“Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed.

“’You would not let your little finger ache

“For such as these?’ — ‘But I would die,’ said she.

“He laugh’d, and swore by Peter and by Paul;

“Then fillip’d at the diamond in her ear;

“’Oh ay, ay, ay, you talk!’ — ‘Alas!’ she said,

“’But prove me what I would not do.’

“And from a heart as rough as Esau’s hand,

“He answer’d, ‘Ride you naked thro’ the town,

“And I repeal it;’ and nodding, as in scorn,

“He parted, with great strides among his dogs.”

We could charge off in all directions here; taxation, oppression, the trials of matrimony, feminine tenderness, the sacrifice of modesty, offenses against public decency, chivalry, women’s rights and cruelty to animals. But let’s talk about poetry.

Take a look at the passage above; simple, short, clear and believable. Filled with nuance, it illustrates T.S. Eliot’s comment, “Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.” Even before the invention of writing, poetry was shoring up some of society’s most important pillars: genealogy, history, law and tradition. Poets held places of honor in each family, community and kingdom. I have heard that the High Kings of Ireland would yield the place of honor if a notable poet appeared on the scene.

The story of Lady Godiva has inspired and enthralled young and old for centuries and it probably would have been lost forever but for the attention of restless poets. I might not go so far as Baudelaire when he says, “Any healthy man can go without food for two days — but not without poetry.” But I do believe that poetry is a critical component of a deepening appreciation of the world and people around us.

So what happened? When did poetry disappear from its place in the daily life of western man (and woman)? I will suggest there are two causes. First, our poets have betrayed us. They have poisoned us with inane, confusing, meaningless drivel. Naturally we are repelled and step around the stuff whenever we get the chance. And then these wounded pseudo-poets scratch their heads and bemoan the fact that no one reads poetry anymore. They might surprise us all and find a new audience if they would dive into the vibrant heart of western tradition. There are captivating stories and ideas waiting to be explored by the restless poet who is willing to use the axe of imagination to break into the treasury.

But incompetent poets won’t explain everything. Our friends the Scots, to this day, regard their national poet as the greatest of Scotsmen. Each year, on Jan. 25, Scots all across the world celebrate Burns Night in honor of The Ploughman Poet, Robert Burns. They take this opportunity to honor the man and his craft. Burns wrote in the 1700s but his countrymen see to it that his legacy is remembered by each generation. We should take a lesson from the Scots. If there are no poets of stature in this generation (and there may be unknown geniuses whose work is buried in a sea of mediocrity) there are plenty of wonderful works by Americans and others.

Take a look at popular poets like Robert Service, James Dickey, Robert Bly and Robert Frost. (What’s with all these Roberts?) A few minutes a day with these and others would add a level of depth to your life no matter how deep you think you are already. And here’s a bonus. Memorizing a little poetry from time to time increases brain power, reduces stress, reduces the risk of senility and makes you more interesting.

So, you remember how the Godiva story ends. The lady subordinates her natural modesty in the interests of equity for her husband’s subjects. She attempts to conceal her nakedness with her long hair (a technicality her vile husband failed to foresee) and rides through Coventry. Out of respect for her sacrifice, the townspeople remain indoors and refuse to look. All, that is, but Tom the tailor who is struck blind for peeping. What a story! What a poem!

Oh, by the way, July 21 is the 214th anniversary of the death of Robert Burns. As he would say “May old acquaintance be forgot….”

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

He was executed because he preached that Islam is a religion of peace. He argued that God regarded men and women as equals and that man-made laws should do no less. He vigorously resisted government imposition of sharia law because such a decree would be discriminatory against non-Muslim, non-Arabic Sudanese citizens.

He argued against the growth of the fanatic Wahabist version of Islam as a collection of doctrines out of step with the true spirit of the faith. He advocated in favor of peaceful dialogue between Israel and the Arab states, insisting it is possible for all religions to live together in peace.

His name was Mahmoud Mohamed Taha and he died on a Sudanese gallows in 1985.

Taha has been on my mind this week because of the grab-bag of religious craziness splashed across the headlines lately. Here are some examples:

1. An ostensibly Christian guerilla force calling itself “The Lord’s Resistance Army” terrorizes, mutilates and kills hundreds of innocent women and children in the Congo;

2. A 16-year-old Turkish girl is buried alive by her fundamentalist Muslim family as punishment for “talking to boys”;

3. A 22-year-old graduate journalism student in India is killed by her family because she intends to marry a member of a different caste contrary to the family’s Hindu traditions;

4. A child and his mother are sacrificed in Burundi because their body parts are believed to bring wealth and success;

5. In Phoenix, Ariz., a 43-year-old Iraqi father runs down his 20-year-old daughter as she walked across a parking lot. He sped away leaving the girl in a coma with a broken face and spine. According to police, this is an attempted honor killing.

There are other examples, but you get the picture.

Now, I’ll grant there’s an element of irrationality in every religion I have heard of. No disrespect intended here. Fact is, there’s an element of irrationality in every form of government, too. But let’s distinguish between irrationality and insanity. You can be irrational and still live a perfectly happy and beneficial lifestyle. Ask any self-proclaimed optimist.

Insanity is a different breed of cat altogether. If you’re insane, your screwy, scary ideations can completely up-end any healthy, productive relationship with reality. Originally, the word “insane” was just another way of saying “unsound.” It simply meant “unhealthy,” whether referring to the physical body or the mind. As used in this column, “insane” means a profoundly unhealthy and destructive system of collective thought. The behaviors cataloged above are all insane.

I’m not talking here about a strictly private insanity. You can walk around all day dodging imaginary mosquito bats and I may feel sorry for you, but your mosquito bats are no threat to me. No, the insanity I’m talking about here is the kind that makes you believe that you can impose your craziness on me by force. How do we know when forced conformity is a legitimate function of society and when it crosses the line into “la-la land?” Some would say it’s in the eye of the beholder. But surely there’s a baseline in the affairs of mankind that qualifies as “sane behavior.”

Surely, any society that tells a man of good will that he must die if he expresses his ideas is off its rocker. Any society that says it’s okay to kill your children if they disagree with your religious concepts is unsound. There’s a fundamental crack in any society that says it’s okay to mutilate innocent children to further the aims of the Lord. There’s no way to justify murdering innocent people because their sacrificed body parts bring good luck.

I’m not trying to be excessively critical here, but there’s something horribly wrong with any system that executes its thinkers, kills its own children and murders its innocent neighbors.

Surely one of the main tests for a sane society is that it is tolerant of differences of opinion and attempts to protect the defenseless.

As I’m writing this column, news arrives that there has been another terrorist bombing in Allah’s name — this time in Uganda. Hopefully, there will be thinkers in the mold of Mahmoud Taha who will shame these fanatics — worldwide — by pointing out there are ways to regard our religions that serve to promote peace rather than brutality.

Oh, by the way, July 19 is the 318th anniversary of the day five women were hanged as witches in Salem, Mass.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

In a fictional public school somewhere there’s a history lesson under way. Let’s listen in.

“Now class, July 6 is the 225th anniversary of the day the dollar became the unit of currency for the United States. Does anyone know where the term ‘dollar’ came from? No? Well, the word ‘dollar evolved from a German word; Joachimsthaler, which means ‘From Joachim’s valley.’ This is a place in Germany where silver was mined in the 16th century. The term for the coins minted there was shortened to thaler which, over time, became our word ‘dollar.’”

“So, Ms. Bright, the word ‘dollar’ evolved from a geographical designation, like mankind evolved from a primitive ancestor?”

“Not exactly. Next question.”

“Ms. Bright, where did the word ‘money’ come from?”

“Good question. It’s a word we use every day without realizing that each time we say it, we’re invoking the memory of an ancient pagan goddess. The Romans worshipped a rather large gallery of gods and goddesses. At the top of the hierarchy sat Jupiter, king of the gods and his queen Juno. Another name for Juno was Moneta and certain Roman coins were minted in her temple. Over time, all minted coins became associated with Juno Moneta and this gave rise to the word ‘money,’ which we still use today.”

“So the word ‘money’ began as a religious term?”

“Yes.”

“Is it OK to talk about that in class?”

“Of course. It’s history.”

“So if religion is part of history, it’s OK to talk about it in class?”

“Well, not always. Next question.”

“Ms. Bright, I have a dollar here that has ‘In God We Trust’ printed on it. If it’s just history, can you tell us how it got there.”

“Well — um — I guess so. See, ‘In God We Trust’ is the official motto of the United States. It became our motto by an act of Congress over 50 years ago.”

“Ms. Bright, why did Congress think it was important to have that phrase as our national motto?”

“I’m afraid we’re in a curious gray area here. The Supreme Court has ruled that the phrase ‘In God We Trust’ does not violate the establishment clause of the Constitution because it has been repeated so many times by rote that it has lost any significant religious content. But if we go back and discuss the reason our legislators decided it should be our motto, we’d have to consider the religious content it had at the time of the legislation. That could be trouble for this school.”

“Is it true what the Supreme Court says, Ms. Bright? Has our national motto lost its religious content?”

“I really can’t say. Next question.”

“As a matter of history, Ms. Bright, how long have Americans been saying ‘In God We Trust?’”

“Inclusion of the phrase on American coins was first proposed during the Civil War. Congress approved its use on small coins in 1864 and gradually on larger coins thereafter. It started to appear on paper money in 1957 after Congress adopted ‘In God We Trust’ as our national motto — which, incidentally occurred on July 11, 1955.”

“Did that phrase still have some important religious content when it started showing up on dollars in 1957?”

“Yes. Next question.”

“But we’d like to know the answers, Ms. Bright. Do you know why our legislators and presidents who made the decision thought it was important?”

“Well — yes, I think I know some of the answers because we know much of what was said about it at the time. But I’m really uncomfortable discussing the ‘whys.’”

“If we can’t discuss it in class, does that mean there’s something wrong with saying ‘In God We Trust’ in public?”

“No. We just can’t discuss it in class.”

“What about free speech. I thought we could discuss anything we want.”

“We can up to a point.”

“But we can’t talk about the meaning of our national motto?”

“Of course we can — just not in this class.”

“I’m sorry Ms. Bright, but this doesn’t make sense. It’s OK to talk about the religion of ancient Rome and the reasons they had for worshipping their gods, but we can’t discuss our own motto. How can that be right?”

“I really don’t know. Next question.”

If you have any advice for this teacher, let me know and I’ll pass it along.

In the meantime, I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

To start with, atrophy is a type of physical justice. If we have a healthy muscle, we can keep it healthy by providing suitable nutrition and exercise. If we want to make it stronger, we pay attention to superior nutrition and we stimulate it by exposing it to rigorous exercise. If we are indifferent to nutrition and exercise, the muscle will deteriorate. It will shrink and grow weak. It will decline to the point that, when challenged, it will fail.

If a previously strong flexible muscle stops working for us because we neglect to take the steps we know are required to keep it in shape, whose fault is it? It’s hard to argue that this is an unjust result. We have the power to keep it strong, but there’s a cost. We have to deny ourselves some aspects of an unhealthy diet and we have to discipline ourselves to work that muscle. If we choose not to, who do we blame when that wonderful muscle atrophies? The justice of the situation is summed up in the phrase, “Use it or lose it.”

Now to Independence Day. This nation was born with a powerful political, social, philosophical muscle. The shorthand way to put it is to say this: The authority of the government springs from the power of the people to control that government. The United States was born with a fully developed system of isometric exercises that, if conscientiously utilized, would keep this nation strong and flexible.

There’s a built-in tension between the two houses of a bicameral Legislature. There’s a built-in tension between the legislative and executive branches of government. There’s a built-in tension between the fickle designs of the group in power and the abiding principles on which this country was founded. There’s a built-in tension between the powers conferred on the federal government and the powers reserved to the states.

These various tensions were anticipated, allowed for and harnessed by the founders so they would work as a cohesive system to maintain a powerful balance; the healthy balance between the government and those governed.

But once the founders completed the crafting of this inspired arrangement, they issued a series of warnings. If those governed neglected to nourish and exercise their rights and responsibilities under this system, something vital would atrophy. Now, one of the insidious things about atrophy is this: It has the potential to creep over time. Its effects can be so subtle that they pass unnoticed. That’s why on Independence Day, it’s a good thing to take stock of where we are and compare with where we should be if our inspired system of government was nourished and exercised.

Let me offer a personal observation on where we have atrophied. We have surrendered our political responsibilities to a couple of insatiable parties. Note that neither Democrats nor Republicans are mentioned in our founding documents. And yet, does anyone deny that these parties are the real rulers of this nation? They decide who will run and who will not. They decide who will win and who will not. This corrupting arrangement has reached the tipping point now that these parties are shamelessly subordinating the interests of the country to the narrow, selfish thirst for power and graft.

Moreover, we have passively allowed our government to indulge in monumental financial irresponsibility. The mounting debts and endless commitments of our government are forging shackles that will choke the financial hopes of our children and grandchildren for decades to come. We have grown to tolerate blatant lies, corruption, graft and hypocrisy and naively returned the same perpetrators to power year after year.

We have, gradually, come to tolerate government intrusion into every aspect of our private affairs. There is now, virtually, no exchange between citizens that does not, somehow, concern the government. The sheer magnitude of this creeping strangulation would be appalling to our founding fathers.

Finally, we have virtually surrendered to the authorities of governmental bureaus. It is astounding to realize how many times citizens must seek the approval of some state, local or federal agency before they can act in regard to their own affairs and property.

But here’s the majesty of our system. We can shake off our apathy. We can defy the parties. We can look for an outlet for our justifiable anger and frustration. This Independence Day, let’s dedicate ourselves to reversing the atrophy of our political muscles. Let’s get ourselves ready to vote for some changes.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

Here’s another strong link. There’s an emotional magnet between the terms “self-respect” and “earn.” At one time, there was a bias in this country against anyone taking money that wasn’t earned. This, in part, explains the abundant laws against gambling and the strict regulation of those who charged interest on money loaned. There was a moral taint connected with pocketing money that wasn’t the product of “honest labor.”

Our parents were narrow-minded when it came to the concept of “earning.” We had an allowance, but we had assigned chores. No work, no allowance. The same went for grades. All our teachers made it clear that we would receive the grades we earned. If we weren’t satisfied with our grades, we might have the opportunity to “earn” extra credit. In the context of athletics, every player had to earn a place on the field or court. No matter how much natural ability a player had, if they didn’t show up for practice and put out their best effort, they wouldn’t suit up and play on game day. Just that simple. This notion of “earning” as a critical factor in appreciating how the world worked was hammered into us.

The concept of earning as a moral precept and as a productive world view seems to be disintegrating. I could dwell at length here on the gross dishonesty of men like Bernie Madoff and Jack Abramoff. I could catalog the obscene salaries of Enron executives who fiddled while their company and its employees went up in smoke. I could recount the cases of politicians like the former governor of Illinois who exploit the peoples’ trust by wallowing in sordid schemes to sell their offices.

But today, I want to talk about Loyola Law School in Los Angeles. Tuesday’s New York Times reports that Loyola will retroactively raise, by 0.333, every grade recorded there in the past few years. There is not even a pretense that this grade enhancement is earned. It’s a purely cosmetic gesture designed to make Loyola law grads look better to prospective employers. The article quotes Stuart Rojstaczer, a former Duke University professor who studies grade inflation: “If somebody’s paying $150,000 for a law school degree, you don’t want to call them a loser at the end. So you artificially call every student a success.”

In order for this device to work, a couple of other things have to happen. First, these prospective employers must not read the New York Times. Otherwise, they’ll simply subtract 0.333 from the grade points of all Loyola grads who apply. Next, even if these prospective employers don’t read the NYT, they have to forget about class rank. No matter how much you raise someone’s grade point average, the bottom half of the class doesn’t get any closer to the top. If Loyola refuses to provide class rank, someone’s going to smell a rat.

I’m speaking as a guy with a marginal IQ and a decent, not spectacular, law school career. All my classmates knew the score. Some of us were going to be at the top of the class and some of us weren’t. Even after graduation, some of us were going to pass the bar exam and some of us weren’t. If we succeeded in passing the bar exam, some of us would get great jobs and some of us wouldn’t.

To my knowledge, we all knew that the keys to success were in our hands. Even if some of us couldn’t compete with the giant brains that could glide through with easy academic splendor, we knew we could compensate and enhance our own credentials by working harder. There’s always a way to distinguish yourself and it’s up to you. In the end, some just weren’t meant to be lawyers.

If everyone is automatically entitled to success because failure is liable to hurt feelings, success will no longer be an earned achievement. Then, it will no longer be success.

Tomorrow, June 25, is the birthday of George Orwell, who wrote the novel “Animal Farm.” If you haven’t read it lately, you should.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

OK, let’s take a look at a hodge-podge collision of foolish and unfair events.

Back in 1988, Salman Rushdie wrote a book called “The Satanic Verses.” Evidently Rushdie found inspiration for his book in an ancient tradition holding that Mohammad included a couple of verses in the Koran that were delivered by Satan rather than the angel Gabriel. Mohammad, being soundly chastised, later repudiated these so-called Satanic Verses and the whole embarrassing affair was papered over. Rushdie’s fertile, eccentric mind seized on this apparent miscue and a wildly controversial novel was born.

Let me pause here to anticipate a comment. Someone might say Rushdie’s decision to write this book was foolish. It might be argued that he should anticipate that a book like this would generate a massive backlash and he has no one but himself to blame for the tsunami that washed over his creative head.

That may be so. But I suspect that Rushdie was overwhelmed by his muse. I think he wrote it because he “couldn’t not write it.” But that’s really beside the point of this column. Before moving on, though, I should stress that I agree with Rushdie when he says, “It’s very, very easy not to be offended by a book. You just have to shut it.”

Apparently some important Muslim clerics declined to employ the simple expedient of shutting the book and allowed themselves to be hysterically offended. On Valentine’s Day 1989, Ayatollah Khomeini called for Rushdie’s death and a $2.5 million bounty was placed on his head.

Enter Mustafa Mahmoud Mazeh. At least that’s what he called himself. We don’t know his real name. But he seems to have been a 21-year-old Lebanese believed to be a member of Hezbollah. Anyway, of all the ways he could register his outrage over Rushdie’s book, he decided to make a bomb and blow the author to bits. You may disagree with me, but this scenario presents a smorgasbord of unfairness and foolishness.

But, of course, there’s more. Evidently Mazeh wasn’t a very good bomb maker. While priming the device in London on Aug. 3, 1989, he blew his own self to bits along with two floors of the Beverly House Hotel. This, of course, is a foolish and unfair outcome.

Now some might regard Mazeh as a foolish fanatic and grossly incompetent terrorist. Still others in the Muslim world regard him as a hero. His mother was offered a home in Iran and he is recognized as “The first martyr to die on a mission to kill Salman Rushdie.” A shrine was erected to his honor in Tehran near shrines dedicated to the assassins of Anwar Sadat, a young Palestinian mother who killed herself in a suicide bombing and the anonymous bombers who killed 241 Americans in Lebanon in 1983.

All this insane foolishness with the expected destructive consequences has been on my mind this week as June 14 marks the 44th anniversary of the day the Vatican abolished the Index of Prohibited Books. This index included the works of some of the world’s great philosophers, scientists and novelists. Many of the men and women whose works appear on this index were threatened with death by clerics who wouldn’t “just shut the book.” Indeed, some died agonizing deaths for daring to pen ideas that religious authorities found offensive.

I may be going out on a limb here, but I think I’m safe in saying that any manly man in possession of his faculties would say killing people is a grossly unfair and foolish way to deal with people who write offensive books.

Oh, by the way, on June 19, Rushdie will be 63 and, in 1998, the Iranian government informed Britain it would neither support not hinder assassination operations against him. By coincidence, June 17 is the anniversary of the day the Supreme Court ruled that Bible verses and prayer in school are unconstitutional. June 21 is the anniversary of the Supreme Court ruling that flag burning is protected speech.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

If we know the back story, we know that the only way Laocoon could have saved himself and his sons was to keep his mouth shut and watch passively as his city collapsed in disaster. This sad tale is a case study in folly. Here’s what I mean.

Everyone remembers the story of the Trojan Horse. The Greeks had besieged Troy for 10 years and were on the verge of giving up and sailing home when the crafty Odysseus came up with a plan. The Trojans could be overthrown if they could be persuaded to voluntarily invite their enemies into the city and bypass the strong walls that had so capably protected the Trojan people for so many years.

Easy to say. But how do you persuade the people to voluntarily welcome the very enemy that intended their destruction? Simple. Disguise the truth. Make it appear to be something innocuous — or better yet, make it look like a blessing. So the Greeks constructed a hollow horse; pleasing to look at, but filled with enemy warriors.

When the Trojans found the Greeks gone and the horse left behind, the debate began. What is to be done with this remarkable creation?

Naturally, the first thing that should be done is a thorough inspection. This thing was left behind by men who meant to destroy the city. It should have been looked over to determine just exactly what it was. We know, of course, there was no such inspection. Folly.

But the folly doesn’t stop there. Laocoon, a Trojan priest, suspected that the Greeks had some devious motive in leaving the thing behind. He warned his countrymen not to bring the device into the city. He urged the Trojans to burn it to be sure it wasn’t a trick. That’s when Athena, a goddess who favored the Greeks, sent the serpent to destroy Laocoon and his sons. His warnings had to be silenced in order for the plan to succeed.

The Trojans could have viewed Laocoon’s destruction in one of two ways; (1.) He was being punished for being impious, (2.) His warnings were true and some malevolent force wanted to shut him up. Evidently, the Trojans gave no serious thought to the latter possibility. Still, no close inspection. Folly.

But the Trojans had two more chances. Cassandra, a Trojan princess, had the gift of prophecy. She predicted that the city would be destroyed if the Trojans brought the horse within the gates. Her prophecy was ignored. Still, no close inspection. Folly.

The horse was pulled past the strong walls of Troy. According to one version of the tale, the gates were too narrow to accommodate the giant horse and part of the wall had to be destroyed to get the thing inside. Folly.

Still, one more opportunity to avoid destruction. Inside the city, another debate erupted. Some Trojans argued that this horse was built by enemies and should not be kept inside the city. Their counsel was ignored. Folly. Others said the whole deal was fishy and the horse should be burned. This too was ignored. Folly.

Finally, with full knowledge of Laocoon’s warning, Cassandra’s prophecy and the differing opinions among the people, the Trojans still failed to make a careful inspection. Folly.

Once the decision was made, no one thought to put a guard on the thing. All warnings and apprehensions were cast aside and the Trojans gave themselves over to a night of wild drinking and wild celebration. Final folly.

At the prearranged signal, the hidden Greeks slipped out of the horse, killed the guards and signaled the army. The Trojans suffered the awful consequences of their numerous follies.

Of course, this quaint old story has no lessons to teach modern Americans — does it?

Oh, by the way, according to Eratosthenes, the ancient Greek mathematician/poet, June 11 is the anniversary of the day the Trojans paid the price of their folly. We’ve learned a lot in the past 3,194 years. Haven’t we?

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

There’s more than a little irony here. Nostalgia begins as a word describing a painful condition and winds up referring to a warm and pleasant recollection. Usually, nostalgia, as we use the word today, is attached to a time in life which, if not painful when we lived it, was probably felt to be mundane. In hindsight, the past often takes on a comforting glow. According to Don Larson, the columnist, “Nostalgia is a file that removes the rough edges from the good old days.”

Let’s not pause here to debate whether nostalgia is, as a rule, a good thing. Let’s be bold and dive into the nostalgia pool and see how we feel when we come up.

In June 1956, the world was in the process of being taken over by a new technology — television. There were still thousands of homes in America that didn’t have TVs, but the number was shrinking as sets were becoming more and more affordable. There was still a good deal of apprehension about buying televisions as repairs were very mysterious.

Most every father I knew back then was capable of making repairs when the family car needed fixing. Radios were easy to repair as these were powered by tubes that were easily removed and replaced. TVs were different. The brave souls who purchased sets early frequently complained about unreliable reception and inconsistent performance. Repositioning “rabbit ears” on top of the sets was a constant exercise if viewers were to secure and hold a decent picture. Always lurking just beyond the picture was the danger that you’d need to call the dreaded “TV repair man.” These shamans would show up when summoned carrying tool boxes with magical instruments that members of the public couldn’t buy and wouldn’t know how to use. We’d stand around wringing our hands while they worked their electronic magic and hope to goodness we’d have enough to pay when the time came.

On Tuesday nights, millions of families all over America perched with eager anticipation around their TVs waiting for “The Texaco Star Theater,” or, as we called it, the Milton Berle show. Urban legend has it that, in Detroit, between 9:00 and 9:05 on Tuesday nights, the city’s reservoir levels dropped because people wouldn’t go to the bathroom until The Texaco Star Theater went off the air.

Back then, in blue collar homes, musical variety was limited. We all knew about The Grand Ole Opry. This venerable radio program was one of the staples of family entertainment before television arrived on the scene. We knew about hymns because we sang these every Sunday morning, Sunday evening and Wednesday night. Our grandparents might, from time to time, sing some old timey mountain ballads that usually involved murders and hangings. We knew about love songs because our parents had record players that could vary speeds between 33 rpm for albums and 45 rpm for singles. Then, of course there were theme songs from our favorite radio and TV shows and snappy jingles attached to the better selling products.

Then, on Tuesday, June 5, 1956, there was a major quake in the entertainment world. Elvis Presley left his guitar backstage and strode onto the Texaco Star Theater — and attacked. No love songs, hymns or lyric ballads here. He accused the whole world of being “…nothin’ but a hound dog.” He fidgeted with the mic stand as a gunslinger might nervously thumb the hammer of a six gun. He pointed accusingly at the audience as if daring them to talk back. He gyrated back and forth in front of his back-up musicians as if it was the music and not the singer that had control of his movements. He sang “ain’t” again and again, and nobody had the nerve to correct him. Everybody watching knew they were witnessing a challenge of some kind, and deep down, we knew we would be expected to choose a side. We were just unclear what it all meant at the time.

Through the miracle of modern tele-technology, you can see that revolutionary performance today. Even now, viewers can get a sense of the charisma and defiance that exploded on our little black and white screens that night. You know, if nostalgia is a disease, you can keep your antibiotic.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

On my most recent trip to Uganda, I traveled to Gulu, which was the central battleground for a bloody civil war that raged over two decades. The rebels, who called themselves “The Lord’s Resistance Army,” concentrated their unspeakably savage recruiting efforts on defenseless children.

Little boys and girls were brutally abducted and forced into becoming child soldiers and sex slaves in service to the ungodly aims of the “LRA.” As these children grew into adults, many of them became willing participants in the ongoing atrocities. They became fanatic purveyors of the very horrors that they, themselves, so tragically endured. Some of these former child victims became the most brutal and heartless victimizers. Why? How could these frightened children get warped into such heartless, blood-thirsty adults?

I’m sure the answer is complicated. But there is a common denominator that surfaced as some of these survivors told their stories. Each child was forced, under threat of horrible death, to participate in torture and murder. The victim was always someone they knew and was often a family member. Many of these survivors, particularly the boys, were forced to participate in brutal rituals that involved acts of cannibalism.

Once these uprooted children went through these bloody “initiations,” they were told there was no point in escape. They were now guilty of unforgivable sins and there was no refuge. Even if they returned to their families, they would never be taken back. If they fell into the hands of the authorities, they would be tortured and punished for their horrific crimes. The only avenue open to them, according to their captors, was integration into the “holy” movement. Only here could their crimes be seen as excusable and commendable in the larger context of “the struggle.” Only here could they hope to belong.

A surprising number of these children eagerly embraced this promise of “salvation” and threw themselves into a life of boundless blood and cruelty. The introduction of unbearable self-hatred, it seems, was the LRA’s preferred and amazingly successful technique for mutating frightened children into heartless fanatical warriors.

Joseph Kony, the dictatorial leader of the LRA, continues to elude all efforts to bring him to justice. As late as Christmas last year, his fanatics savagely murdered scores of innocent civilians in The Republic of Congo and abducted at least 80 children. At this very moment, heroic efforts are being mounted to find and rescue these kids. But we know it’s one thing to rescue them from Kony’s clutches and another thing to rescue them from the grips of self-hatred he imposes on them as an instrument of control.

Many of us who traveled to Gulu in March were sadly unprepared for the magnitude of the need. We went prepared to offer some level of medical care. We could supply some much needed medicine. We could provide the technology and training to enable the villagers of Gulu to drill water wells for themselves and their neighbors. We could distribute enough food to temporarily relieve the hunger of some. But one of the greatest needs we encountered we were powerless to relieve. Many of the young women freed from captivity are dying for forgiveness.

Sister Rosemary Nyirumbe of St. Monica’s Tailoring Center in Gulu is tirelessly working to help these girls acquire a trade and, through gainful work, promote the growth of self-esteem. Her message to these women is moving and powerful. A child cannot be faulted for being the victim of rape. A child cannot be faulted for her inability to stand up to the savagery of a heartless army. It is not the child’s fault if they are left alone in the world and have no one to turn to. Sister Rosemary does all she can to let each of these girls know that she is deserving of love no matter what the LRA says.

But there were more than 10,000 of these abducted children and many of these child victims bore children by their captors. Sister Rosemary has a big job and she labors heroically to carry the load. But she can’t do it alone and her resources are not up to the task. We don’t have the power to offer forgiveness, but we can lend a helping hand. To learn more about how to help, please attend a presentation I will give at 6 p.m. June 27 at Santa Fe Presbyterian Church in Edmond, or contact me at the e-mail address listed below.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

The distance between Oklahoma City and Birmingham, Ala., is a little more than 700 miles. Once you hit Interstate 40 headed east, you can set your cruise control on 70 and, with a temporary slow-down here and there, you can motor without stopping all the way to Memphis. Then, after you turn southeast on Highway 78, there are no stop signs until you reach the outskirts of Birmingham.

The highway authorities in Oklahoma, Tennessee, Mississippi and Alabama are all conscientious about posting the speed limit along this route. Keep your eyes open and you’ll always know how fast the law allows you to drive. For most of the distance, you can travel at 70 miles per hour. That’s 70 for me, for you, for the professional NASCAR driver, the 85-year-old escapee from the nursing home, the 17-year-old beginner, the fighter pilot, the absent minded professor — everyone.

Now the NASCAR driver could make a strong case for the proposition that it’s really not fair to impose this limit on him/her. These drivers are a lot more capable of safely handling a vehicle at 85 or 90 than some other drivers are at 60 mph. But we don’t take exceptions into account when we post speed limits. It’s a “one-size-fits-all” deal. The fact that it’s unfair on the margins doesn’t matter. That’s the rule.

So here’s the question. If you’re rocketing east on I-40 at 95 miles per hour because your accelerator sticks and your brakes won’t work, are you morally responsible for violating the speed laws?

OK, here’s another one. We all agree it’s inappropriate to shout obscenities in the presence of children (at least I think we all agree on this). But someone suffering from Tourette’s syndrome, who fully appreciates how wrong it is, can’t help it. Is it a moral shortcoming to do something you know is wrong if you simply can’t, by the exercise of will, stop yourself?

In our society, the assessment of moral quality requires some assumptions. One is morally commendable if one has choices, some good and some bad, and voluntarily chooses the good. The evil twin has the same choices, but instead chooses the bad. One is morally excused if one fully appreciates the difference, but has no real power to choose one or the other.

There is a mounting body of scientific evidence suggesting that our conscious choices — all of them — are a product of self-deception. Alfred Mele, the author of the article mentioned above, cites some studies suggesting that brain pattern activity can predict people’s decisions up to 10 seconds before they’re aware they’ve made a choice. In Malcolm Gladwell’s book “Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking,” the author discusses experiments where subjects unconsciously solve a riddle and express the solution physically before the conscious mind identifies the pattern.

These studies obviously pose problems for our notions of moral quality. If our mind is made up before we go through the exercise of excluding the bad in order to choose the good, these decisions start to look automatic and — yes — predetermined. This, of course, gives a ready-made excuse to anyone who commits an act we regard as morally reprehensible. Everyone has a moral “out.” You can apologize for what you’ve done. But it really isn’t your fault. The accelerator got stuck.

Mele doesn’t buy it and I don’t either. Of course, there are limits on free will. We can’t all be high-profile golf pros no matter how hard we try. (My wife Mary says it may be too late for me to start training now to become an Olympic ice skating sensation. We’ll see.) And, like it or not, some of us have wider ranges of choice than others. But each of us had the right to expect others around us to choose to act with decency. If I’m headed east on I-40 at 85 mph and get a ticket, I’ve got no one to blame but myself.

In ancient Rome, May 17 was dedicated to Mercury, the god of merchants, thieves and orators. If they have anything in common that justifies lumping them all together, I’m sure it’s not their fault.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

A poor but content fisherman catches a talking fish. This fish claims to be an enchanted prince and begs to be spared. The kindly fisherman agrees. When the fisherman relates the story to his wife, she demands that he return to the magic fish and request a new home as a reward for his mercy. The fisherman reluctantly goes back to the sea and the fish grants his request.

The fisherman’s wife is satisfied for a time, but decides she would be happier in a castle. She sends embarrassed husband back with this additional request. Granted. But she’s still not satisfied. She wants her husband to be a king. But he has no interest in being a king. So she insists he persuade the fish to make her a king. Granted. Now she wants to be emperor. Granted. The fisherman’s anxiety is growing as his wife’s dissatisfaction magnifies. Now, she demands to be pope. The fisherman is not only mortified, he’s terrified. But still, her wish is granted.

With all this, she’s still not content. She wants to be able to command the movements of the sun and moon. She browbeats the hapless fisherman into going back once more to the fish and telling him she wants to be God. The enchanted fish hears the absurd request and, in disgust, tells the fisherman to go home. He’ll find everything as it was in the beginning.

There are plenty of laudable lessons to be gleaned from this story, but let’s consider how it might shed some light on the concept of “relative poverty.” See, modern economists tell us there is more than one type of poverty that must be addressed. There’s absolute poverty, which means you don’t have the resources necessary to secure life’s basic needs — food, water, shelter, clothing, a minimum threshold of basic medical. Then there’s “relative poverty,” which means no matter how much you actually have, you’re poor because you don’t have as much as your neighbors.

Here’s the paradox. Our humble fisherman was not impoverished in the absolute sense when he was eking out a meager living in his modest home. If he was impoverished in the relative sense, it really didn’t bother him. His wife, on the other hand, was profoundly disturbed by her relative poverty even though she was elevated to the status of “king.”

Our tormented fisherman’s wife had not spent enough time giving mature thought to the difference between needs and appetite. She was completely out of touch with the relationship between labor and reward. She did not recognize or could not control the character-rotting effects of covetousness.

What happens when an entire social fabric is infected and mal-colored by the shortcomings we see evident in the fisherman’s wife? Such a society might be plagued by certain widespread symptoms. People might believe they’re entitled to their hourly wage whether they show up and work or not. People might skim off huge salaries and bonuses from the dwindling resources of failing companies. People might amass huge fortunes by lying, cheating and stealing from those who trust them. People might intentionally sell defective products if that’s what it takes to magnify the bottom line. People might be on the constant lookout for any opportunity to “get something for nothing” no matter who gets damaged in the process.

For what it’s worth, I’ll just throw this out as food for thought. One synonym for “relative poverty” is “income inequality.” The remedy for absolute poverty is logical and measurable; access to reliable necessities. The remedy for relative poverty/income inequality is just as simple. Everybody has the same income.

Remember Huey Long’s 1935 campaign song, “Every Man a King?” The slogan was a catch phrase for his “Share Our Wealth” proposal. The problem is, if everyone is king, no one has to do anything to earn the position. And then, someone will always come up with a scheme to be emperor.

May 6 is the 70th anniversary of the day John Steinbeck’s “Grapes of Wrath” won the Pulitzer Prize. Just exactly what are the grapes of wrath and how do we know when harvest time is upon us?

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

By the time the women realized the danger, it was too late. The buffalo charged. Coleman’s sister ran one way and his aunt another. His sister survived, his aunt did not. Coleman believes there are lessons with a wider importance below the surface of every human experience. He was raised here in the African bush and now makes his living guiding people who want to get beyond the inhabited areas and get a closer look at Africa’s exotic plants and animals.

He points out a tree that looks like a grotesque mistake of nature. This is the strangler fig. What we’re looking at here is a nightmare life and death struggle played out in extreme slow motion. Coleman says there’s a message in this. I suspect the strangler fig may have an alarming lesson for modern America.

The seed of the strangler fig is bird-dispersed and germinates in crevices of healthy tree bark. The seedling sends roots downward along the trunk of the host and sends branches upward to reach above the leaves of the host. Over time, the roots choke the host’s bark and roots and the branches starve the host’s leaves of sunlight. Ultimately, the host will be completely engulfed and it will die, leaving the strangler fig thriving on its remains.

I was thinking about the strangler fig when I read a story in this week’s news about a gradual encroachment on free speech rights here in the United States.

Now let’s be clear about something. Even if you exercise free speech, that doesn’t mean anyone has an obligation to listen. If your speech is stupid, crazy or offensive, you may have the right to say it, but others have a correlative right to tune you out, turn you off or walk away.

That means, of course, that if I want to spew out venom about any group — racial, political, ethnic, sexual, professional, religious, whatever — I’m free to vent those opinions. I don’t have a right to demand that you listen to my venom.

I’ve never watched a program called “South Park.” I guess it’s an animated program that appears regularly on Comedy Central. Personally, I find most advertising so insulting that I generally skip commercial television. It’s my right not to watch for any reason I want to. But an episode of “South Park” recently was scrubbed because some Muslim extremists threatened to resort to violence if the show aired.

We may be watching the nightmare growth of another type of strangler fig. Once a seedling of this type takes root in the fabric of this society, it eventually could choke all discourse that is deemed offensive by the most threatening bully. It’s now a fact of life that certain races, religions and other social groups are fair game for all manner of satirical, belittling and insulting comment. But some others may only be offended at the risk of deadly reprisal.

We’re seeing murders and bloody riots occurring in other parts of the world when critics dare to offend some of these bullies. We’re seeing writers and journalists being charged with crimes for writing “hateful” books and articles. We’re seeing statutes passed criminalizing heresy. But now, we’re seeing our countrymen intimidated by bullies who believe they have the right to pass judgment on what is religiously acceptable not just for themselves, but for all of us.

I guess it’s easy for me to say I wish the broadcasters had ignored these threats and gone on with their program. It wasn’t my neck on the line. Just the same, if we don’t speak up about it, some day it might be all our necks. Coleman’s right. There’s always more to these things than meets the eye.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

I thought my ears were playing tricks on me when NPR ran a news story about a Muslim cleric that said women cause earthquakes. Let me repeat. He said women cause earthquakes. Thinking this was a delayed reaction April Fools’ Day gag, I checked it out. Sure enough, an Iranian cleric named Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi (we’ll call him H.K.) had a “divine” revelation. According to H.K.’s vision, women who dress immodestly “lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which increases earthquakes.”

Now, this may not be as far-fetched as it sounds at first. Here’s how it works in theory. An unsuspecting young man sees a shapely young woman walking toward him in a clingy summer dress. Before he can chastely avert his eyes, he finds himself anchored to the ground. He starts to tremble from his eyebrows down and the trembling doesn’t stop at the pavement. Shock waves migrate downward along earth’s most vulnerable channels until they touch the itchiest point on the fault line. This sets up a chain reaction and, in the blink of an eye, our young man is swallowed up in a dark chasm and the young woman continues on her way, oblivious to the cataclysm she’s caused. You can see how it could happen.

Here’s where we introduce the subject of “humor.” Originally, “humor” was a medical term. According to ancient philosophers, our bodies are comprised of four liquids — humors: blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile. Stay with me, it’ll make sense in a minute.

These ancient doctors believed our personalities are determined by the way these “humors” are apportioned within us. If blood predominates, you’re supposed to be bright and optimistic; phlegm, slow and unflappable; yellow bile, impatient and short-tempered; black bile, dreary and pessimistic.

I might be wrong here, but I suspect these ancient theorists could diagnose your “humor” composition by your response to the story about women causing earthquakes. Here’s a quiz they might use to arrive at a diagnosis. “Do you think the story is (a.) funny, (b.) stupid, (c.) scary, (d.) sad. Where do you think H.K. would fall on the ‘humor’ scale?”

That brings us, of course, to “humor” in the modern sense; meaning comical or light-hearted. I’ve heard it said you can survive the loss of any of your senses except your sense of humor. American educator Frank Moore Colby once observed, “Men will confess to treason, murder, arson, false teeth or a wig. How many will own up to a lack of humor?”

I don’t mean to keep picking on H.K. here, but you have to wonder whether, in private, he could be brought to chuckle at the suggestion that the incidence of earthquakes increases in relation to rising hem lines and/or plunging neck lines. Come on, H.K. Lighten up. And that goes for you guys that bullied the radio stations in Somalia into cutting music out of their programming because it’s “un-Islamic” and those who bullied schools into discontinuing the use of bells. Way too much yellow and black bile if you ask me.

When it comes to humor, every columnist in America owes a debt to Erma Bombeck. Her wit, wisdom, determination and courage have inspired, amused and fortified countless thousands of her readers. She found ways to shine her humorous light on the simplest things. She invited us to laugh with her and she was never afraid to wink at us when we laughed at her. Today, April 22, is the 14th anniversary of her death. As a classy battler for the Equal Rights Amendment, we might surmise that she’d have a thing or two to say about H.K.’s divine revelation. We know for sure what she had to say about humor. “When humor goes, there goes civilization.” Amen.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

First, what would you imagine the computation would be to determine the number of life boats the Titanic should have before she set sail? Now, that might sound like a “no-brainer.” Your common sense would say there should be enough life boats to accommodate the passengers and crew. But that’s not how life boat capacity was calculated. Somebody in some regulatory office somewhere decided that any vessel more than 10,000 tons in weight should be OK if it had 16 life boats on board. Sixteen!

Now, the Titanic had, counting collapsibles, 20. So it exceeded the minimum number required. But there were 2,223 people on board and room for a maximum of 1,100 on those boats.

Now, I’m sure at the time there was a way to monkey with the numbers and make this sound like it was adding up. Whatever. We know now that there weren’t enough life boats and the shortfall could be figured out by an operation of grade school math.

Next question. If you were the Titanic’s captain and you were warned that there might be ice bergs on your route and you found yourself steaming along on a night where conditions would make it difficult to see ice bergs in your path, what would you do? Again, common sense would say — slow down! If there may be something dangerous ahead and you’re not sure you can see it, for Pete’s sake, ease off the gas a little bit.

Know how fast the Titanic was going when she glanced off that ice berg? She was traveling at her normal cruising speed. No doubt the folks at the controls had real good reasons for overlooking the warning signs. But, according to the British maritime inquiry, the loss of the Titanic was “due to a collision with an ice berg, brought about by the excessive speed at which the ship was being navigated.” In retrospect we have to ask, “What was the big darn hurry?”

OK, last question. If you were a passenger on the Titanic and got the word to “abandon ship,” what would you do? Again, common sense would say, at a minimum, you would ask questions, like exactly where are the life boats in case the crew is right about how much trouble you’re in. But, according to some accounts, many of the passengers heard the alarms, looked around, didn’t see any reason for concern and simply ignored the warnings. In fact, the first life boat off the ship had a capacity of 40 and only 12 people were aboard. No doubt some of the passengers and crew held back because they were bound to stand aside for women and children. Heroes often find themselves in this spot. They have to put their lives on the line because of someone else’s errors.

So, that brings us back to my question. Is there anything we can learn today from the Titanic disaster? How about this? We ought to be suspicious when people start monkeying with numbers. Our safety might be at stake. We have a right to expect things to add up.

Next, people at the controls have an obligation to slow down if they’re warned there might be unseen dangers in the waters ahead. And we, as passengers, have an obligation to take safety measures of our own if we hear alarms.

Here’s one more point — for what it’s worth. Some experts say the Titanic would have been better off taking that berg head on rather than try some tricky maneuver when it was already too late.

Well, April 15 (in addition to being tax day) is the 98th anniversary of the day the Titanic went down. If we can’t learn anything else from this tragedy, we can learn this: Nothing is unsinkable if the people in charge don’t use their heads.

Oh, by the way, April 18 is the 55th anniversary of Albert Einstein’s death. According to Einstein, “In a healthy nation there is a kind of dramatic balance between the will of the people and the government, which prevents its degeneration into tyranny.” I may not understand physics, but I get this.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

An old army veteran who needed a character reference in court cried out to the emperor for help. Augustus heard the old warrior out and promptly appointed one of his aides to accompany the man to court and testify on his behalf. But the old veteran stood before the emperor and pulled back the sleeve of his tunic revealing the stump where his right hand should be. “With respect, Caesar, when you needed my help at the Battle of Actium, I didn’t send a substitute. I went myself.”

After a moment of silence, Augustus nodded and followed the old man to court.

This story illustrates a connection between shame and gratitude. Augustus’ rise to power would not have been possible without the sacrifice of the old soldier and countless thousands like him. The emperor was shamed by his momentary lapse of gratitude. To his credit, he acted promptly to correct the error.

On Monday, the New York Times carried a story about a case pending before the U.S. Supreme Court. This story should prompt us to take a moment to reflect on the concepts of shame and gratitude.

Evidently, each week there are hundreds of cases of America’s disabled vets whose claims for help are dismissed because of a technicality. If they’re late filing their papers, even if only by one day, even if the delay isn’t their fault, they won’t be heard on the merits. It’s just tough.

David L. Henderson served in the front lines of Korea. He was discharged in 1952. Though he was evidently receiving some veterans’ benefits, in 2001 he applied for additional help for his service-related disability. Three years later, he was turned down. He had 120 days to file an appeal. But he suffers from paranoid schizophrenia so, in his psychiatrist’s opinion, he’s incapable of rational thought or deliberate decision making. He’s incapable of understanding and meeting deadlines. He was late with his appeal and his case was thrown out.

This decision was called “ironic and inhumane” by three of the federal judges on the panel who reviewed Henderson’s case. In their words, “It is the veteran who incurs the most devastating service-connected injury who will often be the least able to comply with rigidly enforced filing deadlines.” In other words, these men and women who risked their lives and bodies in the service of their country can’t expect a technical break from their country when they have to turn to their government for help.

The article mentions the case of Anthony Bove who filed his appeal 54 days early, but he sent his papers to the Veterans’ Affairs instead of to the court. The bureaucrats sat on the papers until the appeal time ran and then had the case kicked out on this technicality. Rather than bend over backwards to offer help, the government office acted like an adversary and exploited the veteran’s understandable error.

Statistics on veterans’ appeals are remarkable. If they’re heard on the merits, 80 percent of the vets win some type of relief. This means, of course, that many, if not most of those who are kicked out on a technical error are deserving of help but they won’t get it.

Of course, there have to be rules and of course, those who are able should be required to follow those rules. But in unclear cases, someone gets the benefit of the doubt. Under the system as it is now, the benefit of the doubt goes to the government and the disabled vet is just out of luck.

In Henderson’s case, the Supreme Court will decide if a late filing means the vet automatically loses, or whether there is some equitable way to give another chance to someone who was willing to sacrifice all for his or her country. It just seems to me that when veterans deal with their government, it should never come down to a case of “gotcha.” Hopefully, the law is not so unjust. If it is, we should be ashamed.

Here’s where I disclose my bias. I’ve personally known many a fine man and woman who didn’t dodge when their country called. I can’t say I’m always proud of the way their country repays their sacrifice. Just my opinion.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

Back in the late 1800s, a fella named Hymen Lipman saw a way to cash in on other people’s mistakes. He could see clerks and such were using pencils because it was a headache trying to correct errors written in ink. If you went wrong using a pencil, there was no muss, no fuss straightening it out. You simply put down your writing instrument, erase the error and resume. But writing on the run was a problem. If you made a mistake while standing on a dock or in a railway car, etc., you had to put your pencil behind your ear, scrounge around in your pocket for the eraser, clean up the error, replace the eraser, retrieve the pencil and carry on. Why not integrate the pencil and eraser into one instrument? You’d always have your eraser on hand and you wouldn’t have to slow down much to make your correction.

Hymen rightly calculated that everyone makes mistakes and people don’t like to waste a lot of time getting back on track. He knew they’d pay a premium for speedy convenience. So, he applied for a patent on the pencil with eraser attached to the end. The U.S. patent office granted Hymen’s application and his instrument took the writing world by storm.

In 1862 — four years after the patent was issued — Joseph Reckendorfer paid Hymen an astounding $100,000 to purchase the patent on this “invention.” Obviously there’s big money in making it easier for people to undo their screw-ups.

At the time, the Faber family of Germany was expanding its pencil manufacturing business to markets throughout the Western world. Faber liked the integrated eraser idea, so they started manufacturing such instruments of their own.

Reckendorfer sued for patent infringement. If Faber customers were correcting mistakes with an integrated eraser, Reckendorfer wanted a share of these error corrections.

The case went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court. Here’s how they ruled: The patent office screwed up. The patent never should have been issued. Lipman’s “invention” was actually no more than a combination of two known instruments and the combination provided no new use.

So, Reckendorfer had to choke down the fact he paid $100,000 for a worthless patent which, no doubt, was printed in ink. History is silent as to whether the government employees who issued the worthless patent ever had any heartburn about it. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure the folks who fouled up were certain they were doing the right thing. Too bad for Mr. Reckendorfer that history proved them wrong.

Now there are a number of important lessons to be learned in reviewing the anatomy of this particular screw-up. I’ll just highlight a few of them.

First, there’s always someone who will figure out how to turn a profit from someone else’s screw-up. There’s unusually big money in exploiting certain government screw-ups. Ask Mr. Lipman and the Faber family.

Next, in the case of a monumental government screw-up, it’s often hapless members of the business community that pay the price for that error. Ask Mr. Reckendorfer.

And this goes without saying. If you’re not capable enough to know when you’ve made a mistake, all the erasers in the world won’t help you straighten out your screw-ups. Sadly, there are some errors that, once made, can’t be undone no matter how much you wish you could simply clean the slate and start over.

Now, here’s a quiz. Can you think of any recent monumental screw-ups that could have been avoided if some disciplined minds had judiciously applied some corrective erasures before buckets of ink got poured over a problem? I don’t know, I’m just asking.

Anyway, March 30 was the 152nd anniversary of the day Hymen Lipman registered his invalid patent. For what it’s worth, the first draft of this column was written with a Faber pencil — integrated eraser, of course.

I hope everybody has a wonderful April Fools’ Day.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

She won’t look at my face. She puts her hands absently to her arms, neck and mouth. These gestures are repetitive and distracting. She speaks barely above a whisper in her native Acholi language. She is telling me her story today at the urging of Sister Rosemary of Ste. Monica’s school in Gulu. Sister Rosemary interprets.

In the three years Rose was a captive in the African bush, she gave birth to a son and a daughter. When she was rescued, she was pregnant with a third child, a daughter. The horrors she was forced to do and witness can only be briefly described here.

Rose was dragged into the bush and bound together with eight other girls ranging in age from 8 to 15. There were also 10 boys ages 8 to 16. These children were driven day and night with very little food and water toward the Sudan, further and further from their home. One of the little girls died before the group arrived at a rebel staging area. It was here that each girl was assigned to a soldier.

One girl refused to have sex with her assigned rebel and she became an example to the others. As the other children watched, she was beaten to death. To magnify the horror of the “execution,” the other children were forced to beat the child’s dying body.

One other girl tried to protest and she met the same fate. There was no other resistance.

The boys and girls were forced to become soldiers and fight for The Holy Spirit Movement, which ultimately came to be called The Lord’s Resistance Army. They were trained to use weapons, treat wounds, set up ambushes. And kill. When they were not fighting, the girls were expected to steal, prepare food and otherwise see to the needs and desires of the men. Frequently, some of the abducted children were forced to participate in unspeakably barbaric rituals involving the bodies of slain combatants. These cannot be described here.

Rose was moved from the front line when she became pregnant. During this entire period, Rose yearned for her own death and those of her children.

She gained her freedom when the Ugandan forces began to gain the upper hand in Gulu. But she had been told by the rebels that government troops would torture her because she had taken part in the campaign. Consequently, one set of terrors was replaced by another.

She and her children were taken to an army barracks being assured that they would be treated kindly. She did not believe and remained in a state of profound fear.

An understanding barracks’ commander arranged to have only non-uniformed personnel actually assisting Rose and her children. Gradually Rose began to feel safe and when her third child was born, she began to have hope.

But she could only stay so long in the army camp. Ultimately she had to find a way to make a living in an economy devastated by more than 20 years of civil war. Her circumstances were desperate. Her family was all dead except for her grandmother who never fully recovered from the beating she received when Rose was abducted. Rose had no education and no skills other than those taught by the rebels.

She and her children were starving. In despair, Rose contemplated killing her own children to end their suffering and ending her own by suicide.

Her story came to Sister Rosemary’s ears. Rosemary was quick to gather Rose in and teach her to knit. Sister Rosemary supplies material which Rose crafts into beautiful baskets. Sister Rosemary buys these and sells them to earn money to help Rose survive and provide for her children. Two of Rose’s children attend school with Sister Rosemary at Ste Monica’s.

Even today, Rose’s situation is precarious. She is totally dependent on Sister Rosemary and Ste. Monica’s, but she is one of thousands in the same uncertain state. This tragic story is repeated in the lives of thousands of women and children who were savagely victimized by men claiming to be working on “The Lord’s” behalf.

When I asked Rose what I could do to help, all she requested was prayer. I promised there would be prayer and more. We’re going to see to it that Rose and others receive a dose of humble Oklahoma generosity.

I’m Hink and I’ll be calling on you.

The motto of the Cornerstone Leadership Academy for Girls is printed in blue letters on their clean white blouses: “Women of Virtue.” To welcome us they sing the school anthem, which we see written in old fashioned white chalk on a simple blackboard. “We thank God for provisions and education; our eyes open to know that sunshine follows after rain.”

We Americans are accustomed to being greeted with courteous smiles and handshakes — sometimes a discrete nod. But these young women dance out to meet us with their beautiful voices uplifted in song. This singing is almost overpowering in its simplicity and sincerity and each girl hurries to embrace us in the traditional Ugandan gesture of heartfelt welcome.

We are swept into the school where we learn the remarkable story of Cornerstone. There are 25 girls here selected from a pool of 500 applicants. All of them come from Uganda’s poorest families. Without the opportunity offered by this school, these students have no hope of acquiring a college education.

Uganda provides free schooling through the 11th grade. But admission to college requires two more years of preparatory work. This final step costs money which the impoverished families of these girls don’t have.

One by one, several of these “Women of Virtue” go to the head of the school room where we’re all assembled. Their testimonials are remarkably powerful. One shy young woman struggles with her emotions as she tells us, “I count myself among the blessed. With God’s help, I’ll be someone in the future.  Before Cornerstone, I did not have that hope.”

Cornerstone is the inspiring reality that springs from the dreams of Tim and Kathy Kreutter. This is a couple with a passionate love for the African people. In Uganda they saw a land inhabited by 45 tribes with ancestral jealousies and hatreds that kept the nation ever standing on the verge of new outbreaks of violence, new causes for distrust.

Tim and Kathy realized that the way past these age-old hatreds could be found in education. So they, along with likeminded visionaries, sought out deserving students who distinguished themselves in their studies and in lives of service to their families, churches and communities. This search crossed all tribal boundaries and brought these eager students together under one roof. At Cornerstone, they joined together in a common determination to form “a lifelong sisterhood of friends.”

Since the school came into existence, more than 90 percent of these girls have gone on to college; and wherever they go, they uphold the values Cornerstone stresses. These are the values that will lead these young women to be future leaders of Uganda, Africa — and who knows?

As I’m leaving Cornerstone deep in thought, there’s a gentle tug on my shirt tail. I turn to see two young women standing together. They ask me to “Take our love with you to America.” So I’m passing it along.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

At this moment, cameras are flashing as former Oklahoma University football standouts Roy Williams, Tommy Harris and Mark Clayton are swarmed by our many traveling companions and curious Ugandans. With us are doctors, media representatives, passionate young volunteers, geologists, representatives of Oklahoma’s higher education, dedicated humanitarians and other adventurous souls. They are all here to participate in a great experience. In the words of one of the eager young Ugandans assigned to look after us, “This great work has the potential to change the face of Uganda forever.”

After the Chief of Police in charge of VIP security gives us the ground rules on safety, Tommy Harris offers a prayer that sums up the hope of everyone present. We are here to offer our help to Uganda and to be open to the help Uganda has to offer us.

Personally, I’m not what you’d call a religious man, but there’s something remarkable happening here and it’s contagious.

The group plans to travel to an area of Uganda that was tortured by the effects of civil war for more than two decades. There is no accurate count of the number of people killed, maimed, orphaned, crippled and emotionally scarred in those awful years.

Sister Rosemary of Ste. Monica’s in Gulu has been an oasis of kindness and hope to as many as she could gather under her wings — even during the most savage violence. We will be visiting Ste. Monica’s to see for ourselves how Sister Rosemary is leading some of the most tortured of Gulu’s war victims into a life of new possibilities. They are learning to put the horrors of the war behind them and accept that tomorrow can be better, because, day by day, they are learning to support themselves by making and selling clothes.

There are villages in Gulu where the children still walk great distances to collect water and carry it back; a hard chore that must be repeated many times each day. An organization called “Water 4” will employ its revolutionary technology to drill water wells so these villagers will have access to reliable resources for their families, crops and livestock. Some of America’s finest athletes are here to roll up their sleeves and provide some of the horsepower needed to drill these wells.

A team of doctors plans to provide basic medical care for thousands of people whose access to basic medicines and treatments is limited in the extreme.

There will be repairs to existing structures, building new ones, cleaning, clearing, planting and I’m told there will be singing. This, they say, is one of the miracles of the Ugandan spirit. Even those most damaged by the cruelty of war have the ability to sing through their sorrow.

It’s been a long day of travel and tomorrow we’re starting early. I hope to provide updates and photos. I want you to meet some of the people who are part of this remarkable cooperation. I’m checking my e-mails so don’t be shy. These folks would love to hear from you and they’d love to answer your questions. If I can manage to fathom the technology that’s supposed to enable me to stay in contact, there should be some good dialog between here and there.

Now, about my role here. I really don’t have much to offer on this trip. But just the same, I’ll be in on the singing.

From Uganda, I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

Now this little deficit, like all deficits, didn’t have a name of its own. It was just called “deficit.” And, like many other deficits, it was cultivated, nourished and born with the idea it would serve a good purpose. This particular deficit was meant to cover a war. Back in those days, it was sometimes believed that, among warring nations, the country that produced the biggest, fastest-growing deficit would win the war. So, when The Seven Years’ war broke out between England and France, England unleashed the biggest deficit it could and, sure enough, England’s deficit could whip France’s deficit and England won the war.

But one of the problems with deficits is that governments love them because they win wars and fund graft. Citizens hate them because it’s the citizens that have to feed the things — and they’re always hungry.

So, after The Seven Years’ War, the English government was looking for a way to feed its hungry little deficit. Some English citizens, who happened to be American colonists, said they’d be happy to help feed this ravenous little deficit, but they wanted to stop its growth and shrink it down to nothing. But the English government liked this deficit because it helped maintain a large army, which would be good for England in future wars. Also, there were many officers who were friends of members of the government and, if the deficit shrank, some cronies would lose their government jobs.

There was a lot of back-and-forth between the English government and the colonists about this until the government had enough. The colonists were informed that, since they were English citizens and were beneficiaries of the English victory in The Seven Years’ war, they were going to support this deficit whether they liked it or not. The colonists were told to shut up, buck up and pay up.

The English parliament passed The Stamp Act to raise revenue from the colonists that England could use to feed the deficit which would, then, allow England to maintain a large army on American soil. Now, The Stamp Act required that all official documents, newspapers and other printed materials must display an official government stamp, which, naturally, required the payment of a fee. Without that stamp, legal documents weren’t binding and other printed materials could be outlawed, seized and destroyed. Parliament believed the situation was in hand. The colonists, being good English citizens would, for all their grumbling, pay the bill. The deficit was happy but hungry.

Parliament had misjudged. The colonists didn’t passively accept. They rejected the English solution because they felt it was unfair to expect taxpayers to shoulder a fat deficit if they had no voice in creating that deficit and no voice in determining how to reduce it. So the colonists organized. There were widespread protests and universal colonial refusal to obey the law. They simply ignored the penalties threatened by The Stamp Act and refused to allow collection of the tax. England huffed, puffed, blustered and threatened, but the colonists stood firm. In the end, England had no choice but to repeal the tax and find another way to feed its deficit.

But there were two giant lessons standing in the aftermath of this struggle. One: If the citizens are convinced that the government is placing unfair burdens on the shoulders of its taxpayers, those citizens can exert enormous power if they organize and speak out. Two: Even law-abiding citizens can be pushed only so far before they get sick of feeding these monstrous deficits.

March 8 was the 245th anniversary of the day the English House of Lords passed The Stamp Act. It’s a good time to stop and think about the lessons we should learn from history.

For the next couple of weeks, this column will be written from Africa. Hink will be tagging along with Pros for Africa as they journey to Gulu in Uganda to help in rebuilding some of the damage caused by years of civil war. Take a look at the Pros for Africa and The Whitten Newman Foundation Web sites to see the good work these folks are doing. I’ll have more to say about this while I’m gone and when I get back.

For now, I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

After careful review of all the applicants’ résumés and after thorough interviews, we select the personnel that seem to be best suited to take us where we want to go.

Once we’re airborne, the pilot’s voice comes over the p.a. system. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for choosing us as your flight crew. We thought you’d like to know we’ve decided to change destinations and we’re now headed for the tropics. Please ignore the turbulence. Relax and enjoy the ride.”

Naturally, we are annoyed as we hired this guy to take us to a specified location. We never intended to meddle in such details as air speed and altitude. That’s his job. But we’re not prepared to let him unilaterally decide to completely alter our course.

So, we notify the senior cabin attendant that we don’t like what the pilot’s doing and we want him to get back on track and get back to doing what we hired him to do. She smiles and says she’ll talk it over with the captain.

When she comes out of the cockpit, she asks for a show of hands. “How many of you like the tropics?” We’re a cooperative bunch, so almost all of us raise our hands. She smiles. “Fine. I’ll inform the captain.”

Most of us cry out as one. “Wait a minute. We like the tropics all right, but we don’t want to go there right now and we don’t want to go on this plane.” She disappears into the cockpit and we have no idea what’s going on in there, but the plane is still headed for the tropics.

When she steps out again, she has a message from the pilot. “He says you’ll love it once you get there. You really don’t know how great it’s going to be. In fact, it’ll be historic. He really, really appreciates your opinion, but, for now, you’re better off accepting the fact that we’ve changed our destination. May I offer you a cocktail?”

We’re starting to get hot. “Tell the pilot this is not his plane. This is our plane and we get to decide where it’s going. You go in there and tell him to do what he was hired to do. Maybe he can talk us into going to the tropics later. But we don’t want to go there now. Go tell him.”

But the senior cabin attendant wants to argue with us. “This plane needs to go to the tropics right now because a change in course will be good for some of the passengers. In fact, some of the passengers really want to go to the tropics and you all agree you like the tropics.”

We’re trying to hold our tempers. “That’s not the point. You’re co-opting our flight plan against our wishes. You can’t make us go to the tropics just because we put you at the controls.” She disappears into the cockpit again.

This time when she comes out, she says, “The plane is on auto pilot to the tropics. It’s been on autopilot before and no one complained. So we’re leaving it on autopilot this time and we’re on final approach. Please be sure your tray tables and seat backs are in the upright and locked positions.”

Well, we’ve had enough. Several of us force our way into the cockpit, give the pilot a good spanking and force him to take us to Alaska where we were headed in the first place.

Now here’s the question. In the above scenario, who is the hijacker? No matter how you answer it, one thing’s for sure: When we are ready to go to the tropics, we’re not going to have the same guy flying the plane.

Today, March 4, is the 223rd anniversary of the first meeting of the U.S. Congress. They don’t make ’em like they used to.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

The meaning of the word expanded to include mentors of some kind via British university slang. In the 18th century, tutors came to be called “coaches” because they were expected to safely convey their students through the rugged examination landscape — like the reliable Kocsi carriage.

For several generations, now, coaches, in the sense of athletic mentors, have come to play an important role in helping to convey boys on part of their journey from youth to manhood. Occasionally, I’ll hear someone bemoan the fact that many modern coaches are little more than performance techs, P.R. agents and glorified baby sitters. I don’t know about that, but I do know that a good number of manly men I know owe a debt of gratitude to coaches they had in their youth.

Some of the guys have asked me to express our appreciation to some of the coaches who served as important role models and motivators. So here goes.

First, let’s get the disclaimers out of the way. Nobody’s perfect. Coaches make mistakes like everybody else. There are good ones and bad ones. One bad apple spoils — blah, blah, blah.

Now, let me voice a collective “thank you.”

First off, our coaches added an important exclamation point to some things our parents taught — or tried to teach us. Mom and Dad told us that people judge us, in part by the pride we take in our appearance. Our coaches went a step further. They taught us that people judge the team by the appearance of the team members. Consequently, our coaches demanded that we be mindful of our appearance and our manners — not just at school, but everywhere. We knew that if we pulled shenanigans or treated someone disrespectfully, and it got back to the coach, there would be consequences. And it wouldn’t do any good to bellyache to our parents. Everyone trusted the coach to be fair and if you didn’t want to live up to his expectations, don’t go out for the team.

Then there was academic responsibility. The coach expected athletes to attend class and be on time. And it wasn’t enough just to show up. We were expected to put forth a good effort at our studies. Coach had a pretty good appreciation of our scholastic capabilities and was not likely to accept bogus excuses. Make the grade or go to study hall. If you still can’t make it, you’re off the team until you can.

All this was part of the regimen before we set foot on the practice field. As for practice, the coach led by example. He was in shape and was ready to demonstrate every exercise that would be required of his players. There was an ironclad recipe for making the first team. Show up for practice. Put out your best effort. Beat out the other guys. No shortcuts. No favoritism. On game day, show up with a clean uniform and a belly full of fire.

Everyone that suited up was bound to get his tail chewed out some time or other. But when we did, it was because we made a mistake when we should have known better, or we didn’t put out the effort the coach knew we were capable of.

When we moved along and left our coaches behind, a lot of guys were better dads, better husbands, better employees and better leaders because these men picked up where our parents and teachers left off. In many ways, they carried us, as good coaches should, from one point in our journey to the next. For all the good things they did that are still with us, thousands of us want to say, “Thanks, Coach.”

On a personal note, next month coach A.J. Hickman, formerly of Crooked Oak, will be honored by many of the men whose lives he influenced over the years. A very special “thank you” to Coach Hickman. We’ll never forget you.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

This week marks a number of ominous anniversaries. Feb. 15, 399 B.C., Socrates sentenced to death in Athens for voicing allegedly dangerous opinions; Feb. 16, 1568, the entire population of the Netherlands receives a death sentence for allegedly holding heretical religious views; 1959, Fidel Castro confirmed as dictator of Cuba; Feb. 17, 1600, Giordono Bruno burned at the stake for religious heresy; 1977, Bishop Luwum of Uganda murdered, probably on orders of the tyrant Idi Amin; Feb. 19, 1942, President Franklin Roosevelt authorizes internment of many innocent American citizens of Japanese descent.

There’s a common denominator here. Each of these atrocities occurred because there weren’t adequate restraints on government power. Let’s take a closer look.

Governments, by their nature, are tigers with wings. No matter how benign they are when they’re cubs, they grow up with ravenous appetites and a hatred of restraints. Governments never tire of squeezing more and more resources from the pockets of their subjects. They never stop looking for ways to silence voices of dissent. They are more than willing to engage in intimidation and even murder when their sense of self-preservation is threatened. Governments never sleep. They never take a day off. They are ever on the prowl in search of enemies and potential enemies.

If history has taught us anything, it’s that government, no matter how benevolent at the outset, is always probing to discover weaknesses in restraints on its power. No matter what the party line may be, government by its nature is a winged tiger. It is not a friend of mankind.

Our founding fathers were acutely aware of government’s unquenchable appetite. That’s why the founders, by drafting, debating and ratifying our constitution, amputated the tiger’s wings. Our Bill of Rights, our constitutional safeguards, our branches of government with the fine system of checks and balances — all this was crafted because tigers are a necessary fact of our social contract. But our founders instituted brilliant measures to keep it under control.

But here’s the problem with wingless tigers. They’re relentless in their efforts to get those wings back. They grow a feather here and there and wait to see if anyone sounds the alarm. If small growth in the danger is overlooked, more feathers appear. If some of this new growth is observed and trimmed, the tiger waits patiently and tries again. The tiger is quite willing to wait until the astute watchdog dies or retires. Then it resumes its efforts to regrow those wings that will allow it to return to its old, dangerous, free-ranging tricks.

Ordinarily, I steer clear of politics. There are plenty of pundits who know and say more about it than I do. I figure you’re getting your quota. But I’m seeing warning signs. The measures so skillfully devised by our founders to ensure that American citizens keep this dangerous tiger under control are unraveling.

Now some will insist that there’s nothing to worry about. The government is under control and working fine. But let’s face an important fact. There’s not a word about Republicans or Democrats in the Constitution. But the real rulers of this country are the political parties. And we are seeing them for the snarling, spitting, savage, cannibalistic fat cats they are.

At this moment in our country, our government is dysfunctional. It’s dysfunctional because we’re not, as a nation of free citizens, demanding accountability. Our institutions are bordering on moral collapse. Our resources are being wasted. Our children’s future is being hocked. The shears are in our hands. If we don’t get our tiger under control, we have no one to blame if it suddenly sprouts wings and devours us all.

To those of you who think the situation will simply right itself, here’s an ancient Arab saying. “It is good to trust God, but never forget to tie up your camel.” We have tigers and camels to tie up.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

To start with, it wasn’t his fault. Lawrence Talbot heroically dashes to the defense of a damsel being assaulted on a moonlit night. He throws himself into a life and death scrap, kills the monster, saves the lady and winds up being infected by the “wolf man germ.” Now the disease will cause him to morph into a wolf during the full moon. As part of the “wolf man syndrome,” he’ll be driven to dash through the night stalking livestock and nocturnal pedestrians. But he can’t help it. It’s not a moral shortcoming. It’s the unjust result of an unfortunate act of chivalry.

The manly man is all too familiar with the scenario, albeit on a much less dramatic scale. He can see the damsel’s car needs washing. Valentine’s Day is approaching. He sees an opportunity to kill two birds with a well-placed stone. He can express his deep feelings and spiff up her car at the same time by giving her, as a Valentine’s present, a gift certificate for an auto detail. To his surprise and dismay, this act of chivalry backfires. He is forced to flee before a relentless pursuer oblivious to the fact that he’s innocent. Deep down he’s not a mindless hairy savage. He’s the hapless victim of the dreaded wolf man syndrome.

Then, there’s his appearance. Larry starts off as a well-groomed, neatly dressed, well-mannered gentleman. But once he’s infected by the wolf man germ, he starts growing hair all over; on his hands, his face, his ears, his back, his nose — hair everywhere. But what’s he supposed to do about it? He can’t control it and it happens so fast there’s really no feasible way to keep up with it. He’s not a slob, he’s a wolf man, for crying out loud (aphorism?)

Once again, the manly man appreciates Talbot’s predicament. As he matures, the wolf man germ attacks the hair follicles all over the manly man’s body. Hair begins to spring up in embarrassing mats in unlikely and inconvenient places. And it’s wiry — scary wiry. Fortunately, most of us are not stricken with the “ultra-fast-gro” variety of the wolf man germ, so we have some opportunity to battle back the growth of this unwanted crop. But some of us have to resort to embarrassing tools — like nose trimmers. I hasten to add here that no matter how aggressively the wolf man germ attacks our hair follicles, the manly man never resorts to body waxing — even if he has to stalk through the night where none may see.

Then, there’s the clothing deal. In his youth, the body of the manly man is easy to outfit with off-the-rack duds. But look what happened to Talbot. The minute the wolf man germ took hold, his body expanded to the point a good fitting pair of slacks was impossible. His shirt was no longer able to completely cover his hairy body. This is one area where the wives of manly men are sympathetic to the effects of the wolf man germ. They spare us the indignity of having to buy ever expanding waist sizes. Mercifully, they take over the clothes buying humiliation. They really don’t want us going around looking like wolves — bless their hearts.

By coincidence, in ancient Rome Feb. 15 was the festival of the Lupercalia. This was a celebration of the she-wolf. Oh yes, the she-wolf. Now that’s a subject for another column.

Oh, by the way, Feb. 10 is the 104th anniversary of the birth of Lon Chaney Jr., who played Larry Talbot in the 1941 wolf man movie. That, by far, is the standard by which the others are measured. Even though we know how it has to end, we’re still on your side, Lon.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

A certain farmer found himself harvesting a crop that exceeded his wildest expectations. After years of living on the edge of poverty, his ship finally had come in and he was on the road to prosperity at last.

As he was driving his bountiful produce to market in his rickety cart, he couldn’t help but enjoy his daydreams about how wonderful it would be to enjoy some luxury for a day or two. He was so absorbed in his happy reverie that he failed to pay attention to his driving. Sure enough, the wheels of his cart slipped off the road and stuck in a ditch. Just then, storm clouds began to crowd overhead and our farmer knew that a downpour would ruin his unsheltered produce. He laid the lash to the oxen and, strain as they might, they couldn’t get the cart back on the road.

He began to wail. “O God, please help me. Please get this wagon unstuck or I’ll be ruined. If this is punishment because I wasn’t grateful for your generous bounty, I’m sorry. Just get me out of this and I’ll be better next time, I promise. Just don’t leave me stranded here in this rain. Give strength to these stupid oxen so they can get me out. Don’t let my whole year’s work — my whole life’s work — go to waste like this. Please God, it just isn’t fair.”

Well, he went on like this as the clouds grew thicker. When he heard distant thunder, he whipped the oxen harder and prayed louder. He was near hysteria when the first drops of rain fell on his head. He was about to yield to despair when he heard a voice. “Look fella, I brought you this far I mean to help you, but your oxen aren’t strong enough by themselves. You got yourself in this mess and you’ll get out when you get your butt out of this wagon, put your shoulder to the wheel and push.”

There are a number of laudable morals rolling around in this ancient tale. Take your pick. But we’re on the subject of prayer. Some years ago, I attended a banquet in Washington, D.C. Mary and I were seated at the same table as the Ambassador from Rwanda and his wife. If any nation in our lifetime has experienced the full force of savage human catastrophe, it’s Rwanda.

After dinner, a well-meaning lady informed the ambassador that we here in America were praying for his troubled country. With an air of great reverence, he thanked her for the prayers. But, sadly he said, prayers now come too late for the hundreds of thousands who were brutally murdered and the ones suffering now. Prayers without brotherly love are comforting whispers that are hard to hear.

I spent a good deal of time thinking about what the ambassador said and the subject has come up a number of times since then. Obviously, with the disaster in Haiti dominating the news, we hear a lot about “our thoughts and prayers” being with them. But “thoughts and prayers” all by themselves are really not very helpful, are they?

The idea of brotherly love is only partially expressed in our prayers. To be fully alive, our brotherly love needs hands, arms and legs. It needs endurance for the long haul. It doesn’t spend itself in an explosion of prayers and quick dollars and then sit in the wagon waiting for the next disaster. Real brotherly love stays on the hunt for opportunities to help even after the cameras quit rolling. Real brotherly love doesn’t go overboard in loud displays of self-congratulation when all it’s done is behave in a way that’s called for by simple human decency.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not knocking prayer here. I believe reverent, humble prayer can do wonders for our spiritual health. I’m just saying prayer is no substitute when you know in your heart there’s hard work to do. Prayer is no bandage to make us feel better when we know there’s something we could be doing that would amount to meaningful help. And let’s keep this in mind. Prayer for the victims of faraway disasters is no help to the ones suffering in our own neighborhoods.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

To start with, my wife Mary went to considerable trouble to see that every detail added a sweet punctuation to the meal. The fruit was exotic (as in something called “dragon fruit”), varied and fresh. Sausage and eggs were prepared with a Hawaiian flair, and, as the courses were carried to our seaside table, everything was almost too beautiful to eat — almost. The young men and women looking after us did us the honor of treating us more like friends than hotel guests and we were all touched by that special magic they call here “the spirit of Aloha.”

Any person with an ounce of romance in his or her soul would have no trouble finding a special meaning in this occasion. Sunrise in Hawaii shared with a loving spouse in the midst of dear friends has a power to make the manliest man — tender.

But there are layers of meaning below the beautiful surface of this story.

The three guys — Bo, Gary and me — have been friends since we were little boys. Bo and I grew up a few houses apart on the same street. Gary lived around the corner a short bike ride away. Throughout grade school, we often had the same teachers. During school programs, our parents were in the audience applauding as we did our clumsy gaucho and astronaut routines. In junior high, we chased aggressively around the football field trying to perform like the upperclassmen. We were trying hard to impress beautiful Gloria, the “head cheerleader” of the junior high squad.

Gary won her hand. They fell in love and married about two weeks before Gary answered his draft notice and reported for duty. Some years back, Gloria was found to be riddled with cancer. Tumors had exploded in her body in a star pattern and more than 30 of her lymph nodes were invaded. Gary was told to prepare for the end. He refused to accept it.

But, what’s more to the point, Gloria refused. She refused to let us give up and she refused to contemplate a world where her young son had to grow up without her. She refused to consider a world where she was not by Gary’s side as he grew old. She endured her treatments with a courage that inspired us all — and she beat it. She amazed her doctors and overcame staggering odds. All this came flooding back to mind as we embraced our childhood sweetheart on this beautiful Hawaiian dawn.

But there’s more. After Gloria’s miracle “fourth quarter comeback,” Bo was stricken with cancer. Once again, the doctors painted a bleak picture. But Bo had some powerful weapons in his arsenal. To start with, he’d always been a moderately clean living guy. His physical fitness was important to him and he was blessed with a tendency to discipline and a positive outlook. In addition, he had Gloria’s iron-willed example to follow (as well as another sweet friend, Janice, who also won her life and death struggle with cancer). Bo made the most of the tools at hand. He outfought his cancer and is making progress in erasing the aftereffects of his disease.

It was this narrow escape that opened Bo’s eyes to a host of things he’d been missing in his life. He proposed to Dottie, who had been faithfully at his side throughout his ordeal. He’s open to life in a way he wasn’t before.

So, here we are sharing this beautiful dawn and our private thoughts in Hawaii. The three of us guys have come a long way from playground tag in southeast Oklahoma City. Gary and Gloria have been married for 40 years.

Gloria has been here to see her son become a father himself and she stands as a rock solid anchor to her friends and family. Bo and Dottie have created a wonderful example of how a married couple can throw themselves into the inspiring opportunities life can present. And Mary has let her sweet generosity extend to envelop not only my life, but the lives of my dear childhood friends. When we were growing up, there’s no way we could have expected how life would bring us to this paradise this morning.

I usually try to avoid clichés, but really, I wish you were here.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

In the lobby of the Mathaiga Country Club in Nairobi, there are a couple of notable artifacts on display. First, there’s the moldy moth-eaten stuffed carcass of a lion. Whatever its historical or sentimental value, it should be put away — for good. Just my opinion.

But more to the point, there’s an antique map of Africa whose coastal outline is now known, in light of our advanced knowledge, to be a very inaccurate approximation. The interior of the map is blank — featureless. The cartographers who drew this map did the best they could with the tools at hand. But they couldn’t tell us anything about the continent’s interior and they were wrong about the outline.

Back when that map was current, it would be foolish for a skeptic to say, “Well, you’re dead wrong about the contours of Africa and we must conclude, therefore, that there is no real Africa.” It would be equally foolish to say, “Since you can’t tell me anything reliable about the continent’s interior, I must insist that there’s really nothing there.”

OK, back to Maui. This morning, I’m nearly overwhelmed by the beauty, power and majesty of what I’m seeing. Though I’m not a religious man, I have to say these awe-inspiring surroundings strike a harmony deep inside and it feels like something divine.

Now I’m not interested in knee-jerk reactions to this statement. I’m not interested in a self-satisfied genuflection in the direction of a distinctly drawn, paternal deity. I suspect any such pseudo-certainty is as wrong as those early efforts to draw the outline of Africa. On the other hand, I’m not interested in the equally pseudo-certain electro-chemical explanation that leaves no room for the possibility of a supreme being. Just because we can’t put it on the map doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

This topic is generating vicious and maddeningly superficial arguments between religious and anti-religious fanatics. On the one hand, some claim to be absolutely certain concerning the nature and purpose of God because it’s all revealed in the canons of “approved scripture.” They don’t allow for the possible merit of any difference of opinion. Sound familiar? Then there are those who point to instances where religion has been used for evil or stupid ends as proof that there must be no god at all. Humbler more open-minded voices are shouted down and demeaned by both extremes.

There’s no need to catalog the instances of mindless violence practiced alike by proponents and opponents of religion. You know what I’m talking about — there’s plenty of blame to go around. There’s no need to dwell here on the gross ignorance of fanatics who resort to vandalism and bloodshed simply because members of a different religion presume to refer to their deity as “Allah.” I pause here to point out that the ancient Middle Eastern word for god, “El,” would sound very much like “Allah” when spoken aloud. I’m told the words are very closely related — for all the good this linguistic brotherhood does.

But anyway, if the advance of human knowledge has taught us anything, it’s this: No matter how much we think we know, a lot of it we don’t. And there’s a lot going on around us that we think we can understand but we can’t, really. No matter how smart mankind is collectively, he possesses only a small percentage of the knowable.

So where does that leave us in our seaside meditations about ancient maps and Maui? Science tells us there’s a genetic component to our desire to believe in God because such beliefs provide a survival advantage to us, to our group. But that’s not altogether satisfying, is it? To say that evolution has been perfecting a receiver doesn’t really foreclose the possibility that the transmitter has been working fine for billions of years. Why would it be so? Who knows? The cartographers who drafted those wonderful old maps could never imagine how their craft would be changed by satellites.

We still have a lot to learn about the magic that lies at the root of our awe.

Oh, by the way, Friday (Jan. 22) is the 42nd anniversary of the death of Duke Kahanamoku, a legend to all who love surfing and honor Hawaii. Aloha Duke.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

Back in 1977, a young fella I know was trying hard to settle down. He’d spent several years knocking around the U.S. and western Europe scratching out a living by fair means and foul — depending. He was known to have done some serious damage to a bottle of spirits or two and was not above busting heads as a short-term remedy for a case of bad manners.

For reasons unknown, some kindly educators conspired to get him into a university here in Oklahoma, but our boy had a hard time staying put. So these kindly educators arranged to keep him interested by periodically moving him to various colleges in places like Massachusetts and Wisconsin.

These frequent changes of scenery helped our restless ne’er-do-well stick with it and, wonder of wonders, the kid got a degree. No one, including our wanderer, knew what would happen next. Our kindly educators stepped in again. They urged him to take the law school entry exam. Our boy didn’t see any harm in it, so he shrugged and filled out the papers. After he took the test, in August 1977 he was surprised to find himself enrolled at the University of Oklahoma. Standards were considerably more relaxed back then.

But, he could see pretty quick that things weren’t working out. He’d scraped up enough money for a couple of months’ rent, but classes were harder than he expected and groceries were scarce. The only job he could land was as a night watchman at a dorm from midnight to 7 a.m. The poor guy wasn’t having any fun at all.

He hit critical mass in May, 1978. He was sleep deprived, hungry and out of rent money. Finals were approaching and he didn’t like his academic chances. His only financial asset (and his only form of wheeled transportation) was a 1974 Honda motorcycle. He was too proud to beg and the bank wouldn’t loan him a dime on that bike. So what else could he do but turn to the Kentucky Derby?

Alydar was favored that year. His toughest challenger was Affirmed. These horses had squared off six times in 1977. Affirmed won the first contest at The Youthful Stakes in June. Alydar won when they next met at The Great American Stakes the following month, with Affirmed coming in second. In August, they met again, this time at The Hopeful Stakes. Affirmed edged Alydar by three quarters of a length. Their fourth meeting was in September at The Futurity Stakes where Affirmed won by a nose to take a three-to-one lead in their rivalry.

But then, at The Champagne Stakes in October, Alydar won by more than a length. The series was three to two. In the last race of the year, The Laurel Futurity, Affirmed managed to squeak out a win — by a neck. Next stop, Kentucky Derby. The racing world was on pins and needles.

That brings us to Friday night, May 5, 1978. In Norman, Oklahoma, finals were at hand. There was no money, there was no food and rent was overdue. Our discouraged law student was drowning his sorrow at Fontinelli’s bar when fate provided another opportunity. Even though the oddsmakers were favoring Alydar, our boy believed Affirmed would carry the day. A loud-mouthed know-it-all was willing to put up $200 against the Honda that Alydar would win. A sober man would have been more circumspect, but our student was under the influence of Hiram Walker and testosterone. He made the bet.

Well, he didn’t sleep a wink that night. He couldn’t back out because the bartender was holding the $200 and the title to the Honda. At race time, he was watching the TV at the law school. Affirmed won in an incredible display of strength and speed after a terrifyingly sluggish start. I shudder to think what would have become of our reckless lad if that horse had lost. As it was, Affirmed went on to win The Triple Crown, but the valiant Alydar was breathing down his neck at every finish. What a series!

Jan. 12 was the ninth anniversary of Affirmed’s death. This is an occasion to ponder how the course of a life can be changed by something as small as a length and a half. Oh, by the way, Jan. 12 is also the 111th anniversary of the death of Hiram Walker. Cheers fellas.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

Next question. Do you remember the first time you saw Sophia Loren and Carlo Ponti together knowing they were married? I’m assuming it was a photograph — was for me. Do you remember your reaction to the fact that the most beautiful woman in the world (I didn’t know my wife Mary then) was married to a dumpy little four-eyed bald guy?

The reason I’m asking is that I remember both instances in high relief. And both occasions were important building blocks in my developing vision of what it means to be a man.

Let me explain.

When I was a kid, men shaved with safety razors. These were heavy precision tools designed to receive and secure a naked blade. Blades were individually unwrapped and carefully placed in the device. Then, guards on the device were screwed into place leaving a cutting edge slightly exposed to allow enough contact with the face to, hopefully, do the job with a minimum of bloodshed.

I remember watching dad perform this operation. I remember asking if I could shave too. I remember dad telling me these blades were not for children. They were sharp and would hurt me if I tried to fool around with them. I’d have to wait ‘til I grew up a little bit before I could touch a razor. I was skeptical. I don’t remember how I plotted it, but when dad was gone and mom was occupied, I got the razor package and unwrapped one. Quicker than you can say “Gillette,” the thin, evil monster had laid my thumb open; no threats, no warnings, no hesitation; just speedy, heartless damage to the digit of a poor little kid who only wanted to play with it.

When the bleeding stopped and the thumb was bandaged, I faced up to some important facts. First, I was never gonna play with razors again — even if they started making them out of rubber. Too dangerous. Next, if the old man said something was dangerous, I’d better pay attention. Not that I had to agree with him every time; but I’d darn sure handle the situation with some care.

When time did come for me to start shaving, we were still using safety razors — no electric gizmos, no “3 blade, super-gel, astro-glide, nano-tech, Hollywood, aero smell” disposables. Just really sharp metal locked in a safety device. No guarantees. If you were careless, you could still lose a lobe.

I wasn’t happy about this shaving deal for two reasons: One, as I’ve pointed out, it was dangerous and I was clumsy. Next, to shave, I had to look close at my own face. All I could see was a kid with pimples who was cock-eyed to boot. With a face like mine, how could I ever hope to get a second glance from Sophia Loren?

About this time, I saw a picture of Sophia and her husband, Carlo Ponti. I couldn’t believe it. She should have been married to someone like Gregory Peck, Gary Cooper, Cary Grant — guys like that. How could she possibly be in love with a guy who looked something like Wimpy in the Popeye cartoons? At first I was disappointed. But then the truth started filtering into my adolescent brain. Maybe ole Carlo had something to offer that compensated for his lack of matinee looks. Maybe a guy could attract beautiful women even if he is cockeyed, hates shaving and is in puberty.

So I decided to take the bull by its dangerous horns and make the best of a marginal situation. I started shaving every day and trying to get adjusted to the fact that my looks were just what they were and that didn’t necessarily count me out as a good catch for someone.

Now don’t think I’m telling you all this just because I’m self indulgent. These lessons are worth keeping in mind when considering what it takes to grow up. A manly man may disagree with his elders, but he darn sure takes their opinions into account. And a manly man knows you don’t have to look like a movie star to get the girl. Oh by the way, Jan. 10 is the third anniversary of Carlo Ponti’s death. Thanks Carlo.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.

As the mixture warms, the resolutions will start to harden, which will serve to prolong the flavor and preservative power of the cocktail. The appreciation should brighten if you are sufficiently attentive to the brewing process. If this appreciation is properly seasoned and refined, all unsavory negatives will already have been strained out. If not, this is the perfect opportunity to remove and discard them. Occasionally, these negatives are too thick and coarse to be easily separated. If so, allow them to simmer with your resolutions. This may take some time, but eventually, these negatives will be absorbed by the resolutions. If carefully done, this absorption will add a pleasing after-taste to your beverage.

At this point, sprinkle in some fresh resolutions. For best results, these should have been carefully cultivated throughout the year. But I hasten to add that fast-growing, late harvested resolutions can produce a perfectly suitable cocktail if the roots have achieved an appropriate depth. At all costs, avoid instant, mass produced, one-size-fits-all resolutions. They will make the mixture much too sugary. It may be enjoyable for the short term, but you will lose the full-bodied, long lasting flavor and nutritious benefits of a well crafted cocktail.

At this point in the brewing process, I suggest you experiment with some of your favorite spices. Music, for example, can be mixed in to add flavor, color and body to your creation. Some gourmets suggest singing and dancing. Some of the more exotic and daring innovators have produced interesting results by adding yodeling to the process. I have tried this myself, but my results have not been satisfactory. I intend to work on my technique and try again in a year or two.

Be sure to keep the end product in mind. It should not be frothy, dull and tepid. Avoid additives that excessively darken and harden the cocktail. Be mindful that some resolutions have an extremely short shelf-life. By now, you should be able to discern the difference between resolutions that retain their freshness over time and those that lose their flavor in a day or two. The worst resolutions are those that quickly become bitter.

Sometimes, the brew is so potent it brings tears to the eyes. Do not be alarmed. I have found that this is often an indicator that the end product will be most satisfying, long-lasting and enriching. If the watery eyes persist into the first two weeks of the year and are accompanied by delusions, uncontrollable outbursts, night sweats and a thirst for blood, discard the remaining cocktail and seek counseling.

Once the cocktail is strong, full-bodied and aromatic, turn off the heat and let it steep. At this point, I have found it useful to season the cocktail with a classic movie. This year, at the suggestion of my friend Phil (we’ve known each other since we were 6 years old) I chose “Casablanca.” Turns out it was a good choice.

At one point in the movie, the cynical Rick (played by Humphrey Bogart in case you don’t know) makes the statement: “I stick my neck out for no one.” Of course, he goes on throughout the movie to stick his neck out for everyone. To my delight, that comment inspired me to add a bright new resolution to my year-end cocktail. This year, ole Hink is determined to stick his neck out for more folks. I just threw that in the mix to see how it works. You should try it.

Anyway, give this concoction a spin. If you’re lucky, it’ll stick to your ribs and serve as a wholesome intoxicant throughout the balance of the year.

Oh, by the way, Dec. 25 was the 110th anniversary of “Bogey’s” birthday. Just another reason to celebrate the season. I hope everyone has a great new year. Cheers.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.