All Things Being Equal

Wow. There was actually a link on my Facebook Timeline that was NOT about the Supreme Court decision. It was an article about cats though, so it's okay.

Trending

The top three headlines in my Facebook "TRENDING" box are:

"World's Ugliest Dog"
"World's Handsomest Gorilla"
"Marriage Equality"

Don't send me any letters!

Quasi Modo

Shabani

A Happy Couple React To the News

Oh, What Tangled Webs We Weave

The government's AI super-computing network tracks the Uber self-driving cab, utilizing the next generation of GPS satellites that encircle the planet in high orbit, exactly 1.276 kilometers from your home, as the car seamlessly pulls into the pre-selected slot in the convenience store parking lot.

As you exit the car, the network follows you through the chips embedded in your shoes, clothes, and eyeglasses, the exactly 19.843 meters to the automatic entrance of the shop. A series of high resolution cameras, capable of observing, in minute detail, the pimple you popped on your forehead before leaving your house, atop traffic lights, lamp poles, and the store's surveillance system record your every movement up to the cloud, forever.

The store's internal cameras watch as you head to the cooler, remove a can of Cola Cola, and approach the check-out counter, in real time. There is no cashier, since the store is completely automated. Your purchase is totaled by the counter's built-in laser scanner, and you press the index finger of your right hand against the biometric reader. At the speed of light, your purchase is deducted from your IWA (Individual Wealth Account).

Information is now relayed to retail, manufacturing, and marketing third parties, and health insurance databases.

You re-enter the vehicle, settling into the luxurious full-interior cabin, equipped with multimedia electronics, and an integrated office suite. As you pop open the can of Cola Cola, the exact time is registered. The sliver-thin RFID (Radio Frequency Identification) chip incorporated into the aluminum shell registers fluid temperature and rate of consumption, and will continue tracking the can until it is recorded at a recycling station.

Welcome to the Internet of Things.

Kevin Ashton, a British visionary, and cofounder and executive director of the Auto-ID Center at MIT, first used the term “Internet of Things” in 1999. Ashton explained:

"If we had computers that knew everything there was to know about things - using data they gathered without any help from us - we would be able to track and count everything."

The Internet of Things, abbreviated as IoT, depends on the cloud-computing capacity of the IPv6 (Internet Protocol version 6), the most recent version of the communications protocol that provides an identification and location system for computers on networks and routes traffic across the Internet.

IPv6 was developed by the Internet Engineering Task Force (IETF), an international, membership-based, non-profit organization, to replace the limited capacity of the current IPv4 system.

IPv6’s huge increase in address space is integral to the Internet of Things. Steve Leibson, a docent at the Computer History Museum, explains: "The address space expansion means that we could assign an IPv6 address to every atom on the surface of the earth, and still have enough addresses left to do another 100+ earths.”

Essentially, an IP address could be assigned to every plant, animal, person, and product on the planet.

In recent news, Samsung's newest smart TV comes with this cryptic warning:

"Please be aware that if your spoken words include personal or other sensitive information, that information will be among the data captured and transmitted to a third party through your use of Voice Recognition."

Samsung's response to criticism regarding privacy issues was, "If a consumer consents and uses the voice recognition feature, voice data is provided to a third party during a requested voice command search. At that time, the voice data is sent to a server, which searches for the requested content then returns the desired content to the TV."

This is chillingly reminiscent of Chapter One, paragraph 5, of George Orwell's prophetic 1949 novel, "Nineteen Eighty-Four."

"The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it; moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plate commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time, but at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You have to live - did live, from habit that became instinct - in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized."

This eavesdropping capacity by "third parties," namely the government and "Big Data" mining brokers, extends to cellphones, PDAs, and tablets, which can record voices even when turned off, and cameras which can be remotely activated without your knowledge.

Every query asked of Siri and other voice recognition programs, every website visited, every music video, YouTube view, or TV show watched is duly recorded in-perpetuity.

Proponents of the Internet of Things contend that the measurement, collection, and analysis of behavioral statistics can be cross-correlated, and this data could revolutionize the targeted marketing of products and services.

Researchers note that "embedded intelligence" and "AI-oriented" cloud-computing will allow the leveraging of the capacity to collect and analyze the digital traces left by people when interacting with widely deployed smart things to discover knowledge about human life, and environment interaction, as well as social inter-connection and related behaviors.

However, the ACLU cautions, "There’s simply no way to forecast how these immense powers - disproportionately accumulating in the hands of corporations seeking financial advantage and governments craving ever more control - will be used. Chances are Big Data and the Internet of Things will make it harder for us to control our own lives, as we grow increasingly transparent to powerful corporations and government institutions that are becoming more opaque to us."

Further, concerns have been raised that the Internet of Things is being developed rapidly without appropriate consideration of the profound security challenges involved, and the regulatory changes that might be necessary. As the Internet of Things spreads widely, cyber attacks are likely to become an increasing threat.

Joseph Steinberg, who reports on cybersecurity issues for Forbes magazine, wrote in a January, 2014 article, "Internet-connected appliances can already spy on people in their own homes, including televisions, kitchen appliances, cameras, and thermostats. Computer-controlled devices in automobiles such as brakes, engine, locks, hood and truck releases, horn, heat, and dashboard have been shown to be vulnerable to attackers who have access to the onboard network."

An unclassified report from the U.S. National Intelligence Council states that it would be hard to deny "access to networks of sensors and remotely-controlled objects by enemies of the United States, criminals, and mischief makers. An open market for aggregated sensor data could serve the interests of commerce and security no less than it helps criminals and spies identify vulnerable targets."

While the Internet of Things will undoubtedly increase efficiency, reduce waste, improve products and services, and provide convenience, we will no longer maintain individuality. We will have the same value as an empty soda can.

Op-Ed

I am sick to death of the divisiveness in this country. A congregation is shattered by gunfire, and the conversation is over a piece of cloth. Our society is rapidly reverting to a feudal system not seen since the dark ages, and the debate is focused on gay marriage. Our bodies and our planet are being willfully poisoned by ruthless corporations, and the discussion turns to celebrity gossip.

Republicans and Democrats wage vicious public attacks against each other, yet behind closed doors the same money greases greedy palms.

One-hundred-and-fifty years later, the Civil War is still being fought.

The United States represents five-percent of the world's population, yet maintains twenty-five-percent of the world's prison population. Thousands of men and women, disproportionately young and black, languish in jail awaiting trial, or serving time for non-violent drug charges, while privatized prisons sue the government for underperformance of occupancy.

The failed and punitive "War On Drugs" is promulgated only to feed bodies into the maw of privatized prisons hungry for flesh.

The so-called one-percenters sneer from the decks of mega-yachts as the rest of us sink or swim in turbulent seas rapidly losing the ability to sustain life.

Only fools fight in a burning house, but religions stink of gasoline.

Those who believe in peace and love are pitted against those who believe in violence and hate.

We stand on the cusp of new technology that, depending on how it is used, will either liberate humanity or enslave it.

In the face of enlightenment stands the shadow of tyranny.

These are not new issues, but somehow the stakes seem higher than ever before.

It is constantly said that despite its ills, America is still the last best hope. If this is true, then sadly, I am forced to conclude that there is no hope.

Euphoria

“Well, Hawk, this is shaping up to be the Mother of All Bouts, wouldn't you say?”

“Yes, Bruce, I'd have to agree. Of course, there's been an incredible amount of hype attached to this fight and over seven months of buildup.”

“The Challenger, Salami Hussein, comes into tonight's match ranked fourth worldwide. Much of the debate revolving around Salami has to do with his last fight, which as you know, Hawk, went eight long rounds against a savage opponent, The Human Wave. The fight ended in a judge's decision when the referee determined that due to the condition of both belligerents, the continuation of the match was not in the best interests of the sport.”

“On the other hand, Bruce, the current World Champion, Old King Coalition, comes off a big win over Manuel “Up Your Canal” Bananiega.”

“Well, Hawk, it appears that the fight is about to get under way. Let's go now to center ring and tonight's referee, “Papa” Granda.”

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!

IN THIS CORNUH, weighing in at five hundred and forty-five thousands hounds, standing T-72 inches tall, hailing from the Cradle of Civilization, the contenduh, for fifteen rounds OF  championship boxing, wearing khaki turban and camouflaged ba'athrobe, thee Meatcutter of Mosul, SALAMI HUSSEIN!

“AND IN THIS CORNUH, weighing in at seven hundred and thirty-thousand hounds, standing B-52 inches tall, hailing from the Land of the Fee and the Moan of the Slave, the World Champeen, wearing a yellow ribbon and a thousand points of light, thee kinder, thee gentler, read his lips, “OLD KING COALITION!”

DING DING!

“As you see, Bruce, Salami is using the same strategy he employed in his fight with the Human Wave. He came right off the bell and confronted Old King Coalition head to head in the middle of the ring and there he has taken up a defensive posture. Now Old King Coalition moves in. He's circling Salami like a sandstorm, raining blows first upon Salami's head and now upon his breadbasket. Salami makes no response but stares defiantly. The blows seem to be taking little toll. How can Salami withstand such punishment?”

“Well, he is a battle-hard Salami. An interesting side note, Hawk, Salami means 'He Who Spits Up the Ass of a Camel.'”

“Thank you for that, Bruce. Old King Coalition continues to land hit after hit with impunity. Salami still maintains the capability to strike with a variety of counter-punches, and Salami has been known to intentionally foul, as when he ate the Kurds a-whey.”

“Old King Coalition is whirling like a dervish, jabbing, jabbing, without relief, Salami stands in the center of the ring, unblinking.”

“OH MY GOD! Hawk, did you see that? Salami has finally responded with the dreaded Scudpunch.”

“And this is what makes a fight with Salami so dangerous. He didn't even strike Old King Coalition. He hit an observer in the front row!”

“Yes, Hawk, that was none other than Kid Kibbutz, the scrappy little Mediterranean fighter, who is here in the audience tonight as a spectator.”

“Well, Bruce, Salami has always contended that Kid Kibbutz is secretly in Old King Coalition's corner.”

“Kid Kibbutz is back in his seat wearing his gas mask, so I assume he's OK. The referee, “Papa” Granda, is sanctioning Salami.”

“Bruce, this is all part of Salami's strategy. He commands an elite corps of trainers. His manager, Boris Garbagechef, propounds this style of fighting. But as I look in Salami's corner, I see Boris beginning to sweat, something he is not wont to do.”

“The fight is back underway and Old King Coalition pummels Salami with renewed vigor. OH NO! Salami has unleashed another Scudpunch, this time right at Old King Coalition, who deflects the blow with a Patriot Poke.”

I have to interrupt you Bruce, we're about to go live to Marlin Fishwater, Corporation Counsel for Old King Coalition, who is about to make a brief statement.”

“The liberation of Dedweight has begun. The exhibition proceeds on course and on schedule. You all received boxes of popcorn, cooked in burning oil, when you entered the theater of operations. And now we have some videotapes for you to watch.”

“Bruce, we now turn to CON Talking Head, Halfast Jargon, for analysis.”

“Thank you, Hawk. I recently talked to a top Racecourse source, and the smart money seems to be on 'Fog O'War.'”

“Bruce, we'll take a short break here for station identification of our local cable affiliates.”

Don't be caught without a hole to crawl in. Quiet, air-purified, safe and affordable, we offer a variety of steel-reinforced, concrete bunkers for every need. Call now and receive a free month's supply of bottled water and official U.S. Army MREs, just like the real soldiers eat. Call 1-800-ARCHIE, the first name in bunkers.

“Well, Bruce, we're back. Old King Coalition continues to clobber Salami from the left and the right. From the initial planning stages, Old King Coalition has put a lot at stake in these flanking maneuvers.”

“So one could say he has a flank stake?”

“That's correct, Bruce. Except for an occasional Scudpunch, which have been achieving marginal effect, Salami stands unmoved in mid ring. What can he possibly be up to, Bruce?”

“I wouldn't care to speculate at this time.”

“Bruises are now clearly visible about Salami's lower torso, one eye is blackened, and there's a line of blood across his cheekbone, and yet Old King Coalition seems unable to deliver the coup de grace.”

“Salami has a lot of garlic left in him yet. This may be far from over.”

“Old King Coalition is dancing to his own tune. He throws a Warthog Haymaker and now a B-52 Bolopunch. Salami appears to be showing the effects now. His head is lolling back and forth and drool is running down the corner of his mouth. Boris Garbagechef is frantically motioning to throw in the towel, but Salami remains defiant and on his feet. Old King Coalition is not satisfied. Wait! It looks like Old King Coalition has something in his hand. I think . . . yes . . . it's one of those new UN Resolution Razors with the patented, inflexible-head cartridges. Salami is trying to get back to his corner."

"OLD KING COALITION! . . . throws a sudden uppercut with the UN Resolution Razor . . . UNBELIEVABLE! . . . Old King Coalition has completely cut off Salami's regiments and is now stuffing them in Salami's mouth. It looks like his scudding days are over, ay, Bruce?”

“I'm not going to take that question at this time.”

DING DING!

“That's it, Bruce. Old King Coalition has scored a technical knockout. For reaction we now go to our CON Radio correspondent.”

“Hey, groovy GI Joe's and Jane's, dis iz da Wolfman Blitzer . . . .”

AKC: American Killing Club

A police officer responding to a medical emergency pulled his gun and fired at the family dog. Fortunately he missed the dog, but the bullet hit four-year-old Ava Ellis in the leg.

Columbus, Ohio police officer Jonathan Thomas claimed the dog ran at him, whereupon he drew and discharged his weapon.

Neighbor Gary Parsley said, "Everything happened really fast. I did hear the gunshot – it was very loud. At first I thought maybe he’d shot the dog, because she [Ava's mother, Andrea Ellis] was saying something about ‘Why would you try to shoot the dog?’ and he [Thomas] said something like the dog was attacking him, or something like that. Then, [Ellis] started saying ‘You shot my kid!’” 

A police spokeswoman seemed to make light of the situation by saying that the child was expected to make a full recovery.

Yes, after being shot by a uniformed law enforcement officer in an attempt to kill her pet, being rushed to the emergency room, undergoing emergency surgery, and spending her summer in bed recovering, instead of playing, her body may heal. But what about her mind?

Reports noted that Thomas, who is on paid administrative leave, was not injured.

“[The officer] was a big guy and they have Tasers and clubs and stuff. I don’t know why you would raise a gun. I really don’t agree with him just pulling his gun out and trying to shoot the dog,” added Parsley.

This incident follows closely on the heels of another incident, also in Ohio, when police responded to a 911 call about a suspicious person in the area.

In a story posted by Cassandra Fairbanks,"The incident took place when dog owner Tyler Muzzi saw a stranger walking around his neighbor’s home. Muzzi called police to check on the situation.

"Minutes later, police arrived and arrested the man who had by that time broken into the house. The situation seemed under control and without incident until Muzzi heard gunshots."

Officers then informed Muzzi that they had shot their dog which was leashed in the family's back yard. The police initially claimed they did not see the leash, but later recanted, stating that the officer did see the leash, but he "felt threatened."

It was reported that five-year-old Emma Muzzi has been feeding and sleeping with a clay figurine of a dog since Miller, the family's one-year-old golden retriever, was killed by three bullet wounds, two of which severed the animal's spine.

Muzzi stated, "My wife and I have been really upset about it. Just heartbroken. But Emma’s been really strong.”

Ozymandias Media, an independent watchdog organization, reported that, "law enforcement in the United States shoots a dog every 98 minutes."

Apparently dogs have about the same survival rate when confronted by law enforcement as young black men.

Miller and Emma Muzzi

[I had no sooner published this blog, when this article came to my intention. On TheWeek.com, under the heading, "INSULT TO INJURY," Bonnie Kristian filed this report:

Salt Lake City resident Sean Kendall's dog, Geist, was shot and killed by a police officer searching for a missing child in 2014. Following local uproar, the city offered Kendall a $10,000 settlement, which he rejected, arguing that, "It would be like, 'For $10,000 you can break into my backyard and kill my dog.' That's not right."

But if he wants to sue the cop responsible for Geist's death, Kendall will need much, much more than $10,000. That's because Utah law requires anyone who wants to sue the police to pay the officer's court costs and attorney fees up front — a bill that could easily run into the tens of thousands, and which would only be reimbursed should Kendall win his case.

Kendall's attorney, former Salt Lake City Mayor Rocky Anderson, argues this requirement "severely undermines the rule of law, while letting abusive law-enforcement officers off the hook for their violations of the state constitution and other state legal protections." Kendall currently awaits a court ruling on whether the legal fees law is unconstitutional.]

Highway Robbery

On August 30, 2013, I published a blog titled, "Who Can You Call When the Police Are the Ones Robbing You?

sjdgoingonrecord.blogspot.com/2013/08/who-can-you-call-when-police-are-ones.html

This expose featured the phenomenon of "civil asset forfeiture," the practice of federal, state, and local law enforcement seizing property of U.S. citizens, even in cases where no charges were filed.

Unfortunately, although there have been some attempts at reforms at the federal and state level, the practice continues unabated.

The laws regarding CAF, came into being during the 1980s in response to drug trafficking and the consequent money laundering involved.

Mark Overton is currently the police chief in Bal Harbour, Florida, and formerly served as the head of a federal drug task force in South Florida. “Those laws were meant to take a guy out for selling $1 million in cocaine or who was trying to launder large amounts of money. It was never meant for a street cop to take a few thousand dollars from a driver by the side of the road,” he said.

Private companies have sprung up across the nation that train police in the techniques of "highway interdiction." Anything can trigger a traffic stop, and once pulled over, law enforcers can seize all property in your car, on your person, or even the car itself, without citing an infraction. Such things as tinted windows, air fresheners, energy drinks, and even fast food wrappers (suspicion of munchies caused by marijuana use) are enough to justify the confiscations.

CAF is such a windfall for police departments that an online network allows officers to brag about their seizures and share "trophy shots" of cash, drugs, jewelry, cellphones, tablets, and other electronics.

Ginnifer Hency suffers from multiple sclerosis. On the advice of her neurologist, Hency began using medical marijuana, which is legal in her state of Michigan. She is also a registered caregiver who under Michigan law is allowed to transport and distribute marijuana to other patients covered by statute.

Even though Hency was in full compliance with Michigan law, a DEA task force raided her home, with children present, and confiscated every belonging in her house.

Although a St. Clair County judge dropped the charges against Hency, law enforcement officials have refused to give back her belongings.

“They have had my stuff for 10 months, my ladder, my iPad, my children’s iPads, my children’s phones, my medicine for my patients. Why a ladder? Why my vibrator?”

The most recent case to reach mainstream attention is that of Joseph Rivers. Rivers, a 22 year old black man, was traveling by Amtrak from his home in Michigan to Los Angeles to seek his dream - producing music videos. Towards this end, Rivers had worked and saved for years, and family members, who believed in him, scraped up some hard-earned money in support.

Rivers, as a young, black male had had trouble in the past dealing with banks, and he had his entire nest-egg of $16,000 in cash with him on April 15th, when a DEA agent boarded the train at the Albuquerque, New Mexico station, and began questioning travelers about where they were going and why.

When Rivers informed the agent that he was headed for California to start a business, Rivers consented to a search of his belongings. The agent seized the cash.

Rivers remarked, "The officer decided to take my money because he stated that he believed that the money was involved in some type of narcotic activity. This officer took everything that I had worked so hard to save and even money that was given to me by family that believed in me. I told him I had no money and no means to survive in Los Angeles if they took my money. He informed me that it was my responsibility to figure out how I was going to do that.”

Rivers was never charged with a crime.

"We don’t have to prove that the person is guilty," said the Albuquerque DEA agent. "It’s that the money is presumed to be guilty."

Rivers' attorney, Michael Pancer, said, “What this is, is having your money stolen by a federal agent acting under the color of law. Rivers was the only passenger singled out for a search by DEA agents – and the only black person on his portion of the train."

A fellow passenger who witnessed the encounter, provided Rivers with the means to return home to Michigan, his dream seized by the state.

In fiscal year 2014, Justice Department agencies made a total of $3.9 billion in civil asset seizures, versus only $679 million in criminal asset seizures.

Another case that made national headlines occurred in April of 2013. Two professional poker players were stopped by Iowa state troopers as they traveled west on Interstate 80. The officers seized over $100,000. The state police then contacted authorities in the gamblers home state of California, who raided the men's homes, confiscating even more property.

In addition to monetary loss, however, the victims of CAF, also lose peace of mind. One of the poker players, William Davis, said, "It has had widespread and deep impacts on my life, It's my primary focus right now. It's made me aware of the things I was unaware of. And made me angry."

In an article about Joseph Rivers, in the Albuquerque Journal from Wednesday, May 6, 2015, reporter Joline Gutierrez Krueger observed, "Agencies like the DEA can confiscate money or property if they have a hunch, a suspicion, a notion that maybe, possibly, perhaps the items are connected with narcotics. Or something else illegal."

Or nothing at all.

Like the long arm of the law, the tentacles of civil asset forfeiture can grasp anyone the government sets its sights on.

Lyndon McLellan, the owner of a gas station/convenience store/diner in North Carolina received an urgent call from his store manager one day in July, 2014. McLellan arrived at his business to find more than a dozen officers from the NC Alcohol and Law Enforcement Bureau, the local police department, and the FBI waiting for him.

Two FBI special agents informed McLellan that he was being charged with "structuring." The agents produced paperwork which showed two deposits to the store’s account at Lumbee Guaranty Bank made within a 24-hour period totaling $11,400. The statements indicated he had a history of consistent cash deposits of less than $10,000, which is illegal. He was then informed that his bank account, with assets of $107,702.66, had been seized by the IRS. A call to his bank confirmed the seizure.

Structuring is another facet of civil asset forfeiture. Again, originally put in place to catch illegal money laundering from drug trafficking, the government now has it both ways. Banks must submit reports to the Department of the Treasury for cash deposits of more than $10,000, but the government also receives “suspicious activity reports” on deposits below that amount.

McLellan’s attorney, Robert Johnson, said this was how McLellan “came onto the government’s radar.”

Johnson, who is also a lawyer for the Institute for Justice, continued, “The government has a financial incentive to broadly apply the forfeiture laws. When an agency like the IRS takes money under the forfeiture laws, that money goes back into the pockets of the agency and it’s available to the IRS to fund law enforcement activities without appropriation from Congress. It’s a powerful incentive for law enforcement to abuse civil forfeiture laws.”

The government offered McLellan a settlement deal to return 50% of his money. Such deals are commonplace as most victims either do not or cannot afford to hire attorneys or fight in court for years for the return of their property.

Lee McGrath, legislative counsel, again for the Institute for Justice remarked, "Forfeiture gives law enforcement and other members of the executive branch the sword and the purse. When those two combine, there is a high probability of corruption.”

Jason Snead, a Heritage Foundation research associate, stated, “In criminal cases, defendants are innocent until proven guilty. Civil forfeiture cases flip this basic legal tenet on its head. Once the government shows that your property is subject to forfeiture, the burden is on you as the owner to disprove the government. In effect, you are asked to prove your own innocence in order to win back your property. That is a high hurdle to clear.”

Steve Wilson of Mississippi Watchdog.org reports, "The Mississippi city of Richland has a new $4.1 million police station, a top-level training center and a fleet of black-and-white Dodge Charger police cars. All of it paid for through civil forfeitures of property and cash seized during traffic stops."

Wilson further reports, "Richland’s four-officer interdiction team has racked up huge forfeiture numbers. In 2014, the team seized $506,400 in cash and property, helping boost the city’s civil forfeiture account to more than $2.3 million. The city also reported $400,000 in revenue from fines and court costs. Those numbers are actually down from past years. In 2013, the department seized more than $1.2 million in cash and property."

Deputy Ron Hain of Kane County, Illinois, only minutes from where I live, commented, “All of our home towns are sitting on a tax-liberating gold mine.”

Hain is a marketing consultant for Desert Snow, a leading interdiction training firm based in Guthrie, Oklahoma.

A Washington Post investigation into CAF found that in "case after case, highway interdictors appeared to follow a similar script. Police set up what amounted to rolling checkpoints on busy highways and pulled over motorists for minor violations, such as following too closely or improper signaling. They quickly issued warnings or tickets. They studied drivers for signs of nervousness, including pulsing carotid arteries, clenched jaws and perspiration."

The Post failed to note that such symptoms would be a natural reaction to any traffic stop when a civilian is confronted by a uniformed, armed officer.

The investigation went on to describe how the process can work in the field:

In December 2012, David Frye, the full-time lead trainer with Desert Snow was working in his capacity as a part-time deputy with the Seward County, Nebraska Sheriff’s Office. He pulled over John Anderson of San Clemente, California, who was driving a BMW on Interstate 80 near Lincoln. Frye issued a warning ticket within 13 minutes for failing to signal promptly when changing lanes.

He told Anderson he was finished with the stop. But Frye later noted in court papers that he found several indicators of possible suspicious activity: an air freshener, a radar detector and inconsistencies in the driver’s description of his travels.

The officer then asked whether the driver had any cocaine, methamphetamine, heroin or large amounts of cash and sought permission to search the BMW, according to a video of the stop. Anderson denied having drugs or large amounts of cash in his car. He declined to give permission for a search. Frye then radioed for a drug-sniffing dog, and the driver had to wait another 36 minutes for the dog to arrive.

“I’m just going to, basically, have you wait here,” Frye told Anderson.

The dog arrived and the handler said it indicated the presence of drugs. But when they searched the car, none was found. They did find money: $25,180.

Frye handcuffed Anderson and told him he was placing him under arrest.

“In Nebraska, drug currency is illegal,” Frye said. “Let me tell you something, I’ve seized millions out here. When I say that, I mean millions.... This is what I do.”

Frye suggested to Anderson that he might not have been aware of the money in his vehicle and began pressing him to sign a waiver relinquishing the cash, mentioning it at least five times over the next hour, the video shows.

“You’re going to be given an opportunity to disclaim the currency,” Frye told Anderson. “To sign a form that says, ‘That is not my money. I don’t know anything about it. I don’t want to know anything about it. I don’t want to come back to court.'”

Frye said that unless the driver agreed to give up the money, a prosecutor would “want to charge” him with a crime, “so that means you’ll go to jail.”

An hour and six minutes into the stop, Frye read Anderson his Miranda rights.

These are but a small sample of some high profile cases. The vast majority of seizures are in small amounts taken from people during routine traffic stops. It has reached a point in this country where a law enforcement officer can arbitrarily invent a reason for stopping anyone, and arbitrarily invent a reason for suspicion allowing a search and seizure at will, with high stakes incentive to do so.

It's high time civil asset forfeiture was on the public's radar.

Photo by Steve Wilson

Richland, Mississippi's new $4.1 million police station

funded entirely through civil asset forfeiture

It's Not the Right Time. No One Has Sweet Potato Pie At This Time.

There are many foods that seem seasonal. Sweet potatoes fall into this unfortunate category, along with pumpkins, turkey, cranberries, eggnog, and watermelon.

One of my favorite desserts is sweet potato pie. I usually make it on Thanksgiving itself, peeling the roasted sweet potatoes, burning my fingers in the process, and when I'm in my Martha Stewart mode, cutting-in and rolling a scratch crust. I buy fresh jars of spices and mix in cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and ginger. But I wanted to see if I could come up with an easy sweet potato pie recipe that still comes close to homemade.

I cut out the step of working with raw sweet potatoes by using canned yams, and skipped dealing with pie dough by using a graham cracker crust. I substituted pumpkin pie spice for the individual seasonings. The idea of using canned yams in a pie is not original, but this is the recipe I came up with.

After the pie cooled, we refrigerated it for a couple of hours before we sliced it. The result was nothing short of fabulous. The pie was as rich and satisfying as any sweet potato pie I've ever had, but it was light and refreshing (which is not a word generally associated with sweet potato pie).

All the ingredients were perfectly balanced, and there are not enough "o"s in smoooooooth to describe the sweet potato custard. Sometimes people add too much spice to sweet potato pie and it tastes like pumpkin pie, but in this recipe, the sweet potato flavor was front and center. Plus the graham cracker crust paired beautifully with the filling. I'd be proud to serve this pie at my Thanksgiving table.

Or I may just have it again next Tuesday.

Steve's Anytime Sweet Potato Pie

Serves six

Keebler Extra-Serving Graham Cracker Crust

40 oz. canned yams in light syrup, drained

1/4 cup packed light brown sugar

2 large eggs, lightly beaten

1/2 cup heavy whipping cream

1 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice

Canned whipped cream for garnish

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. In large bowl, mash drained yams with potato masher. Continuing with potato masher, mix in sugar. Mix in eggs. Mix in pumpkin pie spice. Mix in whipping cream. With rubber spatula give a quick stir incorporating sides and bottom of bowl. Pour custard into crust, scraping down sides. This recipe fills the extra-serving size crust perfectly.

Place in center of oven for 45 minutes. Test for doneness with butter knife inserted into center of pie. Knife should come out clean, but do not overcook. Pie will continue to set as it rests. Cool on wire rack. Serve chilled or at room temperature. Top with canned whipped cream.

A Celebration of Life

Happy National Cancer Survivors Day!

I'm not sure "happy" is the right word for National Cancer Survivors Day, because everyone who is a survivor had to undergo some aspect of diagnosis, surgery, chemo, radiation, and healing. All too often this is accompanied by job loss, financial hardship, and bankruptcy (even with insurance). Depression is commonplace.

I am a two-time survivor. My first experience was with testicular cancer. I had my right testicle removed, and during radiation treatment, I had to encapsulate my (remaining) private parts in a lead ball.

I finished treatment for my second go-round, this time with lymphoma, in February. Since I am a paraplegic from an unrelated disease, I had the added burden of traveling to and from the hospital (several counties away from my home) every day, and transferring onto and off off exam and treatment tables from my wheelchair.

Thankfully I am well, all things considered. I am surrounded by love from my family, friends, wife, sons, daughter-in-law, grandchildren, and cat. I am grateful every single day for my home, food on the table, and ability to express my thankfulness with others.

Every cancer survivors' journey is unique, yet we, and our caregivers, share a bond of empathy and compassion. So, by that token, I will wish my brethren and sisters who have fought and won the battle with the Big C, a Happy National Cancer Survivors Day.

www.ncsd.org (The Official Website of National Cancer Survivors Day )

Acknowledgements

Thank you to those people who have had a tremendous effect on my life - Walt Disney, J.R.R. Tolkien, Uriah Heep, Harlan Ellison, and Martha Stewart.

When I was growing up, summer vacation meant a trip to California. Not only a trip, but a train trip! During the 1960s, travel by rail was still the way to fly, and such names as the Santa Fe Super Chief and the San Francisco Zephyr fired the imagination with the promise of untold adventure. This was way before the government had to step in and nationalize the passenger train system, and the AT&SF (Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe) still ran from coast to coast.

We boarded at the grand, old, cathedral-like, Joliet train station, that stood at the junction of a north-south and east-west crossing. We played among the tall wooden benches in the nearly deserted main hall, and studied the Arrivals and Departures board that was still filled in by hand with white chalk. We talked to the ancient, black baggage master, and followed the large, antique luggage cart, making sure our suitcases were securely perched on top. We stood at the very edge of the platform and watched for the engine to appear in the distance.

I remember having a sleeping compartment only once and it was cramped and inconvenient. I much preferred traveling by coach. The freedom of movement, the camaraderie with fellow passengers, eating in the dining car, spending the day in the club car playing cards and watching the endless scenery roll by, and the stop in Albuquerque where we were allowed to get off the train and buy handicrafts from actual Indians (they were not Native Americans in those days). My brother and I loved hanging out with the porters as they stood by the open windows in the lower baggage compartments.

One year, when I was thirteen, I wrote a poem my parents suggested I submit to Santa Fe. They had a full-color employee magazine and a short while later I received a letter on corporate stationery to congratulate me and inform me they were publishing the poem. I received a complimentary copy of the magazine, that alas I no longer have. I do remember the poem started, "Trains are better the boats I think / because a train is hard to sink.…"

Our excitement rose as palm trees and stucco buildings replaced the cactus and adobe shacks of the desert. When we disembarked at the Pasadena train station, we could still feel the swaying of the cars as we ran to greet our grandparents.

My mom's whole family lived in southern California: Great-aunts Ann, Esther, Kitty, and Jean; her husband Great-uncle Bill, an early settler of the state; my mom's older brother, her only sibling, Uncle Howard, a Korean War vet, LA County juvenile probation officer, and philatelist; Aunt Lynn, famous for her super-fresh peach pie; and my cousins Sabra (a kissing cousin), and Shawn, who could walk on his toes.

We stayed with my mom's parents, Grandma Rose and Grandpa Irv, who managed an apartment complex in Canoga Park, a suburb of LA. My mom took the guest room, and the five of us kids took turns sleeping on hide-a-beds, couches, or wrapped in blankets on the floor. We lived like the Angelinos, swimming in the pool with the other residents, grocery shopping at Ralph's, and running barefoot with the kids from the neighborhood.

My dad was a young lawyer at the time, and he could only be away from the office for a few weeks. He would drive by himself cross country and meet us out there. That short time was a non-stop whirlwind of all the fun-filled tourist attractions a kid could want. Knott's Berry Farm, Magic Mountain, Farmer's Market, excursions to San Francisco and rugged Big Sur in the north, and San Diego and Tijuana, Mexico in the south. But the big one for sure was Disneyland, the uncontested "Happiest Place On Earth." Then he'd head back, and we'd finish our stay. At the time, I had no idea of the sacrifice he made in money, time, physical endurance, and loneliness.

Walt Disney was a genius.

Many people say Disney bastardized our culture. Some say he was a bastard to work for. I say, more power to him.

When he began building Disneyland in 1954, it was called "Walt's Folly." When Disneyland opened in 1955, it was called "the world's biggest toy for the world's biggest boy."

I loved the place. One of the fondest memories any kid could have is boarding the Disneyland and Alweg Monorail in the parking lot, gliding around the Matterhorn, and swooping over the Submarine Lagoon into Tomorrowland.

From there it was like being a kid in a candy shop of imagination. One minute you're staring into a giant eyeball as you're being studied under a microscope on the Adventure Thru Inner Space presented by Monsanto, and a few minutes later be on a launch in deepest Africa surrounded by hippos wiggling their ears.

As I've written previously, my childhood was not a happy one. The Disney parks embodied the way life was meant to be lived. History and learning were made fun, adventure was made accessible, magic and fantasy were made palpable, and the hope of a better tomorrow was made possible.

Disneyland, and later Walt Disney World, were not dreams to me. They were my only reality.

By 1973, my junior year of high school, I was deeply entrenched in the counterculture. I now had friends who shared common bonds of music and partying. I was no longer at the whim of bullies. I let my hair grow wild, and learned how to mentally and physically handle myself. Even with, or because of, my drug use, I excelled in school. Due to my double-promotion in grade school, I was only fifteen years old, but I was doing work at the college level. In fact, for my senior year English class, the school implemented a special independent-study program for me and three other students.

[As previously detailed in this blog, for my self-study period, I sat in the back of Ms. Brown's junior year honors English class. For their final assignment, and a large part of their grade, each student in the class had to give a ten to twenty minute presentation based on a piece of original creative writing. There were no criteria, and each student was allowed and encouraged to include audio-visual aids and anything else they could think of. The few of us in the self-study group were also required to do the assignment.

Most of the kids simply read their poems and essays, several had artwork and poster boards to support their projects, but I had informed Ms. Brown that I would need the entire period for my project, and would need a pass from class for the previous period to set up my presentation.

The students filed in to the classroom to find all the shades drawn, and a large table set up in the front of the room with all kinds of strange equipment. As class began, the lights were turned off, and two flicker bulbs came on framing an easel that displayed illustrations by my friend Jack. Gordon, hidden behind the easel, cued up a track from a Uriah Heep album. As the song ended, I lit a candle on the podium I stood behind, and read my story called "Nightmares of the Mind," a Tolkienesque walk on the dark side.

After each section of my story, Jack would flip over the next illustration, and Gordon would cue up another song. We had so timed it, that the last song was playing when the bell rang. The astonished students filed out to the closing strains of Blue Oyster Cult's "Astronomy."

Each student presentation was followed by a brief discussion and feedback session, including final comments by Ms. Brown. But the next day, class commenced with the next series of projects, and for whatever reason or circumstances, I was denied the opportunity to receive feedback on my project. The fact that I received an A for the project, and for the class, did little to assuage the feeling of disappointment.]

One day, in my third year, my young, attractive, English teacher, Ms. Buczyna, asked me to stay after class. I rapidly scanned my memory for whatever possible trouble I could be in, and came up blank. My hormone-driven, adolescent brain then conjured fantasies of illicit trysts and being taught the ways of love by an experienced woman. As my classmates filed out, I quickly realized neither of these were the case. The reality turned out to be better than I could ever have imagined.

Ms. Buczyna handed me a well-thumbed, paperback book, and simply said it wasn't on the reading list, but she thought I might enjoy it. I looked at the cover. The title was The Hobbit by an author named J.R.R. Tolkien.

The rest, as they say, is history. The mind-blowing, eye-opening trilogy that followed this “childrens” story shaped and inspired my worldview and writing style in ways that reverberate to this day.

At the start of my senior year in September of 1974, Ms. Buczyna sponsored a new extracurricular group called The Tolkien Society, and I became its first president. About a dozen kids signed up, and we met every other week to discuss Tolkien's writings.

It so happened that the entire freshman and sophomore class were called into an assembly in the auditorium to hear from representatives of the school's sports teams and clubs. I was asked to give a brief introduction about the Society. My friend Jack wanted to get out of his gym class to attend the assembly, so he and I approached the gym teacher Mr. Kraznowski, an old-school drill sergeant. I explained about the assembly, and that I was scheduled to talk about The Tolkien Society. Mr. K asked, "What do you do at the Tolkien Society?" and without missing a beat, Jack spouted out, "We toke!"

I cringed, and Mr. K didn't think it was funny, but he signed Jack out of class anyway. Student leader after student leader, got up before the assembly and described what each team and organization did, extolling the benefits and virtues of each. Finally it was my turn, and I got up and delivered a fifteen minute speech about "pipeweed."

As I left the stage, most of the teachers and students sat stunned, except for a smattering of applause and giggles. The next period, I was called to the office of the vice-principal, the school's chief disciplinarian, who informed me that I was getting a one week suspension for my speech, and it was going on my PERMANENT RECORD!

When my dad found out what happened that evening he went berserk. Only this time his fury was not bent on me, but on the school. He stormed into the office the next morning with me in tow and demanded to see the principal, Mr. Scheid. My dad and Mr. Scheid knew each other, not only from my father's frequent summons to the school on my behalf, but also from outside community activities where my dad did pro bono work.

The secretary started to give my dad lip service about needing an appointment, and my dad told her to just tell the principal Mr. Dunn wants to see him. The secretary did as she was told, and we were immediately ushered into his office. Mr. Scheid was aware of the situation and explained the school's position, but my dad immediately took the offensive and told the principal that if the suspension, and the notation in my PERMANENT RECORD were not immediately expunged, he would file a civil suit in federal court for violation of my 1st Amendment rights. Of course, nowadays, students have no rights. Mr. Scheid revoked the suspension, and I returned to class.

One of my major regrets in life stemmed from my senior yearbook. For some reason, either playing hookey at home, or cutting class, I was not in school when they sent around a sheet requesting each student to fill in what school affiliations and honors they would like printed underneath their photos in the yearbook. When I returned to school, no one called this to my attention.

In addition to serving as president of The Tolkien Society, I was also a member of the honor society, the chess club, the AV club, a library volunteer, and a participant in the self-study program. But when the yearbook came out, and even the biggest slackers in the class had things written under their pictures, the space under my photo was glaringly, embarrassingly, unjustly, everlastingly blank.

I am embittered at the school, at myself, and at fate to this day.

Before I went to college and became exposed to more groups and styles of music than I ever dreamed existed, Uriah Heep was my favorite band, right down to the Roger Dean album covers. The Demons and Wizards album featured such songs as, "The Wizard," "Traveler in Time," "Rainbow Demon," and "The Spell." Their follow up record, Magician's Birthday, continued the dungeons and dragons theme, before the phrase was even coined, and inspired a personal ritual I still look back on with fond memories.

I would turn on the blacklight, queue up the album, lie in my bed (my brother and I shared a room, and I had the upper bunk), and fire up what I reefered to (get it – 'reefer'ed to) as a “Magician's Birthday Joint,” a fat doobie, perfectly rolled, usually in fruit flavored papers. My mind would range over vast landscapes, carried by the music and the smoke. High times, indeed.

Although the heavy medal music drew me to the band, there was much more to this versatile group. In 1971 Uriah Heep released their second album, Salisbury. It contained enough heavy metal and rock ballads to satisfy the fans of the first album, but it also featured the sixteen-minute and seventeen-second title track. This orchestral composition served as a showcase for the band's talents collectively and individually.

Paul Newton's bass work throughout the entire piece is phenomenal, a perfect symbiosis with Keith Baker's drums. Brass and woodwinds surround the percussion, opening the gates for keyboard impresario, Ken Hensley to take the stage. Thus is the multi-textured canvas upon which lead vocalist, David Byron, paints this simple picture of love won and lost with passion. He uses the power of his voice as a counterpoint to Mick Box's extended guitar solo that is nothing short of awesome.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=QQBSeclvMV8 (Salisbury)

“Come Away Melinda,” written in 1963 by Fred Hellerman and Fran Minkoff of the Weavers, is one of the most powerful anti-war ballads ever written. The song has been performed by Harry Belafonte, Judy Collins, Mama Cass, Kenny Rankin, Tim Rose, Bobbie Gentry, and UFO. But in my opinion, the best cover by far is the haunting track on the album ...Very 'Eavy ...Very 'Umble by Uriah Heep and the plaintive vocals of front man David Byron.

There is some discussion as to whether the song was written about WWI, WWII, or possibly the aftermath of a future WWIII. To me, it is no matter. This sweet, sad song should be listened to by every parent, and every president before sending people off to war.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kmbw2RRGGbk (Come Away Melinda)

Uriah Heep still has a large and devoted cult following. They continue to tour and release new material. But my son, who grew up hearing and enjoying their music, recently pointed out that they do not have a social media presence. In online discussions and threads that refer to 70s bands, Uriah Heep is not one of the names that comes up.

It should be mentioned that David Byron died of alcohol related complications at his home in Reading, England, on Thursday, February 28, 1985. He was 38 years old. His death was barely noted in the music press.

College opened the floodgates to new experiences and ways of thinking that challenged my eager, young mind. During this formative time, my roommate introduced me to a short story writer named Harlan Ellison. By the time I “discovered” him, Ellison was an established author in the sci-fi genre, and had penned the Star Trek script for, "The City on the Edge of Forever," which won the 1968 Hugo Award for Best Dramatic Presentation, and is one of the most critically acclaimed episodes of the series. The only problem was he didn't write science-fiction.

Ellison, who refuses to be pigeonholed, has largely been pigeonholed as a writer of "speculative fiction."

Speculative fiction is a broad literary genre encompassing writing with supernatural, fantastical, or futuristic elements. Wikipedia explains that in its broadest sense, speculative fiction captures both a conscious and unconscious aspect of human psychology in making sense of the world, reacting to it, and creating imaginary, inventive, and artistic expressions, some of which underlie social and cultural movements, scientific research and advances, and philosophy of science.

The written history of speculative fiction began with the works of the ancient Greek dramatist, Euripides. William Shakespeare explored the genre in "A Midsummer Night's Dream," and Tolkien's writing falls under this umbrella.

All young writers exposed to Ellison fall into the trap of trying to write like him, most with minimal success, and many never being able to move beyond Ellison and develop their own voice. I sincerely hope, by the time you have gotten this far in the blog, you will determine that I have succeeded.

My writing, as juvenile as it was, was already outside the box, but under Ellison's tutelage, the box was set aflame, so that the constraints of the corrugated paper walls transformed into so many flakes of ash borne away on the breath of exhaled pot smoke. And this does not take into account the striped cats that leaped from the box and chased each other around my writing desk in a blur until they melted into butter that I spread on my pancakes. But that's another story.

Ellison exhibits a take-no-prisoners approach in his personal and professional life. He does not suffer fools, and as he says on his website, “Copying or distributing any part of this piece for personal use, commercial use, or any other use you can come up with is strictly forbidden. Breaking this rule will result in the author coming down on you like the proverbial Hand of God or, barring the author finding out, your being forced to spend 15,000 years in Purgatory watching the same three episodes of 'Perfect Strangers.'" I had actually intended to use a short passage from one of his essays as the epigraph to this book, but my written request for permission went unanswered. In a fit of pique, I considered removing this acknowledgment, but his influence cannot be so easily denied or dismissed.

I am known as Holidayman. I take great pride in that. As all my friends and family, and especially my son Nik, who has to do all the heavy lifting, know, I take it seriously. I owe it all to a brave woman named Martha Stewart.

Martha is a woman for whom I have the utmost respect. I've heard her referred to as a lifestyle guru, and I have loved her since her first PBS special in 1986. The Thanksgiving themed show featured pumpkin-squash soup served in a hollowed-out pumpkin, pumpkin pie with a baked pastry-dough leaf on top, a warm root vegetable salad, and a magnificent puff pastry wrapped turkey. But what resonated even more with me than the over-the-top recipes, was her passion for collecting and decorating. Passions I shared. "I'm a firm believer in displaying one's collections and one's accumulations of things.... It's...fun to have them out so everybody can enjoy them," she said, and I became a firm believer in her.

During the show, Martha took out a beautiful yellow ceramic bowl, proceeded to fill it with bread cubes, and then kept adding ingredients: sauteed veggies, porcini mushrooms soaked in cognac, Italian sausage balls, piles of fresh herbs, diced apples, and lightly beaten eggs till the ridiculous mound was double the height of the bowl.

She then somehow managed to thoroughly mix the stuffing without spilling one homemade bread cube.

So now, whenever my wife or I overfill a bowl, we call out, "Hey, you're pulling a Martha Stewart!"

www.youtube.com/watch?v=FmGLBn1CNDE (Holiday Entertaining with Martha Stewart (1986), Part 1)

She also visited a cranberry bog. In late September of 1993, we went up to northern Wisconsin, to enjoy the fall color, pick up some cheeses, and visit the Three Lakes Winery, where we got to sample and select fruit wines for the holidays. We decided to take the boys on a bog tour.

We boarded a big, yellow school bus at the entrance to the vast cranberry farm, and made our way to the back as the bus filled with senior citizens.

You have to understand how cranberry bogs are set up to appreciate the situation. There are large square or rectangular areas that contain the cranberry plants. They look sort of like vines running along the ground. Along the side of the plant areas are deep ditches filled with water. A narrow, raised sand berm runs between the ditches. In the fall, for harvesting, a sluice is opened and the water floods the fields of cranberry vines. The water causes the buoyant berries to float to the surface (still attached to the vines) and the harvesters "comb" out the berries and herd them to the collection area.

We got underway, and soon the bus was driving down the raised sand road and the driver was explaining about the bogs and that the ditches on both side of us were 10' deep and currently filled with water.

I was on the left side of the bus with Nik, and Shellie was on the right side with Ben. I was looking out the window when Shellie said, "We're getting awfully close to the edge over here."

"Don't worry about it," I said. "The driver knows what he's doing."

A moment later she said, "Hon, I'm not kidding. I think we're going over the edge."

At that instant, the front of the bus swung out and tipped to the right. I could feel the back of the bus slipping and tilting up.

The front exit was useless because it now hung over a ten-foot moat. I jumped up and popped the rear emergency exit. I climbed down with difficulty and turned around. The floor of the bus was at my chest level. Shellie handed me the boys and I set them down, and then taking her under the armpits, lifted her down. I took the boys hands and started moving away from the bus, but Shellie said, "Steve, those people can't climb down by themselves. You're going to have to help them."

I had smoked a little bit of pot before arriving for the tour, and all I wanted to do was keep to myself, look out the windows, and enjoy the tour. But I suddenly found myself coming in extremely personal contact with every person on the bus.

As each of the elderly tourists approached the exit, I grabbed them by the arms, or around the waist and set them roughly on the ground, telling them to back away. Some of the men tried climbing down, but I grabbed them like the others to get them out of the way. I knew the bus could go over at any time, and I wasn't sure I could repeatedly dive into the freezing water to rescue those trapped below.

Finally, like the captain of a ship, the wide-eyed and speechless driver appeared in the doorway, and as I helped him down, I said, "Is everyone off?" All he could do was nod.

I walked to the front of the bus, and was shocked at the precariousness of the situation. It was a miracle no one was killed. We all ambled around as we waited for a tractor to pull the bus back on the road. I was truly the man of the hour. Many people wanted to take my picture in front of the bus, and a few of them asked for my name and address. (I did, in fact, receive several thank you notes and copies of photographs.)

While I was standing up front, noting that one hand laid on the side could send the whole thing over the edge, Ben looked up at me and whispered, "Dad, push it in!"

I was tempted, but decided that would NOT be a good lesson in parenting.

In her book, Mona Lisa - A Life Discovered, Dianne Hales writes, "According to the nineteenth-century scholar Jacob Burckhardt, this historical period [the Renaissance] ushered in the first attempts 'consciously to make of the household a well-regulated matter, nay, to make it a work of art.'" Although I lay no claims to being a Renaissance Man, this has been my guiding principal for most of my life.

I treat my home like a work of art. God (yes God – don't bite my head off) blessed me with a beautiful, 1896 farmhouse with fabulous interior wood trim, pocket doors, and built in butler's pantry. People who come into the house remark on how wonderfully our furniture and furnishings fit the house. The truth is, we did not buy one stick of furniture or decoration since we moved into our home eight years ago. It was like we had been collecting our entire lives for that one house. I am thankful for every day I can be here.

Like Martha, I strive to create a full-immersion environment. The sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and things to touch combine to enhance the theme. Each room has its own ambiance, but wherever you look, new vistas beckon.

At the time Martha was gaining media recognition, the emphasis was on style over substance. We all strove for that upper middle-class lifestyle we saw everywhere, but was just out of reach. Martha showed us the way. A woman of hard-working, Polish peasant stock from Nutley, New Jersey elevated housekeeping and entertaining to an art and a science. Homemakers now had a voice and a leader who showed them their own domestic realms could be perfect.

Plus she taught me to make my bed every morning.

Lastly, I acknowledge God, and/or Nature, and/or Fate, and/or Superior Beings, and/or AI simulations, for making this all possible.