Keeping the Faith and Denying Ayn: 40 Years of Pulling the Wagon

As the Civil Rights activist Fannie Lou Hamer famously said, I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. It is a fatigue of the spirit and the body. I hope to never know it as Fannie knew it but I am pretty worn down. Oppressive government will do that, be you black or white.

For a long time and especially since the Obama tribe began their rule, productive Americans have been under attack. I own and run a small business in Texas. I give money to conservative Republicans. Small business folks are targeted for elimination and too many of my peers have crashed and burned already. Statists know that the small business types are largely in the Republican camp. If small business suffers enough, their laid-off workers can be lured to the plantation to vote perpetually for the Donks.

Statists and their plantation go hand in hand. After the healthcare cram down we know all Democrats are statists and liars. It undeniable. They know that everybody knows but they are too drunk with super majority power to give a rip. They are on a mission and the clock is ticking.

. . . . . Hitching up and starting the long pull.

My wife of 40 years and I married when we were both 19. Father Kamel first said he wouldn’t permit it because of our age and then, for goodness sakes, I was a . . . Presbyterian. It would never work, he said. Nevertheless, we coerced Father Kamel into marrying us on D-Day, 1970. We had a high time a short drive down the road honeymooning in Waco. You could say we were easily entertained. Good thing too . . . back in those days not many parents could or would spring for a Bahamas wedding gift. Nowadays most every Jack and Jill are under a lot of pressure to have the perfect honeymoon. Poor spoilt little darlings.

From the beginning the bride and I both worked, earning the princely sum of $5.95 per hour . . . when you combined our pay. We were penny-bag poor but we didn’t notice it much or covet much either. 33 pennies would buy a gallon of ethyl back them.

College soon took a back seat to making ends meet. I never got fully indoctrinated. What I did get was a pretty little girl baby nine months after Waco.

My parents were conservative Republicans. They were low born but worked their way to the middle. They tried to paint a conservative stripe on me but my unsettled character made me a squish. When Nixon got caught, I got mad and talked myself and my wife into voting for, may God forgive me, Jimmy Carter. His malaise and his pissing away of Iran and Nicaragua confirmed me as a straight ticket Republican. I figure my character began to improve about the same time.

. . . . . A life lesson on labor relations, Hoffa style.

Our circumstances improved when I got a job in Dallas at a non-union LTL freight forwarder. $7 per hour was good pay back then in Dallas. The ruthless Teamster thugs over at Yellow Freight and Roadway kept getting new contracts. To compete the company I worked for went along. I learned to really hate the teamsters and all their union work rules they inflicted on me when I had to take freight to a union dock. Those thugs nearly beat to death a co-worker for ignoring their stupid work rules. Not a damn thing was done about it. Nothing. That sort of thing leaves a mark and it left one on me for life.

I held on to the freight job and life was OK until I got one of “those” phone calls. Dad survived the wreck for 6 days. A friend read at the funeral from a piece of paper found in his wallet. Seems Dad knew I would need a little help keeping the faith. Grave-side, the honor guard played Taps and handed me a flag. Then it was over. The suddeness and the finality of death was shocking. Another mark. Miserere nobis.

By 1982 the country was coming out of its malaise. Reagan was our cheerleader. I had managed to scrape together a little pile. Well, any Texan that could put together a few thousand dollars in ’82 was a man that just had to be his own boss. With a pitch-in from friends, I was open for business.

Being unschooled in business matters led to miscalculations. The pillaging of retail customers was more difficult than it looked. Two months in, things were pretty grim.

. . . . . That’s when it happened.

Late one evening I was feeling sick over my new venture and on the edge of exhaustion. I went to a bedroom and got down on my knees. I put it all in God’s hands and said “Your will be done.” I meant it, too.

Right away, as if on cue, Fat Bill showed up looking for a job. He was a no-account no-good but he knew some things. He taught me what I didn’t know and that was plenty. I hated to fire him a year later for palming a twenty, but I did.

About the same time that Fat Bill signed on, a rep from the credit arm of a big company came around. He spent the day observing and said he figured I was good for more than I deserved at 6 over (that meant over 20% interest). I signed those papers dang quick. With the credit line in place it suddenly began to rain customers from the rust belt. Most were good people from Michigan, Ohio and Indiana where they had once made things on assembly lines. They were looking for a new start in Texas. I had the furniture and appliances they needed. If you think this turn of fortunes was fate or luck, check your premise. Some people say prayers aren’t answered by a living God. They are.

. . . . . The voluntary hand up perpetuates the best of America

It was surprising how many people along the way were willing to help. Some people call it a good old boy network. I call it a good thing if the good old boys are good and they let the girls play too. We did some good for each other and for our communities. We paid our fair share of civic rent, for sure.

The right friends and mentors are good for the soul . . . and for business. They will show you that doing good pays back 3 for 1. They’ll teach you how to stand up to looters. So I didn’t pay much attention when one of the Kennedy boys told the Wall Street Journal our type of business operated like “sharks upon the minnows.” Who the hell was he to say? How rich it was. . . to be called a crook by a dolt from a family of crooks. The whole country would be better if the Kennedys had stayed with running whiskey but apparently politics has better perks.

. . . . . The politics of business.

Since a lot of people tend to say that business gives the customer a bad deal, I became involved in several trade associations. These things are pure evil in too many ways but they are also absolutely necessary. There is power in numbers if you keep the crooks outside your number. I learned about this as president of a trade association. That was ten hard years that included a few compromises I don’t talk about.

Anyway, in the course of protecting my business from the looters in Congress, I had a chance to observe a fair number of politicians up close and personal. Some are good but they all want money.

It is only a little prejudiced to say this: virtually all Democrats are angry pricks and even the ones who seem nice are horribly misguided about how things really work. The only Democrat I ever thought I would like to know better is Charlie Gonzales from San Antonio. Hard to admit since his daddy was Henry B Gonzales. That old shoe salesman damn near put us out of business when he was Chairman of the Banking Committee. Henry made time to bash us even though he was dedicated to impeaching Daddy Bush for the first Iraq adventure. A true SOB, he was. Alas, he has gone on to his “reward” with all the other SOBs. Warmest wishes to them, one and all.

A lot Republicans are decent people, especially the conservative ones. They still want money but if you chip in, they will send you a glossy Christmas card with their family on it. By and large, they understand the things that average working Americans understand. I did meet one crazy Republican – Ron Paul. He liked to do all the talking, but that’s another diary.

You already know that a good many Senate Republicans do not have a clue what common folk are about. This is extra true about the Texas Senators, but all Senators are hard to reach because they are Royalists. You just have to learn to deal with it.

So today I am still pulling the wagon, trying to make payroll and have some left over. Recently, one of my “so whats” got clever and the EEOC knicked me really good over something really silly. Who knew a poster in the window saying “Support the Troops” would cost me 60K? The Feds also insisted I be re-educated. Seems I wasn’t sensitive enough to the rights of kook employees. It’s amazing what an aggressive new administration can do. Which leads me back to being sick and tired.

If you are not sick and tired of the current non stop beat down of productive Americans and the daily denigration of America, you must be a Democrat or a radical Islamist. Is there a difference? They both want to destroy America and they both are skilled at it. I give a slight edge to the Donks.

. . . . . The Big Shrug?

All the Obama crap of the last two years and too many incremental defeats over the last forty are calling out the Galt in me. The statists demand you keep working and keep paying for those who won’t or they will use their looter laws and their agency rules to make you pay even more. It is government larceny at the point of a gun. Ayn Rand said it this way:

The only power any government has is the power to crack down on criminals. Well, when there aren’t enough criminals, one makes them. One declares so many things to be a crime that it becomes impossible for men to live without breaking laws.

So why not? Why not go Galt? I can’t go there because all those years ago I said “Your will be done.” And that’s the problem problem with Ayn. She was absolutely brilliant but she didn’t know God and she didn’t have any faith except in her own wisdom and the power of the free human mind. The conservative giant William Buckley knew the faults of Ayn Rand. Buckley characterized her as a mythogenist. I guess it is a bit of a stretch to imagine all the world’s productive people will withdraw to some mountain valley in Colorado. A myth, if you will.

I just can not give up on a country birthed by Divine intervention. The patriots before us risked all for freedom. They expect their legacy to be preserved. I figure they are holding a blood-stained marker on us all.

When the spirit is this troubled and the odds are stacked against you, there’s only one place to go. You go to your knees to talk with God. You promise to work to preserve the country against the statists. You ask Him to bless your efforts and to help you save the last best hope of man.

And then you set about your task, in faith. Dona nobis pacem. . . but I wouldn’t bet on it.