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67 years ago this coming week, a 22 year old infantryman, Marston Smith hit the beaches at Normandy. Two years earlier, he dropped out of the University of Virginia and joined the U.S. Army because duty called. He fought in the hedgerows and helped liberate Paris. He was awarded for his efforts and became an officer and on December 24, 1944 he led his company of men in a defense of Bastogne in the Battle of Bulge, marched into Germany and when Hitler was defeated, he immediately volunteered for duty in the Pacific.
He was the descendant of Captain Sylvanus Smith, who "answered the call" and peppered the British at Lexington and Concord, serving the whole war in the Continental Army and ended up with Washington at Yorktown. Like his forefather, Pop was a true Cincinnatus, a man of honor and courage. Yet, as I marvel at my father's courage, I am even more awestruck by the fact that Pop was not particularly athletic. He was "bookish." He never rose above the Pee Wee football team at Woodberry Forest. The Army wanted him to work on "the bomb" and sent him to advanced physics classes at the University of Kentucky. Pop, the scrawny, brainy prep school kid, stuck his middle finger at the Army brass, and went AWOL, so he would be shipped over seas and so he could "fight." When I was a boy, I used to sneak into his closet and look at old snaphots from 1944. He had been transformed. While he was tall, fit, lean and tan, the expression in his hollowed out eyes told the story: he was at war. My whole life, I never saw that "look in his eyes," but in those old pictures.
My grandparents, Gordon and Ella Smith had four sons who volunteered to fight for their country in WWII: My Dad, Uncle T.C., Uncle Max and Uncle David. Here's to them and my brother Ken (Vietnam) and many, many others, then and now who have "stepped up" when their country called. Let us remember them all this weekend.
It should come as no surprise that a Frenchman has a hard time keeping his escargot in its shell.
That's not the REAL story. The real story is what is an avowed Socialist doing staying at a $3,000/night Manhattan Hotel on your dime? Understand this and you likely have a very good understanding of the international monetary system and why our nation and the rest of the world is on the verge of financial collapse.
When our government gives the keys to the federal fisc to fat, over-indulgent elitists, it breeds a hubris mentality, where these self-appointed Solomons think that their "wisdom" is indespensible to the operations and functioning of the world. Having a degree from Harvard, Oxford or the Sorbonne is nice, but hardly substitutes for a "practical" understanding of economics. Meet Bubba Jones, a self-made man who started as a grease monkey and now owns 20 Jiffy Lubes. Bubba has a much better handle on economic principles than these government sponsored flunkies and manipulators whose whole self-worth is dependent on spending other people's money and not their own.
The IMF is an organization that uses your money to socialize bad behavior, causing much more harm than good, but it does allow for pompous Frenchmen to fly First Class around the world, eating truffles while dispensing your money to corrupt and bloated governments who have no intention of ever paying us back. (The U.S is the biggest shareholder in the IMF).
Bubba understands that if you want to encourage bad behavoir, subsidize it. This is why when Bubba's 16 year old son son, Billy Ray over drew his checking account, Bubba grounded him, took away his truck and made him pay all the late charges and overdraft fees. Bubba also understands that a man who invests his own money is a much better steward of that money than a man who invests someone else's money. That's why Bubba didn't invest in his friend Earl's Excellent Barbeque Emporium. Barbeque joints are hard to run, and Earl didn't have enough skin in the game.
Milton Friedman's greatest contribution to economic thinking was his quote "there ain't no free lunch." (Bubba's favorite expression). OK, Milt didn't use the word "ain't," Bubba likes to put things in his own vernacular. Bubba, who is a deacon at his Church ( Bull Run Baptist ) also understands that ever since Adam took a bite of that apple, man has been imperfect and subject to making stupid decisions, and that this aspect of human nature will never change.
Bubba would not have bailed out GM, AIG, Goldman Sachs or dispensed one plug nickel of TARP Money to any bank. Bubba started with nothing. He understands how resilient people can be when faced with the necessity of having to be so, better get the pain over with now, than prolong it and make it much worse by throwing good money after bad and enabling folks to continue to make bad decisions.
When the bank called Bubba's loan on his Jiffy Lube on Bedford Forrest Highway, the government didn't bail Bubba out, but he learned a lesson and he survived. It was painful, but pain is the central nervous system's way of telling us, we've got a problem that needs "fixin." (Like the time that tire jack landed on Bubba's foot and he knew he had "done broke sumthin" and went to see ole Doc Johnson).
Having Greece, Ireland and Portugal default on their debt would be painful, but necessary. The problem with the Dominique Strauss Kahn's of the world is they have never experienced pain, not to mention have never run a Barbeque joint.
I would like to thank the Episcopal Church.
I have done my share of whiskey drinking, skirt chasing, property destruction and running my big mouth. There are police reports with my name on them from Nantucket to Key West. I've spent the night in the slammer a few times. (By the way, the best jail food is in Chapel Hill, NC; awesome hash browns). I've broken a lot of stuff, smashed a few cars and burned a building down. Fraternity boys should not play with firearms while drinking grain alcohol, especially in the city limits of Charlottesville.
Now, some "do gooder" psychiatrist would probably say that I experienced some trauma as a youth or I was "crying out," rebelling against the mores of my parents' generation, blah, blah, blah. The truth is simply, I am a Smith. It's in my DNA. My three brothers, my Dad, my grandfather and great grandfather were all Good Time Charlies. My great, great grandfather Smith was in the Home Guard, and when the Yankees entered Richmond in 65, he met them, armed only with a big whiskey bottle (naturally it was empty).
My Dad was a great man, a brilliant lawyer and a complete gentleman, but he was also a first rate whiskey drinking good ole boy rascal. As a little boy, I remember him telling me my prayers at night, every night. Occassionally he would recite the Lord's Prayer or the 23rd Psalm from memory. Every Sunday, he'd make us shine our shoes, put on a tie and off we'd go to St. John's Episcopal Church. At the height of my University of Virginia rascality (I think that's a word), on occassion I would find myself at Christ Episcopal or Emmanual, and immediately an etheral goodness would wash over me (and boy did I need it), as the Minister would recite the old familiar Anglican liturgy, reminding me that despite my imperfectness (Smith DNA), I knew where "truth" lay.
I gave up the Maker's Mark some 20 years ago. Now don't get me wrong, I am still a woeful sinner (I could get arrested for just some of my thoughts), but the Episcopal Church has always been there for me, quietly beckoning out, calling me and welcoming me with both arms. I love St. James's Episcopal Church, Richmond, Virginia. This morning the choir was rocking, and I saw people with not one drop of "soul brother or soul sistah" in them "gettin their groove on" as an infectious joy spread throughout the Church. The Good Book says that wherever two or more are gathered in my name, there lies the Holy Spirit. I believe this.
Now, I got a boy at Ole Miss. Oxford may be the "most fun" college town in America, bushels of good looking women, and my boy, well he got a double doze of Smithness. He's a charmer, and I love him dearly, but when you are 6' 6" and full of college boy testosterone, a father tends to lose a little sleep. Let's just say, I have gotten to know the Oxford Police Department (and a few other municipalities). Well last week, he told me that he had been to St. Peter's in Oxford. I was floored.
Somehow, the Episcopal Church has always been there for my family, and I am grateful. Despite its many issues ( misguided liberalism among them), it is still an awesome institution, it is in my blood and my very being. It extends its hand when least expected; it is an integral part of my life, and my greatest hope is it will continue to be so for my children.
Kudos to President Obama for giving the "green light" to go get Usama. However, I wish the administration would just quit blabbing about what a tough decision it was, including all the angst and anxiety they had as the mission was unfolding. It makes us look weak.
I prefer a president like the outlaw Josey Wales, after you kill the guy, you spit tobacco juice on his forehead and the only words you say is " Buzzards got to eat, same as worms." Then you go about your business and get the next bad guy. I don't recall seeing Josey Wales on 60 Minutes emoting about how tough it "was to shoot them fellas."
It also isn't a very bright idea to tell the world how we tracked UBL down, all the training we did, how we carried out the mission. When Peyton Manning goes 25-31, picks the other side's defense apart, he doesn't hold a post game interview to tell everybody how he did it.
I don't want to see a picture of the entire cabinet looking at a TV screen of the mission. I want the bad guys to think this is no big deal, this is so easy and routine for us that the President ordered the mission between bites of a ham sandwich and never gave it a second thought. I want all the bad guys to be on edge, thinking they're next, Navy Seals are going to come down their chimney like Santa Claus and that we are a "bad ass" country that can take them out in a nano-second.
I'm supporting Josey Wales for President in 2012.
