Summary in 60 Seconds – Is Idaho’s Shut-Down order Legal?

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I recently posted a video detailing the legality of Governor Brad Little’s executive isolation orders. I received some feedback that the video went in to too much detail to hold the attention of most viewers – so I’ve recorded a brief follow-up, summarizing the primary point into 60 seconds.

Idaho’s Governor is Breaking the Law (Video)

 

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Under the current virus lock-down, most of the world’s leaders have given into peer pressure, and have stripped away the rights of the citizens in their respective regions. Idaho’s Governor, Brad Little, sadly succumbed to this pressure, despite being forbidden from doing it by Idaho Law, I’ll break the law down, what the Governor’s justification is, and why he’s wrong.

 

A Quick, Rambling Warning & Some Thoughts About Current Health Scares

Don’t believe the media hype.
We need to worry about Coronavirus, but we should not panic.

The numbers are necessarily going to skyrocket over the next few weeks. We are actually testing people, now that we both have effective tests and have those tests in mass quantities.

As more people get tested, and the numbers skyrocket, we will begin to get a more clear picture of what we are actually dealing with.

The death *toll* will rise, but the death *rate* will almost certainly drop – potentially by an huge degree.

There is no possibility of containing the virus, it’s out. But there is a chance to slow it down – and every extra week we buy, the better off we are – it puts us closer to the possibility of vaccine. There are mixed reports of how long that will take. There is an Israeli company which has actively been working on a vaccine for a sister-virus to this one, and may be months away from a human-ready vaccine; at the same time, there is still no vaccine for the sars virus from… 2003?
Moreover, viruses like this one are seasonal. We don’t know if this one is, but we hope it is. If it’s seasonal, the spring will see huge drops in its developing rates. That’s huge. We’ll see the outbreak continue in the fall, but every month of relief puts us closer to a vaccine.

Okay… so who’s at risk? Well… probably everyone will eventually get this. It’s likely to become part of our annual flu rotation.

But no one, outside of China (and there it’s like… 1?) under the age of 9 has died. Almost no one under the age of 18 has died. There’s no evidence, which I have seen, which suggests that pregnant women are at any particular risk. Most people under 60 are at no significant risk. Those who have respiratory weakness or immunodeficiencies are. Over 60, risk increases rapidly, with the average fatality being around 80 (if I understand it correctly).

It has been reported that the cdc advises people over 60 to hunker down and isolate themselves inside their houses. That’s not true. The cdc has advised people over 60 to prepare to be able to hunker down; it has advised people over 60 to avoid contact with others *as much as possible*, ***if*** there is a local outbreak; which has the specific definition of being “a sudden or violent increase in activity,” not simply the report of some people in a community having the virus.

What can we expect? Well… that’s impossible to predict, but
It appears China, who’s outbreak is about 2 months ahead of ours, has met their peak; they are beginning to return to work, and beginning to return their lives to normal.
Italy, who’s outbreak is about a month ahead of ours, is in complete disarray – *complete* disarray. They don’t seem to have hit their peak, but there are such legitimate problems there, it is hard to imagine that they aren’t close to their peak.

We need to remember that Italy has a much more densely concentrated population than many parts of the United States; whether that makes a difference is not determined. Much of the rest of Europe is similarly timed with our outbreaks, give or take a couple of weeks. Our initial travel bans to/from Asia seem to have bought us a couple of weeks, at least. The rest of Europe, then, may be an effective guide rod for what we can expect.

What can we do? Obviously, we need to be doing basic preventative measures: wash your hands. Socially distance yourself (don’t stand up close to people; don’t shake hands; etc). Stop stockpiling toilet paper… seriously, what’s up with that? This isn’t a digestive virus.

There are, in my view, contradictory reports from the cdc concerning masks. “They don’t work, anyway…” Which is why “we need to save them for the medical community.” That mixed communication, in my view, is causing people to freak out and stockpile masks. People aren’t stupid. If they work for the medical community, then they obviously work… right?

Well… yes… and no. The masks work (n95 and above) to filter the
Virus… until they get damp… which happens when your wear a mask outside all day. They work until you touch your face… which you do constantly. They work until you touch a contaminated surface… which you have little control over. But perhaps most importantly, they work to prevent a carrier of bacteria and virus from spreading those to at-risk people with whom they have close contact. The average person shouldn’t be in close contact with at-risk people… like… seriously – get out of granny’ face. Your doctor/nurse, however? Constantly in close contact with those who are precisely at the greatest risk. The masks may help these medical professionals from getting the virus, but they certainly help them reduce their cross contamination of it. That’s why we need to not stockpile masks. Do they help? Yes… in very controlled circumstances. They don’t really help the average Joe.

Finally, I hope I’m wrong, but I think it’s going to get a lot worse, and very fast. Have at least 2 weeks worth of food and water in your house. In the event that there is a forced quarantine (see Italy), it shouldn’t be longer than that. That doesn’t mean *hoard*. It means you should draw out a menu and get the ingredients which you can store. Bottled water is good… but not what you need. You need 1 gallon of water per person (and pet) per day for two weeks. There’s no reason to believe that your water will be shut off, however, so there’s no need to panic on this front; still, if one is taking this as a reason to finally get ones food storage in place, that’s the standard – 14 gallons for each person and per in the house… and bottled water just doesn’t cut it.

Finally, I’ve been thinking about organizing groups of non-medical, not at-risk individuals, who can prepare to do the dirty work in the event of an Italy-style shut down: people who can go to the hospitals and collect the garbage, for example; another group who can be prepared to make meals for medical staff, who may be unable to go home (as is the case in most of Italy) – because of contamination risk, this group would ideally be people who are trained in food handling, and ideally it would be done in an industrial kitchen; perhaps a group could utilize industrial laundry services to collect and wash bedding/clothing/etc from the hospitals – both from patients *and* medical personnel who may not have a chance to do it for themselves; another group may be those who are trained or prepared to be trained, in cadaver response… from some reports I’ve read, Italy has need for this kind of response… but doesn’t have it. Yeah, that’s kind of a morbid thought, but I don’t think it’s ever a bad idea to consider the “worst case scenario,” though considering it, we shouldn’t necessarily *expect* it.

the idea, bouncing in my head, is basically a loosely organized medical militia… kind of a silly idea… but having heard some of the worst of the reports from Italy, it got me thinking of how many people are capable of helping, and willing to do it… but probably have no clue how, and are now waiting for an overwhelmed and under-prepared government to take the reins and tell them how they can help. Those few days of delay, in an emergency shtf scenario are deadly. I don’t know how one night go about organizing…. but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to talk briefly with your like-minded buddies and consider, if the worst happened, how you could contribute to solutions.

Again, there is a difference between preparing for the worst, and planning on it; there is a difference between being worried and being panicked; there is a difference for having food storage and hoarding… and each individual needs to use their judgment.

I worry that there are ‘news’ reports utilizing the current circumstances to further their pocketbook and/or political agendas, actively working to discredit governmental responses because of their personal disdain for the federal administration and its head.

At the same time, I think that reports by some on the other side of the political spectrum, that the whole thing is overblown, ignores what has been happening in other countries. I don’t think the Italian news are out to get trump, so to speak… I think it takes conspiratorial levels of worry to get there.

However, we should also be constantly mindful of our liberties, and not allow emergency conditions be used as a catalyst for authoritarian minded individuals from permanently grabbing at our rights and keeping them for the government. Short term must mean short term.

Solutions may be organized from the top, but even that is questionable. If things get as bad here as they have elsewhere, the system will be overwhelmed. It is local action, then, and action not dependent on government direction, which will be the ultimate saving grace

Bidding ‘Goodbye’ to Bruce

Bruce was born somewhere around January 17, 2005.

We don’t know much about his younger life. When I met him, he had been a frequent inmate at the local pound. His previous owners couldn’t justify bailing him out again, so they’d left him to be adopted. Perhaps they should have expected him to be a runner, as they had gotten him from the same pound, his owners before them *also* having decided it was too expensive to pay the bondsman.

So when I met him, unlike many of the other dogs, he wasn’t too sad. He looked *bored*, more than anything. He reminded me of my former friend, who’d shared half of my life. It didn’t take much convincing for my wife, though she wasn’t a dog person when we got married.

To add to the advantage, he was already known as a “senior” dog, so the cost to break him out wasn’t too high.

But before I brought him home, we went to a dog-tag kiosk and printed a tag with my contact information and my address.

And, boy, was I glad we did.

Bruce was a runner, as I’ve already eluded to. He could have given Houdini a run for his money, considering the inescapable barriers which seemed to produce almost no challenge for the terrier.

But he was also friendly, so every time he’d break free, wandering the neighborhood, he’d happily hop in whatever car stopped to talk to him, and he’d often get brought back to my house before I even realized he’d gone.

Bruce was a bright dog.

Like most mini-schnauzers which I’ve known, he wasn’t much interested in games like ‘fetch.’ His attitude, when we’d throw a ball, was more indignation: “you threw it, *you* go get it.”

But being smart, and not entertained by normal dog activities, he’d relieve his boredom by inventing new escape methods, and discovering new sights as he wandered the ever-broadening territory of our neighborhood.

He was also perceptive. We got Bruce around the time that my health had started to diminish to the extent that most of my life’s actions where prohibitively challenging. For me, this new prison, which was my broken body, drove my over-active brain into deep depression, severe anxiety, and frequent panic attacks. I went from being limited in my functionality, to being entirely crippled. My physical limitations removed most of my hobbies, but my new despair killed most of my remaining relationships. Needless, perhaps, to say: I was not coping well.

The most difficult thing about the panic attacks was that I had no clue when they would come on. Oh, there were a couple of things which would, more often than not, trigger one – being around people, for example – but mostly, they’d come on without warning.

And my new buddy, who was usually content curling up on my legs, didn’t help by sticking his smelly nose in my face and standing on my chest every time that I had one. Still, having him there during the attacks helped me to shorten their duration – giving me something, someone, else to focus on. Not to mention, petting a dog is a pleasant thing, one which is a well recognized treatment for panic disorders (and the reason it took little effort to convince my wife to let me get him).

He’d lie down on my chest, during the attack, staring straight into my eyes. having 25lbs on my chest forced me to work a little harder to breath, requiring a little more conscious thought. Strangely, as soon as the attacks would abate, he’d leave my chest and go back to my legs.

Now… one might think that I’m a bit slow, and that’s probably correct. It took me almost a year to realize that he knew that I was having a panic attack *even before I did*, and was trying to warn me that something was wrong. He would patiently wait for my attacks to end, demanding my attention during the whole thing.

That realization had the potential to make an huge impact on my panic attacks – if I could establish a consistent method for Bruce to alert me to an impending attack, I might be able to get to a safe place during it – allowing me to again expand myself into the broader world, actually seeing people, and not just on a screen!

It took another year or so to establish that warning system, and to flesh out a better established response once I knew an attack was coming. I took advantage of that year to also work with the wild wanderer to accept a lead, and to walk with me – neither pulling ahead, nor lagging behind. I *almost* broke his need to chase anything which ran… squirrels… cats… other dogs… small children… Unfortunately, I never could break the terrier out of him completely. However, I was a lot bigger than he was, so I learned to watch for dashing things, and catch his attention before *he* did.

After that year, I finally began to call Bruce what he’d become: my service dog. He’d gone from being my support dog, which he was from when we got him, to being a fully authorized service dog. Perhaps I’ll break down the differences in the future; suffice it to say that those differences may be small, but they are massive in impact.

As my service dog, Bruce could now go almost anywhere I could, allowing him to work for me in those times when I was most vulnerable to panic attacks: in public. I was finally able to begin the re-transition from isolated hermit to somewhat social being.

Fortunately, having a task – a job – Bruce’s brain was now engaged in something which didn’t involve getting thrown into the slammer. Having work to do helped to reform the felonious beast of his younger years into the respectable, hard working middle-aged man.

He never did like little kids, though. I’m guessing that one of his previous owners had unrestricted little monsters that pulled his ears and poked his eyes… because whenever little kids got near his ears or eyes, he’d give them a grumpy ‘snap’ – never clamping his jaws, but a loud “I’m biting you!” shout and ‘mouthing’ them. It was something I learned with my niece, but became aware of a need to watch him with the small humans.

Still, over the next couple of years, having a warning to my panic attacks, and knowing that I had a means to help shorten them if they came on, reduced my panic attacks from daily to weekly, and then less often, and then to non-existent. Still struggling with anxiety, and still fighting off depression, I was at least free of crippling panic attacks – mostly… I’ve had a couple in the last 3 or so years, but not more than that.

Bruce changed my life for the better; he really gave me some of my life back.

I don’t move quickly. To quote Baymax, “I am not fast.” As he got older, though, Bruce began to struggle to keep up with me for long. It became clear that, though he’d still faithfully perform his work duties without the smallest hesitation, it was getting more and more difficult to do it. Like most working dogs, he’d have killed himself before letting me down, though. We realized it was time for the old man to be able to enjoy his final stretch of life in a comfortable retirement.

And so he has been, for the last couple of years. We didn’t expect him to live much longer, as he was already almost 13 (we think), and had obviously had some health issues, including having lost all of his teeth (except one) due to gum disease. Miniature Schnauzers usually live 14 years, if they’ve had an healthy life – and like most who spend their youth in and out of prison, his health left something to be desired. (One might continue the analogy, and compare his oral health to many prisoners’… but for the sake of one’s nightmares, we’ll leave that alone. Incidentally, if one wants to have nightmares, a google search of “drug mouth” might fill in some gaps of the imagination).

Bruce had spent his retirement as many old men would prefer: yelling at the young ruffians who dared to trespass on his lawn, lounging about the house, and getting all the pats and ear scratches he would want. His days of escaping had passed, and he was content to totter around the house and snooze in the most inconvenient places possible.

Several days ago, however, he came down with something. He’s been sick before, and we expected that after a day of fasting, or so, he’d start to feel better.
Unfortunately, just as I was drifting off to sleep last night, I heard him retching again. I went to check on him, and let him into the yard for some fresh air (which is what he normally prefers after he’s been sick). He listlessly stood in the garage, seemingly unwilling to make it to the back door. When I let him in, instead of coming downstairs with me, like normal, he stood at the top of the stairs, looking blankly down. I may have imagined the slight sway as he stood there.

After I carried him down, and put him in his bed, I returned to mine. As I lie there, I could here his breathing (like normal), but instead of his normal, old-man snoring, I heard him struggle for breath. This worried me, as one might expect, and I spent the next several hours holding his head on my lap as he fitfully slept, waking every 30 or so minutes to be sick again. He hadn’t kept any food down, at this point, for nearly 2 days, and hadn’t kept any liquid down for a day.

As I held him, I noticed that his normally warm breath was now almost cool on my bare leg; his body, normally warm, was cool, and his paws felt like he’d been standing on cold concrete, though he’d been wrapped up in bed.

As I looked up these symptoms, I slowly came to the realization that my buddy’s stomach flu wasn’t going to be getting better.

This morning, after only a couple of hours of sleep, I woke to tell my boys that I thought that it was time to tell their old friend that they loved him, give him a day of snuggles and pats, and prepare to say goodbye.

By mid morning, it became clear that he wouldn’t be able to make it another day. He’d taken to hiding himself in the garage, on the cold concrete floor, where he could lose his sick all around him, without having to find a fresh pad of carpet.

Today, then, I scheduled an appointment at 14:00 for my old friend, my buddy, my companion through some of the darkest parts of my life.

My wife’s understanding boss encouraged her to come with me, rather than go to work. My wife and I got to hold and pet the now listless, but comfortable, Bruce as he passed from this life. He was just under a week past his 15th birthday, as far as we can tell, proving that he had lived longer than normally expected, in spite of his poor oral health, and rough youth.

While he shivered a bit in anxious anticipation of entering the vet’s office, he had calmed down completely, hardly even contesting the needle put in his leg.

My good-boy comfortably dozed into the first good sleep he’s had in a few days; and then woke to the squirrel filled, grass fields in the sky.

Today, then, I bid a forlorn farewell to my friend. I’m very grateful for Bruce, who’s entry into my life when he was most needed, and helped me transition through the depths of mental illness. Bruce was a dog, a beast, an animal; He wasn’t a person; but he was still a part of my family, and there’s a hole in my heart where he was. Grieving is temporary, and I have no doubt that it will pass, as it always has for me; but today, I’m still grieving; today my eyes are still wet.

I’m writing as an expression of that grief, today, so I’ll ask for your forgiveness for my failure to end on an high note, as I have always tried to do.

In the great symphony of my life, today is a day of dissonance and minor chords. There will be more great music later on the page, and today’s few bars will help to bring contrast to those happier, harmonious major chords.

I am sad, but I’m not lost nor despairing as I once was. For those who are worried, don’t be. This, too, shall pass.

Resurrection Sunday, Celebrating Life, and Defeating Death (Video)

Saturday, the Spirit World, Salvation, the Son of God, and a Call to Act (Video)

Good Friday, the Road to Galgotha, and the Broken Law (Video)

Thursday of Holy Week (video)

 

ALS, ASL, Hope and Testimony

Years ago, when I lived in Detroit, serving as a missionary for my Church, I met a family who were some of the best examples of being positive in the midst of adversity. Their examples have been, in the years since, some that I have worked hard to emulate. I’ve often failed in that attempt, but… I’d be surprised if they didn’t fail in that attempt sometimes, too.

The father of the family, I’ll call him Bill (it wasn’t bill, but neither can I remember his name, nor would I share it if I could… because  this story is about my experience with them, rather than their experiences directly.) – Bill was a very successful martial arts instructor in Detroit. Very few martial artists get to do more than make an hobby out of their sport. Fewer still actually get paid for that sport. And even fewer still earn enough in that pay to be able all of their bills, and still fewer earn a good living. He was one of the rare few who could. He’d made a lifetime career out of training others in the martial arts, and in some particular forms that were uniquely his; he had customers seek him out from throughout the world to learn from him. He had comfortably provided for his family for many years, doing what he loved; training and performing and competing in the martial arts.

This was all before I met him.

And then he got Lou Gehrig’s. His was a particularly aggressive form of ALS. If my memory is being honest, the way that Bill described it to me was something along the lines of “I’m lucky because, as bad as it is, Lou Gehrig’s Disease only last’s for a couple of years! I can expect to be fully free of the disease in 3 to 5 years!” I was entirely ignorant of the disorder, and for someone who had been such a physically powerful man, the wheelchair laden man who’s arms were bound tightly to his chest by muscle spasms belied his history. “That’s wonderful!” I said…. only to get the sly look of an obviously intelligent man with mischief in his eyes….. he knew that I was ignorant of his disorder… “The only down side,” he continued, “Is that it’s fatal in every case so far….” Most healthy, 20 year old boys don’t know how to respond to that. I was no exception. I stuttered the obligatory “I’m so sorry!” as his wife playfully chided him for teasing the missionaries.

For those who, like I was, are ignorant of Lou Gehrig’s Disease, it’s formally known as ALS (Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis). It is an aggressive disease, which for most people (Bill being one of them) has no known cause, and no known cure. It is fatal in every known instance. Most people die within 3-5 years of diagnosis, but some live as long as 10 years (or more). It attacks the brain, the nerves, people’s speech (making it very difficult to understand them) and the muscles, causing everything to become progressively weaker until the lungs and heart no longer have the strength to do their job, and the person finally succumbs and dies.

The years since I met Bill have been met with a substantial increase in public awareness of this disease, and a substantial increase in research and understanding of it. Doctors and scientists say of ALS that little is known… and that’s after all of the major advancements we’ve made. When I met Bill, next to nothing was known.

And so here I was, meeting a physically diminished man, who had several days of scruff on his face, because he could no longer shave, and it was hard for his wife to shave him every day, on top of her other responsibilities like bathing, feeding, and helping with bodily functions… She had left her professional career to take care of him full time, and they’d just left their home, which was a beautifully restored house from Detroit’s Golden Motown Era (seriously, do some googling…. the architecture from that time frame is amazing…. simply stunning!) in order to move into a small place  with no stairs where he could maneuver in his motorized wheelchair. The previous 3 or so years had been nothing but broken lives and turmoil, all with the known and foreseeable undesirable end.

And yet, here Bill and his beautiful wife were not only content, but happily joking and teasing those around them. They weren’t just accepting of their circumstances, but thriving in them.

In our Church, once a month we forgo sermons or prepared talks to allow the congregation to share with each other our testimonies of faith and be strengthened by others’.

Just before I completed my mission, and came home to Idaho, we had one of these meetings. Bill rolled his wheelchair to the front of the chapel, and (painfully) stood from it. As he reached the podium, he put his mouth near the microphone (he was getting hard to hear, as his voice’s strength was going too.) He began by telling everyone that he wanted to take every chance he could to proclaim his faith, because he was starting to get too weak to continue to come to church, and he knew that he wasn’t going to live much longer.

Setting this premise for the congregation, who had all grown to love and cherish this amazing man, he continued.

“I know that it’s hard to understand my speech, so I’d like to share my testimony to you in Sign Language.”

He clumsily stepped back from the podium and raised his painfully wrenched arms and hands to shoulder level, the task clearly wore him out, and he had to lean back to do it. Everyone in the congregation felt embarrassed for Bill because we could see what he obviously couldn’t: there was no way he was going to do any signing.

Stepping back to the podium, arms still raised, he awkwardly looked from one hand, and then to the other, as if realizing for the first time that they weren’t working the way that they should.

“Dang it.”

And the congregation, uncharacteristically for our Church, burst out laughing through our tears on his behalf.

Of course Bill knew that he couldn’t sign. And that was the point. He knew that he’d just darkened the mood of the room, and he solved it at his own expense.

He then went on to bare a beautiful testimony of faith, redemption, and of hope.

The reason that Bill and his wife could have such positive attitudes surrounding his rapid decline in health and his impending death, was that they had been married together, not just until death parted them, but for time and all eternity. They had faith that the promise of the Savior for resurrection, perfection, and wholeness would all be fulfilled. They believed the Savior’s promise that they would get to be together with Him. This life, after all, is just a trial period. And that trial might be ending for him, but there was more to come.

I left within the next couple of weeks. I don’t think that I ever saw Bill again. I don’t imagine that he lived much longer… though I’d be happy to be wrong.

But their example has lived on in me.

And so has his faith.

Hopefully it can make your day a little better today, too.

Get Off My Lawn, You Mangy Kids!

We’ve got a couple of rough scalawags that live behind us. These young hooligans dress shabbily (the family obviously has the means to dress them nicely, but shabbily is their choice of clothing attire), their friends are even rougher than they are. There’s a fight on the front lawn ever day or two (our yard goes the whole way through the block, their front yard faces our back yard), and those fights usually have 4 or 5 people standing around laughing…. it’s more “rassling” than “brawling,” really…. but….. still….. There’s often profane language from someone in this group of young ruffians. I have often wondered where their parents are, and why they aren’t teaching these rascals some respect!
So tonight, as I was struggling to get half of the back lawn mowed (I managed the front last night, and I’ll finish the rest of the back yard tomorrow night, health permitting), I was limping along….
Can I take a moment to point out that push mowers and canes don’t go well together…. and push mowers don’t provide all that much support for leaning on…. I mean… really…..
…As I was mowing the lawn tonight, across the back fence, I saw two of these young hoodlums, what…. swagger? Is that what the cool kids do these days? Two of these young punks swagger up to my back fence and… stare? Glare? I wasn’t sure…. They waited for me to turn the mower off and empty the bag.
Just then, as I’m struggling with the bag (those things are heavy!)… the older boy, the one dressed in a ratty black t-shirt and heavy, baggy jeans (it’s 80 degrees out) says something like this:
“I can’t help but notice that something is wrong with your… leg? It’s obviously hard for you to mow. Would you like me to do it?” His brother, I presume, who had walked over with him, said “I can help!”
All in that instance, my worldview (not for the first time) was shaken. These young men, these boys who play hard, who may be rough around the edges, noticed a fellow human being struggling with a basic task of life, and rather than stare, or turn their eyes away in shame, rather than wonder what to do; these young men came over to a stranger to offer their strong backs. The made it clear that the offer was standing, and it wasn’t just for tonight.
Who are these men? And who are their parents? Other than noticing them and their rowdy friends, other than seeing their parents come and go, I don’t know these people from Adam… and yet, here there are, offering to help a perfect stranger for no other reason than that they saw that he needed it.
Tonight, I was reminded that my personal judgments about the character of strangers needs to be challenged; I was reminded that, no matter how rough the state of the world, there is hope in the rising generation; I was reminded that there is decency, and goodness, and charity – even outside of those around me. I was reminded that a little goodness goes a long way.
I was reminded that I don’t need to be an old, crotchety neighbor, chasing kids off my lawn whilst shaking my cane… just because I feel old and crotchety, and have a cane.
I needed those reminders. The world has felt pretty dark for me for a while now, and I’ve wanted to just hunker down and protect my family from the enveloping darkness…. but there’s light out there still. I needed to remember that, and I need to seek it out.
Thank you, you young roughians. Thank you.
(DISCLAIMER: Some of the elements of the roughness of these boys was embellished, as was some of the extent of my judgmental-ness…. It’s story telling, after all…. I just don’t want you to think too hard on me after reading it….)