RandyMcCall Story #1

Randy McCall Stories-Story #1…”Doles WHO?”

In 1975, back when I was 15 years old in Baltimore, MD , I was attending Northern High School. One day I was standing inside one of the doorways at school. It was the entrance on the right side of the building (if you were facing the front of the building) that had a sidewalk that led to it… a big wide sidewalk. They were those big, thick, double doors. You know, those real heavy doors with very small windows. They were the ones with diamond-type screen and the big, stainless steel push bars inside. I think the white guys used that area more than the blacks did. We used to stand outside there and smoke cigarettes, and, if lucky enough, some weed, before, during, and even after school. These doors opened to a landing that had steps: On the right, they lead up to the first floor. To the left, the stairs led down to the ground floor. The steps and landings were terrazzo, which is an extremely hard surface. Well, you may not believe this story. But I know it’s true because I saw it with my very own eyes!

It was the beginning of the day. The “Get your butts to your homeroom NOW” bell hadn’t rung yet. I was standing with my back to the doors, facing the stairs when I heard knocking at the doors. I twisted myself around and looked through the diamond screen and saw Randy McCall. Now, Randy had been in almost every one of my classes since our 6th grade class at #236 (Class of 1971). And I must’ve heard his name called during roll hundreds of times…But I had never heard a response…ever! So I pushed on the bar and opened the door. I said,” Randy, what are you doing here? He said,” I hear there’s a “black guy” messing with my Bro’s.” I said,” It’s true, Randy. His name is Doles.” Now, anyone or, maybe I should say, “any white guy,” who was going to Northern at that time (1975), should remember the name,”Doles.” Or, to be more specific,”Nigga” Doles. I cannot say for sure if I ever did learn his real first name, or not. I don’t seem to recall it…Anyway, it seems “Nigga” Doles had been on a rampage, roaming the hallways with about 10 other “brothers” for the past few weeks. And, it didn’t matter who you were, how many friends you had, or even how big you were. If you got caught in the wrong place at the right time (or the wrong place at the right time), you were gonna get your ass kicked. And a lot of good guys got their asses kicked, too.

So, here’s Randy McCall…140 lbs soaking wet. 5′-8″ wearing clogs. (He wasn’t wet, or wearing clogs…I’m just sayin’). He was asking me where he could find this,” Nigga” Doles. Well, I shit you not; I look up the stairs and see Doles and his gang just turning the corner to come down the stairs…right at us! I threw up my arm, (pointing right at Doles), and said in a loud voice,”THERE HE IS, RANDY!” Randy said,”Thanks, Paul.” Then he quickly made his way up the stairs before Doles stepped down 1 single step. Now, I knew what was coming cause I had seen it before, a couple of times. Randy was standing on the step below the landing that Doles was still standing on. Doles was like 6′-5″ barefoot, and about 240 lbs. Randy looked up at Doles and said, “You Doles?” And Doles said, “Yeah, so what?” Randy retorted, “I hear you been messin’ with my bro’s.” Now, at this moment, I know I had a huge smile on my face. And you could have heard a paper clip drop…

Doles looked down at little Randy McCall and said,”What’re you gonna do abou…” Just then, Randy jumps straight up into the air about 2 freakin’ feet off the terrazzo! And he hit Doles in his face about 10 or 15 times before his feet touched the terrazzo again! It was beautiful! And I can remember distinctly that I had no thought of running up the stairs to get Randy’s back because I knew exactly how this scenario would end. Just about the time Randy’s feet came down on that top step, Doles, his consciousness now conspicuously absent, overtaken by gravity, collapsed into a heap of flesh and bones. And this very same unconscious “heap” came tumbling down the terrazzo steps…about 15 of them! He never made a sound. And he rolled head over heels and landed right at my feet! It was just like a “dream sequence” in a movie. It was one of the coolest things I ever saw!

After the body of Doles came to rest at my feet, Randy calmly looked at the gang and said,” Any of you’s want some of this?” They turned and ran away! Randy walked back down the flight of stairs he had walked up less than one minute before. When he got to the bottom, I said,” Nice job, Randy!” He said,” Be cool, now.” And walked back out the door. Doles still had not moved or made a sound! Everybody just left him lying there looking fairly dead. I never even heard the name of “Nigga” Doles after that day! I mean, of course, I recounted the story until everyone knew about it. But, the threat was now gone. The bullshit about the black guys roaming the halls in gangs, attacking any white guy that was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the right time, ended on that very day. And, it never happened again while I was at Northern High School!

The End

Fish Pond Bob’s New Pond

 

Here’s another story about my growing up in Hamilton…

 

Fish Pond Bob’s Pond

 

Big Dan Golombowski and I were very good friends. One summer evening we went to the back-field to split a case of beer. By the time we finished it off, it was dark. In addition, it was very hot and the humidity was high. It was the night after the day Bob worked his ass off to fill it with plants, and whatever it is that people do to fix up ponds. We were about as drunk as you can be, and still be able to walk and talk! When we spotted the pond, we both got the same exact idea, at the same time…”it would feel really good to put our tired, dirty, hot feet into the beautiful water.” So, we decided to wade through the pond. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

 

It was not our intention to damage his property. But after we walked from one end to the other, side by side, we turned around and there were all kinds of plants and roots and crap floating on top that wasn’t there! We were not sorry cause we knew what he was doing. We knew Bob was actively luring young girls into his van. Make real friendly…give them beer, wine, and I heard even drugs. Then he would take pictures of them! As far as we we’re concerned, he was a piece of dung. So we just laughed about it and put our shoes and socks back on. Just as we were walking away, the flood lights on Bob’s house came on!

 

The back door opened and Bob started hollering! He was so angry! We slipped away easily through the darkness. But we could still hear him yelling most of the walk home. He was screaming like a banshee…Mainly, I think, because he had JUST put the finishing touches on his pond that very day! I think it took him weeks to design and build. And I’m sure he spent plenty of money on it, too. Later, he really tried to get the neighborhood kids to squeal on us. I mean, we made no effort to conceal it from anyone. But there wasn’t anybody foolish enough to talk. And this is what I learned through all this…BEWARE OF WHITE MEN WHO LIKE PHOTOGRAPHY AND DRIVE A VAN…

 

The Pear Tree Boutique

 

 

It’s funny. I remember when the Pear Tree boutique, in Hamilton, first opened. I guess it must’ve been around 1970. It was on the same side of Harford Rd. as the A&P…and for those of you who don’t remember the A&P…the Hamilton Tavern. They sold mostly rock and roll (and possibly disco) record albums, incense, paraphernalia, and cool posters. But they didn’t have a large selection of clothes…not that I recall. Earl Bessler, who lived on White Ave. with his younger brother, Billy, was working there. They lived in the house that was just east of the alley that ran through the back-field. A couple years later, when they moved over to the other side of Harford Rd., Earl Bessler stayed with them. In the new place, they had more room. I’m pretty sure there was a basement level that they turned into a ‘psychedelic space’ with the coolest ‘black light’, or fluorescent, posters that I had ever seen. I can’t really remember whether they had this feature at the first location. But, they definitely had it at one of the locations, if not both.

 

I bought my first pair of hip-huggers at the Pear Tree. The zipper was about 2 inches long. They were also bell-bottoms. They were day-glow orange and made of a really soft, brushed cotton denim. They got lots of feels from the chicks, too. I was finally cool, I thought, at 12 or 13! Well, not quite cool enough…not yet. But, I bought a pair of “Jack Percells” not too much longer after that. And, if you remember that specific period of time (’71-’73), as a guy, you weren’t cool unless you had long hair, wore “Jacks,” with bell-bottom pants, and a U.S. Army jacket from Sunny’s Surplus. Of course, suede jackets were also cool…as long as they had the fringes. And, I think, denim jackets were acceptable. This is a generalization, of course. There were some who broke these rules, but remained ‘cool’.

 

My last memories of the Pear Tree include the sale of amil nitrate, (I think that’s right). It was also known as “rush.” It came in a very small bottle, was very cheap, and took you far out of this world for awhile…in very short bursts. It was so volatile that most of it evaporated into the air! It was a notorious killer of brain cells! Then, if my memory serves me, Rush was outlawed in less than a year. Then, so was paraphernalia. Daa…da dum dum…the end of the Pear Tree.

 

The Greatest Campsite Ever! by Paul Tiderman

 

 

Back in 1984, John Strickland and I worked together as painters for Johns Hopkins University. One Friday, he asked me if I’d be interested in going camping over the weekend. I told him yes, but I’d have to check with my wife (since she would be going with us). John said he was taking his girlfriend (Kathy Singer) along with her son, and his son, Lucas. So, it was going to be a family affair.

 

Well, my ex-wife and I used to go camping a lot and she liked it. So, it wasn’t that hard to convince her to go. John said he knew of this place that was the BEST CAMPSITE EVER…and it was FREE! So, we agreed to go along. We threw some things into the car, met up with John and Kathy, and their boys. They were fairly young. I didn’t ask John exactly where this place was. He said it was along the C & O Canal. So I told him to take it easy driving and I would follow him,

 

After about 2 1/2 hours of driving, John pulled over to the side of a road, in the middle of nowhere. I noticed railroad tracks and rock cliffs on either side of the road. Well, I probably forgot to mention this. But my ex wife was about 6 months pregnant! John and I get out of the cars and I ask him what the matter is. I figured he was having car trouble, or something. He says, “This is it! We are here!” I said, “What are you talking about? You see, I was expecting a campground-type of setting. So was my wife.

 

John says, “No man. This is real camping!” He then proceeded to walk across the tracks, down a hill, across a footbridge that was traversing the C&O Canal! Then he keeps walking until we are standing on the top of some BIG rocks…looking down at about what looks like 10 feet of sand between the base of the rock cliffs, and the Potomac River! And, to make it even more interesting, there were about a half dozen men sitting around a small campfire that looked way too much like hobos! John yelled down, “Are you guys gonna be much longer?” They replied, “No…not too much longer.” So John said to me, “Let’s go for a little ride and we’ll come back later.”

 

Well, I’m thinking about my pregnant wife and those rock cliffs that must be climbed, and all the stuff we brought, and ask John one more time, “Are you kidding me, John?” He assured me he was serious about this campsite. So, as we got into our cars, I began a tremendous sales pitch about how great this campsite is, and what fun we’re going to have.

 

After killing some time, waiting for the hobos to leave, we came back to the roadside. We had to park between railroad tracks and these rock walls… You know, when they blast through solid-rock mountains to build roads or railroad tracks? Anyway, I had my 6-month pregnant wife convinced this was going to be a great camping experience. We all grabbed as much as we could carry and headed toward the footbridge over the C&O Canal. Kathy had her son, Danny and John had Lucas. When we crossed the footbridge, we only had to walk another 25 yards, or so to get to the edge of the cliff. It wasn’t that far down to the “beach”…about 25-30 feet down.

 

As I was climbing down (I had to help my wife down), we chose our spots to set up our tents…and it was getting dark fast! I went back to the car for the rest of our stuff. I came back and John and Kathy had their tent almost set up. It only took a few minutes to set up ours. Suddenly, I look up river (the Potomac) and there is a storm coming! And it’s coming fast! That portion of the Potomac is bound on both sides by steep, high (in most places) mountains. So the storm is coming toward us, just like it is in a funnel. I throw as much of our stuff into the tent as quickly as I can. And we all take cover ASAP!

 

In the tent with my pregnant wife, I don’t have a clue what is in store for me…It starts raining SOOO HARD! In less than 5 minutes a stream forms INSIDE our tent! I’m on one side…she’s on the other. You see, the tent is sitting at the base of the rock cliffs. And all the storm water that hits those rocks flows down hard and fast. We just happened to be smack-dab in the middle of one of the major streams. This couldn’t really be helped since the whole “beach” is only about 25 feet wide and 50 feet long. Speaking of which, I begin to realize that, with heavy rain, the river is bound to be rising. I stick my head out of the tent, and the river is less than 10 feet from me! It is running 3 times faster than before. And it is almost 10 feet closer! I am beginning to be alarmed at this point.

 

Then, about as quickly as it all started…it stopped. I and my pregnant wife crawl out of our tent (complete with a water feature we didn’t bargain on), and we notice that we forgot 1 paper bag…the one that is full of food. Well, it all got ruined. At this point, the river is about 8 feet from our tent and running fast. I look to my left and can see the thunderstorm moving away. I look to my right and see a cloud of something…I’m not sure what it is…that is, until mosquitoes by the millions are swarming all around us! Well, we barely had time to grab the bag of wet food, throw it in the tent, than dive in after it!

 

If looks could kill, I’d be dead. My 6-month pregnant former wife did not find the humor in this situation at all. I mean, we barely got the tent set up when the t-storm came rumbling down the valley. Now we were inundated with voracious insects trying to suck our blood. I peak out of my tent hoping that it is clear for me to put a little distance between myself and my rotund, angry wife. But…no such fortune. I see John Strickland trying to light his cigarette with a Coleman lantern, swatting at hoards of mosquitoes, and saying, “It’s not that bad out here…” No one was buying what he was selling. So I turn to Maria, and she’s giving me the death-stare…but not for long. Because she announces, “I am not sleeping here!” After a couple of hushed attempts to dissuade her, I accepted my fate. It was growing dark so we said our “fair wells”, grabbed our clothes and valuables, said, “Goodnight all,” and climbed up the rocks out of that little piece of paradise.

 

I can only imagine that, eventually the mosquitoes thinned out to a manageable density, and a normal-type of camping ensued. My bride and I were, I did-not-know-where for awhile. But it turned out that we were across the Potomac River from Harper’s Ferry, West “By God” Virginia. We had made a day trip, or two to Harper’s Ferry. But I had never spent the night there. By the time we found a place to sleep that looked like it was open for business, it was after 10:00 and pitch dark. It was called, “Harper’s Ferry Hotel.” And it was like something from a Twilight Zone episode.

 

The place looked like it had been several large houses all tied together with additions and hallways. The desk appeared immediately upon entering, and faced the entrance. To the right was a sunken room with a color TV playing. And as my eyes began to adjust to the darkness, I noticed about a half-dozen very strange looking people checking us out. The lady behind the desk was kind and polite. But she looked like she walked right out of the 1950′s and it was 1984… We followed her down these long hallways that seemed to be getting smaller as we went. We finally came to a door that was about 6′-4″ high (a normal door is 7 feet high). She opened it and said that breakfast would be served in the dining hall between 7:00 and 11:00 in the morning. She said, “Goodnight.” The room wasn’t fancy. But it was clean. In fact, all of the furniture, and most of the bedclothes looked to be older than both of us. We each took a hot shower and went to sleep.

 

We awoke around 7:30, got packed and dressed and went to the dining room. The hotel was transformed in the bright sunlight. It was pretty quaint, really. We went through some very attractive French doors into a brightly-lighted great hall-type of room with large windows along one of the long sides. The far end consisted mainly of large French doors that led to the outside. We were pretty hungry so we sat down and looked at the menu. It was one of the best breakfast menus I had ever seen. I ordered the “Plantation-Style Breakfast” that consisted of scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes with butter and syrup, home fries with white gravy…the works! By the time we were finished eating, I could barely walk! But, I was determined to walk outside.

 

It turns out those doors at the far end led to the veranda. We tried to treat this mini-vacation like a 2nd honeymoon. After all, we had been married less than 6 months. So, here I was, 26 years old, with my 6-month pregnant wife (I think we were both waddling a little) out to the veranda to see what we could see. As it turned out, they had those pay-binoculars positioned strategically around the patio. I cannot recall if it cost as dime or a quarter to use. But I gladly paid whatever it was for the chance to spot my best friend in his favorite habitat. It only took me a couple minutes of scanning the banks of the Potomac River to spot my friend…he was lying on the river-bank, on a single white towel. No one else was in sight. It was about 9:00 AM. Of course, I pointed out the campsite to Maria and let her look through the binoculars. It was impossible to distinguish without the binoculars. I think we were about 1 ½ miles distant. I knew we had to go back to deal with our stuff that we left behind.

 

As we drove back to this “greatest campsite ever” we thought about what we left there…a tent, some food that got wet, maybe a few pots and pans. After discussing it over between ourselves, we decided that we didn’t think anything we left was worth climbing down, then up those rocks again for. So, when we found our parking place between the railroad tracks and the solid rock walls that had been blasted out. Maria said she was going to stay in the car. I got out and walked the 50-75 yards, walked across the C & O Canal footbridge over to the rocks and hollered down, “Hey, John!” He acknowledged my salute and inquired as to our lodgings for the night. I told him where we stayed and how we saw him on his towel just a little while ago. We laughed. I told him he could have our tent if he wanted it, and anything else we had left down there. He was incredulous at first. But he knew I was serious when I said, “Goodbye” and turned to go. I don’t remember speaking to him about the experience we shared. But I imagine we must have discussed it, since we worked together. I am sure that the next time he started talking about “The Best Campsite Ever!” I politely said, “No thanks, Johnny,” and laughed to myself…

 

The Kindergarten Bully

 

 

When my son attended kindergarten in 1990, he came home after the very first day saying some big kid was picking on him whenever they were in line together. It seems this kid, let’s call him Kevin, thought it’d be funny to kick my son, Joseph, from behind, repeatedly, while waiting in line. I wanted to help my son, of course. But I didn’t want to have adults involved in it quite yet. I believe it is better to let the children resolve things first. And I thought the best scenario would be for my son to defend himself. After all, most bullies aren’t counting on this.

 

I told my son, “The next time Kevin kicks you, grab hold of his foot and just lift it towards the ceiling. This kid will fall down and bust his head open. And he will never pick on you again.” THE NEXT DAY, Joseph came home and told me that Kevin started kicking him again while they were in line. And that he did exactly as I suggested. Sure enough, Kevin went down like a load of bricks and busted his head open. “Now, Kevin wants to be my friend,” Joseph said. And from that day forward, nobody picked on my son…in that school. A few days later, I walked Joseph to school and I saw Kevin: This kid was twice the size of my son! And he walked like a gorilla, too.

 

I remember when I was 3 years-old…

 

One of my earliest memories:

I was three years old at the time. I hear the squealing of a car’s wheels out in front of our house and stood on my tip-toes, pulling myself up by the window sill, to try and see what it was. My father was drinking. He saw my efforts and thought he’d help me out…He says, “You wanna see out that window, Boy?” Then he proceeds to throw up the sash, grab me by my ankles, and hang me out the window by my ankles…or was it one ankle…I can’t remember that. I only remember screaming like a 3 year-old until he brought me back into the house. Oh yeah, we lived on the 2nd floor. I estimate I was about 25 feet from the ground. But, to a 3 year-old, it seemed like 100 feet. As it turned out, our next door neighbor ran over our family pet, Midnight, whose tail then had to be removed. Ahhh, early childhood memories…

 

Blog – NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory

Blog – NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory.

A commentary by Chuck Coulson re: Voting responsibly

Christianity or Competence? by Chuck Colson

A few days ago I was on the air with Los Angeles’s outstanding drive-time host, Frank Pastore — a keen worldview thinker. Frank told me his phone lines had been burning up over the comments made by a prominent evangelical pastor who said that presidential candidate Mitt Romney belonged to a cult.

Should Christians vote for a Mormon? Is Mormonism a cult? Let me say right off: These questions are an enormous distraction in an important presidential campaign. The secular media is using the pastor’s comments to paint evangelicals as bigots. The Chicago Tribune is calling this “hate speech.”

 I want to say this to every Christian listening to my voice: Let’s stop criticizing candidates for their religious convictions.

And let me make a few things, as my former boss used to say, perfectly clear.

 First, there is no religious test for public office. If you don’t believe me, check out the Constitution of the United States, Article VI, Paragraph 3. The public statements of some evangelicals that they wouldn’t vote for Romney because of his Mormonism would cause the Founding Fathers to spin in their graves.

Second, as voters we are to choose the most competent people to be God’s magistrates to do justice, restrain evil and preserve order. That’s what the Bible calls for. And in our country, where we have the precious liberty of choosing our leaders, we are responsible for picking competent men and women. See Jethro’s advice to Moses in Exodus 18. While choosing men to help him judge the people, Moses was to select first of all competent men. Those men were also to be godly — that is, men of good moral standing and character.

Third, let me answer the question that is causing so much angst. Is the Mormon faith Christian? No. It is not. There are significant and un-reconciled doctrinal differences between Mormonism and Christianity, like the sole sufficiency of Christ and the exclusivity of the Bible.

For me to say there are such differences in not “hate speech.” To deny that there are differences would be disrespectful of the truth claims made by Mormons and degrades my own truth claims. No one in good conscience can do that.

Having said that, there may be no other group of people I appreciate more as co-belligerents than the Mormons. They are stalwarts on life, traditional marriage and religious liberty issues.

To sum up, I’m with Luther, who reportedly said that he would rather be governed by a competent Turk than an incompetent Christian.

Now I’ve never publicly endorse a candidate, and I’m not doing it now. But I would personally vote for a competent nonbeliever who would protect life, liberty and marriage, before I would vote for an incompetent Christian — or even a competent one — who would not stand for those overriding moral issues.

Our ultimate decision has to be based on what Augustine taught. We must live obediently in the City of Man as the best of citizens, doing our civic duty, which includes voting responsibly, as a reflection of our primary citizenship in the City of God.

Where does this leave us? Come on: Stop talking about the candidates’ religion. It’s distracting and it marginalizes Christianity in the public debate. Let’s continue instead to work to advance the Kingdom of God and pick, to the best of our ability, a candidate of competence and sound character who will preserve order and promote justice in our land.

When are you happiest?

I find lately that I am happiest when I am able to do or give something to someone else, expecting nothing in return, and for no other reason except to bring God glory…

Conservatism by Chuck Colson and Other Giants

Returning to Conservative Principles

Chuck Colson

As I told you last week on BreakPoint, Congressman Frank Wolf of Virginia, in an act of uncommon political courage, took to the floor of the House and openly exposed and denounced the special interests that have been holding Congress — and all of Washington — hostage.

And he named names. Unafraid to take on his own Republican party, he decried its blind obedience to uber-lobbyist Grover Norquist, a man who represents an array of special interests but who has worked his way into the inner councils of the Republican party.

Norquist and pledge supporters consider closing ridiculous tax loopholes to be the same thing as raising taxes. They will seek to block any effort to reform the tax code that will harm their clients: Mega-corporations and other moneyed interests. And they will seek to punish any politician who has the guts to try to close those loopholes. It’s outrageous, it’s destructive and it’s preventing Congress from putting our fiscal house in order.

But Wolf also made another argument in his bold speech that I think is important for every Christian to understand.

Wolf warned his colleagues that taking such a pledge violates the principles of true conservatism. He points out that the father of modern conservatism, 18th century British parliamentarian Edmund Burke, refused to take political pledges and denounced their “coercive authority” over elected officials.

Burke said that leaders must be free to employ their “unbiased opinion … mature judgment … [and] enlightened conscience.” They must not be held captive to any ideology or pledge.

Wolf also pointed out that the great American conservative thinker, Russell Kirk, held high the virtue of prudence among virtues for a true conservative leader. Kirk wrote that “to be prudent means to be judicious, cautious, sagacious. … A prudent statesman is one who looks before he leaps; who takes long view; who knows that politics is the art of the possible.”

Let me quote from Wolf’s magnificent speech:

“Conservatives, of all people, should not be locked into any ideological position. We are bearers of a conservative tradition. Conservatism is not an ideology; it’s not doctrine or dogma. It is a way of seeing life. It draws on the wisdom of the past to view events of the present. We all stand on the shoulders of the great people who have gone before us. That is why G. K. Chesterton described our experiment as ‘democracy of the dead’ because we care about the foundation laid by our forefathers.”

And I would add: Christians, of all people, should understand this, because all true Christians are, in a sense, conservative. We rely on revealed truth, we stand on the shoulders of that great cloud of witnesses who have gone before us. Today on my “Two-Minute Warning” video commentary, I talk more about the biblical understanding of taxes and justice — and how they apply to the issue of tax reform. Please go to ColsonCenter.org to watch it.

And listen to the words of Edmund Burke and to Frank Wolf.  I truly believe if we would return to conservative principles, stand on the shoulders of giants and be guided by prudence, we’d quickly see our way out of the ideological gridlock that is endangering our economy and our republic.

BLAMING THE JEWS

 

If Jews didn’t exist, the world would single out some other ethic group to blame everything on…like the Russians…or the English. I, for one, respect and bless the Jews whenever I can. One of my deepest fears is that the U.S. will turn its back on the Jews in their darkest hour. Ever since I learned that God said, “I will bless them that bless thee…and curse them that curse thee…” to Abraham referring to his descendants, I have felt obligated to maintain loyalty to their race. I certainly wouldn’t knowingly bring harm to, or even badmouth a Jew. Having said these things, There is no denying that the Jews are different. Practicing Jews are the first to admit they really are different from any other race. But their really not a race. Some would argue they are not even a religion at all. While they have a national identity, they are more distinct as a culture. And I believe the Western free nations must stand behind Israel, come what may…

 

The Men That Don’t Fit In

THE MEN THAT DON’T FIT IN

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,

 

A race that can’t stay still;

 

So they break the hearts of kith and kin,

 

And they roam the world at will.

 

They range the field and they rove the flood,

 

And they climb the mountain’s crest;

 

Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,

 

And they don’t know how to rest.

 

 

 

　

 

If they just went straight they might go far;

 

They are strong and straight and true;

 

But they’re always tired of the things that are,

 

And they want the strange and new.

 

They Say: “Could I find my proper groove,

 

What a deep mark I would make!”

 

So they chop and change, and each fresh move

 

Is only a fresh mistake.

 

 

 

And each forgets, as he strips and runs

 

With a brilliant, fitful pace,

 

It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones

 

Who win in the lifelong race.

 

And each forgets that his youth has fled,

 

Forgets that his prime is past,

 

Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead,

 

In the glare of the truth at last.

 

 

 

　

 

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;

 

He has just done things by half.

 

Life’s been a jolly good joke on him,

 

And now is the time to laugh.

 

Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;

 

He was never meant to win;

 

He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone;

 

He’s a man who won’t fit in.

 

 

 

Robert W. Service