Sturm und Drang

I always know that fall has finally arrived here in the Northern California mountains when my Dr. Bronner's liquid soap turns from clear to cream-colored. Means the indoor temperature has dropped to 55 degrees – or below.

And indeed, that's what I found when I got into a hot shower this morning.

You'd think I'd know from the signs everyone else in the country goes by: cooler temperatures, the leaves turning fall colors on the trees, flocks of Canada geese headed south, the bloody calendar.

But here in California, even at 3,200 feet above sea level, these things take a little longer to happen. I've known the temp to break over 95 degrees in mid-October. I don't usually make my first woodstove fire until November, after waiting a few weeks to be sure that it's going to be chilly enough all day that the heat from the stove won't force us, sweating and swearing, out of the house by the mid-afternoon. Instead, Mr. Wren and I just break out the warmer clothes. Shirts with long sleeves, maybe sweatpants. My favorite warm, fuzzy socks on my feet, slipped snug into my wool slippers. Nice. See, since turning over the half-century-mark in my personal lifetime calendar, I get cold feet. Up 'til then, you could catch me barefooted or in sandals almost year-round.

But today, I know autumn is here. When I reached through the billows of steam in the shower for the Dr. Bronner's Lavender Soap, it was that milky color, rather than the clear amber I've grown used to seeing since, oh, around March. This pleases me, though my fingers are freezing.

I choose my shower soap according to my mood. It was sweet, feminine and flowery this morning. Tomorrow, though, I might choose the peppermint soap, as my mood will still be sweet but sharp, with a bit of burn and zing tossed in.

Or is that Sturm und Drang? Certainly, in the world outside my little house, the words "storm and stress" are a good way to describe the general mood. In politics, the McCain/Palin campaign continues to rile the crowds that come to see them speak, using words against their opponents Obama and Biden that turn crowds into mindless mobs. That a man that was once seen as honorable would use these tactics in a desperate bid for power is not only disgusting, it's frightening.

In other news, it seems that the American – and indeed the world's – economy is collapsing. Everyday people like you and me aren't just losing their homes or closing their eyes when the groceries are rung up now; they're losing their life savings. They're losing the money they hoped to retire on one day. Suddenly, next year's vacation isn't possible. Perhaps there will never be another vacation, period. Instead of looking forward to a time when we might finally relax and put our feet up after working hard for 45 years or more, we'll just have to keep on working. And many of us won't be able to. There might not be jobs. We might be physically unable. This is all frightening, too.

I know I have a Pollyanna-ish tendency to look for the bright side in everything. It's part of my nature, something I just can't seem to control. I stay calm when things turn chaotic. I look for the way over, under, or around obstacles. I compromise. I do my best to live by the Golden Rule, and I hope that the other people I encounter will do the same.

And I hope to be able to continue living that way, in spite of everything. I know we've got some hard – very hard – times ahead. We'll have to change a lot about the way we live now. We'll have to rethink what's important to us, and try our best to reach a helping hand out to those who are even less fortunate than we are. All my life, I've been told that this is what Americans do. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. I believe we'll do it again, which is why I'm planning to vote for Obama. His philosophy rings true to me, and if it's idealistic, so be it.

We've seen what unfettered power, greed, and dispassion toward others brings to all of us. It seems autumn has arrived. And the winter will be long and hard. But like all people, all over the world, from time out of mind, we'll set our hopes on the spring and summer. They'll come. They always do.

For an apt comparison ...

Do click here.

I 'bout passed m'coffee through m'nose, laughing. I needed it, too, after watching 15 minutes of market meltdown and economic savagery on MSNBC. Yeah, I know, it's only my personal endorphins kicking in to make me feel a little better, but I'll take it where I can get it.

Tip o'the hat to Sullivan for sharing.

Come along with us

It's easy, when we're worried, distraught and filled with amorphous fear about the future, to forget just how far America has come over the last 50 years. For young folks, it's all history, it all happened in the long-ago and doesn't seem to have any real relevance today. For those of us who lived as that history was made, it's also easy to forget how different our lives are than they were then. We get caught up in the everyday. We take our world for granted.

It's good to have an occasional "reality check moment" for just those reasons. And a few minutes ago, I had one.

Donna Brazile was on a New Yorker panel hosted by Jeffrey Toobin on Oct. 4 -- and at the end, she stole the show. I can't get the video to show up here, but do click on the link and watch it from the New Yorker's web page. It's not very long, but it's worth your time. Brazile reminded me where we've all come from -- and she both made me laugh and brought tears to my eyes.

Update: For those of you who prefer your upliftin' accompanied by music, enjoy:

America the hateful

I think we all knew that this presidential election would be a big deal.

There's a lot at stake, what with the ongoing war in Iraq; the saber-rattling of the Bush administration (and the McCain campaign) against Iran; the cynical and systematic shredding of our Constitution; the fact that America is now known and despised as a country which tortures; the open, active and disdainful contempt of our Republican leaders for the law of the land; and now, finally, the sudden, shocking implosion of the economy.

Those of us with open eyes and minds saw all this happening years ago. We warned there was trouble ahead, and we were put down as "unpatriotic" and even "treasonous." But I'd never have believed that so many of my fellow Americans would embrace hate.

And yet, I saw with my own eyes the result of hatred in the booming bedroom community in which I edited the local newspaper. A young Iranian-American man, born and raised in California, opened a small hair salon in a nice, local strip mall. A year later he was gone, hounded out of business by anonymous individuals who pissed all over the door of his shop, left dripping red, spray-painted hate messages on the plate glass windows, and left threatening, recorded messages on his answering machine. It had happened several times when the owner got in touch with me. And of course he'd reported the attacks to the police.

They responded, took his statements, saw the evidence, commiserated with him, and promised to keep a close eye on his salon in the hopes of catching the vandal(s). But of course, nothing came of it. "Hate-crimes," I was told by one of the investigating officers, are notoriously difficult to prosecute. They're hard to define, and it's easy to accuse others of them. He said it's tough to catch vandals who do their dirty work under the cover of darkness. And of course, our local police force was woefully overworked and under-staffed, with only three officers in cruisers to cover an area of about 25 square miles every night.

I wanted to write and publish a story about the hateful vandalism the salon's owner was enduring, figuring that most people in the community had no idea such a thing was happening right there, under their noses. I thought that if they were informed, this sort of thing might be stopped. It was nice, upscale community, growing quickly, attracting many well-to-do young families from Southern California and the Bay Area who'd relocated there because it was less expensive, had such good schools and seemed a quiet, safe place in which to raise their children. I thought that many of them would be as appalled at this sort of crime taking place within their community as I was.

But the salon's owner wouldn't let me write the story. He was afraid – and perhaps rightly so – that publicizing what was happening to him would only make it worse. This was going on about 18 months after 9/11, and "hate crimes" against the "other" were becoming more and more common. He said that since looked "foreign," with dark skin and hair, he was fearful of being further singled out. He expressed his fear and frustration to me, but insisted that it was all "off the record," hoping that as a member of "the press" I might help him by bringing his plight to the attention of the local police once again.

But when I did, I was told that his was the only business in the area under "alleged" attack. To my surprise and disappointment, my contacts within local police force were unhelpful, even curt.

I talked to his fellow shop owners in the strip mall. Those who'd met him said they liked the salon owner, but they'd never seen anyone "suspicious" hanging around after dark. Most of them closed shop by 6 p.m., though, and their own businesses hadn't been vandalized. A few of them didn't know that there was even a problem.

Without statements from the victim or permission to print his name or the name of his salon, and without anything of substance regarding the crime from the police, I reluctantly dropped the story. Not long after that, the salon closed its pee-stained doors and the salon owner left the community. I felt bad about it. Helpless.

And now I read that Sarah Palin has been whipping up the crowds during her campaign appearances, using hate as a weapon against Barack Obama.

Am I surprised? No. Palin has proven herself an unrepentant liar, a closed-minded, rigid fundamental Christianist, and more than a little stupid. The campaign has kept her well away from the press unless the circumstances are tightly controlled, and she's the only Vice Presidential candidate in memory who hasn't held a press conference to take unscripted and perhaps uncomfortable questions from reporters. We know very little about her but we're expected to elect her as the person who'd take John McCain's place as president if he were to be incapacitated or die in office, both of which are dangerously likely given his age and medical history.

I'm not surprised that unbridled hatred has entered the ugly Republican McCain/Palin campaign, but I'm saddened that my country has come to this dark place. And I'm chilled that my fellow Americans would embrace, with such rage and glee, this naked hatred and fear-mongering, reacting to it with enthusiastic bloodthirstiness and even more hate.

I find myself thinking more and more often of that hapless Iranian-American salon owner. I wish I'd written and published that story.

Hey Sarah Palin ...

Mystery solv-ed

Since I am utterly confused about yesterday's failed bailout of Wall Street – was it a bad idea? Was it a good idea? Who really knows? – and I was further boggled by the fact that Our Government has injected a further $630 billion into the global financial system since yesterday (thereby making me wonder …um… why, exactly, we needed to have a $700 billion Wall Street bailout in the first place), I have decided to turn my overheated mind to one of humankind's great, unsolved mysteries:

Where do socks go?

Anyone who has ever owned a pair of socks knows that, inevitably, one of the pair will go missing.

Last year I had to toss out no less than 40 pathetic, unmatched, wretched single socks. I hated to do it, but I'd waited nearly a decade for their wayward mates to return to the fold. Finally, the situation was critical. I could not wedge even one more pair of socks into my overstuffed sock drawer, which refused to close completely. Critical mass had been reached.

My useless, unmatched single socks gazed at me mournfully. I could hear their tiny, piping voices in my mind, begging me to reconsider one more time, to please-please-please give their long-lost mates one more chance to come home. "Remember the Prodigal Sock!" they cried. But I hardened my heart and tossed them into the week's trash for disposal. At least, I thought sadly, most of them were made of cotton or wool and will, someday, biodegrade and become part of the Great Circle of Life. The few that weren't – those sleek, cheap synthetics and synthetic blends – will be around to witness the end of the world as we know it, albeit from the middle of some massive land-fill.

It occurs to me now that I could have sewn them all together into a warm sweater, or perhaps a toasty sofa-throw to wrap up in during the chillier months of winter. But I don't know how to sew. As a fledgling feminist with high principles, I rejected my high school home economics class point-blank and learned to macramé badly instead, reasoning that I could never have enough plant-hangers. Today, when a button falls off my shirt, the gap remains forever (but that's another story). It's all very sad.

Since last year's single-sock-disposal-day, roughly 17 more of my coupled socks have joined the forlorn ranks of the unmated. So far, this is merely an annoyance, as I've refused to welcome any new sock-pairs at all into my home since the purge. It's just too hard on all of us. But I've noticed that they're disappearing at a far faster rate than they used to. This is disconcerting, to say the least.

And then last night, the answer to the mystery came to me as if in a dream. OK, it was a dream.

If you have a cat, perhaps you've noticed that roughly once a day it seemingly goes crazy. He or she will wake suddenly from a sound slumber atop a pile of clean, warm laundry (or the sofa) and spring into action, wide-eyed and alert. Tail slashing in a tiger-like manner, your cat crouches, ears pricked forward, a look of unleashed savagery on her face. She springs, pounces, and crouches again, looking this way and that, before hurtling to the other end of the room, her paws pounding the floor like an elephant stampeding across the veldt. She scuttles and slides beneath desks and china cabinets where she hides craftily, waiting for her moment, then flings herself into the fray and pounces again, only to shoot off in another direction, her tail fuzzed like a bottle-brush. This can go on for some minutes. Finally, exhausted, she returns to your freshly laundered-and-dried pile of clothes, climbs wearily to the top and passes out for the rest of the day.

This odd behavior in housecats has also, like missing socks, long been a mystery. What are they chasing? My friends, because of my illuminating dream, I know the answer.

Your deceptively lazy cat is after griskins. These are tiny, mischievous and frequently malicious wee beings, the embarrassing third cousins once removed of the legendary faerie-folk. Invisible to humans but far from imaginary, griskins can be blamed for most household calamities and disasters. Griskins are the ones who meddle with your coffeemaker in the night, rendering it non-responsive when you get up at 5 a.m. desperately needing a cup of hot coffee to jolt you into the shower so you can get cleaned up and ready for work. They turn off your alarm clock after you go to sleep. They muck up the icemaker in the freezer so it won't dispense ice into your glass when you need it the most. If you're looking for your fingernail clippers, they're the ones who hid them. Can't find that eyebrow pencil? Lost your car keys? Has the measuring-thingy for your egg-cooker disappeared?

Yes, griskins.

In my dream I learned that housecats have a Sacred Duty to try, at least once a day, to catch and kill griskins. Believe it or not, cats are the only creatures on Earth with the ability to actually see the little suckers. So it's to the humble housecat that we owe our thanks and unending gratitude for a world that hasn't completely collapsed into total chaos. Yet.

And here's the rub: It's griskins who cruelly separate our poor socks from their hapless mates and spirit them away.

What do they do with them, you ask?

Now, I know this is going to be hard to believe, but being a person who rarely experiences such visionary dreams without the aid of several slices of cold, pepperoni-studded pizza right before bed, I'm convinced of the truth of what I'm about to tell you. Take a nice deep breath, be sure you're seated and please, please open your mind. As you know, truth is often far stranger than fiction.

Griskins steal our socks from the washing machine, the dryer, the laundry basket and the sock drawer in order to give them to the dragons, who pay them with stolen gold coins, tiny emerald and ruby chips, and the occasional paste necklace, since griskins aren't much interested in value, only glitteryness, like crows, and dragons are cheats, I'm sorry to say.

The dragons live in the next dimension over, but they, like the griskins, occasionally cross over just to create a little havoc and steal a little more treasure with which to pay the griskens for the stolen socks. And the griskins only steal one sock at a time because if they stole actual mated pairs, we might catch on.

Why do dragons need socks? I just knew you'd ask.

It seems that baby dragons, upon hatching, have no claws. That means the tiny finger-like things on the "hands" at the ends of their stunted front legs (we'll call them "arms" in this discussion for the sake of clarity), and their much larger, longer toes are vulnerable, tender and completely unprotected.

And our socks fit over their long fingers and toes perfectly.

So, see, the mama-dragons use the stolen socks as protection for their dragon-children's fingers and toes until they grow claws and their scaly skin hardens up. They need many different sizes of socks, too, because of course dragons come in many varieties and they grow very slowly. Why, an infant dragon might take a century to reach young teen-hood, when his claws finally start coming in.

So the socks are vital to the mama dragons, and since they can't knit (presumably they, too, refused to take home ec), the griskins steal our socks and rake in the profits. It's a heckuva racket, just like Wall Street financiers in our own dimension. Isn't that amazing?

And oh – by the way: If any of my kind readers can explain that $630 billion – the other bailout – to me, I'd be greatly appreciative. Thank you so much in advance.

All washed up

Watched the the first debate between Senator John McCain and Senator Barack Obama last night. McCain showed up after announcing on Wednesday that he was "suspending his campaign" in the face of the dire Wall Street Emergency and the financial "bail-out" being hammered out in Washington, which he gravely told us couldn't be done without his help.

Twenty-two hours later, after taking part in two televised campaign interviews and speaking at a special event in New York City (during which he rehashed his campaign talking points), he finally went to Washington. There, he met with Codpiece, Obama, Nancy Pelosi and a few other high muckety-mucks -- and didn't say a word for most of the hour-long meeting. As you've probably heard, there was a deal. And then Republicans did an about face and there wasn't a deal. Not only did McCain not add anything helpful to the process, he was also completely unneeded.

Nor did he actually "suspend" his campaign. Along with the abovementioned interviews and speeches he did during the first 22 hours after announcing the "suspension," his campaign ads continued to run on television and radio, McCain campaign branch offices all over the country were open for business, and his website was online, complete with an ad saying that he'd "won the debate" before he'd even actually debated with Obama. Nevertheless, he had the gall to tell Obama that he, too, should "suspend" his campaign, citing a national crisis.

Obama ignored him.

As part of this stunt, McCain tried to get the first presidential debate delayed unless there was a bail-out deal on the books by Friday. The delay would have necessarily bumped the Palin-Biden debate next Tuesday to some other, unannounced time (maybe in December?), which could well have been the real reason for the whole sordid stunt in the first place.

Obama was having none of it, however, reasonably suggesting that a president should be able to handle more than one thing at a time. Obama said he'd be in Mississippi for the debate whether McCain showed up or not.

Yesterday, Friday, there was still no Wall Street bail-out deal. And McCain, whose stunt hadn't worked, had a choice. He could refuse to debate Obama as promised, thereby giving Obama an unprecedented opportunity to speak directly to the nation for 90 prime-time minutes without commercial interruption. Or he could slink to Mississippi and participate in the debate after all. He chose the latter.

But oh, Mr. McCain was not a happy camper. He barely looked at Obama throughout the debate. He was openly condescending and contemptuous, calling his opponent "naive" and insisting that he "didn't understand" about important issues. And McCain refused to speak directly to Obama, though such interaction between the two was a part of the debate design he'd agreed to weeks ago, and which he had to have known before he walked on stage.

While both men were strong in their answers to the questions they were asked, McCain was rattled, angry, and combative. Obama, on the other hand, was cool, calm and collected throughout.

McCain did himself no favors by pulling this idiotic stunt, but it wasn't his first. Choosing Sarah Palin as a running mate, who's obviously, woefully unqualified to be Vice President of the United States, was McCain's biggest and most jawdropping stunt. He chose Palin not for her ability to lead, her mental brilliance or her experience, but as a token Christianist female to lure in female voters and appease his base: the Christianist fundamentalists and conservative right-wingers. She's attractive and she has boobs. That's all he cared about.

Both stunts were craven and dishonest. And they backfired. Watch Obama's pick for VP Joe Biden tear McCain a new one after the debate ended. It's basically a coup de gras:



I think John McCain is all washed up.

VP material

You know, watching this, it occurred to me that I am far more qualified than Sarah Palin to be Vice President of the United States. I'm fairly well traveled, I've worked for the Department of Defense, I pay attention to the news and politics in my country and state and hey, I'm a quick study, too.

*sigh* But nobody asked me.

Mr. Wren’s new toy

My husband has a new toy.

He called me one day recently from Costco and launched into a delighted description of an appliance which was being demonstrated just for him. I caught about every third word – something about "it juices and chops and makes healthy, nutritious drinks."

He's always been one for doing it yourself at home, as long as he isn't the one doing it. We have a big ol' dehydrator gathering dust in the pantry. He used it a few times, slicing and chopping fruits and veggies into dryable chunks. Then he discovered that washing the dried, leftover bits of whatever off the screened drying racks was a real pain in the arse. So ended Mr. Wren's dehydrating craze.

"They have one in white here, but it also comes in black. The guy says they can send us the black one, if we want. I thought I'd better ask."

We have a black fridge, a black stove, and a black dishwasher. White wouldn't fit in, so "Black would be better," I said. Black what, I should have asked, but I didn't.

"OK, bye! Love you!"

I promptly forgot the conversation. That is, until I started out the door a week later and nearly took a header over a great big box the mailperson had left on the welcome mat. I carted it inside. On the return address sticker: "Vita Mix."

Oh, right, I thought. It's that thing Mr. Wren was going on about last week. Hmmm. And I went on my way.

Well, the Vita Mix now takes up a goodly portion of the limited counter space in my kitchen, edging out my elegant, old, silver-based Oster blender (the kind they use to mix drinks in bars, but smaller). See, the Vita Mix is also a blender – but it's on steroids.

The base is a big, blocky black cube. Whoever designed these things had no sense of décor or aesthetics. It has various intimidating buttons and dials on the front. The top part is a gigantic pitcher-like thing, squared off, and holds enough to feed a horse, and there's a black plastic, bat-like thing which can be used to stuff food down into the thick, deadly, wicked-sharp blades at the bottom. Horror movies come to mind.

The evening after it arrived, Mr. Wren read carefully through all the literature that came with the Vita Mix. Then he made a elephant-sized smoothie. I was in my den, writing, trying not to let the sound of the aircraft engine roaring in the kitchen distract me. When he'd put things into the blender, the pitch would change. Think of a four-inch tree limb going into a chipper-shredder.

After a while, he stuck his head in the door. "You want some smoothie?"

I've learned over the years that if Mr. Wren is creating in the kitchen, and asks if I want some, it's a good idea to get a little more information before saying "yes." And that's even though I'm touched by his kindness for remembering me.

"What's in it?" I inquired, trying not to sound worried.

Like an excited schoolboy reciting the actuarial tables, he stood in the doorway, looked off into the far distance and said, "Three peaches, two bananas, half a zucchini, an avocado, garlic, rice protein powder, plain lowfat yogurt, half a head of cabbage, some nutmeg, black cracked pepper, wheat germ and flaxseed. And Splenda."

My mouth opened.

"Oh, and four carrots, that last cucumber and some ice." He smiled beatifically.

He'd lost me at the zucchini, but I didn't say so. I've become convinced that really, Mr. Wren doesn't have any real sense of taste. He can combine the strangest things and not be put off by the retch-inducing result in the least. And one of the things that delights him about his new monster blender is that it even liquifies peels, meaning that he doesn't need to worry about peeling things. It's perfect for the hungry man who's totally mastered the DVR and has, on any given day, 36 hours of prerecorded, no-commercial programming ready at a moment's notice. No w all he needs is an all-natural, liquid diet he can suck through a straw.

"Peels are full of great nutrients," he told me earnestly. "It's a shame we just toss them out."

"Wow," I said of the concoction he'd just described. I hoped he'd left the cap on the pitcher so it couldn't crawl out. "Thanks, but I'm still full from dinner," I said. "I think I'll pass this time."

"OK, but you don't know what you're missing," he said with a grin, and went back to the kitchen.

I saw him a few minutes later watching something on the TV, a huge glass of brownish-gray glop in his hand. In the kitchen, there was still enough of it in the pitcher to feed a herd of pigs. How in the world he was going to drink all of it, I had no idea. But I didn't want it sitting in the refrigerator for the next several days, either. The smell – which was already curling my nosehairs – would permeate everything in there.

Since then, I've learned to like Mr. Wren's Vita Mix a little more, but it's hard. It really does hog a lot of counter space. Still, with Mr. Wren gently directing me, I used it a couple of weeks ago to puree a big batch of roasted tomatoes and basil as pasta sauce and as a base for soups. The savory results now reside in the chest freezer for later this season. And Mr. Wren told me, solemnly, that you can actually make soup in the thing by leaving it on for an extended period of time. The sucker gets so hot the contents of the pitcher actually come to a boil, eliminating the need to turn on a stove or dirty a pot.

WoooooHoo! as the late, great Steve Irwin would say, if he still could. I just know he'd love Mr. Wren's Vita Mix. They could puree Dingo DooDoo with cinnamon for the gardens.

In the meantime, I've kept my dainty (yes, it looks dainty in comparison) old Oster blender on the opposite counter, ready for when I want to make a "girly-girl" smoothie. For the uninitiated, that's a smoothie that requires only some fruit, yogurt, ice, soy protein and little Splenda. My ol' Oster can be noisy too, but at least I don't need ear-protection to use it.

 

Fear itself

I was reading Hullabaloo late last night. I've become nearly obsessive about our country's economic crisis and have been reading everything I can find in an attempt to understand it. Then I discovered Digby had reproduced Franklin Roosevelt's inaugural address, given in 1932 as America suffered during the Great Depression.

After hearing Bush's short speech last night, which was full of dire warnings, fearmongering and threats, I found myself wishing that we had a real president right now. Bush is a sham, and it's arguable that it was his policies and those of his cronies in Washington that brought about our current crisis by deregulating the financial markets and turning a blind eye to the excesses that resulted.

But even with that, our crisis now barely compares to what happened in 1929, when the stock markets crashed and the desperate runs on the banks began. More on that later.

I encourage you to take 10 or 15 minutes to read Roosevelt's address, from which the famous quote, "the only thing we have to fear is fear itself" came. If nothing else, it will inspire you to look at our current crisis in a new way, one more compassionate and hopeful than anything we're hearing from everyone but Barack Obama. Instead of the misery and loss – and indeed, terror – that Bush used last night to further frighten the nation, Roosevelt called upon Americans to work together with him to solve the looming, difficult problems ahead:

I am certain that my fellow Americans expect that on my induction into the Presidency I will address them with a candor and a decision which the present situation of our people impel. This is preeminently the time to speak the truth, the whole truth, frankly and boldly. Nor need we shrink from honestly facing conditions in our country today. This great Nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper. So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance. In every dark hour of our national life a leadership of frankness and vigor has met with that understanding and support of the people themselves which is essential to victory. I am convinced that you will again give that support to leadership in these critical days.

In such a spirit on my part and on yours we face our common difficulties. They concern, thank God, only material things. Values have shrunken to fantastic levels; taxes have risen; our ability to pay has fallen; government of all kinds is faced by serious curtailment of income; the means of exchange are frozen in the currents of trade; the withered leaves of industrial enterprise lie on every side; farmers find no markets for their produce; the savings of many years in thousands of families are gone.

More important, a host of unemployed citizens face the grim problem of existence, and an equally great number toil with little return. Only a foolish optimist can deny the dark realities of the moment.

Yet our distress comes from no failure of substance. We are stricken by no plague of locusts. Compared with the perils which our forefathers conquered because they believed and were not afraid, we have still much to be thankful for. Nature still offers her bounty and human efforts have multiplied it. Plenty is at our doorstep, but a generous use of it languishes in the very sight of the supply. Primarily this is because the rulers of the exchange of mankind's goods have failed, through their own stubbornness and their own incompetence, have admitted their failure, and abdicated. Practices of the unscrupulous money changers stand indicted in the court of public opinion, rejected by the hearts and minds of men.

True they have tried, but their efforts have been cast in the pattern of an outworn tradition. Faced by failure of credit they have proposed only the lending of more money. Stripped of the lure of profit by which to induce our people to follow their false leadership, they have resorted to exhortations, pleading tearfully for restored confidence. They know only the rules of a generation of self-seekers. They have no vision, and when there is no vision the people perish.

The money changers have fled from their high seats in the temple of our civilization. We may now restore that temple to the ancient truths. The measure of the restoration lies in the extent to which we apply social values more noble than mere monetary profit.

Happiness lies not in the mere possession of money; it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort. The joy and moral stimulation of work no longer must be forgotten in the mad chase of evanescent profits. These dark days will be worth all they cost us if they teach us that our true destiny is not to be ministered unto but to minister to ourselves and to our fellow men.

Recognition of the falsity of material wealth as the standard of success goes hand in hand with the abandonment of the false belief that public office and high political position are to be valued only by the standards of pride of place and personal profit; and there must be an end to a conduct in banking and in business which too often has given to a sacred trust the likeness of callous and selfish wrongdoing. Small wonder that confidence languishes, for it thrives only on honesty, on honor, on the sacredness of obligations, on faithful protection, on unselfish performance; without them it cannot live.

Restoration calls, however, not for changes in ethics alone. This Nation asks for action, and action now.

Our greatest primary task is to put people to work. This is no unsolvable problem if we face it wisely and courageously. It can be accomplished in part by direct recruiting by the Government itself, treating the task as we would treat the emergency of a war, but at the same time, through this employment, accomplishing greatly needed projects to stimulate and reorganize the use of our natural resources.

Hand in hand with this we must frankly recognize the overbalance of population in our industrial centers and, by engaging on a national scale in a redistribution, endeavor to provide a better use of the land for those best fitted for the land. The task can be helped by definite efforts to raise the values of agricultural products and with this the power to purchase the output of our cities. It can be helped by preventing realistically the tragedy of the growing loss through foreclosure of our small homes and our farms. It can be helped by insistence that the Federal, State, and local governments act forthwith on the demand that their cost be drastically reduced. It can be helped by the unifying of relief activities which today are often scattered, uneconomical, and unequal. It can be helped by national planning for and supervision of all forms of transportation and of communications and other utilities which have a definitely public character. There are many ways in which it can be helped, but it can never be helped merely by talking about it. We must act and act quickly.

Finally, in our progress toward a resumption of work we require two safeguards against a return of the evils of the old order; there must be a strict supervision of all banking and credits and investments; there must be an end to speculation with other people's money, and there must be provision for an adequate but sound currency.

There are the lines of attack. I shall presently urge upon a new Congress in special session detailed measures for their fulfillment, and I shall seek the immediate assistance of the several States.

Through this program of action we address ourselves to putting our own national house in order and making income balance outgo. Our international trade relations, though vastly important, are in point of time and necessity secondary to the establishment of a sound national economy. I favor as a practical policy the putting of first things first. I shall spare no effort to restore world trade by international economic readjustment, but the emergency at home cannot wait on that accomplishment.

The basic thought that guides these specific means of national recovery is not narrowly nationalistic. It is the insistence, as a first consideration, upon the interdependence of the various elements in all parts of the United States—a recognition of the old and permanently important manifestation of the American spirit of the pioneer. It is the way to recovery. It is the immediate way. It is the strongest assurance that the recovery will endure.

In the field of world policy I would dedicate this Nation to the policy of the good neighbor—the neighbor who resolutely respects himself and, because he does so, respects the rights of others—the neighbor who respects his obligations and respects the sanctity of his agreements in and with a world of neighbors.

If I read the temper of our people correctly, we now realize as we have never realized before our interdependence on each other; that we can not merely take but we must give as well; that if we are to go forward, we must move as a trained and loyal army willing to sacrifice for the good of a common discipline, because without such discipline no progress is made, no leadership becomes effective. We are, I know, ready and willing to submit our lives and property to such discipline, because it makes possible a leadership which aims at a larger good. This I propose to offer, pledging that the larger purposes will bind upon us all as a sacred obligation with a unity of duty hitherto evoked only in time of armed strife.

With this pledge taken, I assume unhesitatingly the leadership of this great army of our people dedicated to a disciplined attack upon our common problems.

Action in this image and to this end is feasible under the form of government which we have inherited from our ancestors. Our Constitution is so simple and practical that it is possible always to meet extraordinary needs by changes in emphasis and arrangement without loss of essential form. That is why our constitutional system has proved itself the most superbly enduring political mechanism the modern world has produced. It has met every stress of vast expansion of territory, of foreign wars, of bitter internal strife, of world relations.

It is to be hoped that the normal balance of executive and legislative authority may be wholly adequate to meet the unprecedented task before us. But it may be that an unprecedented demand and need for undelayed action may call for temporary departure from that normal balance of public procedure.

I am prepared under my constitutional duty to recommend the measures that a stricken nation in the midst of a stricken world may require. These measures, or such other measures as the Congress may build out of its experience and wisdom, I shall seek, within my constitutional authority, to bring to speedy adoption.

But in the event that the Congress shall fail to take one of these two courses, and in the event that the national emergency is still critical, I shall not evade the clear course of duty that will then confront me. I shall ask the Congress for the one remaining instrument to meet the crisis—broad Executive power to wage a war against the emergency, as great as the power that would be given to me if we were in fact invaded by a foreign foe.

For the trust reposed in me I will return the courage and the devotion that befit the time. I can do no less.

We face the arduous days that lie before us in the warm courage of the national unity; with the clear consciousness of seeking old and precious moral values; with the clean satisfaction that comes from the stern performance of duty by old and young alike. We aim at the assurance of a rounded and permanent national life.

We do not distrust the future of essential democracy. The people of the United States have not failed. In their need they have registered a mandate that they want direct, vigorous action. They have asked for discipline and direction under leadership. They have made me the present instrument of their wishes. In the spirit of the gift I take it.

In this dedication of a Nation we humbly ask the blessing of God. May He protect each and every one of us. May He guide me in the days to come.

As for our situation today: Yes, it's serious. But after reading this, I wonder if the Bush administration, once again, isn't using our fear of the unknown to achieve its own, nefarious goal – which seems to be destroying everything about this nation we once held dear while getting disgustingly rich. I don't know about you, but I've been waiting for his parting shot, knowing that even with only a few months left in office, Bush is still the biggest danger this country has ever faced. Is this the "October surprise," launched a half a month early?

You tell me.