years I have witnessed what I consider to be a change in the American character. We can no longer debate subjects of interest. Friends are made and then disposed of when their politics differ from our own. What has happened? Free and honest men (look, I’m an old fart and I use the term in the broad sense, meaning not just “men” but all of society) should be able to discuss subjects upon which they disagree and either find common grounds or at the very least find a little more understanding of another point of view. Seemingly, we can no longer do this. Our minds are set and we automatically dismiss any point of view that disagrees with our own. While I may consider myself to be “on the correct side” of an issue, in reality, there is no right or wrong on most political issues. There has to be common ground or else why bother having any discussions?

Maryland has a political climate in which our Elected Betters simply tell us what we want and that is that. The stranglehold that one party has on every election is practically unbreakable so, in effect, my vote, and yours, doesn’t matter. When a “mistake” was made a few years back and a Republican was elected Governor, our Elected Betters announced that they were going to bury every Republican so that they never see the light of day again, and they have been true to their word. In Washington, a similar attitude exists. Fortunately, our Elected Betters are experiencing a revolt of sorts in which “throw the bastards out” seems to be the rallying cry. While this is refreshing, will it be enough?

I have been pondering the possibility that the United States of America is ungovernable. We are a group of over 300 million persons with a diminishing national character. (In comparison, Canada is a nation of 34 million; I believe only China and India have larger populations than The United States, do you know many people trying to immigrate to them?) For the past twenty-five years it seems that we apologize for our existence to the rest of the world. Some of us don’t feel that we should; and some of us feel that we should be even more apologetic of any success which we have experienced. Some of us want open borders and a complete disregard of our immigration laws, while some of us want our laws enforced and illegals sent back home, not provided with all of the benefits and none of the responsibilities of being an American citizen. If “Our Elected Betters” are in office then we want to bury the other side. If “Their Elected Betters” are in office then how can we sabotage them? This is not a healthy approach to governance.

I think we need to examine the possibility that we are no longer “Americans” but many americans. In so doing maybe we need to align ourselves in smaller, more manageable groups. California will soon be bankrupt, should South Dakota have to bear the burden of bailing them out without ever receiving the benefit of living way beyond their means? I think that when we began highlighting all of our differences with hyphens to describe us, we began the deterioration of what was an American culture. Without a common culture (the “melting pot” effect) we have less and less in common and, hence, less and less interest in those other groups. “We want” and “We need” are the buzz words that our Elected Betters respond to today and with a little horse-trading to buy the necessary votes they can ensure their re-election in perpetuity.

Don’t misunderstand me, Democrats and Republicans are very much the same in this; they are just two different faces of the same coin. And that “coin” that both parties spend so freely is to be repaid by our descendants. What a deal! Vote for me and you can have it all (but your grandchildren might not). Three hundred million people are too many to be governed effectively and I think it may be time for a new American Evolution.

Today the United States is composed of states, commonwealths (Virginia, Kentucky, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania), and even former independent countries (the Republic of California, the Republic of Texas, Hawaii). Maybe we need to allow the disintegration of the United States into smaller, more governable entities in order to save ourselves.

While it is not for me to dictate how the divisions would be made, perhaps it might work like this….

Many states (Maryland, New York, Illinois, Ohio, etc.) might choose to remain in the federal system of what was once The United States of America. Other states, now “nations”, might opt to be independent or affiliate themselves into a new country, such as Utah-Nevada-Arizona-Colorado-Wyoming. A grouping such as this would have much more in common with each other than with the entire population of the former United States. In the early years these newly-minted nations might act much as the current European Union does with many common things such as currency and perhaps national defense. As time passes, the evolution of these new nations perhaps will move towards the British Empire model of today, a loose-knit affiliation of independent entities. “Countries” that favor open borders could welcome all of the immigrants the world sends without impacting the well-being of other new nations that want to have tighter controls on who enters their sovereign territory. Even national defense might evolve so that, perhaps, Idaho-Minnesota-Wisconsin might find that they have more in common with Canada than the “Commonwealth of States;” the point being that these smaller population groups can have more control on their lives and how they choose to live them.

We only go ‘round once let’s make it count. Down-sizing is not necessarily a bad thing. We had to do it with our companies in order to survive and without a massive change in structure, our Elected Betters will not downsize their own little fiefdoms. It’s worth considering, if only because Makai and I are stuck indoors this time of year.

Finally, Golf is in the Air

2010-01-26T13:38:00.004-05:00

As Makai and I left the house this morning to take our walk, we were shadowed by one of our cats, a red tabby named Timmy Twos. Timmy walked better than the dog since he actually strolled next to me and didn’t have to check out every tree and cornstalk to see who had left a secret message in the last 24 hours.

The significance of Timmy walking with me was that it indicated that the weather was nice enough for a lazy home body to step outside. No, I am not talking about me, I am talking about Timmy Twos. And the significance of nicer weather is that the golfing season is fast approaching. In years past, the end of the football season (the Ravens were recently eliminated from the playoffs) meant the approach of the baseball season but since we have The Baltimore Orioles to root for this does not give us much hope. Twelve consecutive years of losing has wearied me of getting excited about Spring Training, so, today immediately after March Madness I have the golfing season. In fact, our season starts as soon as Daylight Savings Time kicks in.

Last week I received an email from a Chapter of the Bad Golfers Association in Florida that stumbled across our BGA website. While they were very complimentary about the quality of our website, they completely mocked the quality of our golf. Well, if we had golfing weather all year ‘round we could play better bad golf, too! Actually this year I am looking forward to playing mediocre golf and winning the coveted Race for the Cheeseburger, 2010 edition. For those of you who have not visited our website and are not familiar with The Race for the Cheeseburger, let me explain.

For almost twenty years The Bad Golfers Association has been playing a weekly twilight round of golf. In the beginning we played “Skins” for 25 cents a hole. As our games evolved we realized that we were more interested in bragging rights than in winning money so a few years ago we came up with our “Ultimate Golf Game.” Now, every week the four of us play for a single beer. Full handicaps are used (these range from 6 to 17 for 9 holes, we truly are The BGA!) and the player with the lowest net score wins a beer from the player with the highest net score. The two players in the middle neither win nor lose and come away with just a little more experience. In one round last year a single stroke separated the winner from the three losers so three beers were won. To us these beers are precious as we keep detailed Beer Statistics with current standings of beers won and beers lost. But the supreme prize is saved for the winner of the yearlong “Race for the Cheeseburger.”

In order to win this most coveted prize four statistics are tracked. Since even within the BGA our abilities are widely separated we needed to have a completely fair competition. Once again, The Commish in his infinite wisdom came up with the perfect game. We track the percentage of fairways hit, greens hit in regulation, pars, and birdies. These are totaled and the player who has improved the most from the previous season wins a cheeseburger and fries at our local watering hole. Sadly, in 2008 no one won as everyone’s statistics backslid. The Snowman won in 2005, Mr. Fifteen won the next year, 2007 was the year of The Commish, and last season Mr. FourSkin won his first Cheeseburger Award. The fairness of this seems to show itself in the fact that no one has won back to back seasons.

Now that the choice of games is settled, we just need to see who records the first double digit score in 2010 and who will be the first to not clear the road on the First Hole tee shot at Mt. Pleasant. Last year, for the first time, the BGA proudly cleared this obstacle in all 30 rounds (it is, after all, at least 20 yards). Don’t take this to mean that our drives were good, as many ended up closer to the ninth green than the first fairway; but, the important thing is we all cleared the road. Mission accomplished.

C’mon Spring, I am ready for all that you bring.

The Great White Way (or Let’s Have a Sexcise Tax)

2010-01-06T12:32:00.003-05:00

As Makai and I took our walk this morning down our lengthy driveway, I saw in front of me a great white way, again. I have walked through way too much of the “white death” so far this winter to be concerned about global warming. In fact I could do with about twenty-five more degrees of the global warming stuff right about now!

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve been green since before green was cool and as has oft been said, “it ain’t easy being green.” Mrs. Commish and I have farmed organically since we were married just after the little ice age ended. You remember that one don’t you? Remember back in the 70’s when we were warned about the threat of global cooling and the real possibility of once again becoming snowball earth? I remember because we were building our home then and were advised to put in one of those new-fangled gadgets called a heat pump. It ran on electricity and “took heat right out of the air” to save money and the environment. Besides with the coming ice age we could be sure that an oil delivery truck would not get up our driveway in the winter, propane would work but the same delivery problem existed, and natural gas was not available. So a clean, cheap heat pump was the answer. It has been such a great answer that if I was a landlord I would be put in prison for keeping the house so cold. How does 52 sound? Well our thermostat is set there and our bill is still $250 or more each month, so you better believe that I really would appreciate a little global warming right about now.

I know I am being overly simplistic. Climate trends take centuries to play out. I wonder if a simple goat herder like myself realizes this then why don’t our Elected Betters and their scientific brain trusts realize this? Could it be that there is money (more “green”) to be made if we rush to sell carbon credits and alternative technologies to the sheepeople? Carbon credits sure sound similar to those collateralized sub-prime instruments that our financial whiz bangs and our Elected Betters made fortunes on as all of my goat herder friends lost their portfolios. So I admit that I am just a bit skeptical of Big People telling me what is best for me.

Big People now tell me to recycle. As I said before, this is nothing new to me. I collected and returned aluminum cans and every year or two Mrs. Commish, Gwaltney and I would cash them in. We enjoyed the process since we always were paid in $2 bills. Mrs. Commish and Gwaltney would pocket their new-found wealth (maybe $8 or $10 each) and take mine and a little extra to some local café and we would enjoy a nice lunch. Save the earth and have lunch. Perfect. Then my Elected Betters tell me that my two trash pickups are going to be one for recycling and one for trash. One week for paper and the next week for bottles and cans. Oh yeah, the items to be recycled must be put in blue plastic bags. The first week I put my cans and bottles out in blue bags and animals got to it and I had to pick up my recyclable stuff from the woods and put it out again in two weeks. The next week my paper was neatly tied and stacked at the bottom of my hill. It was not picked up because of some reason that I can no longer recall but I do remember having to once again pick up a lot of the trash scattered in my woods. The following week is once again cans. This time I put them in blue bags and put the blue bags in a trash can for “protection.” WRONG. Recyclables are to be picked up in blue bags, not blue bags in trash cans. The end result of my Elected Betters solution for recycling is that now I put out everything in my once a week trash pickup and on recyle day I sleep in.

As I see it, all of these Big People ideas stem from a belief in a Malthusian catastrophe. (For those of you who went to public school – like me—google Robert Malthus yourself.) So in order to avoid regressing to a subsistence level we must do all of these silly thing, even if they don’t work, and do them now. All of these “solutions” really do not address the problem – there are too many people. There I’ve said it. Now we need a solution for too many people and the rest of our problems would self-correct naturally (and what could be more green than something happening “naturally”). The solution you ask, well The Commish recommends a new tax, something I never thought I would advocate. Using the proven principle that subsidizing something gets you more of it and taxing something produces less of it, then, simply put, in order to get less people let’s tax sex!

As a side benefit to producing fewer people – remember if you tax something you get less of it – our Elected Betters should realize a bonanza in this new revenue stream. This new revenue source may be enough to lower our other taxes. Right. As I see it there could be a real “marriage tax” and we could fill out forms like Census Data and then we would get a Coupling Tax Bill in the mail. Or, we could do it like withholding taxes and pay in advance. Our Elected Betters would honestly be pimps and no longer could we complain about them “pimping for Wall Street” or “being a pimp for Big Pharma.” Since enough is never really enough for Big People, future adjustments to the Sex Tax Code could include a Value Added Tax for prostitutes and maybe an excise (Sexcise?) tax on massages.

No need to thank me, The Commish is glad to help with his solutions for a greener world.

The Name Game

2009-12-31T13:07:00.006-05:00

As Makai and I took our walk this morning, I reflected on the names of our goats. For the most part they have been named by our daughter, Gwaltney, “our little ham.” (FYI: Gwaltney is not her real name, she is embarrassed enough that I write these little stories. I am trying to stave off her total and abject humiliation by hiding the fact that her real name starts with the letter “C”.) For the first time it dawned on me that most of the goats had names starting with the same letter. Clover, Corriander, Chrysanthemum, Cassidy. Of course there are other names like Ben and G.G., and most famous of all, Magic, a buck that Mrs. Commish and Gwaltney purchased. Believe me, my golfing buddies have, a good time with that name. “Hey Commish, are you still doing Magic?” or “The Commish can’t have another cold one because he has to get home and do Magic again.” Heh, heh heh. The BGA boys are so clever.

Gwaltney, "The Little Ham," many years ago

While realizing that I would never be in a position to have a stadium named after me (like “Commish Caverns at Camden Yards”), the act of giving a name to someone or something has always seemed important. I suppose I came by this honestly as, reflecting back, my parents had a naming system of their own.

When they were first married they bought a chow dog and named him “Rusty,” because of his red color, I assume. When Rusty died they got another chow chow and named him “Rusty.” Now we referred to them as “Old Rusty” and “New Rusty”. When “New Rusty” died he was replaced by, are you ready, Rusty III. Then came Rusty IV, V, VI, VII, and VIII. (There is some family debate as to whether there are 7 or 8 “Rusties;” I am no longer sure.) In conversation now they are known as First Rusty, Crazy Rusty, Mean Rusty, Fat Rusty, Good Rusty, Current Rusty, etc. There is some confusion when Crazy Rusty is mixed up with Mean Rusty because Mean was also crazy or with Good Rusty because Good was also silly and crazy sometimes.

My parents also named their three sons with the same initials as “Rusty Chow S.” So, we have three R.C.S. brothers and we think all of this derives from the soda pop our Dad liked. His cola of choice wasn’t Pepsi or Coke but Royal Crown Soda. The family secret is no more!

Makai, our Anatolian, got his name because we were in our “Hawai’ian” period. Makai means “towards the sea.” Max is the most popular dog name and “Mak” was close but different. Our chocolate lab was named “Jack”. His father was Jack, making him Jack’s son. So he really named himself, "Jackson Browne." Zeus, our rottweiler, was a year and a half when we got him and that name was already perfect. We also had a Doberman who was so perfect that we said he was just “Dandy.” Many years ago, Mrs. Commish and I went to college in cold and snowy Rochester and had a huge St. Bernard named Artemus (a contraction of “Arctic Moose”). All of these are stand alone names; not pattern names like RCS and the Rusties.

Mrs. Commish and I raised and showed Persian cats for almost thirty years and this is where we honed our naming skills. Our first Grand Champion was “Bilbo Baggins” from the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. We followed with Legolas, Heathertoes, Beorn, Glorfindel. We tried to stick with some of the lesser known characters to show our “creativity.” We moved on to other themes.

“Patent Pending” was a beautiful blue girl that was known as Fatty Patty. We bought her to be the foundation of our line. Fatty Patty gave us the “Leader” litter with three grand champions in it. Gwaltney was responsible for these names as she always wanted to be first in line; she wanted to be the line leader. We let her name the blue boy we were keeping “Line Leader” and he became a national winner as the Best Blue Persian. His brothers also granded and were named “Scout Leader” and “Troop Leader.”

Cotton Baugh Line Leader

We had a series of work-related (film and printing) cats: Kodacolor (Kodie), Shadow Dot, First Edition (Edie). Then we moved to the “balls”. There was a terrific cat named Radabaugh and we bought a cream boy from him. We wanted to keep the name going so we named our boy “Cotton Baugh.” Cotton was also a national winner and he sired a line that included “Basebaugh,” “Basketbaugh,” “Black Baugh,” etc. There were some cats that we named to honor old friends like the “Margret” and “Edgar” litter (Stonybrook Cattery) and “Louise Birdwhistle” (Chatalain Cattery).

Many of these names are still remembered decades after the cats were shown. It goes to show that names are important. Give them some thought and make them count. Our daughter Gwaltney’s middle name is “Leigh.” She got that from a good friend of ours that we haven’t seen in many years but every time we say Gwaltney Leigh’s name it brings to mind the “original” Leigh with a smile and some fond memories. If you are going to name something or someone, take the time to make it count. Just say no to names like MoonPie Zappa or Cherie Sunbeam Madonna.

Today the Easter Bunny Died

2009-12-29T10:15:00.011-05:00

Today we will show the interconnections between Santa Claus, Mr. Fifteen, the Easter Bunny and the “Stork”. The bittersweet story goes like this…

As we pass through the Autumnal Equinox we know that Spring is on its way. Even though Santa has barely left the building we know it is time to begin thinking about cleaning our golf clubs and shoes, changing those soft spikes that should have been changed last July, and making a resolution that this is the year that we actually improve our game.

This year it is a little different because when Santa left town he took with him the Easter Bunny. Silver Bullet died this morning. For a generation of children, Silver Bullet was the Easter Bunny. Let me explain.

When Mr. and Mrs. Commish’s daughter, who shall henceforth be known as Gwaltney (she has always been a little ham) was but a wee lass (eight years old by true and verifiable count) she joined the 4-H Rabbit Club. This simple beginning led to The Commish coming home from a Myrtle Beach golf trip and presto he became a goat herder; but, that is another story best told over a few cold ones at the nineteenth hole.

So for almost 20 years now Mrs. Commish and Gwaltney have raised and shown bunnies. A dozen years ago they decided to get a large breed rabbit known as Flemish Giants. These puppies top the scales at 18 plus pounds, some of them with lots of plus pounds. About this time they began taking some of the rabbits to visit the children at several of the local country clubs on Easter. The kids, of course, liked all of the rabbits, small ones like Netherland Dwarfs and bigger ones like English Angoras, but they liked the Flemish Giants, Big Mama and her offspring Remington Steele and Silver Bullet, the best. They were huge and Big Mama was the biggest.

It always surprised me when teenagers would come over and ask about Big Mama even though she retired from this activity four years before she passed away. They had begun taking pictures with Big Mama when they were only six or eight and looked for her every year. The bunnies would rotate and the children would have their pictures taken and pet the animals and the parents would always gasp at their size. It was a rewarding experience, and, best of all, the bunnies earned some money to buy their own food. This past Easter only Silver Bullet represented the Giants. His brother Remington Steele was losing weight and was showing signs of aging so he stayed home and was replaced by a perky Netherland Dwarf and a floppy-eared Holland Lop named Charlie.

After the Easter gig, Silver Bullet retired to his huge pen in the back of our barn. His pen is so large that we have a goat milking stand and stool inside his pen. This lets us interact with him whenever we milk the goats (they have to be milked twice a day). Last night when I locked the barn doors I checked on The Bullet. He had hopped up on the milk stand and was sitting quite contentedly, all 20 pounds of him. This morning he had followed Big Mama and Remington Steele to another hutch. Silver Bullet died last night.

He literally saw a generation of children grow up and to them Silver Bullet was the Easter Bunny. So, fifty years ago today The Stork brought my youngest brother, Mr. Fifteen, into this world and today Santa departed with my Easter Bunny. Happy Birthday, Mr, Fifteen and Farewell Herr Hare.

Wii Knee (with Apologies to Thomas Paine)

2009-12-28T10:35:00.005-05:00

As I took Makai, our Anatolian Shepherd, on his walk this morning, I watched the sunrise breaking in the east. My mind drifted back to the founding of this nation and the awe that must have been experienced when viewing this wonderful “new” land for the first time. Out of this vision of majesty and freedom evolved the great American experiment, The United States of America.

Founded on principles higher than our ability to live them, America’s development, I was thinking, was similar to the evolution of a child from infancy through adolescence to adulthood, and finally into our old age and eventual demise. I reflected on Thomas Paine’s “Common Sense” pamphlets that helped to galvanize an infant colony into a nation. Even then he wrote of the trade-offs of freedoms that would be extracted by the formation of a new government. Paine did not presuppose to suggest the form a new government should take but did warn of the inherent oppression that any form of government would eventually impose upon its subjects. Even a small grouping of like-minded individuals would eventually change from a successful collective with common interests to a more selfish and less cohesive grouping as interests changed and self-interest became more important than the security and prosperity of the group.

While I was thinking on these lofty philosophical issues, and minding to stop by each and every tree so that Makai could pee or else determine who had recently peed on the tree, it hit me. A more encompassing and engrossing issue was suddenly all that I could focus on….Wii Knee!

Christmas had come and gone and Santa had brought a Wii console and accessories to my daughter and son-in-law. Mrs. Commish wasn’t feeling too well so there was nothing to keep the Commish from showing the younger set that he still “had it.”

We competed in bowling and archery and various other gaming forms, looking always for something in which I could shine. Then we opened the Wii Fit Plus (or Extra, or whatever it is called). We got on the Wii Board and got measured and balance tested and so forth and so on. The Commish came up with a Wii age of double nickel. Not too shabby for a recently turned 61 year old. BMI was borderline between “Overweight” and “Obese.” This, too, was a win as everyone else was firmly in the “Obese” range. What a great Christmas gift. For a mere $400 we have a game that not only insults you but tells you that your goals to get better are not within reason!

Then we took some Wii Fit options to improve ourselves. The Commish immediately choose “Yoga” and excelled at “Breathing.” Hey, how wrong could I go? I figure if you are still alive then you must have a handle on the concept. The “Obese” youngsters proceeded to advance to “Hula Hoops” and then “Super Hula Hoops.” Of course, since Mrs. Commish was home in bed nursing her head cold, nothing could stop me from playing again and again, knowing that this next round was the one I would win. Finally the phone call came saying, “It’s 11:30, do you know where your Commish is?”

Leaving the scene of my defeats, I knew that I could have won if only we had Hula Hooped one more time. Well, tomorrow there would be Wii Golf. After all, I am the Commish of The Bad Golfers Association and I intend to use all of my skills to bury the competition.

This morning as I walked the dog and thought about Thomas Paine, Mr. Real Paine made himself known to me in my left knee. Wii Knee, I was sure. Well, I hobbled back up the hill pulling a dog the size of Delaware that just wanted to smell one more tree and chase one more small herd of deer. Strange to believe, but even Wii Knee has an upside. My son-in-law, who beat me in archery, hula hoops, bowling, etc., woke up with Wii Shoulder!

Tonight I will use my secret weapon, learned during the many rounds of bad golf I have played…tonight I will take Aleve, not before tee time but an hour before Wii time. Tonight Wii means ME.

Merry Christmas

2009-12-23T09:40:00.001-05:00

Please don’t take offense. I meant no harm. I merely wished to convey to you the joys and blessings of this time of the year that is so important to many throughout the world. How can I express it, what should I say? I know…”Merry Christmas.”

Once upon a time, in an America far away, we said these words and didn’t have to look over our shoulder to make sure someone wasn’t taking names. Today we feel compelled to be so “politically correct” that even when we say “Merry Christmas” we feel guilty. Guilty of what you ask. Guilty of displeasing our elected and unelected betters, of course.

Let’s make this the year that we begin to let the joys and blessings that we feel be freely given away to those we meet, whatever our or their religious or secular persuasion. Wish me a Happy Chanukah and I will smile with gratitude. Wish me a Happy Kwanza and the same feeling of warmth will be felt. Wish me “Season’s Greetings” and I will thank you but in the back of my mind I am asking myself, “What exactly are those Season’s Greetings?” Does that mean “Winter will be cold this year” or “Spring is still a long way away?” What does a “season” mean when it gives me a greeting?

Make this the year that we express what we feel and let those that want to tell us how we should feel and how to “correctly” express those feelings wrestle with their own demons and leave us alone.

From the BGA Central Office and The Commish let me wish to one and all a very Merry Christmas. There, very simple, very sincere. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Another Christmas miracle (with a small “m”)

2009-12-17T14:55:00.004-05:00

Miracles come in all sizes and as far as miracles go this one was very, very small. I don’t know about you, but I’ll take my miracles in any size.

Makai is an Anatolian Shepherd. He is our LGD (large guard dog) and was bought to guard our herd of goats and chickens and geese from predators. Anatolians are “serious” dogs. They are born knowing how to protect, when to spring into action, and when to relax. This is so innate in them that they get their feelings “seriously” hurt if you tell them what to do and when to do it.

After waiting for almost eighteen months to get him, four years ago we drove to Michigan to pick up Makai (Hawaiian for “towards the ocean”). What a cutie, just a few months old and already had lion-sized paws. The final decision to get him was after foxes had killed my Father’s Day gift of three heritage turkeys. These Broad Breasted Bronze birds were going to be my “guard turkeys” as they grow to almost 60 pounds and have a wing span of 6 feet, instead they became fox-food. Time for the LGD!

The breeder bet us that we would make him a house dog and not be tough enough to leave him outside to bond with his herd. We agreed that she might be right but the plan was to let him guard our one remaining goose and the goat kids. Like in the movie “Gremlins,” we had a final warning to never let him escape because once he found out he could, he would, always. And we were off back to the wilds of Sparks, Maryland.

Makai’s father was 185 pounds and chased off coyotes and bears. We figured Makai could handle a few foxes and raccoons. Even though cougar, coyote, and black bears have been spotted in our area, foxes are the largest predator we have seen in our thirty years there. (I think the black bear sighting by a neighbor was actually our rottweiler, Zeus, but that is another story.)

Makai rather quickly killed our last goose by constantly returning it by the neck to the goat herd where he could watch over everything. The goose kept wandering off and he would bring it back. Finally, the darn goose just “broke.” With that duty over Makai settled in to be quite a good LGD and went about his business very seriously. He was constantly on watch until we brought him in to the barn at night to eat and sleep. As soon as the barn doors closed Makai was off duty and it would take an explosion outside to make him stir.

This serious dog never learned how to play. I would throw a ball and then he watched as I retrieved it. I would throw him a snack and he would watch as it bounced off his nose. Stick? Same thing. He saw no reason for such foolishness. Duty was Mak and play was for the silly Labrador Retriever that our daughter had. Then his friend Zeus died.

Over the previous four years Mak grew to the point that our 130 pound rottweiler literally could walk underneath him. They got to be great buddies until Mak lost his friend this past summer. He watched closely as we dug a grave for Zeus and seemed very interested in our lugging his body around and putting it in the ground. As was his nature Makai watched everything intently that went on around him, as if he were trying to understand all of our actions. As soon as I put the first shovel of dirt on Zeus’s body Makai freaked. This very serious dog leaped up and leaned over the side of the grave as if he knew something was wrong. The next day he escaped.

Every week he escaped two or three times. I couldn’t plug the holes because I couldn’t find how he got out. Everything was the same as it was for the previous four years when he never got loose and now I could not keep Makai home. So this very serious dog moved into our home. Over the next six months he learned to love table scraps and chicken grease poured over his kibble. He still can’t catch anything thrown to him but he has become a “rug potato.” Every morning I take him for a half-mile walk then let him loose in the field while I tend to the goats. Makai checks his herd, checks the perimeter fencing and by the time I finish my work he is ready to go back into the house and sleep until it is time to go upstairs for bed. As I said before, when Makai is off-duty he is seriously off-duty.

Today a small miracle occurred. Now if you are looking for the Virgin Mary in a bag of kibble or a long lost uncle leaving a fortune in his will kind of miracle, then forget it. This is a miracle with a small “m”. Today Makai played!

When I put him in the field this morning he did his normal routine then he stopped near the buck pen and looked straight up to the tops of the trees (FYI: we live in a forest). This was peculiar, looking straight up and, like a fool, barking at nothing. So being sort of a fool myself, I joined him in the field, stood next to him, and looked up at nothing, also. At least I wasn’t barking. We both walked around the trees to get a better angle to see nothing until I convinced Makai to come with me into the barnyard and from there to the house where he could nap until it was time to sleep. This is when the miracle happened.

As we entered the barnyard from the field, Makai found a tennis ball that my daughter’s Lab had left and he brought it to me. Could it be? Was he ready? Not wanting to be the retriever myself, I walked to the bottom of the sloping barnyard and threw the ball uphill. This way gravity would bring it to me. But Makai ran to the ball and brought it back! He laid down at my feet, gave me the ball and retrieved it two more times. By the fourth throw he had had enough. He got the ball and laid down at the top of the hill by the barn. It was time to go in and nap until bedtime. But I knew that I had witnessed a small miracle, Makai had allowed me to play, at least a little bit, with him. This may not sound like much to most of you out there, but if you have an Anatolian then I am here to tell you they do have an un-serious side. It just takes a miracle to see it.

It's Not the Tool, It's the Carpenter!

2009-12-16T09:53:00.000-05:00

My dual careers consist of being a printer and also a goat herder. Except in passing, this blog will have very little to do with either. A goat herder from 200 years ago would easily recognize what I do with our flock of nubian goats. Within 2 minutes he could tend the flock and probably do a much better job of it then we do today. A printer from Johann Gutenberg's era might recognize a printing press but he would have very little idea of how to get ink on paper. Technology has advanced the process so much that Herr Gutenberg would have to be re-trained.

Now, if Old Tom Morris were to suddenly appear on one of our modern golf courses he would have no trouble understanding the technological advances and immediately could play a round. So in a roundabout way, I disagree with the concept held by many that technology has ruined golf. That said, I have reservations about how the game is developing.

Do not forget that this column is being written by The Commish of The Bad Golfers Association, and in that context I am reflecting what I think are the views of those of us that are no longer deluded about ever playing on the PGA Tour, the Champions Tour, or even the Hooters Tour. (However, many of us still hope to some day have a caddy from Hooters for a round. Shhh, just in case Mrs. Commish is listening!)

We are the great unwashed of the golfing crowd. We may play once a season or, more likely, 20 or more times a year. We like to hit longer drives, we like to spin our golf balls off the green to impress our friends. If we knew how to play we would hit our approach shot past the hole and spin it back close. But, we just like to see the ball spin and pretend we can be just like Tiger, er... Phil.

Technology helps us to do this. Our scores have not really improved but our enjoyment of playing the game has. My problem with technology is that the course architects feel that courses have to be lengthened. Hell no. Years ago a 425 yard hole played like a par 5 for me, today it's a real par 4. I like it like that. If I hit a 240 yard tee shot (which does happen occasionally) then I have a chance to hit the green with my hybrid. If I miss, then I have a chance to save par with my sharp grooved sand wedge. Will I save par? Not likely, but I have a chance. Twenty years ago, when I was, coincidentally, 20 years younger, the same hole would play like this: Driver (180 to 200 yards), 3 iron (140 yards, right), 6 iron chip out, pitching wedge approach, then either a chip and 2 putts or else three putts from 50 feet away. Technology lets me play a better and more fun round of golf.

This same technology in the hands of good golfers has made courses too easy. Hence, 7200 yard courses are becoming more the norm. This is not how I want to play every week. The solution, to the BGA at least, is simple. PGA quality golfers (remember, "These guys are good!") can shoot under par using hickory shafts and woods that are actually made out of wood. Why not have "professional level" clubs that would put the emphasis on shotmaking and controlling your ball. Let technology have its way with golf balls 'cause all of us want to play what the pros play; but, since we don't play the clubs they play anyway, why not make the differences in sticks even more pronounced.

Golf would not be unique in this. Baseball has used different bats for play at different levels for decades and the game has flourished. Golfers at the highest levels would use golf clubs that are more of a throwback to the old days. They could adjust much more easily then the great unwashed of golf can adjust to playing 8000 yard courses in the future.

Walk Ons, Part Deux

2009-12-09T11:10:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I wrote about an event that happened almost ten years ago that still makes me smile. It was about someone who lives in Japan and we had not seen or heard from Sushi since her graduation in 2002 from the same school my daughter attended, Oldfields School. Amazingly, last night Mrs. Commish received a Facebook email from Sushi, the same day that I wrote about an incident that she is probably unaware of. How do you explain a coincidence like that?
Anyway let's continue with my discussion about Walk Ons.
If you play golf regularly you will be placed by the starter with many different players to complete a foursome and keep the pace of play moving. For the most part I think golfers, because of inherent insecurities about golfing abilities, would rather go off as a single and just play their game and not feel like they are being judged. Usually this feeling lasts less than the first hole. You tee off, you whiff your second shot, and you see that the guys you are playing with are no better than you. Or, if they are, they were once where you are now and have some sort of sympathy for your plight. Often by the second or third hole you have sized each other up and have a kidding/small talk patois going between everyone. This makes for a comfortable and enjoyable round of golf but for the most part no one remembers anything about the people you played with. There are, however, some that remain as a permanent part of your memory.
Like the time Mt. Pleasant Golf Course instituted fivesomes. This meant that every week we had a walk on with us. That year The Snowman missed a lot of rounds and for a few weeks in a row we played with a dad and his son. The kid was a little wild but at about 12 years old he really could outdistance any of us. I wonder if he is playing for a college team these days.
Another time we were teamed up with an elderly gent who got maybe 150 yards off the first tee, but right down the middle. The first hole is a par 5 about 560 yards, basically straight. We were at least 100 yards ahead of him but scattered to the left and right and thinking that this was going to be a long round. The old fellow hits his next shot barely past our tee shot and we pound our shots in a display of army golf (left-right-left, etc.). The old guy hits his third and is still 140 yards from the green. Hits his fourth up to the green and one putts for par. Meanwhile we are four in the bunker, five in the other bunker, six to the fringe, seven close, miss the putt for snow and record a nine. See, we were right, it looks like it will be a long round. I don't remember much else about this guy because he rode a cart and we all walked, but it was amazing to watch him not be long enough to reach any greens in regulation but play such a beautifully controlled game that I doubt if he was more than 3 or four over par for the nine holes. As it turned out we didn't hold him up too much because in the BGA we might play golf badly; but, we play golf quickly. Eighty-five year-old guy who we outdrive by a mile and he calmly beats all of us by 7 or 8 strokes a side.
Then there was the guy that was matched up with us another time. We went through the meeting and greeting and told him we weren't very good but we were quick, etc., etc. He says it doesn't matter to him because he's just out for a relaxed round. From the whites we hit our usual left side and right side shots, not too far but, we are sure they will be findable. This Walk On guy pounds his from the tips right down the middle a beautiful, PGA-quality shot. We search to find our balls and get ready to hit, look around the trees to make sure it's clear and this new guy is nowhere to be seen. He evidently marched out to his ball, hit his second to the green and continued his "relaxing" round without benefit of our company. Was it something we said? We literally didn't see him the rest of the day. One shot and he knew he didn't belong in the BGA!
Then there was the fellow with the putting "ticks." Every putt, and I mean even 10-inchers, he would line up, take exactly 11 practice strokes and then miss his putt. Don't miss playing with him.
There was a cute girl that we enjoyed playing with even though it was mildly embarrassing to be beaten so badly by her. But after the old guy we were getting used to everyone beating us. Never saw her again, either.
One hot shot stockbroker from New York was moving to the area and walked on with us at Mt. Pleasant (a nice muni in Baltimore). He actually was a very pleasant guy once you got past his "big person" routine. By the time we reached the sixth hole he asked us very seriously about which country club he should join. I had to tell him that I was sadly disappointed in his judge of character because we certainly aren't the ones he should be asking about country clubs. Maybe he saw something more in us then we do ourselves. Nah!
There are also the guys you hook up with that become regular playing partners. At Longview we used to walk on before the official first tee time and over time we would be teamed up with a fellow named Dean Johnson and got to be golf friends. For several years we played routinely together every Sunday morning until he got married and changed his routine.
I've was teamed up once with a guy that looked familiar and it turned out that we were in elementary school together 40 years before. Another time I played with someone who had a daughter that was a friend of my daughter. They had been in the same class for several years in Montessori. After talking a while we found out that we had met twelve of fourteen years prior.
Walk Ons. Mostly unrememberable but often worth your time. Hope you have a few Walk On memories of your own.

Walk Ons and "Pago Pa"

2009-12-08T10:46:00.006-05:00

(We heard from "Sushi" in Japan. Click here to see her remarks.)

Walking on at a golf course can be one of the more stomach-wrenching things we can do. Think of that first tee shot of a normal round and then ramp up your nerves 10-fold. Here you are meeting up with three strangers and they have nothing better to do at that moment than to watch your tee shot on #1 and judge you, your athleticism, the state of your game, and whether or not you have any "ticks," those peculiar waggles and movements that drive others crazy. (Ticks: think of Sergio Garcia and his regripping problem or Jim Furyk and his peculiar habit of starting to putt and then backing away.) All of this aside, some of my most lasting memories involve either walking on or having someone else join us for a round.

One time in the late '90's I walked on at Longview Golf Course. By this time I was used to doing it and didn't feel any particular nerves or inner fears. After making the perfunctory disclaimers that I would try not to play too badly for their sake the round started. What was a little different about this round was that the three gentlemen I was playing with were Oriental. Were they Japanese or Korean, that was my thought. Why, you ask. Well, it's simple, sort of.

This was a week or so before Christmas and we had a foreign student staying with us. Mrs. Commish and I have one child, a daughter (who never practices her golf game but when she plays she has this beautiful natural feather draw that I would die for, but that's another story) who was a 10th grader at Oldfields School, a wonderful little school in northern Baltimore County that has students from all over the country and world. One of the girls, Suna Jo, was my daughter's "little sister." This meant that she would take Suna under her wing and help her to acclimate to living in America away from her family. Suna was Korean but her family lived in Japan. Mrs. Commish's mother, Buzzy (short for "Old Buzzard"), was getting up in years and was living with us at the time, also. Buzzy had a hard time remembering Suna's name and called her Sushi, a nickname which stuck with her for the rest of her Oldfields days.

Sushi was a boarding student and had gone to Texas to spend the holidays with one of her friends. Something happened with that family and Sushi had cut short her visit and return to the school. Oldfields asked if she could spend time with our family because there would not be any other kids in residence over the holidays. We said, "Of course," and with that a golfing memory began.

At the time Sushi was a little shy. Her English was fine but she was uncomfortable with it so she generally spoke only when spoken to. My daughter and Sushi, being kids, had a fine time and you could hear lots of laughing and such noise as high school kids make but I felt a little awkward because I didn't think Sushi was comfortable with us because of the language barrier.

Sunday morning came and I woke up to walk-on at the local municipal course. Did you remember, this story is about walking on at the golf course? Anyway here I was teamed up with three Oriental golfers and having a Korean girl staying with us that I wanted to make feel more at home. For the first 5 holes I wondered how to ask them if they were Korean. Would it be an insult if they were Japanese? Would I be thought of as just another "ugly American," an insensitive white guy, etc., etc. We talked small talk but nothing to remember until I finally thought, "What the hell, if I'm thought of as insensitive, so be it 'cause I'm trying to help my daughter's friend feel better." On the sixth tee I asked the most loquacious of the bunch if they were Japanese.

He laughed and told his friends what I had said (in his language) and they all laughed and told me they were Korean, couldn't I tell? After all, they said, Koreans have a more rounded head than Japanese and they are much more handsome. I said that it was great that they were Korean because... and I went on with the story of how Sushi was staying with us. I told them that I wanted to try to make her feel more at home and they helped me memorize a couple of phrases in Korean. The next 12 holes were some of the most fun golfing I have ever had. The joking between all of us picked up and by the end of the round we were good buddies and hoped to play together again some time. Before I left I had to repeat the phrases 2 more times, just to be sure.

I got back to my hacienda around 10:30 in the morning with lox, bagels and cream cheese for breakfast. Entering the family room I saw Mrs. Commish in the kitchen but the kids were still upstairs. I yelled several of the phrases up the steps and Sushi came out smiling and saying, "What?" I repeated, "Pago pa? (Are you hungry?)" and the smile across her face was beautiful. She started to speak in Korean and I had to stop her because I was done after the 3 short phrases, but Sushi felt, finally, at home.

The rest of the phrases are gone from my memory bank now but I still smile every time I recall "Pago pa." If it hadn't been for the friendliness of other golfers I would have missed this memory and have been that much the poorer.

Are You Playing Golf as Often as You Used To?

2009-12-07T14:03:00.002-05:00

F.I.S.H. That's how I feel about the Tiger Woods incident. Time for The Commish to move on.

Are you playing as much golf as you did two or three years ago? We aren't.

I enjoy playing but for some reason it is getting harder to justify paying the increasing costs. The BGA used to play every Sunday morning at one of the local munis such as Rocky Point, Longview or Diamond Ridge. We would make tee times two weeks in advance and the four of us would show up at the crack of dawn and play a relatively quick 18. It was fun and on the way home I would pick up some bagels and be home in time for Mrs. Commish to wake up and have a late breakfast. Fees were under $20 and we would pull our walk-behind carts and have a good time. This time was blocked out in our schedules and we had family stuff planned around our golf games.

Then things changed, and not for the better.

Greens fees were increased to over $40 but they included a cart. This way Baltimore County could pretend that rates really had not increased very much since before greens fees and a cart were $37. After a year they began letting you walk again, but with no decrease in the fees. Now the Commish prefers to walk but if he has to pay for a cart then he is going to ride in a cart.

What this has meant is that we used to play 40 to 45 rounds a year as a foursome (at least 160 total rounds every year) and now we don't play at all on the weekends. We tried playing every other weekend or once a month but we could never get all of our schedules synchronized. Once the wives knew that we were not playing every Sunday at 6:00 a.m. they began planning what we would be doing on the weekends. It's not a knock on the wives because we in the BGA are such creatures of habit that we couldn't keep track of when we were to play and when we weren't either. It's a shame but for better or worse, the increased cost off golf has brought about the demise of our much beloved weekly game.

We have resisted losing our twilight BGA event at Mt. Pleasant Golf Course where we play a 9-hole round every week at 5:34 p.m. (give or take eight minutes). This has been going on since 1991 and even though we have to all take carts (or at least pay for them anyway) we are hanging on to this last vestige of not letting anything get in the way of our golfing. Long live the Race for the Cheeseburger.

Before going on with the rest of your day, please take a moment to remember this Day That Will Live in Infamy and those that lost their lives in the war that followed. Because of their sacrifice I can complain about the petty thing in life that bug me.

Tiger Would, If He Could

2009-12-03T08:41:00.020-05:00

Each year after The Myrtle Experience, the BGA has a certificate that is awarded to the player that has the lowest stroke/hole ratio. It is called "The Tiger Would If He Could Award." Obviously it kiddingly m0cks our golfing abilities because even the best among us is pretty doggone bad. This posting is not in that vane. Sadly I don't find much to be humorous about today. First of all, no matter how we feel personally about Tiger, he is not immune to having jokes made about him. In fact, some of them will soon be posted on the BGA website. I am, however, not posting all of them because, in my opinion, Elin and the cubs should not be subjected to ridicule.

Would Tiger take back all of the affairs (and I don't feel that the word "alleged" is necessary here) if he could? I would like to think that he would. However, on the radio this morning I heard an advertising executive saying that Tiger's endorsements would be solid with his major companies because the public (that's us, folks!) will come out in larger numbers than ever to see Tiger now that his "indiscretions" have created such "buzz." Does this make any sense to you? I'm ashamed for us that notoriety and celebrityhood hold such sway with us.

Tiger appears to be shameful of his actions being made public and in that shame I think we might find hope. Our society seems to have made shame an unnecessary emotion. You should not judge me, I am free to do as I wish. Therein, as is oft said, lies the rub.

Sadly this attitude carries over to what we expect from our political class. Our elected betters seem to try to outdo themselves in poor behavior. They are expected to be crooks and we poor fools who vote them in don't condemn them but instead we point out how much worse the other side was. We have become relativistic in our approach to behavior and in so doing we have lost our way. Bad is bad, not less bad or more bad, just bad!

Here in Baltimore our Mayor Sheila Dixon has been convicted of illegally using gift cards for herself that were intended for needy children. What has the reaction been? Sheila says no problem, she is going to continue doing the people's business just like before. Her supporters are encouraging people to come out this weekend and "show our support for our mayor." There is no apology, there is no thought of stepping down; there is no shame. Her actions now are aimed towards parsing the law to point out the technicalities of whether she used the cards in an official or unofficial capacity. One would allow her to remain in office, one would require her to step down. What's the difference? Bad is bad. If she "unofficially" used the cards for personal benefit am I to believe that her behavior is less shameful?

Back to Tiger Woods. I heard that Jaspar Parnivik is now sorry that he ever introduced Elin to Tiger. How he feels is up to him and I can see how he would be disappointed in Tiger's behavior but it is not his responsibility to screen Elin's choices. At some point in our lives we have to become responsible for our own decisions and choices.

Tiger has quite a job ahead of him rebuilding that trust he has lost with his wife. By being ashamed of his behavior I think it is an important first step to being forgiven and thereby attain redemption and acceptance. Shame does not have to be a permanent condition, but it does seem to be a vital stage if there is to be any real healing.

Look, Tiger is entitled to live his life as he wishes but he does not live in a vacuum and along with his actions there will be reactions. Unlike our elected betters, Tiger appears to be acknowledging that he behaved badly and has not tried to point out how much worse other athletes have behaved. In this I see hope.

Will I continue to watch Tiger on the golf course? Sure. He plays the game in a way that I can't even begin to. Will I look towards Tiger as a role model? No. Being a role model is not a choice, it is an honor and Tiger's behavior has not earned him that reward. Can he become a role model? Of course, but that shouldn't be his goal. His goal should be to heal his family. His cubs are still young enough to love him unconditionally. Healing his relationship with his wife (and don't forget his mother!) will be much harder. I wish him the best of luck in doing this and if he acts from his heart and not from some PR department directives, I think Tiger will give all of us a chance to forgive him. And that would make all of us just a little more human and humane.

As for all of our elected betters, fat chance they will ever change. Thank God for golf and the chance to make all of that political class irrelevant for a few hours.

From The Commish

2009-12-02T00:45:00.005-05:00

Welcome to the first blog from the Central Offices of the Bad Golfers Association. Since it is the off-season here in Baltimore, there is less to report than during the prime duffing season.

Usually at this time of year we are getting ready for our annual Myrtle Beach Experience; but, for the first time in almost 20 years it looks like the links at MB have nothing to fear from the intrepid Snowman, Commish, Mr. Fifteen , and, of course, Mr. FourSkin. The economy might have done what losing 127 balls in one trip couldn't...stop the BGA from their attempts to master the game of golf.

If you get a chance check out our website, www.BadGolfersAssociation.com. It is always under construction as we attempt to get more of our records and statistics out. Our purpose is not so much to mock ourselves as it is to celebrate the enjoyment of playing golf, even bad golf.

Remember our motto, "Drive for Show, Putt for Snow!"

Til next time, hit 'em straight or hit 'em crooked, just do it quickly.