Day 7 of my parents’ visit

(I won’t be doing a day 8 because really it was just the saying of goodbyes and expressions of love and leaving them at the airport.)

The Procedure

But first I have to tell you, my dad had some things to say about the styles where they hang their britches down so you can see their undershorts and have all these holes in there clothes.

“It’s shameful to go out looking like that.  It used to be a shame for a person to have holes in their clothing.  You were really poor.  You were from the wrong side of the tracks if you went out with holes in your pants.  Not only that, Herbert, I say, not only that, but you could even be sent home from school.”

“We would have to pick beans to get money for school clothes.”  He continued, “My dad would plant 5 acres of beans and whatever money was raised is what we had to work with.  If he couldn’t afford the seed, the man would give him credit because he knew he would get beans.  So we worked in the garden for money for clothes because we didn’t want to go to school with holes or even patches on our clothes if we could help it.”

On to the hospital for the procedure.  It is unusual for this fluid to build up so quickly.  This time the doc drains another 1400 CCs.  Margaret went to watch again.  The reason we had to go to the hospital was that the doctor did not have the equipment in his office to do the procedure.  They were supposed to have some ultra-sound equipment ready at 8 O’clock, but they didn’t.  The doc did not want to waste any of our time so he told Margaret that he was confident that he could find the lung again and did the same procedure.

Dad and Margaret and I sit in the waiting room as she is resting and stabilizing when the doctor comes in.  I couldn’t place his accent, maybe a mix of Indian and French, but I really don’t know.  Respectful and direct makes for a good combination.

“We drained almost 1400 CC’s more from the left lung.  The fluid is almost completely full of lymphocytes.  She has Lymphoma.  I do not have her whole history here and do not know all of her diagnoses, but it seems likely to be a connection.  If the lymphocytes in the fluid are monoclonal, meaning they are all exactly the same, then it is likely the cancer has spread into this lung and probably other parts of her body as well.  If the cells are not monoclonal then there may be something else.  We won’t get the results back before you leave but I have instructed them to print out my report for you to take along to her doctor, with the x-rays.”

An 80 year old man, an elderly man, a man who used to be strong and fast and confident and still is strong, looked at me through his big glasses and said with the cracking voice and watery eyes, “Yes, Herbert, I think Pastor had a reason to send us out here.  This could be the last time we ever get to come like this.”

Later on in the day we finally got Troy over to the house.  Lizzy and Douglas had been there before but we had wanted to get a complete family picture with all four generations.  We finally got to take it.  I had to get some ink for the printer because the one thing mom is always nagging me about is that I never send her any pictures.  That and she wanted some good Christian music CD’s.  So I burned some CDs and printed almost 20 pages of photos, 4 to a sheet and a couple of 8x10s and copied Abigail’s report card for her.  I will post some pics here on my blogdrive gallery, but I always like to try to make the file sizes smaller for people with dialup connections, so that may take a few days.

We had to hustle a little to get ready for church because Sis J had personally invited mom to come to Youth service so Pastor J and one of his assistants could lay hands on her and anoint her with oil and pray over her the way the apostles did and left instruction for us to do; the way that I have seen work in healings; miraculous, mind-boggling healings; before.  I have seen and experienced miracles before, but my mother’s question from the other day haunts me.  I don’t know why.  I am not God.

Remember, the Good Book says, “Doth not he see my ways, and count all my steps?”

Day 6 of my parents’ visit

“Thursday.  This must be Thursday.  I never could get the hang of Thursdays.” – Arthur Dent.

The appointment time has come.  First over to the hospital to get new x-rays taken, then to the doctor’s office.  Mom says, “It sure would be nice if I got that same nurse I had when I went to the emergency room the first time.  I think she was my angel, Herbie.  You could just feel the love coming out of her.”

“You never know what could happen, ma.”

We are sitting in the pulmonologist’s office waiting room.  This guy is really a good doctor.  Some people talk to my mom in a condescending manner, but he only showed the utmost respect for her.  Margaret went along on this visit again.  She has been very gracious and sensitive and kind to my mom.  The folks and I are sitting in the waiting room for a while, talking while Margaret is taking care of last minute details.  The doctor has determined that mom has more fluid on the lung again and needs to have another thoracentesis done before she gets on the plane and since it is Margaret’s schedule that is most important, she does the scheduling.  She decides to take Friday morning off so we can get it all done.

While this is going on, Ma says, “I just don’t understand it Herbie.”

“Understand what, ma?”

“Why doesn’t God heal me?  He’s healed so many other people, I’ve seen it, you’ve seen it, and sometimes just like that, too, so why doesn’t he heal me?  I know he can do it.  I thought I was healed.  I felt it.”

Awkward silence on my part for a moment.  “Well, ma, we just have to take each day by itself.  You know your favorite song is One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus and we just have to take each day as it comes.”

“Oh I know Herbie.  I still love God and trust Him and everything, I just don’t understand is all.”

After a while things are back to “normal” and Margaret and I discuss by ourselves the stages of grief and loss, e.g., denial, anger, acceptance, etc.

*****

Tabitha and Isabel have made this wonderful strawberry cake with a strawberry cream cheese frosting.  They got the recipe from a book called “The Cake Mix Doctor.”  Some of you bakers will know that the author of this cookbook takes regular box cake mixes and “doctors” them up, thus the name.  My mom’s birthday is later this month and they wanted to do something nice for her, to celebrate.  This was exactly the right thing to do.  Ma was smiling and happy at being the center of attention as everyone sang to her.  This really made her happy.

Remember, the Good Book says, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD.  For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

Day 5 of my parents’ visit

(I haven’t been telling you everyone who was there each day because I jotted things down on 3x5 cards as they were happening so I could remember to blog about them later.  I didn’t spend a lot of time on the computer this last week.  You hear a lot more about my dad because he did a lot of the talking while mom just sat there listening and nodding off.  She has been very, very tired.)

Abigail’s report card came.  All A’s and one A minus.  She was dwelling on the A- and the fact that it brought her down from a 4.0 to a 3.9764 avg.  Tough break.  We’ve never pressured her to get all A’s, it is her ideal.  I have always tried to teach her and the others to do their best, however.  If you know, in your heart of hearts that you did your very best work on a thing, that’s all anyone can expect from you.  You are the only one who knows if you did your best or not, though.

I told my mom and read her what it said on the bottom, “Abigail is 5 out of 275 in her class.”

“Oh my goodness!  That’s wonderful, Abby!”

“Oh yes,” My dad, “That’s a very good report card.  I always hated to get my report card.  Every time it was report card time I wanted to stuff a pillow in my pants.”

“Why Grandpa?”

“I didn’t get very good grades when I was in school and the teacher would write nasty remarks on it.  I got a 75 in deportment [they were graded on behavior, can you imagine?] and she wrote on there, ‘Sometimes rude and discourteous.’  Oh did I ever get a lickin’ for that one.  We used to take toy guns to school and play cops and robbers.  Well, the teacher didn’t like that so she took them away.  So, we used sticks and we played cops and robbers.  She took them away, so we used our fingers.  She couldn’t take them away.  I guess she didn’t like that.”

“You know,” My dad said, “It sounds like maybe she missed one question or something, maybe she forgot the answer or sometimes they ask you stuff you didn’t even study, so that’s a very, very good grade.  You know girls, education is important.  They give the good jobs to the people that are educated.  I only got an 8^th grade education.  We lived 9 miles from the high school and they didn’t have bus service in those days, so my dad would have had to leave the work on the farm, drive 9 miles to town and 9 miles back, twice a day.  That was 18 miles and a lot of time away from the farm in one trip.  We had to go in a old ‘Model A Ford’ and it didn’t go too fast, so I never got to go to school, but it’s important.  I got tired of other guys getting all the good jobs so I went to school at night while Herbie was little.  I went to the “American School” and got myself up to a tenth grade level so I could get a little better jobs then and when I worked for Cutler & Hammer I would take all of the classes they had about electricity so I could get a little better work.”

I showed him a couple of his old textbooks I had saved.  He remembered them quite clearly.  No, you won’t see them on an online auction.  They’re mine.

“My dad,” he continued, “Only had a 4^th grade education, but he could do math.  You better not try to cheat him on something involving mathematics because he’d catch ya.  When he went to school [Dad doesn’t know much about where his father grew up or anything] his mother would load the rifle for him in the morning because there were bears and other animals in the woods and when he got to school the teacher would unload it for him.

He was good at mathematics, though and got a job in a machine shop.  He learned how to run all six of the machines and never had to get sent home because there wasn’t enough work.  He could do that because he had such a good mind for math so he never lost too much work.”

“So girls,” He was speaking to both Abigail and Tabitha.  Tabitha’s homeschool curriculum requires she maintain a certain grade percentage or she has to redo the work, so it’s measured differently.  She is a completely different person from her sister in some ways and exactly like her in others.  “The more education you can get, the better off you are.  I went for one job and the woman told me she could tell I had gone back to school and got beyond an 8^th grade education.  ‘I would say,’ she told me, ‘you have about a tenth grade education now.’  She was right.  You girls stick to your schooling.”

Remember, The Good Book says, “A wise man will hear, and will increase learning; and a man of understanding shall attain unto wise counsels…”

BTW, Happy birthday Ashley and Happy Birthday U.S. Army and Happy Flagday everybody!

Day 4 of my parents’ visit

Uh-oh.  060606,  A day of superstitious lore.  Mom spent the whole day worrying that either something bad was going to happen or the rapture would take place or something big.  The big news, which the media couldn’t ignore but you could tell the various papers’ attitudes by the photos they ran, was the killing of a devil on the next day.  I mention the photos because of the three papers I read, The Gazette, The Denver Post and The Rocky Mountain News; Libertarian, Liberal and Conservative; The Gazette showed the picture of a general taking down the old picture of al-zark carrying his rifle and looking haughty and proud and putting up the picture of his corpse, The DP used the haughty and proud picture and the Rocky Mountain News ran a full front page pic of the corpse.  That was for another day, however.  Nothing bad happened, but I learned a little bit more about my dad’s era.

“My ma said it was hot the day I was born.  The first of May [in Wisconsin] and they had every window in the house open.  1926.  They called the doctor, but had to wait for him to get there in a horse and buggy.  By the time he got there the baby was born already.  He still charged $50 for delivering the baby, but what for?  He didn’t do anything.”  Dad was the second youngest of 13 and they were all born at home.

“We all had our chores to do.  I had to help with the dishes and bring in the firewood.  I hated that job, digging the wood out of the snow.  Cold.  My fingers felt like they were gonna freeze off.  And you didn’t just forget to do your chores, either.  One time I didn’t bring in the wood and my dad made me go back out there, then he took one of the pieces off the pile and beat me on the back with it.  I never forgot to do my chores again, let me tell you.”  (I know some of my readers are cringing in horror, but to him this was just a natural thing and he did not tell it as though he had been traumatized and were reliving some horror, but merely telling the facts of life.  He gets much more upset and was much more traumatized by telling about losing his brother.)

“Well, didn’t you have schoolwork to do?”

“Yes, we did that after the chores were all done.  I studied by lamplight.”

“You had a phone, but no electricity?”

“No electricity.  Us kids couldn’t use the phone.  That was strictly for business and important calls.  I couldn’t just get on it and call my friends, we couldn’t afford it.  Besides, my dad would have said it was all foolishness, what did kids have to talk to each other about?”

“So what time did you finish your chores?”

“About 8 O’clock.  Then study.  Then go to bed.  There were no registers or heat vents upstairs.  The girls slept on the west side and when they would get up in the morning they would have a thin layer of ice on their water glass.  I was lucky; I slept on the east side where it was a little warmer.  Then get up at 4 in the morning and go out to the barn and hang a lantern (I didn’t find out the distinction between a lamp and a lantern but there was one) on each end and start milking the cows.”

“So, when did you ever get electricity?”

“Oh, when my sister married an electrician, around 1938 or ’39.”  Everyone laughed, but he wasn’t done, “I’ll never forget that time when we put up the electric fence and the dog wet on it.  He never did that again.”

Remember, The Good Book says, “A cheerful heart is good medicine…”

Day 3 of my parents’ visit

My dad is a good conversationalist (when he has his hearing aids on and is looking right at you) and story-teller so you will hear a little more about him than my mom, who, although she is not a quiet person, just isn’t as quotable as dad.

In the middle of the intersection of Nevada and Platte avenues is a large statue of General William Jackson Palmer, the city’s founding father, horseback.  Dad was stationed at Camp Carson in 1947 with the Army and when we drove by the statue, he said, “We marched in a parade right past that statue.  I’m surprised it’s still there.  A lot of times in these big towns they try to get rid of stuff like that.”

“Oh, there have been some that have tried.”  Springs residents of any length will know this is something that comes up every few years because people that come here from California other states don’t know how to drive and can’t figure out how to get around it.  It’s merely an obstruction, like a median or boulevard or something like that.  Oh well, that’s another entry for the future.  I explained all this and dad said, “Maybe those people from California other states should just go back where they came from.  This city has gotten so big I would never be able to recognize anything or find my way around.  How many people are in this city now, about 50,000?”

“No, about 400,000 in the city itself.”

“When I was out here it was just a small town.  Sometimes we would get on a bus and go into town or maybe go up to Denver.”

“Have you ever been to Pueblo?”

“Oh yes.  One time we went down there and stayed at the Pueblo Hotel.  I saw there was a ladybug in the other guy’s bed when he pulled back the sheets and I said, ‘Look.  There’s a bedbug in your bed.’  That guy couldn’t sleep all night because of that.  I slept like a log because I knew there weren’t any bedbugs there, but I didn’t think he’d take me serious like that.  Oh well.  He should have known better than that.”

My dad has always had a good sense of humor.

This was also our 26^th wedding anniversary.  Someone came up with the idea of us all going out to eat.  By this they meant mom and dad and Grandma Pike, Abigail, Tabitha, Ben, Isabel and Savannah and Troy, Elizabeth and Douglas.  This was too major of an undertaking, so we just kind of blew it off this year.  Besides the logistical problems it also seemed like an expensive undertaking.  So a massive UNO game ensued, which Grandma Thiel loves immensely.

More tomorrow.

Remember, the good book says, “Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Day 2 of my parents’ visit

“You have the friendliest church, Herbie.”

“Some of them people still remembered us from last time.  They were real nice.”

So the day started pretty good, although mom got winded and tired out going from the handicapped parking to the first bank of pews.  I am really poor about eyeballing distances, but I know it’s not a hundred yards, maybe fifty – sixty feet?  Anyway, she had to sit down.  Later on in the day Margaret noticed she seemed to be having some problems breathing and decided to call the paramedics to check her oxygen.  Up here there is a problem some people develop called “altitude sickness” which comes from the sudden changes in air pressure and oxygen as you go from sea level to 6000+ feet.  They arrived and checked her O2 level and listened to her breathing.

“It doesn’t sound like there’s any air getting into the lower part of her lungs.  She should probably go to the E.R. to be checked out further.  I really can’t tell.”

So off to the E.R. we go.  I do have to say that Memorial Hospital’s E.R. triaged her pretty well and got her in fairly quickly.  For an E.R. at any rate.

Chest x-rays show fluid in the left lung.  Margaret is in with her because she is the best of all of us at translating medspeak to everyday language.  A very efficient, pleasant, respectful young doctor with a foreign accent says this needs to be drained immediately.  He preps her and then lets Margaret observe as he takes an instrument and “stabs her in the back” making a nice size hole.  He inserts a catheter and winds up draining 1400 CCs (47+ oz or almost 2 qts!  I didn’t even know lungs are that big.) Of fluid from the lung.  This is not good.  He decides, since she is here to visit family and the circumstances, that he won’t keep her overnight but makes a follow-up appointment for her at his office for Thursday.  She needs to go Thursday to have another x-ray done to take to the visit.

Dad is an emotional sort.  Before he received the baptism of the Holy Ghost he was a mean, angry man who was not afraid to let you know verbally or physically what his feelings were.  He’s been in the church for 31 years now and there is not a mean or (unreasonably) angry bone in his body and his emotions are now of a caring and compassionate nature, so it was no surprise to me that his voice cracked and his eyes welled up, (he does when he quotes scriptures, too) as he and I drove along by ourselves at one point and he said, “You know, maybe Pastor knows something we don’t know and that’s why he sent us out here.”

“Yeah, dad, well, maybe he does.  Or maybe he has just figured out some things from his years of experience that we haven’t yet.”

“I’ve been trying to save a little money for cemetery plots.  I think it’s time to start thinking about some of that kind of stuff.  They let me take out a small life insurance policy on your ma and I did it.  Maybe that was a good idea now.”

“Yeah.  Maybe.”

Remember, The Good Book Says, “For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing; they have no further reward, and even the memory of them is forgotten.  Their love, their hate and their jealousy have long since vanished; never again will they have a part in anything that happens under the sun.”

*****

Tomorrow some fun.

Hi Everyone,

I have tried to chronicle the parents' visit and plan to post something a little different each day for the next week.  Hopefully in that time I will have some pix ready to post.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Day 1 of my parents' visit

The folks made it in okay.  My mom looks so much like my grandma that it's just like seeing a ghost.  It's only been a year since they were here last, but it looks like they've aged 10.  One of my (many) favorite bloggers, Skunkfeathers, seems, sometimes, to have a fascination with time travel.  The way the old folks looked it felt to me as if I had traveled 10 years into the future and they had to stay and grow old naturally.  They were in wheelchairs because they could never make the long trips around the airports.  By the way, why do the guys that push them expect a tip?  Isn't this part of their duties?  A waitress only makes $2.56 and hour, plus tips, so you are literally robbing her when you don't tip decent, but do these guys not get paid to do their job?  I didn't tip them, but when I got home and asked Margaret she said she always does.  I guess I should have, but there's nothing to be done for it now.

Anyway, the two younger girls and I went to pick them up in the airport.  The flight was 20 minutes early, but it took a while before we finally saw them coming, my mom looking like my grandma and my dad looking…old.  Maybe wine is better aged, but I was shocked at how old he really seemed this time.  He looked and seemed like an 80 year old man.  They were talking about the behavior of a child they had seen in the airport.

"You know Dorothy, my ma would never have put up with that tantum (sic) throwing."

"That was just awful."

"If I would have been out somewhere and would have thrown myself down kicking and crying like that my ma would have given me something to kick and cry about."

"Yeah, yeah.  They don't do nowadays like they did years ago."

"That little girl needed a spanking.  My ma would have whipped that tantum right out of her and she would have had a reason to cry."

"It was different than that other little baby on the plane."

"Well, she was just crying.  Maybe she was scared or something."

Hugs all around when they get up close.  One of the girls took my mom's little carry-on bag.  Then we went down to the baggage claim.

My brother and his girlfriend let them borrow "One of those nice, fancy suitcases that have the wheels" and they found one to match at the Goodwill in Plover, WI.  Nondescript of itself, I knew what to look for.  Masking tape, a piece made about 3" x 5", printed in my Dad's perfect handwriting.  One printed in perfect block letters, the other with that perfect penmanship he has always had.  Even at 80, it is only slightly shakier, he takes a lot of time to write something, but it is very neat.  Maybe I can scan a copy.

Mom is a little more quiet than usual.  Usually by now she has made several complaints, some real, some psychosomatic, but now she almost didn't complain.

"Herbie, can you believe it?"

"Believe what?"

"Your dad is 80 years old and he went flying on an airplane."

"He did last year, and he was 79."

"That's different."

When we got to the house mom took her four-pronged cane, which my dad calls her "four-iron" and headed for the stairs.  Dad started up the hill, but not with the long sure strides I always remembered, but baby steps.  The 80 year old shuffle:  Taking one of the girls' hands for balance; watching every step; looking down to see where his foot would go next; and sometimes stopping and stepping down a couple of times to make sure it was a sturdy enough spot that would hold him.  I've never seen him like that.

Mom made her slow way up the stairs and one of the girls gave her a hand up.  They are used to doing that with Grandma Pike.  Being the only driver, I went and got Lizzy and Douglas while Ben and Isabel and Savannah came over, then I had to run to Sam's and King Soopers.  I came back to an UNO game going full-blast with everyone in it.

One thing was noticeably absent from last year or other visits.  The bickering that would almost always end up in:

"You better behave yourself Dorothy or I'll put you in the nursing home."

"I'll put YOU in the nursing home."

Guess it just ain't funny no more.

Remember, The Good Book says, "Rise in the presence of the aged, show respect for the elderly and revere your God. I am the LORD."

It started out as "Decoration Day" on May 30, not "The last Monday in May."  It was a day when you went to the grave of a loved one who had fallen in battle.  You went to the cemetery and saw the little Flags every where and put flowers on a grave.  Flags were flown at half-mast until noon.  Do you know that you are supposed to raise the flag all the way, and then lower it to half-staff?  At noon you raise it back up again.

1868, Major General Jonathan A. Logan, ret. made a proclamation of what Decoration Day, now Memorial Day, was to be about:

"The 30th of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers, or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country and during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village and hamlet churchyard in the land. In this observance no form of ceremony is prescribed, but posts and comrades will in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances may permit."

In Flander's Field
by John McCrae
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead.
Short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved and now we lie,
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you, from failing hands, we throw,
The torch, be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us, who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow,
In Flanders Fields.

That radical organization, the VFW, who hires disabled vets to make the little red poppies, called "Buddy Poppies," they sell at this time of the year, stated in its 2002 Memorial Day address: "Changing the date merely to create three-day weekends has undermined the very meaning of the day. No doubt, this has contributed greatly to the general public's nonchalant observance of Memorial Day."

In 2000, to help re-educate and remind Americans of the true meaning of Memorial Day, the "National Moment of Remembrance" resolution was passed on Dec 2000 which asks that at 3 p.m. local time, for all Americans "To voluntarily and informally observe in their own way a Moment of remembrance and respect, pausing from whatever they are doing for a moment of silence or listening to 'Taps."

So at 3 P.M. I will be thinking about all who have come and gone including Uncle Herbie.

Remember…

When I worked at the big name bookstore there were two things that happened which I think relate directly to the big flap over the new movie, “The Davinci Code.”

One of the things we were supposed to do while we were there was to make sure we were familiar with the books that the store was currently pushing.  These choices were interesting of themselves.  Walk through a big-name bookstore, Borders might be one.  I love to go there and get a latte and wander through the aisles.  When you do, see what they have faced outward and displayed prominently.  You will find over a period of time, that there are specific themes that they push and they are generally not conservative or Christian themes.  As an employee you might have ten calls for “Dereliction of Duty,” a book which shows the incompetence of the Clinton administration through the eyes of the man who carried the “Nuclear Football” and find that it’s backordered; you will have stacks and stacks of Al and Tipper’s book, even though no one is interested in it and the few people who have read it cannot tell you how boring it really was.  This is because the bestseller lists are made up, not of what people are reading or want to read or even actually buying, but by the number of books ordered by bookstores.

One day our boss held a meeting and said that the “powers that be” wanted everyone to read this book, “The Davinci Code” by Dan Brown.  “While they can’t force you to read it, you will be recommending it to the customers and they really want you to read it.”  I am pretty open-minded about books, but I have strong opinions about being told what to read.  Besides, I am not a big mystery/suspense/thriller fan and had several other reading projects at the time.  I know almost nothing about art so any references in that area would be lost on me as well.  My friend read it and she said it was okay, but it was clear that it fit in with the apparent agenda of the bookstore.  She said she was not all that impressed, but if big-name chains pushed it hard enough it was a good enough read to make it.

An unrelated fiasco happened while I worked there.  There is a guy who thinks he is the funniest man who ever lived, Al Franken.  My first exposure to him was when he was on Saturday Night Live.  I hated him.  I thought he was stupid and boring, but those were SNL’s “slump times” when they didn’t have any real writing or acting talent anyway, so he fit right in.  I cannot tell you how stupid I thought he was, or how surprised I was to learn this guy had actually had books published, the newest of which was called “Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them.”  On the cover was a little ticker tape that said, “A Fair and Balanced View” which was also the trademark tag-line for what people have told me is a conservative news show, who got upset about the infringement of their trademark/copyright.  You have to jealously and agressively protect your trademarks and copyrights or you will wind up with little “Calvin and Hobbes” look-alike stickers doing everything from praying to urinating on cars all over.  But they should have seen it coming.  Their court battle immediately became the darling story of the liberal, drive-by media.

“Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them” was 248^th in the top selling books lists one day and a number one best-seller the next.

Now “The Davinci Code” is a movie.  No more exciting, from the reviews I’ve seen, than the stilted dialogue of the book.  A regular dud bomb.  So why are people spending money to see it?  Because they are being told not to.  Something that would not be interesting to the average person has taken on new meaning because it is bad.  It attacks the Christian faith and beliefs.  But let’s step back a moment and remember one thing.  The book was fiction.  The movie is fiction.  All these claims of an attack on Christianity are just so much hype which I believe is artificially generated and pumped up to sell the movie.  When one of the actors was interviewed they asked him if he thought the film should have a disclaimer saying it was fiction at the beginning (what a ridiculous idea) and he replied that he thought the Bible should be required to have such a disclaimer  There you have the heart and soul of Hollyweird.  The same Hollyweird that would not fund “The Passion Of The Christ” (Didn’t go see that one either.  I don’t support Hollyweird if I can help it) and Mr. Gibson had to put up his own money is the same bunch that would fund a poorly written, boring, anti-Christian movie.

This movie attacks on the same basis that all of Hollyweird attacks.  Hollyweird and Mad Ave are driven (ultimately) by greed.  Should we all go out and behave like the 12^th century Islamo-Fascists did when a critical cartoon was published?  What if the Catholics were to behave themselves that way?  Rioting, looting, burning Hollyweird to the ground and killing all the actors and directors is not the way civilized people, especially in Christian nations, behave.

The best way to fight the Davinci code is to not watch it.  Not an organized boycott that will make the news and make undecided people feel sorry for the movie makers or mad that someone is trying to stifle their freedom of speech (which no one is), but rather, just don’t go.  Don’t buy the book or watch the flick, but the more of a fuss you make the more unnecessary attention you draw to it.  Just as with TV and Radio, if you don’t listen, if you turn the set off, that is the loudest voice of all.  Of course you could chose my path and not have any sort of TV equipment in your house and make it your own rule that you won’t support Hollyweird by never going to any movies, which is the best way.

Another way to fight it is to know what you believe.  I know that Jesus was born by Immaculate Conception to the virgin, Mary.  He lived a sinless and blameless life which allowed him to be a sacrifice for our sins.  His blood was shed in a cruel beating called a “scourging” so we could be healed and in crucifixion, nailing our sins to His cross, so those sins could be washed away.  He was buried, but since he had committed no sin, the grave couldn’t hold him and on the third day he rose again.  This is the true Gospel of Jesus Christ.  I know these things to be true because I have met God and have a relationship with Him and an experience in Him that some actor isn’t going to change.  I know that the King James Version of the Bible is THE Word of God to the English speaking world in our times.  Everything must be judged according to it.  If it doesn’t fit in with the KJV, then there is something wrong with it, not the Bible.  These are a few things I KNOW and even the threat of death couldn’t make me disbelieve.  There is no threat that can take away the experience that God gave me, because I know it happened.  It happened to me.  I was there.  So, why would I care about this movie?

Remember, the Good Book says, “If something is wicked, don’t look at it.”