Follow Your Code

Lee Van Cleef was known for his villainous roles in films and the Italian Westerns he made.  As he started out in Hollywood, he let it be known he had a code:  He would never harm a child, a dog, or hurt a woman.  He stuck to that code, although when he was making the classic Western The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, his character of Angel Eyes was to slap a woman.  He reminded the filmmakers of his code, and as a result, his double stood in for him during that scene. 

Van Cleef was true to his code.

Kirk Cameron is a devout Christian who has vowed never to kiss anyone but his wife.  When filming the movie Fireproof, he was supposed to kiss his cinematic wife near the end.  He reminded the filmmakers of his vow, and they had his wife stand in during that scene, filming it in long shot.  Her hair was a different color, but it was lit to where it looked like the sun was making it look that way.

Cameron was true to his code.

My friend Michael F. Blake has written one of the best books I've ever read, Code of Honor:  The Making of Three Great American Westerns.  It deals far more than with cinematic history, but with one's codes.  It allows us to realize that whether we realize it or not, we each have our own code, and attempt to live up to it.

We need to recognize our code and follow it.  In these treacherous times, honor is a dying thing.  Find your code and follow it.



We Cannot Afford To Disrespect



Lost in the midst of all the political pontificate is a horrendous oversight that needs to be realized by all Americans, especially those with ties to Oklahoma.

The U.S.S. Oklahoma on December 7, 1941

At Pearl Harbor, on Ford Island, there is a beautiful memorial to the battleship U.S.S. Oklahoma on which 429 men perished on December 7, 1941.  The loss of life is second only to those who died on the U.S.S. Arizona.

The memorial is next to the U.S.S. Missouri, which is moored were the Oklahoma was on that fateful day.  Unless the situation has changed over the last four months, the only mention of the Oklahoma memorial is a 30–second notice on the shuttle bus as it leaves the Missouri.  There is a granite stone for each of the 429 men with their names inscribed.  Meaningful legends are tastefully placed there.  On this spot the men who escaped before the ship capsized gathered.  Some expired before making this hallowed ground.

The U.S.S. Oklahoma Memorial

With very little effort this memorial could be better utilized.  It is under the U.S. Interior Department, National Park Service.  Senator Tom Coburn and Congressman Frank Lucas have been contacted, but up to this time there has been no response.  This is not just a thing for Oklahomans to deal with.  It is an American thing, as these 429 could have possibly have called every state in the Union home.  We owe a debt to these who gave “the last full measure of their devotion” in the service to their country.  Please contact your representative in Congress regarding this, as every monument out there deserves equal attention.



 ED. NOTE:  Within hours after this posting, we have heard from Sen. Coburn's office, stating they are looking into the situation.  We appreciate their timely response and cooperation, and thank you to those who contacted them.







Beware! The Templetons Have United.

I have to admit, I don’t understand these ‘Occupiers.’  Thus far, they’ve have sex in the park (It was interesting reading about the young man who lost his virginity to several women, saying his fiancée back on the other side of the country would understand.), abandoned infants, damaged landmarks, disrupted traffic, littered like mad, and injured officers.  And they’re ‘proving a point.’ 

Oh yes.  They’ve proved a point.  They want something for nothing.  They are the Templetons of this world.  Their motto is “What’s in it for me?” as they have their outreached hands, forgetting that in order to get a job, one must fill out applications, not destroy buildings.  Getting arrested doesn’t necessarily look good on a job application, and these people aren’t realizing that.

But they don’t care, as they’re collecting their unemployment while they’re protesting.  They have realized that eventually, the moolah from Uncle Sam will quit, so darn it, they’re going to have to work.  (All good things must end, you know.) 

Evidently, they don’t have any job skills, so they’re going to make companies hire them!  Yeah.  That’ll work!  Let the companies who don’t have any openings hire them to get them off their backs.  (Hoo boy!)

Personally, I think if the Occupiers don’t care for this country, we should give (After all, they feel they’re entitled to it.) free passage to Afghanistan, Iran, or China.  Let them find work there.  Somehow I don’t think they’d gritch or protest much here anymore . . . if we’d let `em back in.  After all, Templeton was the rat in Charlotte’s Web.  So getting rid of the Templetons is ridding ourselves of a lotta rats.

Just Stay In the Chariot

Charlton Heston liked to tell a story about the making of Ben-Hur:  Before they ever shot a foot of film, he and stunt master Yakima Canutt rehearsed with the chariots for the race that has gone in film history as a masterpiece of stunt action.  One day, while resting, Heston said to Canutt he was worried.  After all, he’d gotten the chariot down pat, but once they started filming, there were going to be seven other chariots around, and just how was he going to be able to stay in front?



Charlton Heston in Ben-Hur



Canutt grinned, and said, “Just stay in the chariot, Chuck.  I’ll see to it you win the race.” 

Recently Dad heard that story and immediately pointed out the spiritual implications of it.  And it’s true.  Our lives are races, and we have tendencies to ‘step out of chariot’ due to curiosity.  (Anyone who knows their phrases knows what happened to the cat!)  If you’ve seen Ben-Hur—and if you haven’t you should—knows what happens to someone who steps out of their chariot in the midst of a race.  It’s not pretty.  We need to follow our path, which is bumpy, as a chariot has no shock absorbers, the wheels don’t turn, and has no modern convenience but you know what?  It gets us there.

And if we listen to Him, God is going to see to it we win the race.

So stay in your chariot and follow the path to the finish.  The laurels are worth it.  Ben-Hur won his race.  Let’s triumph in ours.

The Joy of Tenacity

Behold, three members of Sammie's Scholars, the championship team sans one (We never could figure out what happened to Brent Spencer.) of the first College Bowl ever held at Central State University.  (We steadfastly refuse to call it the University of Central Oklahoma.  We know what our diplomas read.) 

Sadly, as I have mentioned in the past, the one on the far left, Paul Hammond, is no longer with us.  It was a dirty trick for him to play on us, as (in all seriousness) I had planned on him delivering my eulogy in the far future, as eloquent as he was.  He would have made me sound far better than I am.  Now, I'm stuck.

At one time, both Paul and Glen--then gentleman on the right--were over four hundred pounds.  As a matter of fact, the night this photo was taken, that subject was brought up. 

I contacted Glen, letting him know of Paul's passing, and it shook him.  He realized that but for the grace of God, it could have been him.  Thus, he was determined to do something about it.  Glen therefore started on a regimen combined with Weight Watchers and the YMCA.  Over the past two years, he's seen his weight drop down to two hundred, and he looks marvelous.  Glen wanted to be able to see his grandchildren grow up, and he's going to be able to achieve that. 

You know, every time tragedy strikes our lives, we're told something good will come out of this.  That God has a plan, and we need to be patient.  We mutter, "Yeah, yeah," and ignore those who tell us this.  I can tell you in all honesty Glen's life was saved.  He will tell you that.

I am proud of Glen for his tenacity. 

More importantly, I know Paul would be.

It Ain't The Same

I just finished watching a wonderful two-part film about our first Olympic team from 1896.  It dealt with conflict, camaraderie, teamwork, and pride. In short, it's not the type picture one sees anymore, as we're not supposed to be proud of America anymore.

Last night we were watching a documentary on PBS that was quite good until the last historian came on and made a comment about how we need to apologize for everything under the sun.  If this is true, does Italy need to be apologizing for the Borgias or the way the world was treated under the Caesars?  We never hear that.  How about an apology from Egypt to the Jews?  I'm for that, but no one ever calls for it.  No, America is the only one who has to apologize for things that are hundreds of years in the past.  I really don't expect my descendants to apologize for things I have done three hundred years from now. 

You know, Shirley MacLaine claims she's had dozens of lives.  Imagine all the apologies she has to make, considering she's been around hundreds of years.  I mean, she must have committed thousands of sins!  Anyone every call for an apology from her?

No, it's more fun to pick on our country, which is why I like to watch the older shows.  We had pride in our country then.  We weren't apologizing for breathing like we are now.  Americans had self-respect, which is sorely lacking.  The only time people run across that word nowadays is when they play Scrabble.

Times have changed, and with them, so has America.  Unfortunately, not for the better.  But if we have changed for the worse, we can also do so for the better.  Let's start having pride and self-respect not only in us but our country once more.

It Pays to Listen

I know the holiday season is over, but I've been thinking the past few weeks about one of my favorite  stories.  It came to mind on Christmas Day, as I was talking to my niece Mikaela.  I reminded her of the Christmas when no one chose to believe her.

It was about a decade ago, and Mom wanted to give me a pair of black slacks.  Everyone said they were nice, but Mikaela, who was the baby of the family then, spoke up, saying, "Grandma, they're green."

Well, we naturally chuckled at her.  After all, she was a child.  What did she know?  "No Mikaela, they're black."  We were adults.  We knew what was right.

Very politely, Mikaela informed us they were green.  Again, we told her they were black.  Silly child!

She tried again to tell us they were green.  One more we told her she was wrong.  Finally, without saying a word, she plucked them from my hands, walked over to the window, and held them to the light.

Son of a gun.  They were green.

When I reminded Mikaela of this last month, she was flabbergasted, saying, "How rude!"  I pointed out to her that we were the rude ones, blowing her off due to her age, while she constantly was polite, finally proving her point without saying a word.  I told her it was not only beautiful the way she did it, it's my favorite 'Mikaela story,' even though I was one of those proven wrong.

It goes to show that we should never doubt children, as they generally have something to say. Mikaela certainly did that day.  And had we listened to her the first time and paid closer attention, none of us would have had to apologize to her. 

As for me, I made out like a bandit.  Mom so wanted to give me a pair of black slacks, the following day--one of the worst shopping days of the year--she went out and bought me a pair.  So Mikaela continued to assist me.

Now if she'd just go back to making my snickerdoodles.

So Set `Em Up, Joe . . .

You remember the classic Sinatra standard where he's singing about how late it is, and it's time to go, so the bartender needs to set up one last round?  Well, lately, that's the time I've been getting up.  Not by choice, mind you, I have nonetheless.

Cricket loves it.  She gets up with me out of duty, for several reasons.  The first and foremost is that she loves me.  The second is that she knows she's going to be fed earlier.  (I pay for this, as when I finally start to sleep later, she awakens me about two a.m., as she wants to be fed.)  The second is I give her extra treats for awakening her at such a horrific hour.

Now, you may think I mutter and grumble about getting up this early, but I have to admit something . . . . I love getting up this early.  Yes, I know . . . but I don't think insanity runs in my family.  It gallops, but it doesn't run.  I do have my reasoning for enjoying this odd quirk, though.

As you know, I'm a writer.  (We all have our faults.)  I seem to do my best work when it's dark.  (I guess it's the vampire in me.)  That's when I edit the heck outta my work, and I do so without fail.  I look at what I've done, and go 'tch, tch', 'Awwwww!' or 'Fisher, what in the name of Luke Short does that mean?'  It seems once the sun's up I do more piddling. 

I don't know why this works the way it does.  I wish it was the opposite.  I love my bed.  (I actually sleep better on the couch, though.)  But there's something about the night that stirs my creative juices.  This being the case, it's time to start on another book.  After all, it's 3:50 in the morning.

So set `em up, Joe.