Thursday February 26, 2015
Rising frustration with Washington and conservative electoral victories across much of the U.S. are feeding a movement in favor of something America hasn't done in 227 years: Hold a convention to rewrite the Constitution.
President Obama's firm determination that no more American combat forces will be introduced in the Middle East battlefield may well thwart his intention to "degrade and ultimately destroy" the new threat of the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria.
When my fellow critics of Ferguson, Missouri police are reduced to arguing not whether but how hard Michael Brown hit police officer Darren Wilson, I think it is time to rethink what this scandal is all about or, more pointedly, what it should be about.
We Americans are a nation divided.
We feud about the fires in Ferguson, Missouri, and we can agree only that racial divisions remain raw. So let's borrow a page from South Africa and impanel a Truth and Reconciliation Commission to examine race in America.
It's that time of year. Not Christmas (it's been Christmas since mid-August). Not Thanksgiving. It's College Application season.
When ushered into the master bedroom of the Mormon patriarch Brigham Young at his winter home in St. George, Utah, a few years ago, I felt duty-bound to ask an obvious question: Where did the other women sleep?
I attended Wells Fargo Securities' "2nd Annual E-Cig Conference" last week, and if I had to describe the mood of the speakers it would be a cross between cautious optimism and deep frustration.
The woman in 27E doesn't have only one carry-on plus a small bag for a laptop or personal items. She has one carry-on plus a purse the size of a bassinet plus some canvas vessel for all of her electronics plus two different plastic totes for various pillows, blankets and possibly an ottoman and a coffee table. Shuffling down the aisle, she looks more like a Peruvian llama than anything human. She grunts and buckles.
My 102-year-old mother-in-law, Henryne Walker Stewart Goode, whom we buried a week ago at the Walker family cemetery in Okolona, Mississippi, often told an unforgettable story at our kitchen table.
She quietly walked into the classroom and stood there, just inside the door, against a wall.
The professor, his back to her, continued his lecture, unaware of her presence until his students’ eyes began focusing upon her rather than him.
“Yes?” he asked, turning to her. Just “Yes.” Nothing more.