And Happy Thanksgiving . .

Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen
- by O. Henry


There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we
Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat
saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old
pump looks than it used to. Bless the day. President Roosevelt gives
it to us. We hear some talk of the Puritans, but don't just remember
who they were. Bet we can lick 'em, anyhow, if they try to land
again. Plymouth Rocks? Well, that sounds more familiar. Lots of us
have had to come down to hens since the Turkey Trust got its work
in. But somebody in Washington is leaking out advance information
to 'em about these Thanksgiving proclamations.

I didn't sign up for this . .

My buddy and I stood waiting at the bottom of the stoop.  Sooner or later, we knew the door would open and it would be showtime.

When it did, I was hit for a moment; the visage of the woman standing behind the protection of her screen door wasn’t entirely unlike the one Owen was trying to get Larry to throw from the train.  But, it was time to be a man, so I launched in . . .
The reason we were there was our possession of credible evidence that her son had stolen my baseball glove.  Gilbert was there to back me up; although once I got going it wasn’t necessary for him to say anything.  I presented my case, and waited for the lady to react the way my Mom would have had it been some other kid standing at our door.  What I got next remains one of most unexpected and disturbing encounters I’ve ever had.  To my shock and complete bewilderment, she expressed absolutely no interest in determining the truth of my claim, but instead justified her son’s actions had he actually done the deed, saying there was nothing wrong with it because . . .

. . . someone had stolen his baseball glove.

Medical care - this guy's thoughts . . .

(This is a response to a debate held earlier today . . .)

Now then, as promised, some suggestions regarding health care and the issue of force.

Having established that force is always wrong, and cannot be part of a moral solution, we conclude that any moral solution must be based on voluntary relationships.
Before any solution can be formulated, the problem must be defined.  What are the problems with health care in the U.S.?  I suggest the following, with the request for any I have missed to be pointed out.

1.  It is too often prohibitively expensive.

2.  It is too often ineffective or deadly.

3.  It is too often haphazardly accessible.

My at-the-moment wish . . .

Sitting in the Great Room of Big Meadows Lodge, looking northwest over the valley that nestles the town of Stanley.  The sun will be insistent that I pay attention, but in time he will retire behind the escarpment rising from the valley floor 10 miles from my bare feet. 
I've given up reading; my love, my soul's bond with this place, can't be displaced by human authors.  I cannot be here, or even dwell on it at length from my room, without my heart overflowing with longing to stay here forever.  I have wonderful memories, some that have taken on a bitter-sweetness because I know that nothing will ever allow me to recreate any of those times.  At other times when I dream of this place, I wish that I could know all the things that have passed by as I have lived my days away from here.
I want to be a man with limitless means, one that can organize the most magical of Christmastimes for family and friends here.  My favorite musicians, my children, their children, and their children's children, those that I love, the one that I love, joining in the singing of carols as the children run about, all turning at once as they hear the cry "It's snowing!"
But now, I give old Sol a wry smile as I acknowledge his defeat without malice, and in the valley, lights begin to take over the old boy's task as dusk grows to darkness.
I stay for a long while.  I allow the overwhelming emotions to have their way as they flow like the eddies in a brook - contentment and regret, happiness and longing, anger at the injustice of growing old and satisfaction knowing I have eternal life, frustration at never really having been able to express the love that I wish people could accept without it seeming odd and gratitude that there have been just a few who have.
I long for the weather to do for me what it did my last time here - sweep in with fog and rainy clouds that obscure my vision of the magnificent vista as the sky grows dark, casting a seasonal cool on my room, then chasing it all away with a freshening wind during the night watch, so that I awake to a dawn view of the valley and a chill morning full of emotions made of spiced cider and maple sugar candy and the smell of the fire in the Great Room.  To again climb the stairs to the deck and encounter the sound of heart-filling music unspoiled by a human voice, a gift from the early morning keepers of this place, and the absence of another soul for these precious ten minutes . . .

Law abiding types have nothing to worry about?

The issue in the cartoon is gun control, so what's that about? If, for now, we leave aside the extrapolations that folks make, especially conservatives and libertarians, gun control refers to government action that is intended to reduce the possibility of the loss of innocent life as the result of the discharge of a firearm and to enhance the ability of law enforcement to determine the identity of an attacker who uses a gun in an assault. There is nothing wrong with this. In fact, if government doesn't do this, it is failing to carry out its only legitimate purpose, which is to protect people's property rights.
No person with sufficient intelligence to hold an opinion worth consideration would suggest that government should have no involvement in the manufacture, distribution, and possession of weaponry. This is true at all levels – national, state, and local.

It was the state pen that created his pen . . .

William Sydney Porter came along on September 11, 1862.  Born to a physician father and a mother who would die when he was three, William began a career as a pharmacist when he turned 19.  During his spare moments, he gained a reputation as an artist from his sketches of the townfolk.

If I ran for president . . .

. . . this is what I'd tell you.

In this election, I have absolutely no expectation to win.  I realize that every candidate for the office has traditionally spoken as if his election is a given, but I know better.  And the reason I know better is because I am fully aware - now - of the amount of ignorance and depravity among the American electorate.  Before our most recent travesty - an election that by all logic and intelligence should have seen the incumbent all but physically tossed from office in a popular vote landslide in spite of widespread voter fraud on the part of his operatives - I had thought the electorate would continue to respond as it has consistently done since the torment of the Carter years.