Economics Or Brainwashing

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I venture to say there are millions of people who do not know what economics is. - Maybe some science about the eco system, maybe even a theory that talks back to you. . .

It is obvious that the progressive thought in academia over the past thirty years has purposely chosen to keep the public uninformed or outright dumb on the subject of economics.

Some may say we teach budgeting in middle school . . . great, give me a break!

Nowhere in the twelve years of public schooling is economics, as a subject, taught in a substantive manner. Why? Because, capitalism, or a free society, when unleashed is a powerful self-driving force. This force steers a person to independence, at which our current climate scoffs.

You may say I'm far out on the matter, but I say a lack of spirited drive toward freedom and self enrichment generates a populace who is more easily led and more dependent on a social network for help, or even total support.

What are the world's economic systems? Communism, Socialism, and Capitalism. Ah, but the word capitalism has been demeaned to refer to excesses, greed, and the taking advantage of the middle class.

Even 40 years ago in my college days, when I took several economic courses, capitalism was relegated to be a byproduct in back of socialism and communism. I remember questioning the over emphasis on the worlds failing systems, when I, an immigrant, wanted to hear and learn about the new world and how it came to be the driving force of freedom and personal achievement . . . the envy of the world.

I have seen totalitarianism. I have lived under socialistic rules. I have witnessed the masses fleeing communism. So why are we not proud of capitalism? Have you also been brainwashed by a left-leaning education system and liberal media?

I hate it when reporters stand to interview the so-called average person about an economic or social matter and then proudly report on the evening news the different opinions. Note! They never say they had to interview thirty folks to get one opposing view. But during the news-hour they let us assume the country is divided down the middle by simply presenting both views.

One can see all around what the dumbing-down of the masses has done to the American Spirit. It makes me want to cry to see how the mindset of "I have it coming to me" seems to grow at such an alarming rate.
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MY BEST FRIEND

In 1946, when I was six years old, I got my first, very own Lederhose. A short pair of pants of the pig skin variety, naturally gray colored, with the usual trap door in front and secured by two buttons at the belt line on top. That square flap opened like a drawbridge of a castle so a man could do his stand-up procedure. The pig leather was somewhat stiff at first. However, after the constant every-day wear, the Lederhose gradually conformed to my body. In my case, Mother made sure I would not soon outgrow this onetime expenditure. The hose (pants) were so big they started at the knees and nearly went to under the armpits. The Lederhose, like a constant friend, became my everyday companion and part of me. They hung on my skinny body by a set of buttoned leather suspenders. To keep them from slipping off the shoulders a horizontal strip of leather between them held the straps. 

Woolen underwear was bearable only in the winter when the much sought warmth overruled the itch of wearing them. Summer time brought freedom of such encumbrances, so we wore nothing under the pigskin pants. The buttoned-up trap door, always a challenge, overwhelmed me when time had to be taken to use the bathroom. The dropping of the flap in front was not really the big problem. It was the spigot, yet too small, that just would not reach to clear the leather, no matter how much I pulled to stretch it. So, inevitably most of the pee bounced off the inside and down the pant-leg. This actually was not a problem, because wet leather molded itself more easily to the body and its movements for a more comfortable fit. 

The pants were not considered broken-in until black with dirt and grime around the pocket and the back side. Anyone with a “new” pair was considered an outsider and sort of green–a bit snickered at. Therefore, as quickly as I could, I wiped every dirty thing that needed wiping on the pants. With no pockets in the back, the slick part of the breeches made a great toboggan when sliding down a steep hill. No one ever wore a hole in the Lederhose. The pants just became more “broke-in.” 

The pockets, one on each side in the front, were ideal places for a little boy’s treasures. All of us carried a pocketknife, and usually some marbles for any sudden challenge. Never all the marbles I had, just the ones I could afford to lose.

At the end of the day I stepped out of my breeches at the side of the bed. There they stood erect all night, sort of like a get-a-way car parked at the curb, until action resumed the next day. All I did in the morning is swing my legs over them, jump out of bed, and pull them up.

Get all 130 stories and anecdotes at: www.fxbiii.com

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Only The Lord Knows

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During our trip to New Zealand earlier this year, we saw and witnessed many wonders of the world.

One of the more intriguing displays of nature was on a beach in the South Island. On the atlantic side, near earthquake prone Christchurch, NZ, were scattered these strange and eery boulders.

These boulders were not only round on top, but round all over. Like giant five foot marbles.

Someone suggested they were formed like pearls in an oyster. Give me a break! Were are these giant oysters?

You can tell they appear to be glued together, then rolled until round.

Several lay there ready to break apart, and some were broken.

Not only did they lay in the surf, but were also thrown up against the dunes.

This multi-ton monster looked like it was just flicked with someones finger after He got tired of playing with it.

I think I'll ask Al Gore about that one. . . .


They called the place:

Claude Monet, The Inspiration

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I've been dabbling with pencil, pen and ink, charcoal, pastels, oils, and acrylics for as long as I can remember.

Even as far back as the mid 1940's I sat and sketched the world around me.
I didn't fully appreciate impressionistic art until I took several art courses at Rutgers back in the late 60's. Over the past thirty years however, I've gotten stale at the craft. My years were taken up with building our business, raising three boys, and constructing and remodeling at every spare hour in between.

Now that 12 of our 13 grandchildren are old enough, they again have begun to draw from deep within me the old desire to create, to explore colors. To dabble, blend, entice, and explode color from the canvas. My grandchildren can make a canvas explode in no time.

All of the paintings you'll see here were brought to life in just under two hours. Enough time to get a good feel for the technique, and be able to show some impressive results.

This vibrant display created by a 14 yr. old young lady

This by a 12 yr. old, totally her design and layout.

I helped this 10 yr. old lay this out his idea and he did the coloring.

One of my old oils inspired this 10 yr. old boy.

This exuberant display of smiles is the sole creation of a 13yr. old young lady.

This 7 yr. old loves her dogs.

I said, "pick any subject between a landscape and a cat eye," she, 12 years old, picked an eye of a horse. (You figure!)

This 15 yr. old young lady loves to dream. Little Red Riding Hood goes visiting.

We have the best time. In time maybe one of our grandchildren will find peace and gratification by dabbling with a bunch of colors on a canvas.