The Publisher's Page BY HAROLD T. BECK

JULY 31 - AUGUST 6, 1999

AUGUST 6, 1999

The Omen

I really have to give it to the two Chiefs. They have gone out of their way to keep from under foot. They’ve allowed Sharyn and me to relax and have not intruded on us in the least. In fact, if anyone was intruding, it was us on them.

Yesterday we went for a walk on the Boardwalk. Sharyn likes to check out the little shops and see what junk, er’ treasures, she can find, I can’t be bothered with such things, so I sit on one of the many benches and check out the women who are either looking in the shops, or are on their way to the beach. It seemed that every time I decided to sit on a bench, Cornplanter and Red Jacket would be there too. I couldn’t describe it as anything but an innocent coincidence.

"Check out the blond in the white shorts," Red Jacket said to me.

"Stop it!" Cornplanter protested. "I can see and so can Bud."

Really, I didn’t mind all that much. The blond in the white shorts was pretty nice to look at; but, I did have to watch myself. Sharyn, while being very comfortable, every now and then took notice of me and who I just might be taking notice of. So, being the experienced and intelligent married man that I am, I am careful never to let on that I have noticed anything, especially a good looking blond in white shorts.

But Red Jacket didn’t stop. "Look at that one, Bud!" he said, acting like a kid in a candy store. "Look at her will you!"

Cornplanter ignored him. Instead he asked if we were having a good time and how Sharyn was enjoying her vacation. He spent some time discussing the drought.

"You know," he began. "This drought is a common occurrence for this part of the country."

"How do you figure that?" I asked. "They say this is the worst drought in thirty years."

"Easy," he answered. "They only look at the conditions for thirty years or so. Continental weather patterns don’t change in groups of seven years like they did in the Bible. When you are dealing with the weather over the North American continent, you need to take into consideration many factors."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Like the last time this happened."

He told me the last major east coast drought was in the fifties.

I vaguely remembered it. I was in grade school and it was in late September. I hadn’t looked upon the summer as being on stricken by drought. I thought it was a pretty nice summer. There was a lot of sun and I could play outside every day. It was a good summer for going to the swimming pool. Even my dad thought so. He took my sister and me to South Park swimming pool a half a dozen times that summer and that was unusual. Anyway, it began to thunder and lightning and this nun who was teaching us Bible History of all things at the time, fell to her knees and began to pray out loud, thanking God for the rain.

I don’t know. It was a strange sight, this grown woman falling to her knees and praying and giving thanks for rain, but who was I to be critical? I still cry at the end of movies. Recently, its been Mighty Joe Young. Still, Cornplanter’s point was well taken. The last great drought before the one in the fifties was in the thirties during the Great Depression. Then it was a nationwide drought. It was more than the midwestern dust bowl back then.

Even at that, the news reporters who are even too young to remember the drought of the fifties will continue to show that same burned out corn field in West Virginia until we all are sick of looking at corn fields. And besides, who cares what happened in the fifties or the thirties? Why would they be interested in finding out that at the turn of the last century we had a similar drought?

Cornplanter remembered all those times. "Has anyone payed attention to the fact that on the other side of the world, in Eastern Europe and in Western Asia, they are having the wettest summer in a very long time?" he asked. "As sure as the sun comes up every day, this condition is only temporary. Even in the fifties we didn’t have such a sophisticated media with the capability of telling us the news within a few moments of it actually happening. So what may have been worse then, was not magnified and told and retold so many times in a single day. The people went on about their business. They dealt with the problem as best as they could; and, they were not looking to the government for a hand out just because nature dealt them a very expected blow."

Cornplanter seemed frustrated. "The sod busters and the farmers were the biggest gamblers going when this nation was being taken from my people. Most years were good because this was a land with rich soils and good climate. But every now and then there was the one that we are having now. That was expected. That’s why a variety of crops were grown. Some crops actually thrive in dry weather. We’ve gotten away from those things. That’s too bad."

Red Jacket hadn’t said much. He wasn’t clowning like he is known to do. He became as serious as Cornplanter.

"You know, Bud," he said. "In a way this is an omen. It is a warning about what might happen on even a larger scale at anytime. With all the great technology you have at your finger tips, you are still totally dependent on a whim of nature. The entire population of this planet is using only one percent of the total available water supply."

"We are?" I asked. "Where’s the rest of it?"

"In the oceans, or in ice masses like glaciers and ice bergs, and snow on the two poles. There’s more than enough water if you want to get it. Even without going after and ice berg and using that, you have the ability to divert and transport water. You don’t do that for some reason. Water, as precious as it is, is taken for granted. Yes. This is an omen. It’s a warning. It’s probably going to be ignored, too."

"An omen," I thought aloud. "I had one the other day."

Cornplanter looked at me interested in what I was going to say. "What was that?" he asked.

"I found my poison pen," I said. "I misplaced it. I thought I lost it. It’s the silver Cross Pen that Gateser gave me the year we started the magazine. I wrote some of my best pieces about Jeff Duke and John Cleland long hand with that pen."

"You also wrote most of the Cornplanter Chronicles with it, too," the Chief reminded me.

"Yes I did," I said. "Anyway, I was in my suitcase the day we got here and there was my Cross Pen."

"What’s odd about that?" Red Jacket asked. "The pen was in your suitcase and you hadn’t seen it until that time."

"Exactly," I said. "That’s it. Do you realize how many times I’ve traveled with that suitcase since the pen disappeared? That’s what makes it unique. It was there all the time and I never found it. I was thinking about how I could have lost it just the other day. Now, out of the blue it turns up. That’s an omen."

"I agree," Cornplanter said. "Now, what is it an omen for?"

"Maybe the election," I said sheepishly. "You know, the Great Crusade. I had it the last time when I won. Maybe it has come back to me with what I need to carry this off."

"Interesting thought," Cornplanter said.

Red Jacket agreed. "I wonder if Cavallero with an e has had any omens?" he asked. At that, I just couldn’t resist.

"What do you think you are?" I asked. As I did he stood there nearly dumbfounded, and that is quite a chore to do to him. Cornplanter broke out in laughter.

"If Cavallero with an e ever needed an omen, you are certainly it," he said. "You are an equal omen to the Chauvinistic Cat Hater Hauser, too."

Red Jacket smiled. He liked his new role. That was obvious. With that he decided he would go shopping for tee shirts to take back with him. Cornplanter followed along. I stayed on the bench and waited for Sharyn to return."

As usual your comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com.

AUGUST 5, 1999

A day at the beach

Sharyn took it better than I imagined. She didn’t give me that look.

It’s one I can’t really describe, but it has changed. It used to be: Okay. So you are imagining that you are talking to two dead Indians. If that will keep you under some kind of reasonable control and you don’t bother me, what do I care? Now, she just looks at me and kind of says, you know, without talking: Look! Keep this stupidity out of my face. Keep the dead skunks off my back porch and maybe, just maybe, you will live to see today’s sunset.

I think that is more than fair so when she said very little aside from a groan or two, I took that as silent acceptance of the situation.

Following the business meeting that day when we elected Harry VanSickle President of the organization and Jim Scahill First Vice President, we went to the pool. Sharyn ignore the two old men who were at the table next to us. They took the hint when I wasn’t too anxious about engaging them in conversation. Instead they kept to themselves; Cornplanter snoozed, and Red Jacket checked out the women.

Later that evening Sharyn and I went out to dinner at Strawberry Hill, one of Lancaster’s hidden jewels. Aside from a great cuisine, Dennis Kerek, the owner, featured a selection of over 1000 different wines. Out of four nights, we ate there on three different occasions. I loved the place and if I had taken the two Chiefs with me, I am sure they would have given it a Five Star Rating, even though there was nothing one the menu that contained wood chuck or skunk meat. Unfortunately, they missed dinner with Dennis. Instead they went on the train ride in old Historic Saltsburg with the rest of the people attending the convention. They both ended up complaining that the food was lousy and it was dark and were unable to see anything. Better them than me.

I didn’t mention to them that the next morning we were checking out of the hotel. I also didn’t mention that Sharyn and I were headed to the beach. I backed up their hotel bill and without any great ceremony loaded up my car and left.

Lancaster is less than thirty miles from the Delaware state line. We turned south and traveled a winding two lane road that took us through some of the most beautiful farm land I have ever seen. In a little town called Georgetown it was like rush hour for the Amish men who had evidently finished the morning chores and came in to get odds and ends for the family. Several had their children along as they converged on the center of town. Five horse drawn buggies were at the intersection at once and had traffic stopped while they politely allowed the other to pass in turn. It wasn’t all that inconvenient, and after all, it was their town and we were just passing through.

It wasn’t long before we were in Newark and then on our way to Dover. We enjoyed the land as it flattened out near the coast. Sharyn remarked at how dry everything was. Me, I wasn’t all that impressed. I was more or less oblivious to it.

"Several years ago it was the midwest. It’s our turn now. We’ll get a hurricane and then it won’t be dry any more. Some other part of the country can complain about how dry it is then. No one is ever happy unless they are complaining about the weather in some form or another," I said. "It’s life. Think about it. In the bible it was seven years of plenty and seven years of famine. It’s the same thing now. Seven years of rain and seven years of drought."

Now while that made all the sense in the world to me, my wife took grave exception to the way I so casually dismissed a meteorological catastrophe. Sharyn is not one of those tree huggers or even one of the many who would buy into the Greenhouse Effect Debate. Still, she is a thoughtful person and certainly formulates her own opinion. After patiently listening to me reduce miles and miles of burnt out fields and forests to a reference from the bible, she gave her thoughts on my opinion.

"It’s those damn Indians," she said. "You never used to be like this. Ever since you started imagining that they were following you around and helping you, something has happened. You used to be concerned about things like this. Now you just point to Ancient Egypt and the Bible. I don’t understand you anymore."

Any man with half a brain in his head keeps his mouth shut when his wife comes at him with the old line that she just doesn’t understand you anymore. In a situation like that, less is better and the fewer words the two of you exchange, the better for your life on a much larger scale. What you might say at that particular moment could easily come back to haunt you for years to come. If Sharyn wanted to blame what I had just said on Cornplanter and Red Jacket, who was I to tell her something different? I figured they owed it to me. I was paying for their stay at the Lancaster Host Hotel.

We got to Ocean City, Maryland about two in the afternoon. It was in the mid eighties and a cool breeze was coming in from the ocean. As we checked in I thought to myself how nice it was going to be to get away from everyone, including the two Indians. That, was not to be. When I stepped out on my balcony an hour later I saw a familiar red pickup truck pulling up to the front of the hotel. When it stopped I immediately recognized Cornplanter and Red Jacket as they got out and had the bellman take their bags in to registration. I didn’t dare tell Sharyn.

They really were very good about it. At the beach bar they sat opposite of us on the other side of the bar drinking Pina Coladas. Sharyn noticed them once but said nothing. I figured that she felt as long as they left us alone, she wasn’t going to make an issue out of it. Me, I was just happy that things had gone as smoothly as they had. But, like everything else in my life, about the time I get comfortable, something always happens to change it. This was not to be any different.

Sharyn had gone back to the room to get my camera. Red Jacket, the one you would normally expect to come barging in on you with some idea or plan, was talking to an attractive blond in a skimpy shocking pink bikini. I had my eye on him when Cornplanter came over.

"We’ve been talking all the way down here," he said. "By the way, nice place. Thanks for booking us in here."

"I didn’t book you in here," I said.

"Well, you did and you didn’t," he told me. "We saw the confirmation for your room on the kitchen counter at your house and when we saw you had forgotten to make us a reservation, we called and did it for you. We understand that you have a whole lot of things on your mind lately so we are more than happy to do what we can to take a little of the load off of you."

"Thanks," I said.

"Anyway," Cornplanter continued. "We had a chance to really talk. Riding in a truck sure beats running through the forest like I used to and it is a whole lot easier on the feet, too. We decided to put all of our efforts into your campaign and ignore Hauser and Cavallero with an e."

"Why is that?" I asked. "Why the sudden turn around? Last week you were going to move into my father in law’s camp so you could register to vote for Cavallero with an e. What happened to change your mind?"

"We’re still moving into the camp. We are planning to live there year round when we aren’t traveling with you. We are going to register to vote. Red Jacket wants to be a Democrat and I think I’ll be a Republican. Red Jacket always thought you white people had too many guns and he likes Chuck Shumer from New York on that issue even though I am opposed to anyone attempting to limit my rights to own any kind of weapon that I may need for home defense or sport shooting. You can’t ever take all the guns away from people short of creating a dictatorship. And this business about the school shootings is a load of manure. I remember that we had a problem in the school the Quakers ran for us in the valley.

"Several of the boys used to get those big pieces of rounded off gravel from the river bottom. They would wrap them in a piece of cloth and then bring it to school. When the teacher turned his back they would bop the person in front of them over the head with it. The teacher would turn around and someone would be out cold in their chair. We didn’t know what to do. Many of the elders wanted to ban the use of gravel larger than the size of your thumbnail. There was quite a movement toward that for quite some time. All the squaws were in favor of it."

"So what happened?" I asked.

"The one young brave who was the ring leader tried to bop the teacher over the head. He tried except the teacher turned around before he could follow through."

"Yes," I said anxiously.

"All that stuff you heard about the Quakers being pacifists and all of that, forget it. I guess the poor guy had enough. He caught the gravel in his bare hand as it started down on him. He took it out of the hand of the young brave and began to beat the living daylights out of him. You would have to understand my people at that time in their history to know how that offended many of them, including the young brave’s parents. We were big into not striking our children. The elders were trying to curb violence in the home. The teacher’s actions were an affront to the tribe and many wanted to take drastic action. But at the same time we saw a marked change in the boy’s behavior. The beating he took from the teacher put the fear of God in him. He wasn’t such a smart ass any more. Even though the teacher was fired and a new one came from Philadelphia, the new teacher remarked that the young brave was now one of his best students. Go figure that one!" Cornplanter said.

"Anyway, we are going to put all of our efforts into your campaign. Hauser has shown himself up as an elitist and a phoney. Cavallero with an e has the perfect opportunity to come off as the man of the people. If he brings up Hauser’s record with women and that deal up in Ellicottville he can murder him. We don’t need to concern ourselves with the likes of him or that race. We need to get to the meat and potatoes of the election. Getting you re-elected as County Commissioner is what we are going to do."

Cornplanter reflected for a moment. "Really, Red Jacket and I don’t care that Hauser hates cats. We’ve never liked them all that much either. And, as for being a chauvinist, show me an Indian who isn’t. No, we don’t dislike Hauser. We just don’t like his looks. We’d like to get his face dirty. I wonder. Did he ever play Little League Baseball or was he on the Debating Team? I’ll bet he’s never been dirty in his life."

I was at a loss to answer Cornplanter. I didn’t know Chris Hauser all that well. And besides, I came to the beach for a vacation. Why was I worrying about some one who wants to take over the SPCA and ship mixed breeds out of the Tuna Valley? This was absurd!

About that time Sharyn came back from the room. Cornplanter saw her coming back before I did and quickly excused himself. He went back to the other side of the bar where Red Jacket had his arm around the woman in the bikini. They both were laughing and I wondered if he wasn’t using the skunk liver. Who was I to ask that? The woman looked like she was having a good time. Red Jacket was a great conversationalist and why wouldn’t she?

Your comments are welcome at rdhedbud@penn.com.

AUGUST 4, 1999

The Great Crusade begins

While I was walking through the parking lot of the Lancaster Host Resort I was startled to see a familiar red pick up truck parked in guest parking. A fresh skunk’s tail hung from the rear view mirror and an awesome looking war club was on a rack in the rear view window. There was no mistaking the truck. It was Red Jacket’s.

Sharyn and I were attending the annual County Commissioners Convention. We were enjoying ourselves. It was always fun to renew old friendships with other elected officials. It was also good to be away from the usual day to day business, and that included the two Indian Chiefs.

Now don’t get me wrong. I like Cornplanter and Red Jacket. It was Cornplanter who was very instrumental in the creation of The Mountain Laurel Review. Had I not written those first two stories about him, thee probably never would have been a magazine. Not withstanding that, in light of his recent visits to my home, our family business The Rainbow Inn, and the Bradford Hotel, I did need some time away from him and his buddy. In light of the most recent discovery, that was evidently not going to happen. I went to the front desk.

"Do you have tow Indian Chiefs registered in the hotel?" I asked.

The young woman behind the desk just stared back at me. I realized how I must have sounded. I re-phrased my question.

"Is there a Mr. Cornplanter or a Mr. Red Jacket staying at the hotel?" That question seemed to get results.

"Yes, sir," the young woman said after checking the computer. "We have a Mr. Cornplanter in 224 and a Mr. Jacket in 226," she told me.

I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. The thought of him being registered as Mr. Jacket was just too much for me to deal with at that moment. However, reality did set in. I asked the next obvious question.

"I am a friend of Mr. Cornplanter and Mr. Jacket," I said. " How are they handling their room charges?" I asked.

"Their charges are being handled by Mr. Beck," she told me.

I shook my head. I should have expected as much. It was about that time I looked over at the Dining Room. I immediately saw them sitting at a table eating breakfast.

Even if I had wanted to sneak away, there was no doing that. As I saw them, they also saw me. Red Jacket began to wave at me and I knew if I did not acknowledge him immediately, he would get my attention any way he could. I wave back at him and went over to the table.

Now when you deal with two very old Indian Chiefs who think nothing about sticking you with their room and restaurant charges, you have to be delicate. In their frame of time, it was just yesterday that they were scalping white settlers and burning captured enemy soldiers alive. A few dollars was relatively nothing compared to them believing it is 1761 instead of 1999 and relieving you of your red hair or deciding to toast your feet. I put on a happy face and said hello.

"This is the best Western Omelet I have ever had," Red Jacket said with an excited tone in his voice. "It really is."

"Good to see you," Cornplanter said. "You are a hard person to track. It’s a good thing for the Seneca Nation that you weren’t around with George Washington. We might have been in trouble. Washington was easy to follow. You are another story."

"Sit down," Red Jacket said pulling a chair out for me. He raised his hand in the air and immediately a young woman appeared and poured me a cup of coffee. "Yes," Red Jacket said. "It’s really good to see you. How’s Sharyn? Is she having a good vacation?"

"So far," I said cautiously. "What brings you down here?" I asked.

"John Satterwhite came into the Bradford Hotel on Saturday night and we were discussing how we were going to handle you re-election campaign now that you decided to run on the Democratic Ticket. John is really excited about the prospect and we are going to do everything possible to help get you elected."

"You are?" I asked. "What happened to Cavallero with an e? What about you campaign against Hauser the Chauvinistic Cat Hater?"

They both laughed. "Have you ever seen that guy?" Cornplanter asked.

"Who? Hauser?" I asked.

"Yes," the old chief said. He continued to laugh. "He cracks me up! He reminds me of a Quaker School Teacher, not a lawyer. How can he be a District Justice? He doesn’t even practice Criminal Law? Cavallero with an e at least dealt with crime. Hauser just sneaks around and tries to get the Director of the Chamber of Commerce fired. What kind of District Justice would he make? We decided we would help Cavallero with an e, but you need our real efforts. Cavallero can handle Hauser."

"Great!" I thought to myself.

"So why are you here?" I asked. "Why did you follow me to the Convention?"

"We came along so we can keep you focused. You can’t get lazy. Now is the time to begin the great Crusade! We need to get to work. Position papers need to be written and pictures need to be taken."

At that point Red Jacket pulled out a Digital Camera. "I’m going to take the pictures we are going to use in your campaign. We will get the casual kind showing you relaxing and being yourself. That is what the people want to see."

With that I returned to my room. I had a major problem in how I was going to tell Sharyn that my two old buddies were along on our only trip away all year. As I got closer to the room I wondered if I wouldn’t have been wiser taking my chances at getting scalped or burned alive.

Your comments are welcome as usual at rdhedbud@penn.com.

AUGUST 3, 1999

WHAT MATTERS TO YOU.......

Just may not matter to me. And, I am forced to add, what matters to me is, in all probability, not on your top ten list of priorities. But that’s what makes this world and our lives interesting.

Sitting out on a balcony at 4 in the morning with the last quarter moon over my left shoulder, a lit swimming pool below me, and the world around for all appearances, asleep; that’s the sort of thing I think of. (How are you supposed to end a sentence like that one, George?) So many things in our lives seem so important to us at that particular moment. So many issues seem to be so paramount in our lives. Marriages end because a woman, or a man has had "enough" and they are just not going to take any more. Wars begin because someone with a different last name or pray in a different building has made some insult or crossed some imaginary line in the sand. All of those things are real and important at the time. They become driving forces in our lives. But at four in the morning; when the stars are out and the hum of the filter for the lit swimming pool is the only sound you can hear, what does matter?

My buddy George might say that what matters to me is somehow pulling off a victory in November. Others might agree with him. Maybe, just maybe, if it was four in the afternoon, not four in the morning, at that time, I might even agree. In agreeing, I would also have to preface that agreement with a note that it is only important at that time.

No, while it is on the list, it is not even in the top ten.

Why do I say that, you ask? Why wouldn’t I! If you asked that question there is something that you are not grasping. What you don’t understand is the difference between a job and your life.

Go to a grave yard sometime and walk around and look at the epitaphs on the tombstones. Read them. Do you see anything like: "Beloved Certified Public Accountant" or "One great farmer"? Of course not. No one would put that one a tombstone. No one would want to be remembered as that. Instead we see words like father, mother, wife, son, or daughter. We see relationships with other people and how they chose to remember the person who died.

Unfortunately, while we are alive, we seem to forget how really important those relationships really are. Instead we put jobs and endeavors before the real parts of our life. We strive for achievements when in reality our true achievements, our families and our friends, are at our fingertips and, in many cases, we are ignoring them. So why would we be different if we were suddenly stricken with an illness? Unfortunately, we aren’t.

All too often those who become ill never realize this. They never take the time to tell their families how important they have been to them. Instead they wait leaving too much unsaid. It is left unsaid because we never took the time to realize what was really important and what was not.

It really doesn’t take that much effort to tell those around us how important they are. Think about it and do it today.

In the meantime,

Vince is                    202                  Bud is             209

AUGUST 2, 1999

IT’S ABOUT TAXES, STUPID!

At the Bradford Hotel Saturday night, Welfare Wes wanted to know why I decided to run on the Democratic Ticket. As usual, old Wes just couldn’t leave it with the question. Even before I could answer he went into his expected oration about how what I was doing was all wrong and even bordered on Communism. And, he added, just to be on the safe side, if it wasn’t Communism, then it had to be Fascism, or one of those other isms.

"Really," I said. "It’s about taxes."

"Now there’s something Wes doesn’t know anything about," Toothless Tim said. "Wes has always been a recipient of taxes, not the payer of them." That got a laugh out of everyone and it brought a smile to my face. I went on with what I was saying.

"The School District here has gone crazy. They raise our taxes every year and think nothing of it. No one is pointing a finger at them and saying they are the reason there aren’ any new business on Main Street. How can someone watch their business continue to decrease year after year and have their taxes go in an opposite direction? It’s always easy to put the blame on a woman who is the director of the local Chamber of Commerce. Really, the so called "Alliance" should be looking at the School Board. The School Taxes are a very real deterrent to economic development and the revitalization of Main Street."

"So that doesn’t answer my question," Wes said. "Why are you running?"

"Because of taxes," I said once more. "Four years ago I ran on the promise I would put the County finances back in the black and stop spending money we didn’t have. I did that. At the same time, I said I would not vote to increase taxes while I was in office. I kept that promise. Now its a whole new ball game."

Quite a few of the patrons were listening at that point. Many of them had moved in closer so they could hear better.

"John Reetz has already said that he knows that the next board of Commissioners will have to raise taxes. Usually, that would be John talking and not knowing what he was talking about, but this time he is so close to the target even he doesn’t know it.

"Taxes will have to be increased if we don’t keep County spending under the controls that were imposed in 1996 and 1997. Already I can see that it is hard for someone like Larry to hold that line. He’s a nice guy and he doesn’t know how to say no to the people who need this or want to hire someone with better credentials. We are being nickeled and dimed to death and it will all come back to haunt whoever is in office.

"I’ve written every budget since we took office. I found the State and Federal monies because I became an expert on reimbursements. We used to have a $15 million budget. Now we have a $22 million budget. That’s a single year difference of $7 million. I found that money, brought it to the county, and made the government work without raising taxes on the people. That has to count for something."

One of the patrons wanted to know where I found the $7 million last year. "Where was it? Why didn’t the other commissioners find it?" he asked.

"It was my job to find it," I said. "It was always there. Hannon and Kallenborn didn’t know or they didn’t look for it. I can’t say. But I saw it and I saw it right away. Once I did, it was just putting us in position to get it and balancing the books. Then we began giving the departments the money they needed to operate."

"So why can’t it go on like that without you?" Tim asked.

I smiled at that question. It was a good question, but the answer was obvious.

"Because if I am not there, no one will be there to tell Judge Cleland no."

"What’s he got to do with the budget?" Mattress Margie asked.

"Everything," I said. "What do you think a second Judge will cost us?"

Everyone stayed silent. No one had any idea. I let them think about it and then I answered my own question.

"One mill of taxes is about $125,000. Right now the millage is at 12 or so. We would need to raise taxes a minimum of three mills and probably four mills - $500,000, just to install and support a second Judge."

"Even with the $75,000 the state gives the County for each Judge?" Sheffer asked.

"Yes," I answered. " Even with the $75,000."

I paused a moment. I let it sink in. Then I went on.

"On a per capita basis, taking in everything that is associated with our court system, we have the most expensive Judicial Branch in the state. We collect $3.5 million in taxes, and immediately we give $2.2 to Judge Cleland to operate it. When you add in the District Attorney and the Jail and the Public Defender and the Prothonotary, along with other associated costs that are dependent on what happens in Court, subtract out the money we do get to operate, it comes to about $4.8 million. What is happening is we are subsidizing the Court with money from other sources."

"So why are you running as a Democrat?" Wes asked.

"To keep our County Taxes level. I’m running on the platform that I will not vote to increase County Taxes over the next four years. I challenge the other candidates to make the same promise. I think the taxpayers deserve one of the taxing bodies showing some form of restraint. Don’t you?"

Even Welfare Wes agreed with me on that one (even though he didn’t pay taxes). "So you’re saying if we elect you to another term you won’t vote to raise our taxes."

"Right," I said.

"What about the others?" he asked.

"You’ll have to ask them," I said. "It’s a matter of who they are going to represent when they get elected. They can represent the little guy like I have; or, they can represent the Judge and the Party Bosses. We get the kind of government we deserve and we are down to the seperating the men from the boys, the free thinkers from the puppets right now."

Your coments are welcome at: rdhedbud@penn.com.

AUGUST 1, 1999

There is no new article.   However:

Vince is             142         Bud is                  149

JULY 31, 1999

Vince is             132         Bud is                135

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