Just a Little Bit More Than the Law Will Allow

And then there's this:

Last week, a state trooper in Bradley, Maine, pulled over Rosco P. Coltrane, fabled sheriff of television's Hazzard County.

Okay, so the Maine state trooper is real, but the driver he pulled over was a Maine civilian who collects memorabilia from the classic 1980's TV show, the Dukes of Hazzard.  It wasn't the driver who was committing an offense, but the car he was driving - a white, mint-condition 1978 Dodge Monaco (pictured above), complete with sheriff decals, emergency lights, and a siren.

Oh yeah - and a stuffed animal named "Flash," after Coltrane's languid basset hound, in the back seat.

Once the owner of the replica cruiser explained his vehicle to the mystified trooper, named Michael Johnston, Trooper Johnston let him off with a warning to have its emergency lights and siren disconnected.  Even though everybody else in town already knows it's just a show car.

Now, if like Trooper Johnston, you're too young to recognize the '78 Dodge from its days as a ubiquitous police cruiser, allow me to remind you about the Dukes of Hazzard.  I've commented before on that true period piece - it aired during the same era as the prime time soap opera, Dallas.  Poorly written, horribly directed, and badly acted, Dukes was even worse than the artistically-challenged Dallas, but just as wildly popular.

(What does it say about the 1980's that these were two of its signature TV shows?)

There wasn't much cheatin', back-stabbin', and cutthroat oil dealin' in Dukes, but it had what most any other TV show needs to succeed:  goofy comedy, a flashy car (in the form of an orange Dodge Charger with the Confederate Flag painted on its roof), good guys always comin' out on top, and a gorgeous girl.

Catherine Bach played Daisy Duke, the gorgeous girl, and her impossibly short denim shorts - not exactly a new fashion idea - soon were called "Daisy Dukes" because, well, she embodied them so well.

John Schneider and Tom Wopat played the mischievous Duke brothers, Bo and Luke; two guys who never seemed to have regular work, unless you count always running afoul of the county's white-suited villain, Boss Hog. Boss Hog, played by Sorrell Booke, used his feeble-brained sheriff, Coltrane, to protect all of his various nefarious business schemes.  The Duke brothers' iconic orange Charger, christened the General Lee, was just as famous as any of the show's human actors, and exaggerated car chases between the General Lee and Sheriff Coltrane's cruiser - and sometimes, Boss Hog's old white Cadillac convertible - usually ate up more air time than the show's dialog did.

Backing up that cast was the wizened, grizzled Uncle Jesse; the greasy mechanic, Cooter, who usually ended up having to get Bo and Luke out of trouble; and the docile, bashful Deputy Strate, who for southern law enforcement agencies, made about as cringe-worthy a reincarnation of Mayberry's ineffective Barney Fife as any of the show's other blatant stereotypes.

Oh yes - and Flash, the sad-eyed old hound who'd probably seen so many of his owner's hijinks go awry, nothing could perturb him anymore.

Really, it shouldn't have been as popular as it was, but it was.  And its popularity came from its uncanny ability to portray a simpler place and time in American folklore.  Something not quite turn-of-the-century Old South provincialism, but not quite modern-day suburbs-invading-the-countryside, either.  Good and evil were easier to spot and deal with, with good ol' common sense and family values ruling the day.

Of course, it's rather ironic that a cop in rural Maine would pull over a benign, unofficial cop car outfitted as a replica of southern sheriff Coltrane's veee-hickle, as Coltrane would say.  Geographically speaking, Maine is about as far north from the South as you can get, but in terms of its slower pace of life, both New England and the Deep South have a lot in common.  Switch the accents, and take out all of the wealthy Boomers who've recently retired to Maine, and Dukes could have been filmed in the Pine Tree State.  For something like a state trooper's concern over a replica squad car to make news speaks to the down-home nature of Maine, and probably would have made news down South if it happened there, too.  Here in urban north Texas, this wouldn't be news, because most of our local police departments are too busy fighting real crime.

Indeed, word is beginning to spread here in Arlington, between Fort Worth and Dallas, that a new urban gang may be trying to establish itself in the northern part of town.  Just today, our neighborhood crime watch sent out an e-mail with the link to a video on YouTube showing a group of about twenty gangsta-type wannabies in a local park rapping with vulgarities and sinister swagger about drugs and general mayhem.  This same group is suspected of vandalizing another city park and bullying groups that had legitimately reserved pavilions at local parks.  Arlington never used to have a real crime problem, but it has now for years, and the small-town feel that was still here when my family moved down in the late 1970's is long gone.

It's this kind of stuff that is unsettling and even threatening to people like my neighbors and me, since we live in an established neighborhood, and are surrounded by dilapidated apartments like the ones featured in the video.  People who used to leave their front doors unlocked during the day now have security alarms, motion sensors, and closed-circuit cameras wired all over their properties.  If this new gang proves to be a genuine threat, what's next?

If only we had the crime problems like Trooper Johnston - shucks, and even Sheriff Coltrane - have, then everyday life would be a lot less stressful.

Oh well, at least in Bradley, Maine, traffic is tame enough for this replica cruiser's owner to drive his classics around town without fear damaging them - or having them get stolen.  Here in north Texas, meanwhile, driving is done pretty much the same way Bo and Luke careened their General Lee through those dirt roads and ramps on the studio lot.

Yee-haw.
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Saving Climbers from Themselves

Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Waterson, February 11, 1986

Climbing.

Ascending, reaching, hoping, enduring, achieving.  Being tenacious, always evaluating the terrain, looking towards the summit.

It's a thrill, a rush, a tangible accomplishment.  Adrenaline.  Bravado.  Something weaker people with fainter hearts and flabbier limbs either can't do, or are too lazy to try.

It's one thing to put on some hiking boots, grab some bottled water, and saunter up a pleasant hillside to take in the vista, or trek along a hilly forest path underneath the graceful, broad canopy of weathered trees.

But either our news media is getting more fascinated with the stories of botched rescues of climbers, or more and more Americans are woefully underestimating their mountain climbing capabilities.

Nick Hall, a native of Maine and professional search-and-rescue ranger, died June 21 while trying to help four climbers from Texas on Washington state's Mount Rainier.

Aaron Beesley, another professional rescuer, fell 90 feet to his death on Utah's Mount Olympus this past Saturday while trying to rescue two teenaged hikers.

Tony Stanley, a California Highway Patrol officer, was injured last Thursday when the rotor blades of his rescue helicopter clipped him as he attempted to reach a stranded hiker - who was a doctor.  The doctor, who had suffered a relatively minor injury by comparison, which had contributed to his need for rescue, ended up saving his rescuer's life.

Granted, considering the number of people who go mountain climbing for recreation every day all over the United States, these incidents could be considered statistically irrelevant.  And neither Hall, Beesley, nor Stanley were forced to work as rescuers.  News reports of their heroics portray each of them as lovers of their jobs and passionate about helping people.  Indeed, you'd have to be, to do these sorts of things for a living.

But dying while doing something for a living puts a different spin on it, doesn't it?  Especially when people die trying to rescue you.

We've all seen the news reports of residents in the path of a hurricane or wildfire who refuse evacuation orders and think they can defy Mother Nature.  At some point in the evacuation scenario, local law enforcement agencies will declare that if you stay, and you find yourself in imminent danger, rescuers will not be sent in to save you.  And I agree wholeheartedly with that decree.  The job of police officers and fire fighters is to protect us, but we have an obligation to be prudent about our own safety.  We can't expect to ignore warnings for our own health and welfare and then expect somebody to risk their own life to pluck us from death at the last minute because we didn't act on our own behalf sooner.

Yes, the line between refusing to evacuate in the face of a hurricane and exposing one's self to getting stuck on a mountain is fairly vague and gray.  It's certainly not crystal-clear, is it?  Especially since climbers are the ones intentionally putting themselves into an environment of danger precisely because danger is part of the attraction.  Even if you're so afraid of life that you never leave your house, there is plenty of danger right in your house.  However, our post-industrial society has designed many ways to mitigate the most common of dangers, and many of the dangers to which we're exposed in normal life aren't dangerous themselves to the people who may need to rescue us.  Shucks, that's one of the reasons people go climb mountains: because they can get away from all of the circumstances of ordinary life.  Getting away from ordinary life means you usually have to go someplace extraordinary.

Death-defyingly extraordinary.

Not that there's anything wrong with escaping to nature, going hiking, or even climbing mountains.  To the extent that risk is a part of life, climbing mountains for some people might be safer than trying to cross a Midtown Manhattan intersection.

But how American is it of climbers to feel entitled to be rescued if they get themselves into trouble?  If you're climbing in a national or state park, my taxes are helping to make sure you get help out there in the middle of noplace.  Sure enough, most rescuers employed by taxpayers don't get paid much, at least relative to their job description (saving lives, remember?).  But in our current fever to abolish entitlements, is it expecting too much for mountain climbers to pay 100% of the cost of employing those who might need to rescue them?

After all, they're willing to give their life for you.

All you want to do is climb a mountain.

Maybe you don't mind the inequity in roles.  After all, we Americans are programmed to live for fun.  And maybe my personal disregard for mountain climbing as a sport makes me disproportionately biased on this subject.  Before you write me off as just another hardened cynic, though, I know of two friends who consider themselves pretty good amateur climbers.  Still, I feel confident in what I say because both of them have scoffed to me about their peers who don't soberly weigh the costs before each climb.

At the end of the day, however, doesn't it seem that the reasons people use for justifying climbing mountains can be explored in other activities - activities in which the risks that endanger them don't also endanger the people who may need to rescue them?

The last words of American patriot Nathan Hale, before the British hung him for spying during the Revolutionary War, purportedly were, "I regret that I have but one life to give for my country."

A noble sentiment, indeed.

I wonder if mountain climbers start each trek saying, "I regret that each first responder has but one life to give for my risky behavior."
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Giving a Lift from Whatburger

This past Wednesday was the Fourth of July.

The jazz band for which a friend of mine plays had a gig in Fort Worth, in a neighborhood that used to be called the Hospital District, but what apparently is now being dubbed the South Side.  For decades, the Hospital District has indeed housed several of the city's largest hospitals, but in between their large campuses with modern buildings has withered the rest of the neighborhood.  White flight, high crime, and rampant drug abuse had turned it into an ordinary urban ghetto, with boarded-up houses, empty storefronts, rusting warehouses, and homeless men wandering around aimlessly or huddling in shadows.

During the past several years, starting with a bold renovation of an elaborate Depression-era schoolhouse from decaying hulk into an elegant apartment building for urban pioneers, the South Side has been making a comeback.  Many of the boarded-up homes have been torn down, and boutiques and trendy little bistros have opened up in some of the otherwise vacant commercial structures.  New townhome communities have been built, along with more traditional apartment complexes which have a percentage of their units set aside as affordable housing.

There's still a long way to go before this neighborhood is back on its feet as a viable, vibrant community, but it's already come a long way.

In this transitional neighborhood sits a new park, which is pretty much simply a big green lawn.  It's lined by new trees, but the only shade afforded this space comes from a row of 3-story townhouses flanking the park's western side.  Some two-story buildings newly-constructed as doctors offices squat on the southern end of the park, and to the north a good vista of the downtown skyline adds some urban ambiance.

A few blocks away, in a less ambitious remake of this old neighborhood, next to a dollar store and a 7-11 convenience store, sits a relatively new Whataburger fast-food restaurant.  But don't squinch up your nose just yet - as fast food goes, Whataburger, based in Corpus Christi, Texas, has some pretty satisfying food.  I'm partial to their jalapeno-and-cheese burger.

This being a neighborhood still more down-on-its-heels than up-and-coming, and being a holiday evening to boot, the Whataburger was nearly empty, except for a group of young Hispanics. One of the Whataburger employees, a young, overweight Hispanic woman with bright yellow eyelid makeup, came out to the seating area to mess around with her smartphone, and this group of Hispanics got up and started "witnessing" to the employee.  Only it was "witnessing" for a prosperity gospel crusade going on in Fort Worth this week from 9 in the morning until 8 at night.

Can you imagine?  When the young Hispanic woman to whom they were "witnessing" gasped at the times, the prosperity gospel people quickly calmed her down.  "Oh, you don't need to go all day.  You can come and go as you like."

Sounds like that's some must-have information they're giving out at that conference, doesn't it?

You know me - I was itching to blurt out something profound about the heresy of what they were saying.  But after a few minutes, I couldn't tell if maybe they knew the employee.  They were all young and Hispanic, and all extremely casual as they interacted.  Finally, the Whataburger employee, hoping to cut to the chase, said that she was nearly two months pregnant, and she didn't think she could last all that time sitting in seminars.  She was quite overweight, so she looked like an expectant mother, and they understood.  They quickly left, and I realized I'd blown my chance to blow their silly religion out of the water.

Since it was now just the two of us on that side of the restaurant (two homeless men were nursing soft drinks on the other side) I called out to the employee with a smile on my face, "do you really think God wants you to be financially successful?"

She looked up from her smartphone and shrugged her shoulders. "I wasn't really paying any attention," she smiled back, obviously relieved they'd gone.  "I didn't understand what they were talking about."

So much for the prosperity gospel's allure.

Then she told me her niece was in the hospital and she was trying to find out if she was OK.  That explains her fidgeting with her phone.  Nobody would answer the phone in her hospital room, and being a hospital, her family likely had turned their own cell phones off, since that's what we're supposed to do in a hospital.

However, she wanted to know what was going on so if she needed to, she could take a different bus in the direction of the hospital.  Her bus home in the other direction was due at the stop across the street from the Whataburger any minute.

Ahh, yes... relying on public transportation.  Of course, I hadn't thought anything about transportation.  Doesn't everybody have a car here?  Obviously not.  Owning my own car, I forget how you need to operate on a totally different schedule when you use mass transit.  Especially in a place like Fort Worth, where buses are few and far between.

That's when I stepped completely out of character.  Seeing the concern and frustration on her face, even with the yellow paint on her wide eyelids, I offered to take her to the hospital so she could save her money for her bus fare home.

"Your niece is at Cook Childrens?  That's right near where I'm going - just down the street."  I suddenly realized I sounded like a pervert or murderer, soliciting my next victim.

Either she was too desperate to care whether or not I was a pervert or murderer, or she knew she could fight me off, or she genuinely appreciated my offer of assistance, but she readily accepted the ride.  She had gone off the clock just as I'd arrived, so she was ready to go.  Just let her get a Sprite and small fries for her niece - earlier, her family had told her she wasn't eating any of the hospital's food.

We walked to my three-year old Honda Accord, and the woman gasped.  "Such a nice car!  I never get to ride in cars like this!"

She floored me.  It is a Honda.  I know people for whom Hondas are what the help drive.  "Aw, it's just a Honda," I stammered.

"No, seriously!" she continued.  "My world is those crappy Dodge Neons," and she gestured to a beat-up old Chrysler product sitting in the 7-11's parking lot.

"I hope I don't spill anything in here!"

I was hoping the same thing, of course, but I didn't tell her that.

Being the good, obedient, born-again evangelical that I am, I tried to formulate in my mind a good way of broaching the subject of salvation, hell, Christ, sin, and eternal life.  Any of those would do for starters, I figured.  But I needn't have bothered - my new friend had already begun to do all of the talking.

I learned she was living with her somewhat abusive father but was already signed-up for a rare opening for a Section 8 apartment - located, as I discovered, in the newish apartment complex next-door to the elegant former school.

"Dude!  There's a waiting list for that place!  People are calling them all the time, but the manager says the next one up is mine!"

Sure enough, the children's hospital wasn't far away at all, and before I knew it, we were pulling up to the entrance.  I felt like parking the car and saying I needed to talk about God and Jesus and His wonderful plan for your life, but no, the time was up.  She was already thanking me profusely.

So what could I do?  "Oh, please; you're very welcome," I demurred.  "I'm glad I could help.  I hope your niece gets better soon!"

"Oh, so do I!  So do I!" my new friend gushed.  "She's like a daughter to me!  I don't have any kids of my own, and I don't want none - at least, not right now!"

And with that, she was out of the car, with the car door closing behind her.  She was half-way through the revolving doors, and it hit me:

She doesn't want any kids now?  Didn't she tell those prosperity gospel folks she was almost two months pregnant?

Looking back now, I wonder if I shouldn't have parked the car, run inside, and checked with my friend about whether she was lying about being pregnant, or if she was considering terminating her pregnancy or what?  But I didn't.  I shot up a quick prayer, hoping she had simply lied to get rid of those people in the Whataburger.  And that something I did or said to her would somehow, in some way, sometime, help point her to Christ.

Maybe I failed Wednesday night in Evangelism 101.  But as I drove the short distance to the park where my friend's jazz band would be playing, I was glad I could leave the whole thing in God's hands.

Oddly enough, my friend has a month-long gig at this park for all the Wednesdays in July.  Enough of a reason to check back at the Whataburger, don't you think?
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