I’m not a big fan of a number of Chet Edward’s politics, but I’m a huge fan of this:
The Texas Home of Waco Rep. (and former Belton Rep) Chet Edwards sat unused much of the time.
It doesn’t now. He has turned it over to a family that fled Hurricane Katrina.
“I wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing we had a vacant home in Waco, where there were children of evacuees,”; said Mr. Edwards, an eight-term Democrat whose wife, Lea Ann, suggested loaning out their three-bedroom house since they and their two kids spend the school year in Washington.
Those looters are really disgusting, aren’t they? And I don’t know about you, but they are stirring some ugly racial attitudes in me.
Yeah, right or wrong, I can’t help thinking that white oil executives are a pretty savage bunch.
A Texas Congressman has introduced a bill that impose a nationwide prohibition on municipally-sponsored networks.
Dubbed by the author, Representative Pete Sessions (R-Texas), the Preserving Innovation in Telecom Act of 2005, the bill prohibits state and local governments from providing any telecommunications or information service that is ‘substantially similar’ to services provided by private companies.
I can’t believe someone would be concerned about people being able to access the internet…
The school district has even talked about offering Wi-Fi internet access across the district to every student, so they can get internet access in their homes, whether they can afford it or not.
What’s stopping SBC and other companies from doing the same thing. If they want people to use their service – make a better deal of it.
Personally, I have to pay $30 + a phone line I never use to use SBC DSL. It wasn’t worth it – I shut it down.
Now I use my network at work, or use local hotspots for internet access. And I have no intention of going back to SBC.
The Belton Journal has run the following piece from World War II correspondent numerous times in the past and since we’re not a daily paper, that can run it today, I thought this would be the next best place to honor our fallen soldiers, including Belton’s own Capt. Henry T. Waskow.
The piece was originally run on the front pages of newspapers across the country and The Washington Daily News devoted its entire first page to the column — not even a headline, just solid text.
The paper was completely sold out that day.
There is another war now, and have been others since, and The Belton Journal continues to reprint the Waskow piece once in a while, as a tribute to Belton men and boys who have been killed in wars of this century, ranging from privates to generals.
Actually, Ernie Pyle wondered about this piece; he thought maybe he was “losing his touch.”
Henry Waskow was a 1935 graduate of Belton High School, attended grade school at Hay Branch and Wiltonville.
He attended Trinity University in Waxahachie, paying his way with his “Guard Money.”
He highwayed it back to Belton every Tuesday to make the guard drill.
Guardsmen were paid $3 for every drill they attended.
Waskow taught school two years before Co. I was mobilized in November 1940.
Belton’s Waskow High School bears his name as well as Henry T. Waskow V.F.W. #4008 Hall located at 2311 S. Pearl.
AT THE FRONT LINES IN ITALY, January 10, 1944 – In this war I have known a lot of officers who were loved and respected by the soldiers under them. But never have I crossed the trail of any man as beloved as Capt. Henry T. Waskow of Belton, Texas.
Capt. Waskow was a company commander in the 36th Division. He had led his company since long before it left the States. He was very young, only in his middle twenties, but he carried in him a sincerity and gentleness that made people want to be guided by him. “After my own father, he came next,” a sergeant told me.
“He always looked after us,” a soldier said. “He’d go to bat for us every time.” “I’ve never knowed him to do anything unfair,” another one said.
I was at the foot of the mule trail the night they brought Capt. Waskow’s body down. The moon was nearly full at the time, and you could see far up the trail, and even part way across the valley below. Soldiers made shadows in the moonlight as they walked.
Dead men had been coming down the mountain all evening, lashed onto the backs of mules. They came lying belly-down across the wooden pack-saddles, their heads hanging down on the left side of the mule, their stiffened legs sticking out awkwardly from the other side, bobbing up and down as the mule walked.
The Italian mule-skinners were afraid to walk beside dead men, so Americans had to lead the mules down that night. Even the Americans were reluctant to unlash and lift off the bodies at the bottom, so an officer had to do it himself, and ask others to help.
The first one came early in the morning. They slid him down from the mule and stood him on his feet for a moment, while they got a new grip. In the half light he might have been merely a sick man standing there, leaning on the others. Then they laid him on the ground in the shadow of the low stone wall alongside the road.
I don’t know who that first one was. You feel small in the presence of dead men, and ashamed at being alive, and you don’t ask silly questions.
We left him there beside the road, that first one, and we all went back into the cowshed and sat on water cans or lay on the straw, waiting for the next batch of mules.
Somebody said the dead soldier had been dead for four days, and then nobody said anything more about it. We talked soldier talk for an hour or more. The dead man lay all alone outside in the shadow of the low stone wall.
Then a soldier came into the cowshed and said there were some more bodies outside. We went out into the road. Four mules stood there, in the moonlight, in the road where the trail came down off the mountain. The soldiers who led them stood there waiting. “This one is Captain Waskow,” one of them said quietly.
Two men unlashed his body from the mule and lifted it off and laid it in the shadow beside the low stone wall. Other men took the other bodies off. Finally there were five lying end to end in a long row, alongside the road. You don’t cover up dead men in the combat zone. They just lie there in the shadows until somebody else comes after them.
The unburdened mules moved off to their olive orchard. The men in the road seemed reluctant to leave. They stood around, and gradually one by one I could sense them moving close to Capt. Waskow’s body. Not so much to look, I think, as to say something in finality to him, and to themselves. I stood close by and I could hear.
One soldier came and looked down, and he said out loud, “God damn it.” That’s all he said, and then he walked away. Another one came. He said, “God damn it to hell anyway.” He looked down for a few last moments, and then he turned and left.
Another man came; I think he was an officer. It was hard to tell officers from (enlisted) men in the half light, for all were bearded and grimy dirty.
The man looked down into the dead captain’s face, and then he spoke directly to him, as though he were alive. He said: :”I’m sorry, old man.”
Then a soldier came and stood beside the officer, and bent over, and he too spoke to his dead captain, not in a whisper but awfully tenderly, and he said: “I sure am sorry, sir.”
Then the first man squatted down, and he reached down and took the dead hand, and he sat there for a full five minutes, holding the dead hand in his own and looking intently into the dead face, and he never uttered a sound all the time he sat there.
And finally he put the hand down, and then reached up and gently straightened the points of the captain’s shirt collar, and then he sort of rearranged the tattered edges of his uniform around the wound. And then he got up and walked away down the road in the moonlight, all alone.
After that the rest of us went back into the cowshed, leaving the five dead men lying in a line, end to end, in the shadow of the low stone wall. We lay down on the straw in the cowshed, and pretty soon we were all asleep.
If you haven’t seen or heard the Laura Bush clip from the 2005 Correspondent’s Dinner, you can watch the video or read the entire transcript here… Hilarious and great!
Transcript
(via About.com)
Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been attending these dinners for years and just quietly sitting there. Well, I’ve got a few things I want to say for a change.
This is going to be fun because he really doesn’t have a clue about what I’m gonna’ to say next.
George always says he’s delighted to come to these press dinners. Baloney. He’s usually in bed by now.
I’m not kidding.
I said to him the other day, “George, if you really want to end tyranny in the world, you’re going to have to stay up later.”
I am married to the president of the United States, and here’s our typical evening: Nine o’clock, Mr. Excitement here is sound asleep, and I’m watching Desperate Housewives— with Lynne Cheney. Ladies and gentlemen, I am a desperate housewife. I mean, if those women on that show think they’re desperate, they oughta be with George.
One night, after George went to bed, Lynne Cheney, Condi Rice, Karen Hughes and I went to Chippendale’s. I wouldn’t even mention it except Ruth Ginsberg and Sandra Day O’Connor saw us there. I won’t tell you what happened, but Lynne’s Secret Service codename is now “Dollar Bill.”
But George and I are complete opposites — I’m quiet, he’s talkative, I’m introverted, he’s extroverted, I can pronounce nuclear —
The amazing thing, however, is that George and I were just meant to be. I was the librarian who speant 12 hours a day in the library, yet somehow I met George.
We met, and married, and I became one of the regulars up at Kennebunkport. All the Bushes love Kennebunkport, which is like Crawford, but without the nightlife. People ask me what it’s like to be up there with the whole Bush clan. Lemme put it this way: First prize — three-day vacation with the Bush family. Second prize — 10 days.
Speaking of prizes brings me to my mother-in-law. So many mothers today are just not involved in their children’s lives — Not a problem with Barbara Bush. People often wonder what my mother-in-law’s really like. People think she’s a sweet, grandmotherly, Aunt Bea type. She’s actually more like, mmm, Don Corleone.
Cedric, am I doing all right?
I saw my in-laws down at the ranch over Easter. We like it down there. George didn’t know much about ranches when we bought the place. Andover and Yale don’t have a real strong ranching program. But I’m proud of George. He’s learned a lot about ranching since that first year when he tried to milk the horse. What’s worse, it was a male horse.
Now, of course, he spends his days clearing brush, cutting trails, taking down trees, or, as the girls call it, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. George’s answer to any problem at the ranch is to cut it down with a chainsaw — which I think is why he and Cheney and Rumsfeld get along so well.
It’s always very interesting to see how the ranch air invigorates people when they come down from Washington. Recently, when Vice President Cheney was down, he got up early one morning, he put on his hiking boots, and he went on a brisk, 20- to 30-foot walk.
But actually, in all seriousness, I do love the ranch, and I love the whole Bush family. I was an only child, and when I married into the extended Bush clan, I got brothers and sisters and wonderful in-laws, all of whom opened their arms to me. And included in the package, I got this guy here.
I think when you marry someone, you unconsciously are looking for something in your spouse to help fulfill something in you, and George did that for me. He brought fun and energy into my life and so many other things. George is a very good listener, he’s easy to be around, and on top of it all, he’s a loving father whose daughters absolutely adore him.
So in the future, when you see me just quietly sitting up here, I want you to know that I’m happy to be here for a reason — I love, and enjoy being with, the man who usually speaks to you on these occasions.
So George and I thank you for inviting us, thank you for all of the good work that you and the press do, and thank you for your very kind hospitality this evening.
