I am astonished at the uses some people come up with for the internet.  This is probably frivolous, but it’s such fun I can’t resist passing it on.  And there is no way this could have been done 30 years ago.

Recently I received in change a dollar bill with “Track this bill at www.WheresGeorge.com” stamped across the front.  I went to the web site and entered the denomonation, series, and serial number, and found out that that bill was last logged in in Wichita.  I left a note saying where I received it and where I plan to spend it.  From now on, anyone who logs that bill in will see what I wrote, and I will get an email notification.

What fun!

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I have a hint for would-be writers: Learn to express yourself well with words alone. If you can’t get your idea across using only letters and spaces and a few numbers and other such symbols, then read some more and see how others manage it, or take a class.

I am considering asking for legislation limiting all writers to one instance of underlining and two exclamation points per month. And, by God, if you choose to use both of your exclamation point in one sentence, it had better be an announcement of the imminent Second Coming. Like in the next 5 minutes.

Posted by Sharon under Laughter | No Comments »

Two profoundly disturbing items were aired on NPR earlier this week:

This one, in which the mayor of New Orleans wonders aloud how to keep his city from being overrun with Mexican workers, and a Latino construction company owner in New Orleans complains that African-Americans he hires don’t want to work very hard.

This one, in which the Italian government has authorized the fingerprinting of Roma citizens, whether there is evidence of wrongdoing or not. As always, loss of liberty is presented as necessary for the majority, and beneficial for the exploited minority.

I hereby give myself permission to stop feeling guilty over the overt bigotry evident in my own family two generations ago.

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Late in May I drove to Denver as a delegate to the Libertarian National Convention. Not only was this my first presidential convention, but it was the longest car trip I have ever taken alone. So I had my car checked by mechanics I trust, went to the library and checked out an interesting book on CD, printed out driving instructions and maps from the internet, made sure my mobile phone was charged, and set off on my great adventure.

Before I left, someone asked me if I had ever seen the wind farm at Ellsworth. In fact, I had not. But I have seen wind farms before, so how big a deal could it be?

When I see a house or a car or a person at a distance, I have a pretty good idea of its size and the distance between it and me, simply because I’ve had long experience with houses and cars and people. Wind turbines, on the other hand, are not something I’ve ever lived in or driven or hugged; and when seeing them at a distance, perspective doesn’t come easily. There they sit, atop distant hills, their blades rotating sedately, even slowly. Or so it would seem.

Traveling west on I-70, that’s the first impression the wind farm at Ellsworth presents. But maybe half a mile after sighting the first turbine, the highway rounds a slight curve, and there are two turbines, right there. And I do mean right there.

I gasped, and the bottom fell out of my stomach. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what it was. There was nothing rational about that feeling. Rather it was the visceral, fight-or-flight (Flight! Flight!) response that makers of science fiction movies spend millions trying to produce in viewers. Looming in front of me was something mechanical, obviously the deliberate product of an intelligent creature, unbelievably huge, and it was MOVING.

What a rush!

I have done a little research since I got back, and the source I found says the towers are 200 to 300 feet tall, with the blades ranging from 65 to 130 feet long. They rotate 10 to 22 times per minute. Even taking the slowest rotation of 10 rpm, and a blade length of 100 feet to make the calculations easier, I come up with a speed of just over 70 mph for the tips of the blades. Wow.

Coming back, I noticed something that had been hidden from my view when I was headed west. On the south side of I-70, downhill from the road and going mostly unnoticed, is a series of the common windmills we’ve all seen for years, dutifully pulling water up out of the ground and dumping it in tanks for the cattle. I hope some great photographer will go out there and capture that contrast.

And I have a suggestion. I hope that whoever makes these decisions will create a pull-off area right there. I wanted badly to be able to stop and admire that impressive scene, but there was no way to do so safely.

I bet I’m not the only one.

TK Magazine, July, 2008

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Continuing the theme of blogs about my home….

In case anyone out there doesn’t know, I’m a libertarian. I bristle at concepts like “common good” and “collectivism” and “communal property.” It’s not that they are inherently bad ideas, especially for very small groups. It’s just that no two people can agree on a definition, and everyone wants to enforce his or her own definition.

Let me give you a trivial but telling example.

A surprising number of people expect libertarians to live out in the woods growing their own food and shooting anyone who comes on their property. Well, no. The concept of libertarianism is perfectly compatible with the idea of voluntarily giving up some of your freedoms by entering into a contract that suits your needs. I live in a condominium, and I pay monthly dues to the homeowners’ association to cover lawn mowing and other common-area maintenance, snow removal, painting, and roof repair. I have given up my freedom to paint my house any color I want in exchange for not having to paint at all. I can’t plant flowers in the common area, but I don’t have to mow or shovel snow. It suits me just fine, and if there comes a time when it no longer suits me, I can move.

The common area here is very pretty. There is a nice grassy area with trees and plantings. There’s even a little wadi that was put in to facilitate drainage when it rains. The land slopes, so there are retaining walls, and a little walking path.

And bushes. We have bushes.

Originally our homeowners’ dues included bush trimming. Well, not any more, they don’t.

I think it started when some of the homeowners began to consider the bushes up close to their own buildings their personal property, and not part of the communal property. Some of them even dug up the bushes, or replaced them with something else. According to the homeowners agreement they weren’t supposed to do that. But, hey, we’re not supposed to park cars permanently in our driveways, either, and my neighbors have had a pickup truck in their driveway for two years.

Once people started to see the bushes as their personal property, and considering that their dues were paying for getting the bushes trimmed, a number of homeowners decided they could specify whether, how, and when the trimming should take place. Some wanted the natural look, and didn’t want their bushes trimmed at all. Some claimed the bushes should be trimmed in the fall, and some in the spring. Some wanted the bushes cut way back, close to the ground. Others said that would kill the plants.

A few homeowners took to trimming their own bushes, and then demanded a refund of that part of their dues.

One fall we all got a mailing from the homeowners’ association board saying there would be no refunds, but we should let the homeowners association know whether we were each going to trim our own bushes or not. The lawn service company would then trim the bushes of only those who wanted the service. That mailing was remarkably patient and polite.

I can only guess at the response that generated. The next year, the board sent out another mailing saying we could all just trim our own damn bushes, and to heck with us. No reduction on dues, either. Screw us all. (I have taken liberties with the wording, but I could hear the tone.)

So now I own a pair of hedge trimmers, and I whack at the bushes outside my front door and beside my patio once in a while. We never talked about who would trim the bushes that sit exactly between our two houses, but my neighbor has taken to doing it himself, and he really does a good job.

I guess that makes up for the pickup truck.

Posted by Sharon under Laughter & Libertarianism | No Comments »

In the summer of 1996 I applied for a mortgage and bought the condominium where I still live.

I was newly divorced, and not particularly knowledgeable about such things. But I’m smart and my math skills are good and my realtor was and still is a personal friend. So it was that, twelve years ago this coming October, I sat in the offices of a real estate company signing a small mountain of papers. I did not read them, nor would I have understood them if I had. They were presented to me as the standard contracts for this situation, and I have no doubt that was exactly the case.

My realtor recommended I buy insurance on the contents of my condo, which I proceeded to do. It costs me a pittance every year to ensure that, if one of our Kansas tornadoes takes away my computer, furniture, clothes, dishes, and appliances, I can replace them. The dues I pay to the homeowners’ association every month provide for lawn mowing and other common-area maintenance, snow removal, and an escrow account for painting and roof repair. And hazard insurance on the building itself.

Not once in the past twelve years have I regretted that decision. I love my home; it makes me happy to live here. I have had no trouble with my mortgage company, nor they with me.

Earlier this year I succumbed to a barrage of advertising from my mortgage company, and began to look at refinancing. The interest rate they were offering was substantially lower than what I was paying. After annoying the heck out of them with a whole bunch of questions for several weeks, I decided to go ahead with it. They emailed me the paperwork, and this time I decided to run it by my attorney before signing.

The attorney found nothing wrong, but he did see that they were charging me for hazard insurance on the building itself. The mortgage company requires that the property be insured, and that’s understandable. But since my homeowners’ dues buy that for me, I asked the mortgage company to take that charge out of the contract, and they did so. I asked the insurance agent to fax a copy of the policy to the mortgage company, and they did so. Dust off hands, project accomplished, case closed.

So here’s my question: Whose responsibility was it to have found, twelve years ago, that I was paying twice for the same coverage? Since I choose to accept responsibility for my life and my decisions, I can hardly blame anyone else for this. I will consider the extra money I have spent my penance for not being a little more circumspect.

But I am hardly the only person living in a condominium, and I find it strange that the “standard” mortgage contract is the same for both houses and condos when, in fact, they should differ in this one important aspect. I also find it strange that this may not be part of the training for real estate agents.

I don’t intend to pursue this any further. But if you know someone who’s planning on buying a condo, you might share this with them.

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I have a mystery. And, since it is self-evident that all readers of this blog are intelligent, well-read, perceptive, and helpful, I am betting that at least one of you can solve this.

Let me set the stage for you:

Outside my back door is a small patio, with several pots of flowers. To one side of the patio is a little landscaped area covered in crushed rock, with an ornamental pear tree, a birdbath, a hanging bird feeder, a good-sized ornamental rock, and some hostas. There is a downspout on the corner of the house between the patio and the landscaped area, and the splash block under the downspout lies atop the crushed rock. The bird feeder hangs directly above the splash block. The crushed rock is in the marble-to-golf-ball-size range.

I live in a condominium. (Or is it a town home? I don’t know the difference.) So, while the front of my house faces the street, the back opens into the “common area.” It is fenced.

This is a suburban residential area of a small city, so wildlife consists of birds, squirrels, a fair number of rabbits, and a couple of cats from across the street. And me, I guess.

More than once, I have found one or two of the pieces of crushed rock lying in the splash block under the downspout. I toss them out, and a few days later they’re back. There are four of them out there as I write. Now, these mystery rocks are not the marble-sized ones. Often they are as big as the palm of my hand, too heavy to be blown anywhere by the wind, and too large to be carried by any bird smaller than a raven or hawk.

Yesterday I was watering the pots of flowers, and there was a piece of lava rock in one. I KNOW it wasn’t there before, because I planted those flowers myself not very long ago, and I tend to them daily. Had it been there on Monday or Tuesday, I would have seen it. That particular rock, being porous lava rock, is light enough to have been carried by a smaller bird. Or a rabbit, or a squirrel.

But why?

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Grant Cushinberry has died at the age of 86.

Mr. Cushinberry was born in Nicodemus, an all-black town founded in 1877 in northwest Kansas by former slaves fleeing the south.  He came to Topeka after WW II to attend the Kansas Vocational School.  That means he was here during the Brown v. Topeka Board of Education turmoil and decision.

His nephew Dale is now the principal at Highland Park High School.

He owned a trash-hauling business, and the first I remember being aware of him was seeing the brightly-painted truck lumbering down the street.  It was a moving billboard, mobile graffiti.  Every message, every word painted there was positive.  It was his blog before there was an internet.  And splayed across the front was, “Here Comes Cush!”

He founded, and for almost 30 years spent most of each November organizing, the Topeka Community Thanksgiving Dinner.  The food is donated (with, I’m sure, some arm-twisting) by local businesses and is prepared by volunteers.  Anyone can come eat, no questions asked.  Most years, 3,000 people show up.

Mr. Cushinberry also operated what he called “God’s Little Half Acre.”  He grew vegetables there, and distributed food, clothing, furniture, and who-knows-what-else to those who needed them.  Again, the goods he gave away were donated, solicited from local businesses and individuals.

Mr. Cushinberry probably wouldn’t have called himself a libertarian, but on a fundamental level, that was exactly what he was.  I’m proud to have lived in the same town with him.

Mayor Bunten is quoted in this morning’s paper as saying, “I think there will be a little celebration in heaven tonight because a guy like Grant is coming home.”

I don’t doubt it for a minute.

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I believe in charity. I believe that helping those who truly cannot help themselves benefits everyone involved, donor and recipient.

I do not, however, believe in legally mandated charity, and for many reasons.

For one thing, it’s too easy. Ideally, real charity should involve face-to-face contact between donor and recipient. Each person involved in the transaction should be able to get a good look at the other, to see the need and the compassion, and to see the effect the exchange has on the other. Alternatively, a private and volunteer organization whose judgment and screening process we trust can distribute our donations to good effect.

But when our donations are wrested from us by law and redistributed without our input, it becomes way too easy to believe we’ve done our share with no cost to us except money.

My main objection to coerced charity, however, is that when I choose to (or am forced to) donate money or food or clothing to someone in need, I have the right, even the responsibility, to check and see whether the recipient is a scam artist. I want to have a say in who receives my charitable donations. I want to be able to question the people who are divvying up the money I give. I want to find out what the criteria are for receiving help. I want to be sure that the recipients of my dollars are, first of all, making the best use of their own resources before they ask for mine. I want to know if they’re working at all, and just need some help at the end of the month, or refusing to work. Or maybe unable to work. I want to be able to withhold my contributions from any agency that seems careless or overly lax in doling out my gifts, and give it instead to another group whose policies I agree with.

Do I have the right to that information? Darn tootin’ I do.

I know someone who is really struggling right now. There is illness in her family, minimal support from other family members, not enough money, confrontations with insurance providers, more than one job (which leaves even less time for the other obligations), and her own health is not the best.

I mentioned to a mutual friend that maybe some of us could help her out. There are a number of things we could do, but money seems to be the overwhelming lack, and many of the other problems could be eased with just a little more cash.

The mutual friend spent several minutes telling me why that wouldn’t be a good idea. She had a lot of information that I didn’t know about – wasted opportunities, unnecessary alienation of other family members, wasted resources, lack of understanding of basic information about social services, and a host of other stories that made it pretty clear that the person I wanted to help had brought a lot of her troubles on herself. It was new information for me, and my mind’s (and heart’s) jury is still out on the subject.

And that brings us to what I found so astonishing about the conversation I had with the mutual friend: The person who chose not to help a close acquaintance because she knew that the person in need was not making good decisions and could therefore do more to help herself — this same person predictably and consistently advocates legislation to raise taxes to increase social programs to funnel money to virtually anyone who asks for help.

And I’m pretty sure our needy friend would qualify for those same social programs if she applied.

My liberal friend is willing to pay higher taxes to fund government programs that take away from her the right to direct her charitable contributions, yet insists on exercising that right when presented with the opportunity to help someone close.

I, on the other hand, am willing to help a friend who would probably not be entitled to help from the more stringent private charitable organizations I advocate.

Does all this mean anything?

Honestly, I don’t know.

KsSmallBiz.com, March 14, 2007

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In the Book of Deuteronomy, among lots and lots and lots of other laws, is this one.  I find it touching.

When you reap your harvest in your field and have forgotten a sheaf in the field, you shall not go back to get it; it shall be for the alien, for the orphan, and for the widow….

When you beat your olive tree, you shall not go over the boughs again; it shall be for the alien, for the orphan, and for the widow.

When you gather the grapes of your vinyard, you shall not go over it again; it shall be for the alien, for the orphan, and for the widow.

A couple of books later, Ruth, who was an alien and a widow, manages to provide for herself and her mother-in-law by gleaning in Boaz’s field.  She ends up marrying him (he’s very rich), and becomes the great-grandmother of King David.  Not a bad deal.

Today, driving through part of east Topeka, I saw a scruffily-dressed and very dirty person pushing a battered grocery cart piled high with aluminum cans.  He had probably picked them up from the side of the road, maybe even searched through dumpsters for them.

Is there a parallel here?  An excuse for littering?

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