Someday, they will come for you

I read yesterday in an essay that the proposal to tax the one percent a higher tax rate, a so-called "fair" rate, is the "camel's nose under the tent," just the beginning of an effort to impose higher taxes on all of us.

And the income point at which tax rates will begin to increase will not be a millionaire's income - it will be $250,000 for a married couple.

Like Mark Steyn says in the story below, we can't afford new government projects. For every dollar we spend, we borrow $0.40. It will stop when we insist that it stop (that, quite simply, is the reason for being for the Tea Party), and more of our leaders listen.

http://www.nationalreview.com/articles/289543/state-our-union-broke-mark-steyn

Charity among our leaders

Fox News reported yesterday that Mitt Romney recently contributed 15 percent of his annual income to charity. Now, before O and B became our leaders, O reportedly donated about two percent of his income to charity. And B reportedly donated $369 in a single year - on a senator's salary.

My point? This is their business, but it sure made me wonder about the deep-down compassion of our two most prominent leaders, when they look like pikers compared with a prominent, sometimes-vilified representative of the one percent.

And it didn't square with the conventional wisdom of Democrats being more compassionate toward the less fortunate. And then I thought, Oh! The Democrats use other people's money to appear compassionate. It's a little tidier that way - you can claim the moral high ground (honestly, what a bunch of hooey, isn't it?, and still preserve your income.

Compassion is having economic growth sufficient to be able to offer someone a job. And, yes, the way it works is that a one-percenter will likely offer you that job.

Yeah, a few may need a life preservers from time to time, but we're creating a nation filled with dependents. I think most would prefer to work, but when jobs aren't available - you're gonna take it. Pretty soon, you may even learn to like it. Ugh.

I read yesterday that the one percent make 16 percent of the nation's income, and pay 36 percent of its taxes. If that's not fair, to my lights it's unfair to the one percent.

When the bottom 47 percent of earners in this country pay no taxes, that's unfair. Their only skin in the game is getting to the voting booth every few years, and re-electing leaders who preserve the sham.

Michelle Malkin comment

Remember,she says, referring to O's use of the word "fairness" last night, "Fairness is in the eyes of the wealth redistributor."

The heart of a player, the love of a grandpa

I just got done with a phone interview with longtime Belleville resident Jim Fitch, talking about his granddaughter Hannah and her soccer career. Sometimes, this job is incomparable, and this is one of those times. I learned long ago that I like most to write about things I admire, and this story fairly overflows with things to admire.

It’s got so much - achievement through hard work and practice, focused excellence, the love of a grandfather, the courage to play soccer goalie for over a decade, and, ultimately, recognition. Your family and friends knew it all along, Hannah, but this – THIS – well, congratulations, and we love you.

I’m still writing the story, and I can’t wait to see it published. This is gonna be really cool.

Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.

A teacher's soul

My wife Jan has taught in elementary schools for over 20 years. Our children Matthew and Kelly have had a varied education: both went to public and private schools, and a few colleges. My son Matthew is currently in nursing school, and yesterday completed and submitted an assignment for a 7,000-word précis of an hour-long interview with a patient. I have two undergraduate degrees, a master’s degree, and experience in public and private schools. So I’m passingly familiar with education.

But nothing prepared me for the last two years. During these two years as a staff reporter, I visited several elementary schools for fun events, and for special projects. I witnessed first-hand highly impressive commitment, persistence, and particularly classroom management skills that I marvel at. I’m afraid that, if I were up there before the class, I’d be like the archetypal substitute teacher – those kids would eat me alive, figuratively speaking. And don’t get me wrong – generally, they’re very nice kids.

Imagine being on stage all day, because that’s what teachers do. Imagine as well being responsible as an adult and as a professional to hundreds of loving parents for the safety of several hundred children, each day. Imagine being vomited on; of having to take an embarrassed and penitent third-grader to the bathroom after an accident. Of having to shell out $1.50 for the third day this week for lunch money, because the student or the parent forgot it.

I’ve looked into a teacher’s soul, having lived with one for many years. I listen to stories each night about her day – stories that make you laugh, stories that make you angry, stories that make you sad and angry, and a few that make you happy.

I’ve witnessed her control a class of over 30 kids, of whom 95 percent understand and comply with the rules in the computer room in which she teaches, but the remaining five percent require special attention, as she continues to have to manage the entire class.

And I’ve seen this in other classrooms, with the other teachers whom I’ve visited. You have simply got to see these special folk at work. They use rather loud classroom voices, so everyone can hear them. They move fast, confidently. They stop briefly to deal with errant attention spans, and move on to complete the assignment. The best teachers have developed eyes in the back of their head, and ears that can hear a whisper across a room, and quickly sort out whether to deal with it, or to let it go – this time.

I have listened to stories of epic confrontations between my wife and a student who was sent to her for discipline, but those who send these kids to her know that Jan isn’t one-dimensional with respect to misbehaving children. If a student wants to fight, wants a confrontation, wants to stand toe-to-toe with her, to test her mettle - proceed at your own risk. She’s done this for a long time; you’re new to this.

But if an errant student admits they lied, seems to be sorry, she will impose some sort of lesson to prevent its happening again, because Mrs. LaVaute means business. She’s not been called “Mean Mrs. LaVaute” for years for nothing.

But, then, she will relax just a bit and chat with you. If you’re willing, she will make friends with you, provided you toe the line. She will look out for you in the future, and look after you. She will find you a coat to wear home if you’re cold; she will listen to your story of a horrible weekend when your dad left you, your mom and your brothers and sisters. She will call in a social worker to help deal with the issue, but over and above that, you will get Mrs. LaVaute’s special loving treatment. I’ve been privileged to witness it for many years now. Often, I’m just amazed.

I’ve listened to blow-by-blow accounts of investigations of who did what, who punched who, who said what. I’ve seen teachers team up to catch a misbehaving student in a lie. I’ve heard stories where the emergency sprinkler spigots in the ceiling include video cameras that actually recorded the deviant act!

I’ve partied many times with teachers. We’ve hosted end-of-school parties at our home, we’ve gone to informal retirement parties, we’ve gotten together at a restaurant simply because they enjoy being with each other. Teachers as a rule respect and even admire each other. They know what it means to be in that room with 30 kids; they know how special managing that daily, hourly task is. But the spouses of partying teachers know this: most of the time, they talk about school. They talk about kids. I don’t think there is another profession that consumes the attention of its practitioners in their off-hours as much as teaching. You rarely take off the hat; it is a calling.

Jan and I babysat for my grandson Noah yesterday. The kid was delightful. At 20 months old, his command of words is becoming amazing. I now can understand well over half of what he says, and I look to Jan for help with the rest. Yesterday, we worked with him on saying “Go S.U.” to his great-grandmother on the phone (she’s a big fan), because the undefeated, top-ranked Syracuse University Orangemen are playing the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame in basketball this weekend.

When I play with Noah, I let him go, to explore up to the point where I think he’s beginning to endanger himself, and then we stop. Being safe is paramount. There’s plenty of time for him to learn.

I don’t think often enough about the subsequent consequences on his future behavior, and I’ve discovered that I can sometimes make mistakes. Jan, on the other hand, thinks about future consequences of current behavior and deals with it in a confidently firm but ultimately loving way. She has the soul of a teacher, she does, and I can think of no higher compliment.

Many, many thanks to all you teachers for your daily commitment to our children. Such a special gift you have. Be proud of your calling, of your skills, and above all, keep going for all of us in the world outside the classroom. There is much work to do. Thank you.

Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.

A little trav'lin music, please

I have among the songs in my iPod what I call “trav’lin music.” The idea began with a trip to Central New York in the early 1990’s with my son Matthew, then 11 years old, to see my Dad, who had recently been released from the hospital after a heart attack.

It was a great road trip, and I am forever happy that I made it. Dad died a few months later, and this turned out to be the last time I would see him alive.

En route in our 5.0L Mustang GT convertible, we listened to many songs, but one in particular stands out: “Telegraph Road,” by Dire Straits.

Accompanied by fluid guitar riffs, driving drums and poignant, wistful piano, it is an epic story about the birth, the decay and the death of a community. And it rocks. My goodness, it rocks.

Over the years, I’ve adopted a few more songs I call trav’lin music, music that puts me in a good if not great mood. It makes the traveling better, and entertains me. These change a bit over the years, but mainstays have been:

· “Cocaine,” by Eric Clapton – yeah, I know the subject matter is not the best, but I care far less about the lyrics than the musicianship. I’m not sure if there are two guitars in the riff I so admire, but the virtuosity is stunning, and I can’t help but be captivated by it each time I listen. And the drums, they just roll on, the drummer playing on the center of the cymbals, and the bass provides a funky, rolling bottom.

· “Let in Rain,” by Eric Clapton - opening with a familiar guitar anthem, the song is mostly just good, until toward the end, when the vocals end, and the guitar begins. Again, the bass provides a rolling bottom, but the guitar melodically screeches and screams, reaching excellence and better. On my voice command on Ford Sync, I have to ask for “Let it Drain,” or else it will give me another song. In similar, amusing fashion, if I want to listen to Michael Buble’, I have to ask for a name that sounds Michael Bebble. You learn to adapt.

· Last but not by any means the least is the Jefferson Airplane’s version of “The Other Side of This Life,” recorded live at the Fillmore West in the 1960’s. The Airplane probably performed this song dozens of times throughout its career, including the concert at Altamont that was said by some to be the end of the peace and love culture in the late 1960’s. I’ve heard it performed in several versions on YouTube, and it never sounds the same. But they peaked with the version on “Bless Its Pointed Little Head.” It begins quietly with ticking sounds that turn out to be Jorma Kaukonen’s twangy, testy lead guitar, competing with Jack Casady’s thundering bass guitar. The guitars are joined by drums, and as they progress, the effect is like that of an airplane rolling down the runway, followed by its takeoff. Marty Balin’s soaring tenor and Grace Slick’s sly counterpoint singing add something special to a song that often sounds as if the members of the band are at war with each other, yet come back together in a roaring cacophony that is at its best, beautiful noise.

Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.

An open letter to my sister-in-law

A few days after my wife Jan and I returned to Michigan after visiting our families, there appeared in the mail a handwritten note from my sister-in-law Jodi.

Most of it was addressed to Jan, but there was a portion that was written to me: “Jer, the last bunch of pictures that were sent, there is a brown-hued one where you’re looking at Noah.”

“A stranger could tell the awesome love you have for him. He’s beautiful, outgoing, smart and a coffee drinker.” [That’s an altogether separate subject]. She finished, “He doesn’t strike me as though he’ll be one of those kids who are snobby, or take inventory, so to speak.”

I had to pause after I read the note. As I reflected on it, I concluded Jodi was correct, and very thoughtful and kind to share like that.

When Noah is awake (at 20 months, he sleeps through the night, and takes a long nap each day), he is a study in childlike industry and curiosity. Sports, books, food, playtime with toys, Elmo, the video “Seasons of Love” from the play “Rent,” a silly dance called Tootie Ta, and everything else within his range of possible experience – it is his domain.

And he grasps it gently, as if it’s precious, and he learns what he likes. And he remembers. God, he remembers. I cannot be in the house for more than a minute before hearing his suggestion to me to “Jump!” And we jump.

Yesterday, my laptop was on the dining room table in his home, and he was trying to get to it. He uses the words “booter” for computer and “boose” for mouse. I sat him on my lap and we played with it together for a short while.

Later, I noticed that he had climbed onto a sort of platform in the center of the tall dining room table. He was trying to move from the platform to a tall chair a few inches above and away from him, to reach the computer. The tabletop was partly in the way of his ascent.

It looked horribly dangerous – a hard fall and a violent smack on his chin was what I briefly envisioned, and I took him out of harm’s way. His father said later that he has begun to do it all the time.

Jodi’s comment about Noah’s not being snobby resonated with me. We tried hard when we raised our own children to take pride in themselves, and to behave in the right way, but at the same time to recognize we’re all God’s creatures, and to act toward everyone in a respectful way.

Watching my children as they grew up, and even today, it looks as if the lesson took. And it’s beginning to take root in Noah, in whom I am well pleased. Happy New Year, Noah.

Below is a link to a video of Noah's Christmas morning. Surrounded by gifts, he prefers to serve up warms cans of Coca-Cola, and runs across the family room, torn wrapping paper streaming behind him:

http://youtu.be/eKPNKEGD2aw

Jerry LaVaute is a special writer for Heritage Newspapers. He can be reached at glavaute@gmail.com or call 1-734-740-0062.