"The Language of Science and Faith" by Karl W. Giberson and Francis S. Collins

"Science can purify religion from error and superstition. Religion can purify science from idolatry and false absolutes." When Pope John Paul II spoke these words he crystalized an argument that, for me, had been ongoing since I was about 11 years old and first became acquainted with the debate which continues to surround us today.

For me, it has always been easy to reconcile religion with science. I just figured science was invented by God. For an 11 year old, that was pretty deep thinking. And really, over the years, my views on that have not changed much. It's kind of like this; God created us, watched us screw things up and hopes we can straighten it all out ourselves without his Intervention. We, too, can only hope. This belief system is commonly known as "Deism."

In the famous Scopes "Monkey" Trial of 1925, in which a schoolteacher was charged with teaching evolution against the state law prohibiting it, the prosecution argues that Evolution, as a theory, has no creedence in religion. William Jennings Bryan, the 3 time candidate for President, and noted attorney, actually argued against science. His opponent, the brilliant, and somewhat unpredictable Clarence Darrow, argued for the defense that the Bible, particularly Genesis, was "pleasant poetry." I have never been comfortable with either of these dismissals of the two divergent points of view. Nothing is ever that simple.

This book will set what you think you believe in, on it's head. I thought I was a believer in Deism, that is, one who believes in a God who created the Universe, then stepped back to let us run our course. This book postulates the belief in BioLogos, which is a form of Theism, a belief that there is a God who acts in conjunction with his Creation. I'll have to think about this concept.

This is a book which will require more than one reading, as well as an examination of some of my core beliefs regarding religion. My own relationship with God is a very personal one. I speak, He listens; sometimes. At other times, He roars, and I begin to rethink my position. We are engaged in a tug of war for my soul, and at age 56, I'm not all that sure who is winning.

Enter this book with an open mind. It was not written to destroy any religious beliefs you might already have. Rather, this book explores the things we all have in common, with the design of reconciling the science interwoven within our individual beliefs.

"Chinaberry Streets" by Rodney Crowell

Rodney Crowell writes prose just as he does songs, there is a lyrical quality to his writing and phrasing. His words come out as fluidly as the scores of songs he has written in his 4 decades of making music. From his early years in 1975’s “Heartworn Highways” and touring with Emmylou Harris’ “Hot Band”, through the 1980’s and the heady days of “The Cherry Bombs”, not to mention his tempestuous marriage to Roseanne Cash, he has been inspirational in shaping the direction of authentic American folk/rock, as well as gospel music. His friendship with Johnny Cash is legendary. But if you are looking for tales of the life of a star, look elsewhere.

One of the most remarkable things about this book is that Mr. Crowell has managed to avoid telling the time worn story of a poor boy turned star. Rather, he has carefully crafted this as the story of his life, beginning as a poor kid in East Texas, with a dysfunctional family that is at once scary, and yet at the same time, hilarious. His affection for, as well as his puzzlement of, both his mother and father, are at times heartbreaking, yet in the same breath you can’t help but laugh with him.

If you have listened to Mr. Crowell’s albums, particularly “The Houston Kid”, and “Fate’s Right Hand”, then you are already familiar with many of the characters and places that you will encounter in this book.

Mr. Crowell begins by telling us of New Year’s Eve 1955, when he was 5 years old. His parents were having a party and with alcohol flowing freely, things were getting out of hand quickly. Tired of playing nursemaid to a group of drunks, the young Rodney Crowell went and got his father’s shot gun, blasting a hole in the ceiling. This sobered things up quite quickly.

His earliest memory is of sitting on his Dad’s shoulder’s in 1952 and seeing Hank Williams, Sr., play. He doesn’t remember Hank Williams as much as he does his father’s reaction to seeing his hero in person. From there to book goes back to 1955 and forward, chronicling the event’s typical of a 1950’s childhood. Life was mainly concerned with playing “war”, TV and just generally getting into mischief.

The chapter concerning Hurricane Carla in 1961 is of particular interest. The author’s family rode it out in the home of a family friend, until alcohol and freely roaming hands sent the family packing at the height of the storm, back to their own shack, with it’s leaking roof and dirt floor.

Fans of Mr. Crowell’s music will recognize some of the places and terms used in the book. Telephone Road is just as I pictured it, with the bar ditch and DDT spray trucks each evening. The book reads like a sepia toned photo of the era in which the author was raised.

The real universal appeal to this book is the story of the struggle we all face in coming to terms with our parent’s demons. And often, when we finally do come to understand them, and why they were the way they were, it's too late. Sadly, by that time we have taken these flaws out on our own children.

This is a wonderfully written book, giving even more insight into a truly unique American artist.

Happy Mother's Day!

Here are two clasic poems for Mother's Day. The first is by Christina Rossetti. If it seems to be a bit lacking in her usual polish, you need to know that this was her first poem, written in 1842, to her mother. Ms. Rossetti was 11 at the time.

To My Mother

To-day’s your natal day,
Sweet flowers I bring;
Mother, accept, I pray,
My offering.

And may you happy live,
And long us bless;
Receiving as you give
Great happiness.

This next poem was written by another of my favorite English poets of the 19th century, Rudyard Kipling. He did it all; journalist, poet, master of any genre he chose, this was the introduction to his novel, "The Light That Failed", which was released in 1891. This introduction came to stand on it's own, especially amongst the British forces up to and through the Second World War.

Mother o’ Mine

If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o’ mine, 0 mother o’ mine!

My own Mom passed away in 1984. That's her on the left, with me standing behind her. The photo was taken aboard the USS Milwaukee in 1978. Though she has been gone for almost 3 decades, we still speak often, and she has interceded on my behalf several times over the years. It's the only explanation I have for having now lived to be older than she was when she left!

So, to all Mothers everywhere, you have the hardest job on the planet. Thanks for doing it well. It's often said that the hope of the world lies in today's children. But it is equally true, to a great extent, that the future of those children lies in the hands of their Mothers. Happy Mother's Day!

Pianos for Patriots

Pianos for Patriots is an organization just recently founded by a crewmember from my old ship the USS Milwaukee. Ed Rothacker, an accomplished pianist himself, is teaching piano, for free, to as many children of deployed service members as he can handle. He then recruits them, and others, to teach another kid for free. He's working with his VFW Post, the USO and Congressman Steve Stivers office. He is also asking for donations of musical instruments from various sources. So far, with limited coverage, they are doing suprisingly well!

Ed has filed for incorporation and 501C3 status this week. The above logo was produced by Rick Isbell who works in The Office of Veterans Affairs for the Mayor, City of Columbus.

Eventually there will be a website where families and teachers can request to participate in the program. There will also be a link for donations of musical instruments, music store gift cards and cash. (This might still be a number of months down the road.)In the meantime, you can e-mail Ed with any ideas, or help, at;

edrothacker@sbcglobal.net or, you can contact him by phone at the following numbers;

614-876-9606 (Home) or at 614-325-8680 (Cell)

Thanks Ed, for spreading the gift of music! It's one of the few things which unite us all.

The Eye's Have it / Here's Looking at You!

That's not Mars pictured above. It's an image of my left eye, taken yesterday, during my first "real" eye exam in decades. It was a simple, routine exam to make sure I'm wearing the appropriate strength "cheaters", which by my standard is about 2.5 magnification. Well, I was right about what I need, but the glasses I have been using were too weak at 2.0 strength. I keep about 6 pairs strewn about, in all the places where I will likely need them. And even then, I have several pairs of the older/lesser strength glasses lying about as spares, just in case. Weak glasses are better than no glasses at all!

Anyway, this eye exam was really interesting, as I've said, it's been decades since I have had a real one, so I was surprised at all the gadgets and gizmos available to conduct an examination with. In my mind, an eye exam consisted of simply looking at a chart, one usually mounted on the wall. I always read the bottom line as "Made in Philadelphia- Local 400." Freaks the Examiner out at DMV when you're right. And if you're wrong, it doesn't count anyway...

So, like I said, I was very impressed with the examination, as well as the technology. The results were good. I can see 20/15 or so, long distance, and for reading I need 2.5 reading glasses, which, as I've explained, I already have. Not bad for an old guy!

The most impresive thing to me was the image above, which is of my left eye, from the rear. That circle you see, which I initially thought was my iris, is actually the rear of my eye, and the main "disc" where all of the nerves in the eye come together and form the entire "Optic" nerve, which leads to the brain. So, in essence this is a picture of how we see what we see. I find it fascinating.

We all take our eyes for granted, until the day when we suddenly can't see. Take a little time today and think, if even just for a moment, about not being able to see the world around you, or the faces of those whom you love. And the thought of never being able to read! That's a sobering thought, especially for me.

Thanks, Dr. Crawford for such a patient, and educational experience, though I do hope not to see you in the near future!


(Click on the above to enlarge it for Dr. Crawford's contact information.)

George Formby

I'm a big You Tube fan. Whenever I think of something from the past, in the way of movies or music, I head straight to You Tube. It's like a time machine, allowing you to step back and re-watch, or listen to, anything that pops into your memory.

George Formby was always one of those shadowy memories to me. Like so many other of my early childhood film reminisces, George Formby dates back to WOR-TV Channel 9 in New York City. They showed all low budget, copyright expired stuff. Among the films I used to watch were some cheesy old British comedies. With their slightly different approach to humor I found these films to be intriquing. They were also very influential in the types of music I would eventually grow to enjoy. In the case of George Formby, that venue would be the British Music Hall variety of what we have always called "vaudeville."

George Formby was born George Hoy Booth on May 26th, 1904 in Lancashire, England. Although born blind, a violent coughing fit unclogged his vision when he was only 2 months old. It was the first act in what would be a charmed life, in which he would go on to become one of Britain's most beloved and entertaining performers. He adopted the last name Formby for the town of the same name, located just outside his native Lancashire.

Although apprenticed as a jockey when he was 7 years old, as a child he clearly was drawn to entertainment. Upon the death of his father, who was somewhat of an entertainer himself, George embarked, at age 17, upon his musical career, which would carry him through the next 40 years, establishing himself as one of the world's most beloved musical acts. (There is even a snippet of his banjo playing on a Beatle record- but I'll let you figure out which one.)

His "schtick", or gimmick, was in his lyrics. Bordering on the bawdry, and always infused with double entendre, his songs are at once self effacing, as well as pointedly satirical. He played a 5 string banjo, sometimes called a banjo ukulele or banjolele.

Although he was signed by Columbia Pictures, his films were never released here in America, and were it not for WOR-TV I might never have been aware of his talent. But through the magic of You Tube, I am able to enjoy George Formby anytime I want to. I even have his songs converted into MP3 so that I can listen to him in the car.

Although his first record was released in 1926, his humor didn't catch on until about 1932 when he recorded "Chinese Laundry Blues." He followed this up with a series of records concerning the life of "Mr. Wu", the ficticous owner of the Chinese laundry. In various recordings, Mr. Formby has him working as an Air Raid Warden in "Mr. Wu's an Air Raid Warden Now", as well as a window cleaner in "Mr. Wu's a Window Cleaner Now." These recordings, along with his later records of the 1940's earned him an eternal place in the hearts of most of his countrymen. His songs, along with Vera Lynn's, were sung in the air raid shelters during the German "Blitz" of London during the Battle of Britain.

If you've never listened to George Formby before, then you are missing out on a real treat. The songs may seem a little corny in today's high tech, 24/7 world. The lyrics may even seem tame in comparison to today's standards. But the genius of his word play, along with his stacatto style of playing, make him a unique and wonderful part of British Music Hall History, as well as an icon of the indomitable British spirit.

"The Savage City" by T.J. English

When I was about 11 years old, my family took a trip down South from New York City. We went as far as North Carolina, which is where I live today. At the time, while passing through Lumberton, I had my first upclose look at the last vestiges of the Jim Crow era, which had just come to an end with the passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1964. But that didn't stop the sweet, and pretty, young cashier at the Howard Johnson's from calling the little black kid, who worked there, "nigger." I was so glad to have come from the North, where this type of thing did not occur. Or, at least that's what I thought.

I grew up in New York City, in the borough of Brooklyn, at a time when the whole country was undergoing a radical shift in race relations. The TV was filled with images of police dogs being loosed upon non violent protesters; women and children included. I was proud of the fact that we were so different in our handling of race issues in the North.

Of course, as I got older, I realized that the only difference between the North and the South was the way in which we were racist. In the South, it was overt. In the North, it was covert, and swept under the rug, where no one could see it.

"The Savage City" is a good, hard look at what was under that rug. And it's not a very pretty sight. Institutionalized racism was as rampant in the North as it was in the South. The author, T.J. English, has given us an insightful, and revealing look at the way things were done in New York City during the 1950's through the 1970's. And along the way he provides the historical background necessary to understand both the differences, and the similarities, of both systems.

Using 3 individuals as examples, the author expertly weaves their lives, and their troubles, into a tapestry of officially sanctioned racism, as insipid and evil as that of the South. Beginning with the social history of the great movement of blacks, and Puerto Ricans, to the North, looking for jobs during the Second World War, he traces the seeds of a different kind of racism, one that would eventually boil over in the hot summer months of the mid-sixties, leaving our cities burnt and scarred for decades to come.

The book kicks off with the attempted murder of Martin Luther King in Blumstein's, a Harlem Department store where he had gone to promote his book "Stride Toward Freedom." A black woman plunged a letter opener into his chest, just missing his aorta. She had been stalking him for several years, believing that his work in the Civil Rights Movement was Communist influenced. This incident exposed the divisions between the various African-American factions of the time in regards to the expolsive issue of Civil Rights. Some thought we were moving too fast, while others believed that we were not moving fast enough.

Three individuals are explored in this book. First, and foremost, is the real victim, George Whitmore, Jr., a young black man from Wildwood, New Jersey. He decides to leave the junkyard where he grew up for the opportunities that he believes await him in Brooklyn. His decision will change his life forever when he is falsely accused, and then imprisoned for the notorious "Career Girls" murder in Manhattan, a crime which took place while he was still living in New Jersey! Tried and convicted, he wins an appeal, only to be retried 2 more times for the same crime. Remember, this is happening in New York, not Alabama! He is also charged with 2 other crimes which he did not commit, just to be sure they "get him." Along the way, evidence is lost, destroyed and tampered with, all in the name of convicting Mr. Whitmore rather than admit to a mistake on the part of the police.

The second story here is that of Police Detective Bill Phillips, one of the most notorious of the "crooked" cops who so brazenly extorted, and shook down, everyone in his path. His criminal activities eventually landed him back in uniform, pounding a beat, where his corrupt methods of law and order served as one of the openings for the Knapp Commision hearings in the late 1960's. His story is one of avarice, greed and violence. The racism he adhered to was considered to be just a routine part of his job.

Dhoruba Bin Wahad was a kid from the Bronx, who was serving time for robbery when he became a Muslim. Released in time for the long hot summers of 1967 and 1968, he is trying to turn his life around during the social revolution sweeping the land in the form of Black Power, and the Black Panthers. In short order, the streets of New York would be awash in the blood of slain officers. Some were shot while on patrol, ambushed with phony calls for police, while others were injured in the rioting which scorched whole neighborhoods, leaving the urban landscape forever changed.

This is an unflinching look at the racial disparities, and attitudes, which combined to destroy our cities, and portions of African-American culture during the post-war years in New York. For a kid from Brooklyn, who grew up in the midst of all of this, the book is an eye opener to what was really happening all around me in the city where I grew up.

Well written, historically accurate, and compelling in it's scope, this book proves the old adage, that sometimes "you can't see the forest for the trees."