Bad Cop No Donut

The handicapped man shook his head and closed his laptop, having just read the latest in the never-ending litany of bad cop no donut news stories. This was another of the all too familiar SWAT raid on the wrong house variety, leaving a dead family pet, destroyed home, and screaming children in its wake.

The fifty-five-year-old man rolled his wheelchair into the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He took a long drink, twisted the cap back on, stuffed the bottle between the arm of the chair and his left hip, and wheeled back into his living room. Since becoming paralyzed five years ago due to a spinal cord disease, he had started a blog. He had always thought of himself as a writer, but the early promise he had shown had been waylaid by jobs, marriage, children, and the myriad time-constraints, distractions, and commitments of adult life. For better or worse, with a wife at work all day, children grown, and career cut short, he was now free again to follow his muse.

He wrote about all manner of things, from short fiction to movie reviews, from memoirs of his childhood to pieces about holiday entertaining. But mostly he wrote about government conspiracies, and the expanding abuse of authority by law enforcement officers. 

He glanced out the living room's wide bay window, and with a start he saw a police cruiser stop in front of his house, blocking his driveway. A jolt of adrenaline shot through him. What the fuck!? he thought.

A cop sat in the driver's seat looking at an open laptop. After several minutes of the cop just sitting there, the man reopened his own laptop and logged onto Facebook. He checked his Chat bar, but none of his friends were online at the moment. When he looked up from his computer again, he noticed that the cop was no longer inside his vehicle.

The man rolled from one room to the next and stole glances out the windows, but with his limited mobility, could not see where the cop had gone. Although there was nothing he was particularly guilty of, he had received a violation letter from the Village citing grasses and/or weeds above the restricted height. His son came out as often as he could to tend to the yard, but with work and a young family of his own, the lawn sometimes went for several weeks between cuttings.

He waited anxiously for a knock on the door, or for the squad car to pull away, but after fifteen minutes, his driveway remained blocked. Further checks of the windows still revealed no sign of the officer. It was not unknown in his town for police to come on private property and shine flashlights in garage windows looking for cars without proper vehicle stickers, and anything else they might find.

Paranoia, justified or not, was beginning to get to him. He had always harbored the fear that his outspoken disdain for the government and their hired thugs would get him in trouble. Indeed, in his blog he had taken potshots at the NSA, DEA, FBI, TSA, and many other alphabet soup organizations (although conspicuously not the CIA, because those fuckers were genuinely scary). In addition, he had written exposes about Big Pharma, Monsanto, Halliburton, the Trans Pacific Partnership, and many other corporate entities who were not above hiring black ops contractors when they needed a little wet work done.

After twenty minutes, the man decided he was done with this cat and mouse game, and he dialed the non-emergency number for the local police department.

"Chief Gobshite speaking."

"Yes, there's been a police vehicle blocking my driveway for the past twenty minutes, and I'd like to know why he's parked there."

"I show that the officer is talking to your next door neighbor about a police matter. I'm sure he didn't mean to block your driveway. Do you need the officer to move his vehicle?"

"No, that's all right. I won't be leaving my house," said the man. He didn't add that he was unable to leave his house, even if he wanted to.

He hung up the phone and used the remote to turn on the TV. Generally, wild horses could not get him to watch daytime television, until Judge Judy came on at 4, but he wanted to distract himself. He channel surfed for a few minutes, realizing once again why he refused to fall into the abyss of non-primetime programming. A sharp banging on his front door brought his heart up to his mouth.

The man rolled to the door and pushed aside the curtain. A cop dressed in a blue uniform stood on the small porch. The man maneuvered himself and opened the door. He sat a few feet back from the screen door which separated them. The cop's right hand rested on the butt of his holstered service weapon.

"Sir, did you just call and complain that I was blocking your driveway?" said the cop.

"No, I didn't call to complain, I called to see why you were parked there," the man replied.

"How about if I arrest you for interfering with a police officer in the performance of his duties," said the cop, "Siiiir?"

"Um, I don't believe you can do that," said the man.

"Are you a lawyer?" said the cop. This time there was no "Sir."

"No, but I know my rights," said the man.

"Rights!" the cop scoffed. "When dealing with the police, you have no rights."

"I'm not sure the courts would agree with that," said the man. He was getting angry. He was in his own home.

"You wanna go down that road?" said the cop. "Do you have any idea what kind of hell I can put you through? I can arrest your ass and hold you for three days without even charging you. You don't look like you'd do very well in a holding cell. You got money for bail? You got money for a lawyer? You want to take your chances in front of a jury?"

"What's wrong with you!?" said the man. He noted the nametag just above the cop's right shirt pocket. Engraved in black on a gold bar was the word WAAD. His first name must be Dick, thought the man.

"What's wrong with me?" said the cop. "You're the one who stuck his nose in my business."

Before he could stop himself, the man said, "Do you practice being an asshole, or does it come naturally?"

The cop drew his gun and pointed it at the man's face. "You just bought yourself a world of trouble," said the cop.

The man reflexively rolled back a few feet. "Are you kidding me!?" he shouted.

The cop adopted the classic two-hand pistol stance. "Stop where you are! Don't move!" the cop yelled.

"Are you going to shoot an unarmed man in a wheelchair?" the man yelled back.

The man's next door neighbor had come out to see what all the commotion was. He stood in his driveway and called out, "Hey! What's going on over there!?"

The cop glanced over his shoulder. "Sir, go back in your house!" he yelled.

When the cop turned his head, the man in the wheelchair rolled back a foot and started to swing the front door shut. The cop snapped his head back, and an explosion echoed throughout the neighborhood.

The bullet tore through the man's chest. The wheelchair flipped backwards, then fell on its right side, the man's dead eyes staring in disbelief.

Additional emergency vehicles quickly responded. The EMTs rushed in, but there was nothing for them to do. Two detectives talked to the cop, and briefly took the neighbor's statement. The county coroner's van arrived and took the man away in a body bag. Police tape crisscrossed the man's front door.

Two plainclothes officers entered the building where the man's wife worked. They approached the receptionist's desk, flashed their badges, and asked for the man's wife. When she came out, the detectives identified themselves and asked if there was a place they could talk privately. She led them into an empty conference room, and one of the detectives closed the door. A moment later, a loud, anguished, "NO!" sounded through the door. The company president, whose office was located next to the conference room, knocked quickly, and went in. The lead detective explained the situation, and the dumbfounded president embraced the man's wife.

"We'd like for her to accompany us to the morgue for identification," said the detective.

The president said to the man's wife, "Do you want to call anyone? Do you want me to call anyone for you?"

With heaving sobs, the man's wife nodded and was barely able to write down her son's name and cell phone number. The president said, "I'll call him right away and have him meet you at the County Building."

An article about the incident appeared in the next day's paper:

At approximately 10:30 yesterday morning, a Village police officer confronted a man in his home regarding an obstruction of justice violation. The homeowner allegedly acted in an aggressive manor and the officer felt his safety was threatened. The officer subsequently drew and discharged his service weapon, striking the man once in the chest. The man was killed instantly.

When quoted, the man's wife asked, "Why did my husband have to die? He had no weapons. He was paralyzed and in a wheelchair."

The officer was identified as Richard Waad, a ten year veteran of the force.

When questioned about the fact that the homeowner and the officer were separated by a screen door and several feet apart, Officer Waad responded, "I could not tell what he had alongside him in the wheelchair. It appeared as if he was reaching for a weapon."

Chief Gobshite of the Village Police Department stated, "The shooting appears justified. Our officer felt his life was in jeopardy. We will, of course, be launching a thorough investigation into this unfortunate incident."

Village mayor Manley Hanshake elaborated, "Our officers have a very difficult job. They put their lives on the line every day. Every interaction with the public involves a very real risk to our officers. They are called upon to make difficult decisions and are trained to respond instantly to any perceived threat. We need to keep our officers safe while at the same time protecting the public. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the deceased man's family, as well as to our officer."

Pending the outcome of the investigation, the officer is on paid administrative leave.

The man's wife said, "This murdering bastard gets a paid vacation while I get to bury my husband."

As word spread among the man's family and friends; his elderly parents, brother, sisters, pastor, members of his local library writers group, bewilderment gave way to grief, which gave way to anger. The man's son and daughter-in-law sat down with their four young children and faltered in their explanation that their grandfather was now in heaven.

Within a few short weeks, the completed investigation found the shooting justified and reinstated the officer who was now back on duty.

Although no criminal charges were filed against the officer, a wrongful death civil suit was settled out of court a year later for an undisclosed sum, which was ultimately paid for by the taxpayers.

The Stars Aligned

Friday evening, I experienced one of the most meaningful moments of my life. A couple of weeks ago, Wendy, an old friend of mine (actually more than friend) from college, sent me a Facebook friend request out of the blue. I immediately confirmed the request, and after getting reacquainted, she mentioned that her brother Bob, one of my closest friends from NIU (I met her through him) would be in town from California for a few days, and she was trying to get a few of the old gang together.

We tentatively set it up for last Friday, and she got busy on the phone and online. We drove up to the north suburbs from our home in Somonauk at 5:00 on a Friday. I expected to hit significant traffic, but except for a few slow-downs, we sailed right along. When we arrived, we found everyone gathered in Wendy and her husband Andy's beautiful backyard.

It was not a big gathering, about a dozen of us, but my dearest and most cherished comrades in arms, from that pivotal time in our lives, were there. Of course, the initial catching up amounted to a litany of all our ailments. I was in my wheelchair; Bob had just gone through cancer treatment, looked thin, and as if he had just endured a great battle; and Joe, who I had seen leap up onstage during an outdoor Pink Floyd concert and juggle along to the music, and who backpacked solo across Scotland, Wales, and New Zealand (pre-Tolkien), had lost his left leg to diabetes.

As we enjoyed homemade pico de gallo and guacamole with tortilla chips, turkey and roast beef sandwiches, and an assortment of libations, talk turned to old times. In so doing, it wasn't long before I whispered to Joe, "Did anyone bring smoke?" He said, "I think somebody may have some." Joe got up with the use of his cane and spoke a few words to a few other people. Soon a pipe was inconspicuously being passed around.

After the pipe went around, hilarity ensued. Both the years and the hours melted away. From where I was sitting, as twilight turned to darkness, the crescent moon hung in a clear sky in the fork formed by the canopies of two tall trees.

These were the people I partied with thirty-five years ago, and it was so much fun to party with them again. It was a perfect night to sit outdoors, relive old stories, and tell new ones. We talked about how incredible it was that we had children and grandchildren the same age that we were when we met. We looked in each others' eyes and collectively said, "Uh oh."

Grant, looking older, but quite distinguished in white hair, had driven down from central Wisconsin. Wendy's college roommate Sandy, whom Wendy said, "will take secrets to her grave," kept things lively with a nonstop stream of chatter. A neighbor ran over, accepted the offered pipe with glee, and rollicked us with stories about Wendy.

Bob and Wendy's mom was there. "Hi, Trudy," I said. "It's nice to see you again." Like any good Jewish mother she said, "I had a brain tumor. Eat something!"

Even with all the shenanigans, Trudy reveled in seeing all the old friends together again. Bob was sitting next to her. I stretched out my arm and said, "This is nothing new for her. All our moms knew what was going on back then." She beamed a knowing smile.

I was regaling Mark and his wife Barb with a story about my two-year-old grandson.

"One time, my son and grandson came over because the girls (my daughter-in-law, mother-in-law, and two granddaughters) were going shopping. We happened to be having whole trout for dinner. My wife Shellie bought them when she stopped in at Whole Foods after work for their one day only sale on cherries. We had the trout laid out on a baking sheet at the table where I was dressing the fish with lemon slices, sliced garlic, fresh dill sprigs from our garden, coarse sea salt, cracked pepper, and melted butter.

"Owen was sitting across from me and I said, "Owen, look at this." I opened and closed the fish's jaw and talked in a funny voice. "Owen, are you going to eat me?" He sat there stunned for a minute, then shook his head. "Owen, will you put me back in the water so I can swim away?" He looked at the fish, he looked at my face, then we both started laughing.

"I stuck the tip of my finger into the fish's mouth and quickly pulled it out. 'Oooh, Owen, he bit me!'

"He looked at my finger (which I was holding up) with this look of concern, then his whole face lit up. Of course, we had to make a game of it. It was the cutest thing."

I stopped and said, "How corny is that!? I haven't seen you in thirty-five years and I'm talking about sticking my finger in a fish's mouth." Barb said, "No, those are the things that make life worth living."

I was saying that my granddaughters, who are six and nine, are getting to the stage where you could tell them stuff. "I have the six-year-old believing that we have a family of talking raccoons who live in our backyard. Every time I see her, I bring her messages from the raccoons. Sometimes I tell her one of our raccoons is missing, and I say to her, 'Did you take home one of our raccoons!?' She gets this big devious grin, but she won't admit it either way."

Mark said, "You have all this wisdom, all this experience, but your kids won't listen to you."

"You know what?" I said. "When we were young, we thought we knew it all - and we DID!"

"But your grandkids will listen to you," said Mark.

"Kids never think their parents are funny," Barb said, "but our grandchildren laugh at everything Mark says.

I had a few minutes to talk to Joe quietly. "How are you getting along with the one leg?" I asked him.

Joe looked directly at me, as if daring me to challenge his righteousness, "Taking it for all it's worth. I cash my disability check every month. I carry an Obamaphone. People buy me free drinks. They let me get ahead of them in line."

"You know why!?" he said. "Because I'm cute!"

Joe was right. He is cute. He's a big, gregarious, open-hearted Scotsman. A confirmed bachelor, he is married only to the love of his life - music. Joe is a walking encyclopedia of classic rock, in fact, he listens to his voluminous collection of classic vinyl in alphabetical order by band. He also keeps up to date with the latest talent. He's currently focused on the "second generation" as he calls them, the sons of the famous rock stars who have groups of their own. Joe said he used his disability to get VIP treatment at concerts and meet the musicians backstage.

It was amazing to see Wendy again. I got a hard hug when I arrived, and a soft kiss when I left. She is still the free-spirit she was when we were younger, and unspoken, except for in our eyes, was the thought of what might have been.

My wife Shellie said the best part of the evening for her was seeing me so happy.

The night was wonderful, special, and magical. There was so much love in the air. We toasted to all who weren't there (including some who had passed), and to all who were. It was so great to be with everyone again. It felt so right, so natural.

I firmly believe that things happen in their own time for their own reasons. It may happen that all of us may never again be gathered together in one place, and I am thankful to Wendy and whatever powers may be, for the time we were allowed to share.

I Scream

I can sum up what's great about America in one word: coleslaw.

On the way back from a doctor's appointment in DeKalb this afternoon, Nik and I passed through the town of Hinckley, home of the Dairy Joy restaurant. Dairy Joy is a local landmark, famous since the 50s for their soft serve ice cream. My wife and I have been going there since before our boys were born, and while they were growing up, often were the times we would load them into the car and drive out after work on a fine summer's evening. Most recently we were there with our grandkids, and watching the one-year-old take his first taste, smile from ear to ear, and open his mouth for more made it all worthwhile.

Today I ordered the cheeseburger basket which comes with fries and a small cup of creamy coleslaw. We sat out on the shaded back patio, and looked at the puffy, white clouds in a bright, blue sky as we ate.

I thought that this was all this country's middle class wants - to live in peace, enjoy an ice cream with their families once in a while, have a job to go to, and a home to call their own.

Yet this is exactly what the government, big business, and the rich seem determined to deny us. I don't understand why since it is the middle class that allows the government, big business, and the rich to exist.

So I say, long live the middle class, long live Dairy Joy, and long live coleslaw!

Perchance to Dream

This may sound strange - of course, coming from me, that's inevitable - but I am afraid of cell phones. I've been having recurring dreams that start off innocuously enough, but quickly escalate into nightmares of intense anxiety, and I am stricken with the need to call someone by phone, but cannot push the buttons on the small keypad.

I looked up several dream symbol interpretations, and found out this is a common archetype. Dreaming that you try to dial the phone but can't, or that you keep making dialing mistakes and can't make the connection, means you're feeling frustrated in communicating something (a message, a need, etc.). You're isolated or cut off from others. You feel the need to reach out or ask for help. Your subconscious mind is imagining a worst-case scenario based on a fear of needing help and not being able to get it.

In a dream, the inability to carry out a task indicates that in some area of your life you're feeling hindered from completing something. Dreaming of being unable to dial a phone number can hint that this area of incompletion may be related to not being heard out or not being able to verbalize completely what you need to happen. This can be as a result of external factors that are getting in the way. Either the listener is not open to you, which can in reality during wakeful hours manifest as underlined anxiety.

Another interpretation says, to dream you cannot dial a phone number correctly suggests that you are having difficulties in getting through to someone in your waking life. Consider whose phone number you are trying to dial. Perhaps he or she is not taking your advice or listening to what you have to say. The message is not getting through.

This is especially true when the dream specifically involves a cell phone, as it does in my case. A cell phone represents personal communication, since it is usually owned and used by only one person. Calling someone indicates a desire to communicate with that person. Calling for help can mean a desire for support, and can even represent a call for spiritual help.

In this context the meaning is clear. I am constantly frustrated that my writing does not reach a wider audience. That my anxiety revolves around communication is self-apparent. Being paralyzed and in constant physical and emotional pain, and being reliant on others for virtually all my needs explains why I would be anxious about needing help and not getting it.

The two people I attempt to call and cannot are my wife and my sister. In real life, I am often frustrated with my wife's hearing loss, which makes it difficult to communicate, and her seeming inability to concentrate worries me because I am so reliant on her ability to hold down a job.

The inability to reach my sister causes extreme panic because she is the one I rely on being able to turn to in times of personal crisis.

This recurring dream infects my waking life. The tiny buttons on my cell phone are a challenge for my clumsy old hands and tired eyes. I am unable to manipulate my wife's iPad, and my son's attempts to get me to accept miniaturization, whether in the form of a new laptop or personal tablet fills me with dread.

Enough Is Enough

As I entered the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship Church of DeKalb last evening, the first thing to hit me was a colorful banner with the Mission Statement:

Together as a religious community we put our liberal faith in action,

striving to nurture our families, and our spiritual lives,

protect the Earth, eliminate poverty, and stop oppression,

while offering hope and love for all

This brief message of inclusion and forthrightness perfectly embodied the spirit of the meeting I was there to attend. It could also serve as the foundation of the 2016 presidential campaign of Senator Bernie Sanders (D-VT).

Yet this gathering of over one-hundred people was only one of thirty-five HUNDRED such gatherings across the country in all fifty states, with a total attendance estimated at 125,000 citizens strong.

After a sign-in and meet and greet, in the activity center, with pizza and pop, paid for out-of-pocket by the local event organizers and those eager to contribute, we filed into the sanctuary and took our seats for the highlight of the evening.

I parked my wheelchair front and center, and at 6:30 sharp, a live stream image came to life on a large screen. An African-American woman spoke with a powerful voice that barely concealed an inner joy and humor, as she introduced the candidate. She spoke of Sanders' lifelong fight for the many who seemed to have no voice in government when arrayed against the moneyed and powerful few.

When Senator Sanders took his place behind a simple music stand, he thanked her for the wonderful introduction, but then quipped that she had stolen his speech. But speak he did. About wealth inequality and corporations that earn billions of dollars in profits, but pay zero dollars in federal taxes. About the war on drugs which places incarceration over education. About institutionalized racism in our law enforcement community, and the deaths of people of color at the hands of the police. About the slow but inexorable decline of the middle class over the last forty years. About universal healthcare, and free tuition at public colleges. About a cynically and intentionally divided populace, and about the new American Revolution.

The tenor of his speech was summed up by three words, "The American people are saying loudly and clearly, 'Enough is enough.'"

He said, enough is enough.

"In the wealthiest country in the history of the world, we should not have a situation where hundreds of thousands of bright and capable young people are unable to afford to go to college. They have the ability, they have the desire, they just don't have the money."

Enough is enough.

"The United States of America, our great country, cannot be the only major industrialized nation that does not guarantee healthcare to all of our people as a right."

Enough is enough.

"In this great nation we need a campaign finance system that creates a vibrant democracy, not a campaign finance system that allows billionaires to buy politicians."

His remarks were far shorter, barely fifteen minutes, than usual at a campaign rally, because he knew he was preaching to the choir. These were the people already committed to not only voting for Bernie in the primary and beyond, but those willing and eager to support his campaign with direct physical action.

The Senator ended by charging the audience with the admonition that he could not do this alone. That in order to effect the changes that this country needs to once again attain its greatness and the virtues of freedom and equality, a broad-based grassroots movement is required, and that we were the seeds and the caretakers of that movement.

There were sign-up sheets, text links, and online sites where volunteers could participate in everything from knocking on doors to phone calling, from voter registration efforts to travelling to campaign rallies, from fundraising to networking to hosting further events.

When the live stream ended with a rousing cheer and clapping of hands, the event organizer thanked us for coming, but asked that before we leave, we take a few minutes to break up in small groups and express our thoughts and reasons for being there.

I backed up a bit and turned to a nice looking couple seated directly behind me and introduced myself. Just my luck, the fellow was a political firebrand who ran against Republican Dennis Hastert (who has since been indicted on corruption and indecency charges) in the 2000 congressional election.

We talked about Obama, Hillary, the DNC, and the spate of Republican contenders. When I could get a word in edgewise, I said that I have a strong social media presence on Facebook and a blog with almost 14,000 page views, and that through these outlets I continue to speak out forcefully and openly about these issues.

I explained that no one has been more outspoken for the last forty years about civil rights, whether they be black, brown, red, women, gays, or the disenfranchised; about government abuses and the rise of the police state; about the hypocrisy and trail of destruction of our drug policies; about the stacked deck economy and the one-sided war between the haves and the have-nots.

As I headed outside, I took the time to look at the collection of hand made quilts that adorned the hallways of the church, and the symbolism was not lost on me. A quilt is made up of seemingly insignificant pieces, but when lovingly and purposefully combined, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. They become a lasting testament of effort and goodwill for the benefit of generations to come.

You can view Senator Sanders full speech at:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jLwJcruiEzc

(please note that the volume starts out low, but picks up a few minutes in)

A Job Well Dunn

The beautiful Fellowship Hall of a hundred-year-old country church. Round banquet tables covered in lace and rose petals. People hugging, kissing, talking, laughing. Kids running among the chairs. A decorated cake off to one side. The proud husband takes a mic in front of the gathering, tells a joke, bids welcome, introduces his wife to applause.

But this is not a wedding reception. It is an anniversary. A twenty-five-year-cancer-free celebration. As if this was not enough, it is also the launch of my friend Joanie's inspirational book, "The Dance." This story of love, faith, and survival relates her journey through stage-four leukemia, and all those who helped her along the road to recovery, most of whom were there.

Father De Salvo offered a prayer, and Joanie said a few words, pausing frequently to fight back tears of joy. Dr. Madhavan, Joanie's oncologist, spoke of how it was God's hand that gave her the skill to heal. This was followed by a standing ovation. The two ladies were a tough act to follow, but I talked briefly about how Joanie and I met, all that's involved in publishing a book, and what I learned from the experience.

Carl and Joanie then danced to a wonderful performance of Lee Ann Womack's song, "I Hope You Dance," by their daughter Allison. Two lines quickly formed - one for the food table, and one for the book signing table. I was so happy for Joanie surrounded by her family, friends (many of whom go back to high school), and neighbors, all there to wish her well. I got to meet Joanie's three stunning daughters who were no longer ten, eight, and six-months, as I knew them from the book. I also got to meet Dr. Chitra Madhavan, a dear woman who radiated compassion.

The writers group was well-represented. All of the regular members came out to share in Joanie's accomplishment. The group is on hiatus for the summer, and it was great to see everyone. I think being there reinvigorated all of us about our writing.

The book can be purchased on Amazon. Look for, "The Dance," by Joan Aubele. To make arrangements for an autographed copy, contact the author at: jathedance@yahoo.com

These were my remarks:

When Joanie asked me to say a few words, the thought that struck me most was the incredible confluence of events that culminated in this moment.

(And just from that sentence you can see why I'm the editor.)

That Carl and Joan moved to Lake Holiday. That my wife and I bought a house in Somonauk. That our small local library, without meeting space, would be closed, and a wonderful, large, modern facility would take its place. That a writers group was formed, and that Joanie and I, each for our own reasons, would start to attend. That I saw early on that Joanie's story was a diamond in the rough, and that I thought I could help her polish it up. That I was inspired to ask Joanie if she wished me to do so. That she had the faith in my ability and my integrity to take me up on the offer.

The accomplishment and the moment are hers, and those who went through this journey with her: her family, the doctors and nurses, her spiritual leaders. So I just want to take a minute to tell you what this experience has meant to me.

When I volunteered to take a look at the rough draft, I did so out of a sense of professionalism, as one writer to another. I believed this is what the writers group was all about. It didn't occur to me that a result of the collaboration would be a cherished friendship. Most of you here have known Joanie far longer than I have, and know her more intimately, and I am blessed to share a small bit of her boundless love.

Secondly, I take pride in a job well done. Being the editor of a published work is certainly a feather in my cap. Plus, I learned so much from the process of bringing the story from first draft through publication. Headers, footers, file formats, ISBN numbers, copyright pages, tables of contents – so many things about putting a book together that most people, including me, take for granted. But the results speak for themselves. The story and the book are beautiful.

The feelings of joy and gratitude expressed by Carl and Joan overflow my heart. When she came by that Friday morning to drop off a proof copy of the book, her beaming face was all the reward I could have ever wished for. That Carl also came by to share the moment, meant more to me than I can say. It is an absolutely amazing thing to help make someone's dream come true, and it was my privilege and honor to be a part of that.

Lastly, I am awed and humbled that Joanie firmly believes that this story was meant to be told, and that God worked His will through me to bring this about. Joanie says I am a miracle brought into her life. Who am I to argue?

Compassion, Dignity, and Gratitude

"We can’t let the House Republicans dismantle Social Security inch by inch." - U.S. Senator Elizabeth Warren

This five minute video scared the hell out of me. I'm very upset, and very anxious. My breathing is shallow, my heart rate is up. I'm having trouble typing.

Every day I feel such profound gratitude for my home. With my limited mobility, the rooms are easy to navigate, and the bathroom is big enough for me to maneuver in. Plus it's such a beautiful, old farmhouse. All my wife ever wanted was to have a house in the country where her grandchildren could run around.

Barely a year after we bought the house in September of 2006 I started experiencing the first symptoms of what would quickly lead to total paralysis from the waist down.

I was too out of it to be any help, in fact, my physical and other needs were a horrible burden. Somehow my wife was able to hold things together, under incredible strain, including a major outdoor plumbing crisis while I was at Loyola for spinal cord surgery.

It was she who went through the nightmarish Social Security Disability application process. Everyone told us we'd probably be denied on the first try and need to appeal. I firmly believed it was a waste of effort, but she stuck with it as we scrambled day by day, month by month, to eat and pay the mortgage.

We struggled on for six months, by which time we were eating crumbs, and begging the bank for one more extension. My wife was commuting to work each day, and my son was taking care of me, a full time job in itself.

Then I received a letter. Starting the next month I would receive a check. It was barely 25% of what I was earning when we bought the house, but it was just enough to pay our bills. And since that time, we have managed, by the skin of our teeth, to stay here, where we get to decorate for the holidays and watch the grandkids run around.

I and my family are so thankful we have a nation that has such social safety programs in place. We fully understand where the money comes from.

All I want to point out is that these programs affect real people. We are families who have worked hard, and continue to work hard.

This truly is a society that believes all people are created equal. A country founded on dignity and compassion.

It is because of that compassion I get to live my life with dignity.

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