Category: Neighborhood Stories

Randy McCall Story #3- “I Saw The Lord!”

I was sitting on the front porch of Crab’s house (the McCall home) on Christopher Ave. It was a summer afternoon. As was my usual, I had a 16 oz can of Colt 45 Malt Liquor in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. I was preparing to make my living by selling drugs. I worked as a roofer when I could. I also worked for a local contractor named Walt Winter when I could. But he always seemed to take on some very hard jobs involving very intensive labor. Anyway, I can’t remember my life situation at this particular time. More than likely, I was living in Slick McCall’s broken-down American-made station wagon that was sitting in the driveway about 15 feet from where I was currently sitting. My father threw me out of his house without warning when I was 18 years-old. This was a few months later. Someone was on the porch with me…I just don’t recall…

The afternoon was a typical Hamilton summer afternoon: People were outside in their front yards, working in their gardens, or working on their cars…children were playing hopscotch or other children’s games. Not much was happening. School was out for the summer. Occasionally, an administrator would exit the school and get in their car to go home for the evening. Every few minutes a car would turn onto Christopher Ave., and pass between us and the schoolyard, on its way to Harford Rd. I was always hoping the driver would pull over and request an $10 or $20 bag of weed…that’s how I made my living, after all. But this was a particularly slow day.

I sold mostly weed. Back then, 2-toned Mexican was desirable. I didn’t know what “kind bud” was. Basically, except for some Thai Stick that was actually high-grade pot tied to sticks that came around once, I never saw any real good stuff. I had heard rumors of Panama Red, Alcapoco Gold, or Red and/or Green Columbian, all my life. But I hadn’t actually seen much “special” weed. Anyhow, I used to get a quarter-pound of the aforementioned 2-toned Mexican marijuana for $45. That would break down into 8-10 $10 bags. It seemed like the right thing to do back then. I never really gave it much thought. I also sold hashish and flakes, as well. Fortunately, cocaine and heroin weren’t very popular at that time. If they had been, I probably would have crashed-and-burned along with most of the folks who messed with that stuff did.

Suddenly, the front door screen door swung open…all the way. And in a blur, I saw Randy McCall running out of the house…passing within a foot of me…I think I actually felt a breeze when he passed by me. Before I knew it, Randy was in the center of the schoolyard with his pants down around his ankles yelling at the top of his voice,” I saw the Lord! I saw the Lord!” It was like, all of a sudden, everything stopped. All the neighbors were incredulous. Some were urging their children to run into their houses. Some were frozen I even saw a mother placing her hands over her children’s eyes, pick them up, and carry them inside. It was somewhat surrealistic. Randy was smiling.

Let me explain about Randy…and flakes: A few days before this incident, he had decided to join the rest of us (almost all of us, it seemed, were selling something) in selling some drugs. A good friend had trusted him enough to front him an ounce of greens. Now, I think the only reason Randy made this decision (to sell drugs) was due to the fact that they were VERY GOOD! He probably thought he couldn’t lose. For those who don’t know (or remember), “flakes” refers to parsley flakes treated with the chemical PCP. Now, PCP was originally used as an animal tranquilizer. It was primarily for treating horses during procedures, etc., and other very large animals, I suppose. Evidently, it could send a 2000 pound animal to La-La Land almost instantly. So, it’s not difficult to imagine what it could do to a 140 lb. teenager (or less). However, the circumstances surrounding this incident are extraordinary.

An ounce of good quality flakes break down into just about 7 “cans” of good flakes. You see, a “can” refers to a 35mm film canister. Normally, flakes of this quality would be cut by the dealer with plain parsley flakes to produce 10 – 15 cans of mediocre flakes per ounce. But Randy was honest and fair and did not stomp on them at all. However, as I mentioned before, Randy began to get high on his own supply. I’m sure, he had every intention of selling at least 5 cans…to repay his debt for the ounce he borrowed. And, back then a can of flakes sold for $25. And an ounce cost $125. Well, you can do the math. This is the thing that makes this case extraordinary: 1 can of good flakes could get 4-5 teenagers so high that they may very well wander around in a telephone booth for 4 or 6 or 8 hours, thinking they are at the pearly gates of heaven…and really believe it, too! So, I have a very difficult time trying to imagine where Randy’s head was as he finished the 7th can all by himself!

I mean, Randy was a wild child to begin with. He came from wild stock (on his father’s side, of course). His family and mine were somewhat similar. In fact, his dad and mine knew one another and ran in the same circles. I had three brothers, but didn’t have any sisters. Randy had 3 brothers. Plus he also had 2 sisters. And both of our fathers were prone to drink and get mean. Randy’s dad like to teach him and his brothers how to fight at these times. Mine just liked to terrorize the hell out of us…take away our spirit and crush our souls. But that’s another story.

The point, I guess, is that Randy went crazy. I believed that he believed he “saw the Lord.” But the neighbors, especially the ones with small children, were not as sympathetic as I was. But just as suddenly as Randy had burst through the door, Crab and Weasel came bursting through the same door. But they were carrying an extension cord and were on a mission. Within seconds they wrapped Randy up in that extension cord and carried him, resisting as he was, like a wriggling rug up the front steps right past me, just like clockwork. For some reason, I was not particularly disturbed by any of these events. Perhaps it was the flakes I had been consuming the past few days. After all, I had done some rolling around the laundry room visiting those pearly gates myself just days before (more than likely, that is). So this was not out of the norm. The feelings and concerns of the neighbors did not give me pause, at all. I had a pretty good chuckle about it. Got another tall boy from my lunchbox and lit another Kool.

It was just about that time that many police cars came from all the cardinal directions right towards me. Then dozens of cops were suddenly interested in what I had just seen. I took another drag off my Kool and assured them all that I had been sitting there for at least 30 minutes, but that I had not seen anything unusual at all. They pressed me. But I reiterated the fact that I had no idea what they were talking about. The lead cop told me they had received so many phone calls in such a short time that it broke some sort of record for the Baltimore City Police Department. I explained that his records didn’t interest me in the least. His face turned many shades of red and purple. But I wasn’t phased. Then they proceeded to knock on the door to inquire. Randy’s brother and friend appeared just as mystified by their suggestions that something indecent had occurred.

Crab, or Clayton McCall invited them into the house to look around, which they most assuredly did with great interest and haste. But nothing was found to indicate the validity of the neighbors’ tales. With no proof, and just the neighbors exciting stories…and I suppose, my affirmation that no such event had occurred, the police really had no choice but to abandon their investigation and leave. Back then I had no love or respect for the men-in-blue…which were typically referred to as “pigs” by every friend I had. What they actually did with Randy, I was never quite fully made aware. I believe I was told they had wrapped him up in a rug, and stuffed into a dark recess in the basement until the coast was clear…


Ravenhurst Story With Johnny Kirtz

I can remember the time Ravenhurst was digging in the dirt in the back yard of 2829 Beechland Ave. with a metal beach shovel. Johnny Kirtz came to the back fence (at “Dog Alley”) and asked if my younger brother Phil was home. Rave said, ”It’s none of your business!” I guess he was about 7 or 8 years old at the time. Johnny was older…about 12. Well, Johnny said he didn’t like the way Rave had talked to him, since he was much older. And he threatened to come over the fence and kick Rave’s behind. Now, I was right there with Rave. So I can only assume Johnny was kidding around with Rave. I certainly wouldn’t have sat by and watched Johnny Kirtz kick my baby brother’s ass for no good reason.

Then, Johnny asked Ravenhurst (it was Eugene, back then) just what he planned to do about it if he did climb over the fence with the intention of kicking his ass. And Rave said, “I’ll throw this shovel at you and break out your teeth!”  Of course, Johnny said, “Oh, yeah!” and proceeded to climb over the fence… Ravenhurst took aim with that shovel (he was a good 15-20 feet away) and sailed that thing in his direction. Well…and I can still see this when I close my eyes…that shovel hit him square in the teeth and broke one of his front teeth right in half. It was broken on a near-perfect 45-degree angle as clean as you please! I saw Johnny Kirtz 25 years later and he still had that broken tooth!  As best I can remember, he never even got mad at Ravenhurst. I guess it was because he told him he was going to do it. And he did, too. I miss my baby brother!

Here’s a Jimmy Holthaus story:

In the summer of 1977, or thereabouts, Jimmy Holthaus used to drive from his parents’ house on Arizona Ave. to Big Dan Golombowski’s house in a classic Dodge Roadrunner. It was, I think, around a 1970-ish bright orange “muscle car.” Well, I don’t remember exactly how I did it, or why…but I ended up straddling the beast up on the roof of his car on Roselawn Ave. I think what took place was, I expressed to him my strong desire to go for a ride in his way-cool car, (notice I said “in” it, and not “on” it). But he must’ve told me that if I was going to go for a ride with him on that particular day, it would have to be on top of the roof…not on the inside. I accepted his not-so-generous offer.

It was summertime in Hamilton, Baltimore, Maryland in 1977. Before me was one of the coolest cars ever produced by Mopar…the Roadrunner. I wanted so much to go for a cruise in it. But as I stated above, the invitation was only good for the roof. I proceeded to “gingerly” slither up to the roof. In those days, I weighed about 175 lbs. You see, the previous year I had spent about 8 months in Flintstone, MD in a Maryland institution called, “Boys’ Forestry Camp #1. Having gotten in all sorts of trouble with the law, I owed a debt to “society,” whatever that means. I suppose if my parents had had the money, and were willing to pay my “debt,” they could have substituted cash money for 8 months of my life. Anyway, back to the Roadrunner…

I believe we had to wait for Big Dan to get into the car where Jimmy, Big Al Hasselbarth, Angelo Torrie, and a guy named John (I think), were squeezed in already. I didn’t mind the prospect of riding on top. And we hadn’t talked about how far we were going, either. I had nothing else pressing upon my schedule that particular day. Finally, Big Dan came swaggering out of his house and got into the car. He didn’t seem to think my lying face down and spread-eagled on the roof of Jim’s Roadrunner was all that unusual. We were heading west on Roselawn Ave., starting near the top of the 2800 block (in front of Dan’s house), and proceeded down the hill towards the Triangle. Now, the Triangle in not called that on maps or Google Maps. It was a nickname given to a 3-way intersection at the meeting of Roselawn, White, and Hamlet Avenues. It didn’t take long for me to realize I hadn’t thought this idea through very thoroughly…

It didn’t take too long to learn first-hand why they called them muscle cars. By the time we had traveled 3 houses down the street, we must’ve been doing 50 mph. Then something happened that I was not ready for…or hadn’t entered my mind…Jimmy slammed on the brakes! Apparently he thought it would be a good idea, or maybe just funny, if he could use the inertia of my moving body to propel me from the roof of his car…over the rather large hood (I think he was packin’ a 440 cubic inch monster under there) and into the street. Well, I was young. My reflexes were fast and my instincts were sharp. Also, I had a lot of surface area to hold on to. Since it was warm outside, all the windows were down. So I had a firm grip on the side edges of the roof with my fingers wrapped around to the under-side of the roof. Back then the cars were more substantial. I think this model Roadrunner had a small gutter running along the side edges of the roof…you know…so rainwater would not drip on your head when you had the door open, sitting sideways…and it was raining.

Although I had been quite satisfied with my ride thus far, the boys inside were not happy yet. I could’ve easily been persuaded to dismount the big orange beast with very little resistance. After all, I had not been informed of the driver’s intentions regarding his putting on a rodeo, with me starring as the lead bull rider! But Jim wasn’t done with me yet…round 2 was fast approaching. Once again, we were accelerating rapidly down Roselawn Avenue. But to my displeasure, they must’ve thought I had a little too much to hold onto. Because, around the time we reached 60 mph, I felt the windows on both sides of the car beginning to crush my fingers. Now I had a decision to make: do I leave my fingers in place letting my “friends” decide how hard to crank down on them and be relatively sure I wouldn’t be thrown onto the hot pavement for a “tuck’n’roll” scenario. Or do I withdraw my fingers from harm’s way, hoping I can still find enough to grip onto so as not to be thrown the next time the beast bucks…I chose the latter…

I don’t know exactly how fast I was flying…at least twice as fast as those 2 screwballs on the Titanic flew…at least…When we reached the Triangle, he slammed on the brakes again. I’d like to say I remember the car skidding xx number of feet. But, honestly, it took every bit of strength, concentration and faith at my command to NOT take off like one of those toy planes that comes with the big rubber band attached to the little stick! I think if he had just gotten that car going a couple miles per hour faster, I’d have spent some time in the hospital that summer. All I had to hold on to was that little half-inch tall gutter. My knuckles weren’t white. The only bodily members engaged in this gargantuan effort were the tips of my thumbs and the first 2 fingers on both hands.

I am certain that we decelerated faster this time than we did the first time. Not only because going much faster would be the logical thing to expect from a teenager. But, even more indicative, is the way my cigarettes and lighter (that were in my front shirt pocket) shot straight out and flew about 20 feet. Well, they didn’t even become dislodged during the first attempt to throw me. When the car finally came to rest…and my measly digits withstood the incredible forces involved…all I could think about was, “I better get my cigarettes before they get run over…” And that’s what I did. I kinda needed one by that time, anyway. There were no conversations… no harsh words. What had just occurred was understood by all parties concerned for just what it was…a stupid stunt that turned out alright for all involved. I’m pretty sure they were all going to meet Dan’s “guy” for something green. Meanwhile, I walked up that long sloping hill that was (and still is) Roselawn Ave., waited at Dan’s house for them to get back, and the rest is, as they say…history.

The End

If I close my eyes and try real hard, I can still picture my first construction site. I am not referring to the one in California that I was assigned to when I was 5 weeks out of college…at age 38. That one was interesting…sort of…87 acres of dried lakebed in the high desert region, just 60 miles north of LA. I’m thinking way back in time…It was 1968 or 69. It was the first site that was completely unmanned and unfenced. Or, in other words, it was my very own. I was not alone, however. My twin brother, Earl and I were traveling together. That’s as good a term as any I can think of, to describe our activities. Since we were old enough to walk, that’s what we did: At least until we were old enough to ride around town. (And if you’re picturing an automobile carrying twin boys, you’ll need to adjust your “picture maker” or your imagination). I am referring to riding on bicycles.

From the time my brother and I were old enough to walk around in a fairly competent manner (I guess we were 3 or 4 years old), we wandered the streets and alleys of Baltimore City in the great state of Maryland. It seems my father was a diligent employee and was known to hold at least 2 jobs, trying to be a good provider for his young family. That would be considered a good thing by almost anybody in any situation and in any walk of life. And I would not be so presumptuous as to be critical of my dad’s decision regarding the number of hours he worked. After all, we needed to eat. The only hitch is that my mother struggled to meet our basic childhood needs, such as supervision.

My father, in recent years, has informed me that, on multiple occasions, he has returned home from working hard all day only to notice that his twin boys were nowhere in sight. Upon investigation, he learned that his wife had no idea of the whereabouts of their three-year-old boys, either. Incredulous, my father turned to the neighbors in an attempt to locate his progeny. Typically, at this point, we were blocks, or even miles, away: tired and hungry. And asking a grown-up how to get home. Remarkably, these adventures turned out OK in the end. We either managed to find our way back. Or, we put ourselves into the hands of a trustworthy and considerate human being. What are the odds?

By the time Earl and I were 9-years old, we were seasoned travelers. We would regularly wander more than a mile from Home Sweet Home. Mom didn’t seem to care what we did, provided we did not make messes or prevent her from watching her “programs.” Of course, by this stage in our development, we learned to try to be close to home by suppertime. I suppose by today’s standards, my mother would be considered negligent, at best, or even downright abusive. But we didn’t notice. On this particular occasion, we wandered a little more than a mile from home to a place that was to be called, “Dutch Village.”

Dutch Village in Baltimore, MD was a planned community, of sorts…it was planned to house the lower-class families of Northeast Baltimore. Maybe not at first, that is. There was a very nice swimming pool attached to the development. They were groups of 2-floor town homes with pitched roofs in the style of the “Dutch” buildings I had seen in storybooks. I think Phase I was complete and consisted of 3 to 4 buildings with 10 to 15 units in each building. At the time of our arrival, I think Phase II was just under way. Hence, the construction site.

There wasn’t much to the site, really. Just the concrete footers in the shape of the building footprints, some underground utilities (already buried, I think), and a lot of orange-colored mud. But there was one thing lying in that mud that had the potential for lots of fun: a huge (at least 6 feet in diameter) tractor tire. It probably came off of a front-end loader. And I’m sure it must’ve been all done in. But that didn’t matter to me. Moreover, it wasn’t doing anybody any good lying there in the mud. So I asked my brother Earl to help me to stand it up on its edge. It probably took just about all the strength a couple of 9-year olds could muster. I mean, it had to weigh at least 100 lbs. without the mud.

My construction site was very level. But there was a definite tendency for the tire to roll towards the golf course. Of course, between my construction site and the golf course, was a highway of sorts called, “Perring Parkway.” And just a little north, and on the same side of the road, was Baltimore’s Northern High School #402, I think. Also, a little more northward, there was a bridge that crossed over Perring Parkway. I didn’t know it then. But this was the Northern Parkway bridge. Earl and I continued to keep the tire up on its edge and rolling towards the road until it came to a stop. When the tire drew near the crest of the slope, an idea entered my mind.

Of course, the idea of rolling the gargantuan tire down the steep hill had occurred to me almost immediately upon seeing the tire embedded in the mud. But this new idea didn’t occur until Earl and I led the tire closer to the edge of the slope. Out of the corner of my left eye I noticed a smallish-looking car making its way toward us. At this point, I thought it’d be a good idea to roll the tire down the slope into the smallish-looking car. I expressed my latest idea to my twin brother. He didn’t seem to object to it. The only question was how to accomplish this feat. Earl seemed indecisive. So I took control. I did my utmost to time it correctly. Due to the time-constraint, we simply rocked it back-and-forth as I counted out loud, “one…two…THREE!” And it was on its way. Being 8 or 9 years old, we had no idea what might happen if the tire hit the car…But we were about to learn exactly that…

The behemoth-like tire bounced down the hill in 2 or 3 bounds. But it was perfectly at ground level when it met with the passenger door of that Rambler. I imagine the occupant of this classic automobile was rather startled, since the car was initially in the right lane doing 45 mph, or so…at least, that was the posted speed limit. But after it was introduced to our rolling mass of black rubber, he found himself in the left lane almost instantaneously. The old car must’ve made contact with the curb of the median because it slowed-down considerably upon impact. It smashed in the front-right door just as perfectly as you could imagine.

At this time, Earl and I realized we might be better served if we hid behind some nearby bushes. We watched the crippled Rambler as it limped onto the Northern Parkway exit ramp in front of the school. We laughed so hard, and for so long in those bushes, that we finally realized the driver of the wounded Rambler was circling around trying to discover our identity. For we saw it ride over the Northern Parkway bridge…back and forth. We could just make out the face of the operator as that of a white, middle-aged male. We just waited until he was out of sight and took off like a couple of kids.

No hard feelings, I hope…

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as: – Knowing when to come in out of the rain; – Why the early bird gets the worm; … – Life isn’t always fair; – And maybe it was my fault. Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies, don’t spend more than you can earn and adults, not children, are in charge. His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition. Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children. It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.
Common Sense lost the will to live, as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims did. Common Sense took a beating when you couldn’t defend yourself from a burglar in your own home without the burglar suing you for assault…and winning! Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement. Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife Discretion, his daughter Responsibility, and his son, Reason. He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers; I Know My Rights, I Want It Now, Someone Else Is To Blame and I’m A Victim, Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone. If you still remember him, pass this on. If not, do nothing.

Friend of Common Sense

Slavery was outlawed in this country because a minority of people recognized it for what it was…EVIL…and courageously stood up and spoke out against it. The US Supreme Court had upheld the right of some people to “own” other people. The way they did this was to declare people with black skin to be “non-persons.” This same logic has been used by the same court to oppress another class of people…people too small to defend themselves. I speak, of course, of the pre-born. And the only way this injustice will be abolished is by good people standing up and speaking out against this evil. The perpetrators of this crime against humanity have a lot riding on keeping the public in the dark…uninformed and unaware of the truth of the matter. Even at 5 weeks gestation, the abortion personnel must count the body-parts of the pre-born PERSON to make sure that none of them are left behind in the uterus. This would cause a serious infection that might very well endanger the life of the 2nd victim of the “procedure.” It was illegal before and most women did not seek illegal and dangerous abortions. Most women decided to give life to their babies. I’d like to see us get back to that place!

Does it bother anyone else that Planned Parenthood, the leading abortion-seller in the nation, and the largest tax-supported “family planning” organization in the world, was founded by a woman who was a leading proponent of the modern eugenics movement. She worked tirelessly to ensure that those citizens who were deemed “unworthy” to procreate were sterilized, by force, if necessary, to purify the human gene pool. According to her, it was the duty of every intelligent person to do all they could to make sure that no feeble-minded, brown-skinned, homosexual, or undesirable, was allowed to reproduce. LOOK IT UP! In fact, Adolph Hitler was a great fan of her work…and modeled his “final solution” after her programs. Why don’t some of you pro-death advocates defend Margaret Sanger’s work in eugenics? I can’t wait…

One typographical error I found in the Bible (KJV)

I remember coming across these two passages many years ago and thinking, “I found an error in the Bible.” But as the years passed I could not recall the name of the king, or the chapters and verses of the apparent contradiction. Just recently I began to, through an online program, read the Bible through in a year. Today I came across the first one and realized I had re-found the mistake.

2 Chronicles 22

1 And the inhabitants of Jerusalem made Ahaziah his [Jehoram’s] youngest son king in his stead: for the band of men that came with the Arabians to the camp had slain all the eldest. So Ahaziah the son of Jehoram king of Judah reigned.

2 Forty and two years old was Ahaziah when he began to reign, and he reigned one year in Jerusalem. His mother’s name also was Athaliah the daughter of Omri.

2 Kings 8

26. Two and twenty years old was Ahaziah when he began to reign; and he reigned one year in Jerusalem. And his mother’s name was Athaliah, the daughter of Omri king of Israel.

Since Ahaziah’s father, Jehoram, was only forty years old when HE died,1 and Ahaziah began to reign at Jehoram’s death, I suggest the correct age of Ahaziah (when he began to reign in Jerusalem) was twenty-two…not forty-two. I do not know whether this typo can be traced back to the ancient Hebrew, or is a translator’s error. However, in my mind, the King James Version is not completely without error. My faith in God, His Son Jesus Christ, and His Holy Scriptures, is still intact and as strong as ever. And, although there are many apparent contradictions in the Bible, all of them (so far, anyway) can be cleared up and understood correctly by returning to the original languages. This is the only typographical error I know of in the entire Bible.

I hope my pointing out of this error does not damage anyone’s faith. Since I was saved and born again in 1979, I have had a deep and abiding love and respect for the truth. And one thing I have learned through the years: God certainly CAN handle the truth. And He desires all of His children to know the truth in all matters in life. I just don’t think Christians should take another’s word that the KJV is “inerrant” when it is obviously not. May our heavenly Father bless us ALL in our diligent search for the truth.

History Lesson on Your Social Security Card

Just in case some of you young whippersnappers (& some older ones) didn’t know this: It’s easy to check out, if you don’t believe it. Be sure and show it to your family and friends. They need a little history lesson on what’s what and it doesn’t matter whether you are Democrat or Republican.

Facts are Facts.

Social Security Cards up until the 1980s expressly stated the number and card were not to be used for identification purposes. Since nearly everyone in the United States now has a number, it became convenient to use it anyway and the message, “NOT FOR IDENTIFICATION” was removed.

History Lesson on Your Social Security Program

Franklin D. Roosevelt, a Democrat, introduced the Social Security (FICA) Program in the 1930’s. He promised:


A. That participation in the Program would be completely voluntary,


It is no longer voluntary.


B. That the participants would only have to pay 1% of the first $1,400 of their annual incomes into the program,


Now we must pay 7.65% on the first $90,000.


C. That the money the participants elected to put into the Program would be deductible from their income for tax purposes each year,


Contributions are no longer tax deductible.


D. That the money the participants put into the independent ‘Trust Fund’ (rather than into the general operating fund), and therefore, would ONLY be used to fund the Social Security Retirement Program, and no other Government programs,


Under President Johnson, the money was moved to The General Fund and Spent.


E. That the annuity payments to the retirees would never be taxed as income.


Under Clinton & Gore, up to 85% of your Social Security can be taxed.




Since many of us have paid into FICA for many years, and are now receiving a Social Security check every month, and finding that we are being taxed on 85% of the money we paid to the Federal government to ‘put away,’ you may be interested in the following:


Q: Which Political Party took Social Security from the independent ‘Trust Fund’ and put it into the general fund so that Congress could spend it?


A: It was Lyndon Johnson and the democratically controlled House and Senate.


Q: Which political party eliminated the income tax deduction for Social Security (FICA) withholding?


A: The Democratic Party.


Q: Which Political Party started taxing Social Security annuities?


A: The Democratic Party, with Al Gore casting the ‘tie-breaking’ deciding vote as President of the Senate, while he was Vice President of the US.


Q: Which Political Party decided to start giving annuity payments to immigrants?


A: Jimmy Carter and the Democratic Party. Immigrants moved into this country, and at age 65, began to receive Social Security payments! The Democratic Party gave these payments to them, even though they never paid a dime into it!


Then, after violating the original contract (FICA), the Democrats turn around and tell you that the Republicans want to take your Social Security away!


And the worst part about it is that uninformed citizens believe it ! If enough people read this, maybe a seed of awareness will be planted and outrage will grow…I think it’s worth a try…

Actions speak louder than bumper stickers!



“We live in the greatest nation on earth, and we aim to change that”…Barack Hussein Obama

My Life by Paul Tiderman

Now I wish I had begun writing this account a long, long time ago. Ten years ago, my memory was a steel trap. I can remember thinking I was able to recall at least 95% of my experiences from the age of five! From about five and earlier, the percentage decreases until the age of two and a half years. Prior to that is a complete blank. Now, however, I estimate that my ability to recall is about half of what it was. But I’m hoping that, in the process of writing this memoir, some of the lost recollections will be restored to me. The following few paragraphs consist mainly of second-hand information from my parents and other relatives. I should start with some family background, since it certainly has had a profound effect on who I am today.

My father, Sanford Oscar Tiderman, Jr., was born in Reading, PA in 1938 or 39. He was the 3rd child born to Sanford Oscar Tiderman and Fern Elenor (Davis) Tiderman. But he was the 1st male child. He wound up having 3 sisters and 2 brothers. His family life was plagued by dysfunction, violence and uncertainty. This was due primarily to his father’s rampant drinking binges and infidelity. His emotional needs, or those of his siblings, were not even recognized by his parents. I suppose this was typical for the times. I have reason to believe his older sisters probably did their best to help him get through a very difficult childhood. But my father was physically abused and damaged mentally, spiritually, and emotionally. Consequently, he produced children who were also abused and damaged in these areas.

As a small child, I had no idea what life was “supposed” to be like. I guess I believed being scared to death of your own father was normal…and being severely beaten with a hand-carved, custom made with a strategically placed knothole, wooden board was the norm. My first indication that it was not normal was when I returned to school from lunch one day (I actually lived so close to my school that I walked home everyday to eat lunch) with a big red welt across my face. It was so obvious that my teacher took me to the principal’s office, and I think I remember being sent to the nurse’s office. They drilled me about the cause of the injury and I told them the truth: My mother got mad at me and smacked me across the face with a wet dishrag. I soon realized that these people were not sympathetic towards my mother. I began to defend her. I didn’t want her to get into trouble. Then the family secrets began.

My brothers and I tried to stay out of my father’s way as best as we could. But, eventually there would come a day when that was no longer possible. Probably the most dreaded situation I faced as a child, was my father learning that I misbehaved in some way that deserved a beating. Actually, the absolute worse scenario was when one of the neighbors called with some complaint. In these cases, my father had a hard and fast policy: Beat them all hard and fast, then find out what happened…or not. Other than this particular instance, my father was completely unpredictable. If he had been drinking…just the right amount…he might laugh about it. Or, if he was stressed out about something at the time, he might give my mother $20 and instruct her to “Go to bingo,” line us up, make us drop our drawers, and beat the living daylights out of us. We just never knew what to expect.

Now, I’m not claiming that we didn’t deserve what we got at times. And I’m not saying that we didn’t actually NEED a spanking quite regularly…because we did. And I’m not one of those people that thinks spanking is unacceptable. On the contrary, I strongly believe it is a valuable tool for effective parenting. But, I do believe it should not be the first resort of discipline. In fact, it should be closer to the last. Also, each child is different. Some children only need a stern look to be reached. Others only require an, “I’m dissappointed in you” talk. But some need corporal punishment to get through to them. I know this from experience. However, although I am confident in these views, the MOST IMPORTANT THING for raising respectful, loving children is to LOVE THEM! My parents didn’t offer ANY demonstrable love or affection to counter-balance the severe discipline. That was the primary reason my parent’s attempts at discipline failed. So, without love and affection, I began to focus my efforts on simply surviving.

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