The announcement was casually made in front of our living room mirror as Mom stroked my two-year-old hair, “We are going to get this cut.” The shock was instant. I was going to be “cut.” Cutting hurt and I had no reason to believe cutting my hair would be any less painful than cutting off fingers or toes.

 My protests, apparently laughable, were ignored, and I was unjustly packed into the family’s Packard and off we went.

 Entering the shop there he stood, as sinister a sight as any little boy had ever seen. He just stood motionless looking down at me. Recognizing my fear, that grim-faced, slick-haired, spectacled little man with the tiny mustache and stiff white shirt grimaced and looked up at my mom. I was doomed.

 My terror was splayed open for all to see as I took in the various fluid-filled jars containing combs and cutting devices, along with assorted objects plugged into electrical sockets behind him. And the chair, OH GOD that chair, what was it?  Huge with various handles and levers and a long leather strap swaying at its side. I lost it!

 Dismissing a child’s fears as simple childishness is so convenient to an adult who has long forgotten the traumas of their own first-time childhood horrors: the time you first got the needle at the doctor’s office, wobbled and crashed that first two-wheeler attempt, the dark that came at night, when you first rode The Hammer at the State Fair, or just the creaking noises in the closet when all were asleep. . . and a hundred other childhood traumas. 

 Most adults could easily revisit those fears by trying a bungee jump or first sky dive, taking a quick dip into a frozen lake or maybe a bit of harmless water boarding – all would likely do the trick and give a taste of what we have forgotten about first-time events. And you will never have so many first-time events as you did as a child.

 Anyway, I stood in front of the barber butcher, and he was going to cut me. For some incomprehensible reason the person I trusted most in life, picked up a box, placed it on the torture device and stuck me to it – then let the butcher have his way with his sharp pointy objects.  My fear was intense and real.  My mother, like all mothers, knew such fears absurd, but mine also had the presence of mind to see an opportunity for posterity and documented the event.

Richard Kimball

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  I was sitting in my highchair looking out the window at my dad’s Packard when she set a bowl of soup in front of me. It had to have been the Campbell’s kind. I could see the bits of drowned vegetables and occasionally flaking cubes of chicken, but what caught my eye was the teensy weensy, perfectly round, shiny bits of oil that floated on the top.    I wanted to know what they were but was not yet far enough along in life to manage an inquiry. I was still having enough trouble managing a capture with my spoon.

  She stood behind me that morning, all round and dressed in white, but black. Her name was Essie, our maid and cook. My mother did not have her help often and I do not remember much about her other than the chicken she fried, great chicken my older brothers later assured me. Chicken that our mother, the German antithesis to fine dining, could never duplicate.

  A year or so later, I visited Essie’s house. She lived in a home very unlike our own.  My mother was bringing her some Christmas gifts, and I happened to be in the back seat. 

 We lived in a big house. I didn’t know it. We lived in the nicest neighborhood.  I did not know it.  As we turned onto Essie’s street the houses became tightly jammed, any half-dozen of which could have easily fit into our front yard.  As best I can recall, there were no driveways, and the yards were all barren dirt with a few broken toys, flat balls and scraps of various objects scattered about. Inside, where doors would be, there were hanging sheets and there was one stuffed tattered chair. The walls were unpainted with one wall having a large chunk of missing plaster which commanded my attention because I could not imagine the purpose of the wooden slats that were now exposed underneath. 

 Above all, I remember that Essie had a family; this was a very big surprise. It never occurred to me that she would be a wife, have children, a home, a life.  Essie was just our maid.

  I did not feel sorry, have any sense of pity, I was not old enough to know such things.  I only recall being confused, wanting to leave and being happy that my parents chose not to live that way.

  I would not see those kinds of living conditions again for 15 years, not until I stood in the dump three of my college buddies and I could afford and used to eat, sleep, drink, and smoke dope.

Richard Kimball

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It was a grand Thanksgiving feast.  I had rented two enormous side by side beach houses able to bed a party of 20 along with my two dogs. My wife and I prepared a fabulous meal with all the standard sides of Potatoe, asparagus, muffins, cranberry’s, some of those God afoul jarred pearl onions and topped by the most scrumdiddleumpcious pumpkin and pecan pies. All centered of course by a turkey.

The turkey was my one and only responsabilty…..well along with the stuffing and giblet gravy I would make from its various entrails.

The bird I found was just magnificent. A 24-pound Butterball, 28 pounds if you count the crumbs, mushrooms, sausages, onions, garlic and seasonings I stuffed up its private quarters.

My meticulous care had me basting it with butter every half hour or so. Five hours later I had achieved golden perfection.

But I was not done.  The succulent, dripping deliciousness of my bird needed to sit for a bit before the devouring commenced.  So, I had a plan: Everyone on the beach for a few spectacular celebratory firework rockets I had planted in the sand.

Everything was perfect, planned for maximum effect and joy.

Then we went to eat.

I am not sure who first noticed it, but I do recall the looks on Madison’s face (my golden retriever) and that on Jefferson’s (my border collie).  They were expressions of the utmost joy and appreciation.

The slimy slick had crossed the kitchen floor a dozen times as they had competed in obvious efforts to both play with and devour my golden perfection.

Since that wonderful Thanksgiving pizza day, I have always given some turkey thanks to my dogs first.

Richard Kimball

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Back 40 years ago, when I was a State Senator and had something meaningful to say about abortions, I was a knee jerk.  That is to say, I believed it was none of my business, even on the Senate issue I am currently recalling (should a teenager seeking an abortion be required to tell her parents) I was a NO as long as the rules set by Row vs. Wade, (the wisdom of its day) were applied.

Now a half century later, knowledge (wisdom) has adjusted somewhat. And now, as then, I turn to those in the business of knowing for a knowing of what to believe and a what to do.

Most involved in prenatal medicine believe there’s clear evidence that a fetus – a developing baby in the womb – can’t feel physical pain until after the 24th week (6th month) of pregnancy. But many others say it’s possible for a fetus to feel pain as early as 12 weeks (3 months) into its development.

Today 93% of abortions were done at or before 13 weeks. While 5.5% were done between 14 and 20 weeks and less than 1% were performed after 21 weeks.

The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists (ACOG), the Society for Maternal-Fetal Medicine (SMFM), and the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists (RCOG), say that a fetus isn’t capable of feeling pain until at least 24-25 weeks.

The conclusions say these lifelong experienced, in what I know nothing about is:

• The cortex, the outer layer of the brain thought to be largely responsible for consciousness, and the thalamus, which relays sensory information (like pain) to the cortex, develop only after 24 weeks.
• Just because a fetus has other brain structures that process pain doesn’t mean the connections that can cause it to feel pain are working yet.
• The nerve connections that allow a fetus to tell the difference between a harmless touch and a painful one don’t develop until late in the third trimester. 
• When a fetus under 28 weeks seems to respond to “noxious stimuli” (actions an adult would perceive as unpleasant), it’s a reflex or hormonal reaction.
• While doctors may use pain-relieving drugs during fetal surgery, it’s mostly to keep the fetus from moving or prevent long-term damage from stress.

Today 93% of abortions are done at or before 13 weeks. While 5.5% are done between 14 and 20 weeks and less than 1% are performed after 21 weeks.

The lack of consensus is as confounding for me, as it is for the “experts.”

Bottom line: Where do you draw that line between life’s urge to fornicate and the growing life that results?

It has become harder for a thoughtful someone, anyone, even me who is careful not to step on an ant not to sympathize WHEN two bodies share the resources of one. WHENEVER that is!

How about you?

Richard Kimball

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Air Force Veteran Speaks Out; Why Republicans Must Vote For Democracy

For some of you receiving this email, we may not always agree on politics, but I always respect your opinion and reasoning and your right to disagree with me and think differently about things.  Many people don’t know, but I have deep Republican roots on my Mom’s side.  My Grandmother Peggy Hurley was good friends with Barry Goldwater and served as an alternate delegate for him at the 1964 Convention.  Nana’s house was covered in GOP inspired memorabilia.  There was an elephant piggy bank, elephant coasters, elephant coffee mugs, GOP ashtrays, lighters, plaques, hand towels, coins, you name it, the house was a GOP museum. I’m sure some of you can relate… My grandmother was the kindest, smartest, most loving person you would ever meet, and she was also a proud, right wing Goldwater Republican.  So, I understand and respect traditional, Old Republican Party values like: hard work, free markets, individual responsibility, self-determination, lower taxes, less regulation, less bureaucracy, strong defense, fiscal responsibility, etc. 

If you are a Republican reading this, I’m not trying to convert you into a Democrat and I think that having a strong, principled Republican party is a necessary component of a stable democracy here in the U.S.  In other words, we (all of us) need the Old Republican Party back.  The problem is that the Fake Republican Party under Trump is trying to undermine democracy as we know it and if Trump succeeds, we won’t have any policy issues to argue about. 

So, I have made a few videos in hopes that I can help shift the paradigm back to what it used to be and persuade maybe just a few undecided voters to reject Trump and vote for Vice President Harris.  And if you are a Republican, then maybe it’s just this once because the times call for it. 

If you agree with what I’m saying about Trump and you think that someone else would benefit from seeing the videos, please feel free to forward or post them.  Also, if you are interested, the long version on my Youtube channel is more persuasive, but fairly long at 20 minutes. 

Thank you,

Pat DeConcini

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Preview YouTube video Air Force Veteran Speaks Out; Why Republicans Must Vote For Democracy

Air Force Veteran Speaks Out; Why Republicans Must Vote For Democracy

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Time to revisit my Nov 25, 2022 post.

“Raging moderate”

Won the Nobel Peace Prize.

Created the Internet — Yes, he pretty much did.

Devoting his life to stop the Global Warming that is frying the future.

Actually, won popular vote for president but didn’t tear the country apart to gain power.

Very young, by current presidential standards.

Good enough for me.

Richard Kimball, Vote Smart Founder

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 We are what we choose to listen to, and what we choose is what we like to hear, and those we like to hear need to dumb down each story for the few seconds they will have of our attention spans – always simplistic and blood boiling.

  A kind of witch’s cauldron of mob creation, all illustrated now on college campuses and created by a media stuffing the sub-human attacks, first on Oct. 7^th and then the horrific response.

 Ask any of those college demonstrators or perhaps your own children what it is all about, and I guarantee you they will give you simplistic answers anchored in resent events and nothing on the long agony that began before Israel itself.

 I have no cure for the hatred, other perhaps than restarting civics education in our schools. 

 I just wish we could push back the clock to 1947 and given them Wyoming instead.  (Please NO hate mail. It is just a joke………………I think?.

Richard Kimball, Vote Smart Founder

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