Not much, in my opinion. A tempest in an NFL teapot, and a dandy way for extremists to do what they do best: be extreme and a tad silly.

On the anti-religious extremist side are annoyed haters angry at Tebow’s frequent outbursts of religious fervor. Prime among that ugly ilk is a website, TebowHaters.com, that proudly spews stupidly disgusting bile about the smiling 24-year-old who was born in the Philippines to Baptist missionary parents.

Adding fuel to the raging Tebow fire, atheist comedian Bill Maher tactlessly tweeted after the Broncos lost to the Buffalo Bills, “Wow. Jesus just (expletive deleted) Tebow bad. And on Xmas Eve!”

Friends, haters act with hate. We know that. But like all Americans, haters have first amendments rights to freedom of speech in our great country. If they choose to define themselves through cruel and hate-laced words, why do you care? Ignore them. Tune them out. For your own mental health, let it go.

On the conservative-evangelical-or-bust side are Christian apologist extremists who reject the views of all who don’t pass their true-believer litmus tests. Commonly, true-believer hardliners demonize those who disagree with them, and idolize those who agree with them. And they simply can’t tolerate disagreement with their rigid beliefs.

Michael Medved, conservative Christian political commentator, lavishly illustrates in the Wall Street Journal laughably extremist idolatry of Mr. Tebow:

“… a remarkable athlete whose behavior on field and off exemplifies the values of hard work, fearlessness and concern for the downtrodden…

“So why should Tim Tebow draw more resentment than other religious athletes? In part, it stems from the fact that he’s too apparently flawless to evoke much sympathy from the uninitiated… most males look at Mr. Tebow and see a virtuous rebuke to our own limitations and imperfections.”

Idolizers and obsessive religious lionizers also have first amendments rights to freedom of speech in America, of course. Clearly, Tim Tebow is Michael Medved’s golden calf of the moment, as the football player is for thin-skinned others who especially revere Tebow’s public confessions of faith.

Again, who cares? Extremists are, well, extreme, whether their antics are hateful or downright dumb and nonsensical.

The reality about Tim Tebow is this: He’s joyful, grateful, cheerful and publicly singing the praises of his brand of religion. He’s also very young, and possibly not as mature as many 24-year-olds who’ve not focused the last 15 years of their lives on football.

Tim Tebow is an imperfect human being, a man with a feet of clay, just like the rest of us. In my view, he’s amply proved his imperfection in two mildly annoying ways:

• By continually using every possible public forum to gush about his passion for Jesus Christ. We get the message. You’re a strong Christian, and you love the Lord.

  I agree with tongue-in-cheek advice from the controversial Saturday Night Live skit: Take it down a notch, Tim. After all, remember Matthew 6:5: “And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full.”

• Conflating his joyous religious fervor, in TV commercials, with a powerful ultra-conservative political lobbying organization, Focus on the Family. Tebow flagrantly introduced politics into the discussion, not his critics. Tebow supporters shouldn’t whine because political opponents respond. It’s the way of American democracy and of American free speech.

So what’s a befuddled football aficionado to do if he detests being subjected to Tim Tebow’s frequent on-mike declarations of gratitude to Jesus Christ? Take a Doritos break. Grab another Corona. Turn off TV.

Or maybe watch. After all, Tim Tebow seems like a charismatic, watchable guy. “… a clean-living quarterback with deep commitments to charitable service” amid the NFL which unarguably is “generously stocked with forgiven felons, including millionaire wife beaters and dog killers,” in the words of Mr. Medved.

Lighten up! What’s not to like?

And they are, from the perspective of unworldly, uneducated folks such as the ebullient Lacks clan from Clover, Virginia whose “family still farmed the tobacco fields their ancestors had worked as slaves.”

Physicians and researchers at Johns Hopkins Hospital who treated young wife and mother Henrietta, from diagnosis in 1949 to death in 1951, for a uniquely aggressive cancer were certainly driven by normal concerns for patient care. Mrs. Lacks’ hearty specimens, taken during treatment, were the world’s first cells to reproduce (“culture”) under controlled laboratory conditions.

The physicians and researchers were also energized by scientific curiosity, though… the sort of creative curiosity that pushed the U.S. medical community to the mid 20th-century forefront of life-saving breakthroughs in genetics, gene therapies and cancer research. Intrigued in the 1950s and beyond by new scientific frontiers, medical professionals at famed research institutions as Johns Hopkins competed ferociously to author the latest medical innovations.

As a result of the hectic, heated race for medical research discoveries, the needs and rights of individual patients and their families were largely forgotten or accorded low priority. Commented a lab assistant assigned to Mrs. Lacks’ autopsy, “Oh jeez, she’s a real person… it hit me for the first time that those cells we’d been working with all this time and sending all over the world, they came from a live woman.”

The New York Times explains the legacy of Henrietta Lacks’ cells, which are known as HeLa in medical lingo:

“After Henrietta Lacks’s death, HeLa went viral, so to speak, becoming the godmother of virology and then biotech, benefiting practically anyone who’s ever taken a pill stronger than aspirin. Scientists have grown some 50 million metric tons of her cells, and you can get some for yourself simply by calling an 800 number.

“HeLa has helped build thousands of careers, not to mention more than 60,000 scientific studies, with nearly 10 more being published every day, revealing the secrets of everything from aging and cancer to mosquito mating and the cellular effects of working in sewers.”

The Lacks family received no compensation for their family member’s sacrifice or contribution to scientific advances. Nothing. And no one can confidently attest that Henrietta knowingly or willingly donated her cells for research.

This fascinating book recounts several other tales of brilliant but greedy physicians associated with top medical centers who reaped millions in the 1980s and later by developing and selling genetic cell lines based on tissues taken from unsuspecting patients. Doubtlessly, patients have been cheated of sharing in profits stemming from medical research, especially since the advent of Big Pharma (i.e. the powerful pharmaceutical industry and its lobbyists).

Yes, some medical research pioneers and innovators can be uncomfortably self-serving, callous and greedy in their pursuit of bona fide miracles… just as all-too-human pioneers in any field, from the discoverers and explorers of America to the discoverers and explorers of cyberspace were often self-serving, callous and personally greedy.

But we need their discoveries. Their innovations. The fruits of their wise labors. Their miracles that advance human progress and better the lives of men, women and children.

I think of family and friends we’ve lost to cancer, loved ones who might have been spared terrible struggles and despair:

• Prosie, 50-year-old wife and mother of two teenage boys, who didn’t grasp the severity of her rare hip joint cancer until too late
• Pete, my 36-year-old co-worker who was accurately diagnosed with pancreatic cancer only days before his death, leaving behind a bewildered young wife and 1-year-old son
• Meg, who triumphantly surpassed the five-year breast cancer survivor milestone, only to suffer mortal setback in year six
• Diana, my former mother-in-law, who suffered mightily with lung cancer

I think of Walter who resides now in hospice care, losing his battle against catastrophic brain cancer.

They and their families would have traded the sun, the moon, the whole world for a cure… a cure that could be found only from long-term medical research by intelligent, driven, highly educated and experienced professionals who sometimes fall prey to personal imperfections.

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot is a surprisingly interesting, poignant and artful interweaving of humanity, medicine, the medical community and poverty laced with dollops of American history.

While I strongly recommend this book, please be cautioned that a vital aspect of the entire story has been omitted: that of the immense good accomplished and human suffering alleviated by American medical research.

I’m awed by the clever, tender writing of the film “The Descendants,” especially the witty story’s return again and again to the subtle theme of forgiveness in imperfect action. Patient forgiveness, thoughtful forgiveness, reliable forgiveness. Funny forgiveness. Irrational forgiveness. Conflicted forgiveness. Shouted forgiveness. Excruciatingly painful forgiveness. But never self-righteous or condescending forgiveness.

As the emotionally-clueless workaholic father of two daughters, “The Descendants” star George Clooney replaces his trademark swagger and sexy “Oceans Eleven”-smirk with the raw vulnerability and humble authenticity of a family man slammed, but ultimately not crushed, by the fabric of life.

The genius of this film’s marvelous script is that it elicits side-splitting audience laughter amid tragic events, and finds bittersweet sadness amid delightful comedic moments.

The wonder of “The Descendants” writing is that it inspires film goers to witness the loving and hurting sides of profoundly flawed people. And to feel Clooney’s mannered shock-and-awe and hilarious immaturity as he flounders to “keep his head above water,” as his character jokes.

Films and books often cling stubbornly to our thoughts because in them, we see ourselves. As I look back, I’ve never fully forgiven certain people… a couple family members, a former long-time friend, ex-husband… who caused me heartache and considerable heartburn. This film reminds me that I could certainly make, or have made, a better effort to care about their travails.

An interesting, under-noted aspect of Clooney’s character in “The Descendants” is that while he tenderly forgives imperfect others, he never asks for forgiveness nor seems to grasp that he played a key role in causing pain in his own life or that of others. Thus, despite growing closer to his spirited daughters, the father remains just as flawed as anyone else in this enchanting, thoroughly modern story.

Set entirely in lush Hawaii, and scored with graceful Hawaiian melodies.

Rated R for language, spoken mainly (and quite approrpriately) by the older, teenage daughter.

About mid-round, the hardworking, well-liked employee took a solid fairway swing. With nary a word or sound, he then slumped to the warming ground, dead from an apparent heart attack. His mystified friends rushed to his side, but he was beyond medical help.

The mood was somber at the 200-person office on Monday, of course. Employees sadly mourned their colleague of 23 years. But they also made discreet, light-hearted comments…

• “What a way to go… Playing golf!”
• “Hope his last shot was a good one.”
• “That’s how I want to go: fast and playing golf. No suffering, except for my putting.”

I was offended at first when Ron told me about the post-death humor. Sort of. But then I wondered… is it always tasteless to joke out loud about death? Or does common decency ever permit us to distance ourselves from the fearful sting of death with laughter?

The deceased golfer died too young. By U.S. longevity statistics, he should have lived another 15 years. But a 63-year-old losing his life is not a terrible tragedy on the order of, say, a teenager succumbing to cancer, or a baby dying unexpectedly in her crib. The deceased enjoyed six decades of precious life, and was blessed with a wife, children, grandchildren and material comforts. He had his turn, albeit one cut a bit too short. But he was not cheated of life’s bounty.

His sudden death certainly feels like a tragedy to his family, especially to his physically disabled wife. Joking about their newly deceased loved one would be cruelly painful. And completely unpalatable and unacceptable.

But does squeamishness with death humor reflect humane decency on my part… or does it reflect undue personal discomfort with the subject of death? Out of fear, am I over-solemnizing that which is the natural culmination of life and part of God’s plan?

I don’t have answers and would love to hear your thoughts on the subject.

I do know, though, that as I grow ever closer to the age of the deceased golfer, the specter of death seems less like an distantly abstract concept, and more like not-so-distant reality rearing its dreaded head.

Employees lightly jesting about the golfer’s death feels wrongly disrespectful to me. But this feeling may be more about my shortcomings than theirs.

And, if I’m being completely honest, their clever remarks were kind of funny…

Describes the Christian Science Monitor of the edgy-cute doll that was newly released for sale on October 13, 2011:

“The Tokidoki Barbie doll, created by Italian designer Simone Legno, sports a short pink bob, permanent Barbie doll tattoos covering her neck, chest, and shoulders, leopard print tights, and a black tunic top etched with Tokidoki’s heart-shaped skull and crossbones logo. She comes complete with sunglasses, a purse, and a little dog dressed as a cactus who goes by ‘Bastardino.’”

The parents, it seems, are riled up over the tattoos. “I don’t think it’s appropriate for little girls to be having Barbies with tattoos all over,” parent Reye Griffith told New York City station WCBS.

“‘It’s teaching kids to want tattoos before they are old enough to dress like that,’ Kevin Buckner, of Virginia, told a local television station,” per Reuters.

“Little girls will feel like they won’t be complete until they have pink hair and tattoos,” commented college sophomore Sarah Loftus to the University of Florida newspaper.

Never mind, apparently, that nothing about Mattel’s curvaceous Barbie is physically realistic or provides a fair or remotely achievable role model for pre-adolescent girls.

Never mind that, if Barbie was 5’9″, her proportional measurements would doom her with a 39″ bust, an 18″ waist, 33″ hips and a size 3 shoe. Reports CBS News:

“… when Galia Slayen, a Hamilton College student who once battled an eating disorder, tried to make an actual life-size Barbie, she was shocked at the result – a freakish woman with pencil-thin legs, breasts that threatened to topple her over, and a body mass index (BMI) that would put her squarely in the anorexia camp.”

Never mind that Barbie sports the makeup of a Nevada hooker… that she’s clothed in a fantasy wardrobe of couture ball gowns, skimpy beach wear, or cartoonish “career” frocks… that she’s accessorized with permanent spiky heels.

Barbie has far more in common with the slutty Britney Spears-like Bratz dolls (145 million sold!) than with Mattel’s upscale, politically-correct, parent-pleasing American Girl Collection.

A parent studying Barbie and finding fault mainly with the doll’s hair color and body art, most of which is hidden under her skullbones tunic, is a bit like complaining that deck-top musicians were playing off-key while the Titanic sank to the Atlantic Ocean’s dark, frigid depths.

Frankly, I think the pretty-in-pink hair and perfectly color-coordinated body art may be the least offensive features of Tattoo Barbie.

(Believe it or not, trendy Tattoo Barbie is hotly sought for holiday shopping. The initial first-edition 7,400 dolls sold out in days. Tattoo Barbie can be found at eBay and many toy stores, and can still be bought here at Amazon, Barbie Collector – Tokidoki Barbie Doll – Gold Label, at outrageous prices ranging from $599 to more than $800.

Seriously… The price might be the most offensive feature of Tattoo Barbie!)

Working and happily chattering with beloved friends. Savoring an hour of rejuvenation at the local beauty salon. Calling a friend before bounding out of a car.

Enjoying small pleasures one moment. Dead the next moment, murdered by an enraged, heavily-armed madman.

I could visualize this violent collision between everyday life and savage insanity. I could feel the raw horror… Each time my wearied eyes shut, defensive adrenaline freshly riddled my pulsing blood, and I startled again.

I pray for peace for their unimaginably anguished families. I pray for peace for the souls of the eight departed victims. I even pray for the depraved madman. Again, I pray to understand the mind and heart of God.

And I wonder why this country, alone among all first-world, industrialized, civilized nations, allows unfettered access to weapons of violence, murder, mayhem and destruction. And illogically calls that “freedom.”

I’m turning a milestone age next month, a number I practice admitting aloud only to family. To everyone else, I refer to my soon-to-be-age as a “number I can’t believe…” Like I unintentionally did for the last three new-decade ages, I’m indulging in wistful navel-gazing. And wondering when exactly I became an age when teenagers consider a late middle-ager decrepit and close to death’s doorstep.

I had a party at a marvelous Los Angeles restaurant (now closed) to celebrate my 30th birthday. I burst into tears and sobbed in my longtime doctor’s office on my 40th birthday. (He looked bewildered… tried to list all the “cool” things about being 40.) And tended to my three-month-old baby. I cried, ruminated, then bought a pricey new purse to celebrate my 50th birthday.

What astonishes me most about aging isn’t the random mystery aches and pains, or even that inside, I still feel like what I think is a terrific age for women: 35.

What catches me most by surprise about turning this “number I can’t believe…” are telltale pop-culture signs that hilariously point to us as part of the baby boomer old-folks crowd. Here are a few laughable examples…

• We turned on Wii during a recent weekend evening to maybe play a game. We use Wii to watch old movies and Mad Men reruns on NetFlix, and to entertain our two grandkids. We hit a techno wall: couldn’t easily figure out Wii games without the assistance of our six-year-old granddaughter… so we turned it off.

  

• This year, we bought our first new car in a decade. Past new cars included several sporty Jeep Grand Cherokees. Before we married, we both drove semi-sleek singles cars… a Honda and a BMW. In 2011, we selected a sensible, four-door Hyundai Sonata sedan, and feel fabulous about its comfort, reliability, XM radio, and fuel efficiency.

• We sometimes order off senior menus at restaurants: the smaller entrees suit our diminishing appetites, and the lower prices suit our diminishing budget. (Ron boasts about ordering from senior menus. It embarrasses me slightly… )

• We doodle at sudoku and crossword puzzles while watching weeknight TV. Anything to keep our memories from diminishing like our appetites and wallets.

• We find appealing articles in AARP publications: travel, cooking, good deals, smart financial advice, and lots of baby boomer celebrities. (“How Bob Dylan Helped Me Grow Up” by Bono, “Crazy in Love: The Tortured Longing and Red-Hot Triumph of Vince Gill and Amy Grant,” “Jane Lynch is Gleeful about Her New Life.”)

• Last Saturday night, we finally admitted that we prefer to watch a movie on our 46-inch flat screen, while nestled on the couch and munching homemade kettle corn, rather than contending with busy parking lots, long lines, joyously rowdy teenagers, and over-priced snacks at the local movie theater. (Now, that’s old… )

Aging is not for wimps or tiresome whiners. Aging is suited for people who can laugh and love… laughing with life, and loving themselves as they are: gloriously alive and blessed.

So as I mark the beginning of a new decade, I’m determined to laugh, not cry. To appreciate, not ruminate. To give grateful thanks.

If that doesn’t work, I’m thinking jewelry might do the trick.

To list all my blessings is impossible: the list must be near infinite. But on this day set aside for gratitude, I can’t resist musing on blessings lately foremost on my mind and active in my life…

I’m grateful to be married to Ron. He’s an understanding, open-minded, kind-hearted man; he understands and loves me and our family; he’s a hardworking person who takes pride in providing for our family. We have fun together and share innumerable interests. (We never tire of each other’s company on long road trips… Seriously!) The best years of my life began in my late 30s when we married.

I’m grateful for our four children and one spouse. They’re a superb lot of interesting, caring individuals and responsible citizens, and we feel fortunate to have good relationships with all of them. Time spent with them is precious to us. Always. Of course, our two young grandchildren are joys. What a privilege to glimpse the future through the eyes of our progeny.

I’m grateful that three of our parents remain alive and semi-healthy for folks in their 80s. It’s a deep, unexpected comfort to still call my mother weekly, and hear her calming words that put into perspective life’s ups and downs. Despite our occasional frustrations, I honestly feel blessed at getting to better know Ron’s father in the five years since his mother passed on. Dad White is an intelligent, funny, generous person who daily struggles alone with the challenges of old age.

On more mundane matters:

• I’m grateful for online outlets for writing, since my writing skills are light-years more effective than my speaking skills. Writing and cooking are my two gifts, and my two avenues of creativity and expression. Besides, I earn a living (and a small bit of useful notability) via online writing. What’s not to absolutely adore about working in my crummiest, comfy clothes, sans make-up and shoes?

  

• I’m grateful to have found a church home, Messiah Lutheran Church, at which the pastors deliver terrific messages week after week, every week. They get it exactly right, even if the message is often more challenging than comfortable. Ron and I admire this church home that loves people and the world, and every single week, translates that love into bold action and active caring.

• I’m crazy grateful to have discovered Abundant Harvest, which delivers gorgeous produce weekly for an astonishing low price. (No, I’m not on their payroll… ) Now, rather than chips and cookies, the extra food sitting around our home is freshly-picked apples, grapes of all colors, carrots, pears, oranges, bell peppers, lettuce, cantaloupes, squash, and more.

  We actually savor it, believe it or not. I’ve discovered and created all sorts of new recipes. And Ron and I are losing weight without trying. Maybe it’s the farmer in my genes… all four of my grandparents were Central Valley farmers and ranchers… but each week’s delivery feels like a glorious, marvelous bounty.

• I’m grateful for some things that annoy a few others: political leadership that cares about people over profits; Yale University for its extraordinary generosity in supporting Andrea’s education and aspirations; environmentalism, which means caring for God’s creation.

Above all, I am grateful for a gracious God who has blessed me beyond reason and measure.

What are you grateful for on this World Gratitude Day?

One small-town religious college thinks so. Goshen College, a 1,000-student Mennonite college in Indiana, recently banned the national anthem “at all sporting events because the Mennonite school’s president considers the National Anthem’s words to be too violent.”

“The school’s board of directors told college President Jim Brenneman to ‘find an alternative to playing the National Anthem that fits with sports tradition, that honors country and that resonates with Goshen College’s core values and respects the views of diverse constituencies,’ “ per NBC News.

I believe that the upstanding Americans at Goshen College make a good, arguable, defensible point.

Adopted as the U.S. national anthem in 1931 by President Hoover, this secular war-anthem celebrates military battle victory, glorying in and glorifying “rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,” and clearly worships (idolizes?) the American flag. Composer Key wrote the lyrics in 1814, two years after being inspired by the 15-stripe, 15-star American flag flying triumphantly in 1812 over Fort McHenry after U.S. victory over British troops. The complex melody was borrowed from an 18th-century tune written by a London gentlemen’s club.

Per Wikipedia, “Before 1931, other songs served as the hymns of American officialdom. ‘Hail, Columbia”‘served this purpose at official functions for most of the 19th century. ‘My Country, ‘Tis of Thee’… also served as a de facto anthem before the adoption of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ “

“My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” lyrics were penned in 1831 by Rev. Samuel Francis Smith while an Andover Theological Seminary student, and publicly performed first on on July 4, 1831 in Boston. Again harkening to our country’s British roots, Smith borrowed the melody of English national anthem “God Save the Queen.”

In contrast to the muscular, near-haughty lyrics of “The Star Spangled Banner,” the words of “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” celebrate the history and universal values of the United States of America, and freely acknowledge God’s role as protector of our nation. Savor the original four stanzas:

• My country, ’tis of thee,
• Sweet land of liberty,
• Of thee I sing;
• Land where my fathers died,
• Land of the pilgrims’ pride,
• From ev’ry mountainside
• Let freedom ring!

• My native country, thee,
• Land of the noble free,
• Thy name I love;
• Thy woods and templed hills;
• My heart with rapture thrills,
  Like that above.

• Let music swell the breeze,
• And ring from all the trees
• Sweet freedom’s song;
• Let mortal tongues awake;
• Let all that breathe partake;
• Let rocks their silence break,
• The sound prolong.

• Our fathers’ God to Thee,
• Author of liberty,
• To Thee we sing.
• Long may our land be bright,
• With freedom’s holy light,
• Protect us by Thy might,
• Great God our King.

As one whose ancestors, both maternal and paternal, sailed to the fledgling United States in the 1600s seeking religious freedom… as one whose ancestors shed blood and life fighting for the American Revolution… as one who fervently believes that the freedoms and liberties offered by our great country are second to none… I believe that the sentiments and imagery in “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” more eloquently express American values and the American experience than does our presently designated national anthem.

As a Christian, I believe that the lyrics of “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” are more in line with the teachings of Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace, than that of “The Star Spangled Banner.”

I fully understand and support the principled stance of Goshen College, which describes itself as aspiring to “Christ centered core values: global citizenship, compassionate peacemaking, servant leadership and passionate learning.”

That’s my viewpoint. What’s yours?
]]> http://www.thecrazywoman.com/2011/09/replace-the-star-spangled-banner-as-national-anthem/feed/ 3 http://www.thecrazywoman.com/2011/08/blackout-america-feeling-lucky-as-u-s-infrastructure-crumbles/ http://www.thecrazywoman.com/2011/08/blackout-america-feeling-lucky-as-u-s-infrastructure-crumbles/#comments Tue, 30 Aug 2011 20:45:09 +0000 Deborah White http://www.thecrazywoman.com/?p=3372 Continue reading →]]> I showered by flashlight yesterday in our windowless master bathroom. I combed my hair and dabbed on minimal make-up by peering into a small mirror propped up in our sunny kitchen. I recharged my Blackberry in the car while watching a neighbor do the same in his truck.

No, we don’t live in the path of Hurricane Irene. No catastrophic earthquakes shook Southern California environs yesterday.

The aging electrical grid in our 40-year-old neighborhood failed at 2 am, as have many other public utilities across our nation. I’d retired late, and was lightly snoozing when the power crashed with a flash and loud boom. A peek out our bedroom window revealed the next street over was immersed in blackness.

Southern California Edison crews replaced the frayed, original underground cable after 12 hours, and power was restored to 48 1970s-era homes on four streets. We were lucky, a lead crewman told me. They didn’t have to dig up our street, which would have meant several days with no power.

I suppose we were lucky, despite the inconvenience, summer heat and spoiled food (milk, mayo, leftover tuna fish, banana popsicles, frozen chicken) in the refrigerator. After all, it could have been much worse.

Take suburban San Bruno, California, for instance. On September 9, 2010, a 50-year-old natural gas pipeline at Earl Avenue and Glenview Drive ruptured at 6:11 am, killing eight adults and children as they slept or got ready for the day. The powerful explosion caused a 1.1 seismic tremor and spewed a wall of fire 1,000 feet high. Thirty-eight homes were destroyed. Per the San Francisco Chronicle:

“Federal investigators pinned blame today squarely on Pacific Gas and Electric Co. for the natural gas pipeline explosion in San Bruno nearly a year ago, citing the company’s ‘litany of failures’ that led to a neighborhood’s destruction and the deaths of eight people…

“At the rupture site… PG&E cobbled together six short pipe pieces, or pups, allowing the line to negotiate the curve of the canyon… safety board investigators said none of the pipe pieces, which were made by bending steel plates around cylinders, met PG&E or industry standards.

“Investigators said PG&E had been running gas through those pups at unsafe pressures for decades, until one finally gave way. The use of the defective pipe ‘was compounded over the years by a litany of failures, including poor record-keeping, inadequate inspection programs, and an integrity management program without integrity.’

“Ravi Chhatre, the investigator in charge of the federal agency’s probe, called the disaster that destroyed 38 homes ‘an organizational accident’ resulting from ‘widespread deficiencies’ in PG & E’s operation.”

In all parts of our country, old water mains are breaking and aging power grids are failing. Roads are crumbling and riddled with potholes, and vast sink holes have swallowed cars, roads and homes.

Giddy with post-World War II optimism and rosy economic prospects under Presidents Truman, Eisenhower (“Father of the Interstate System”) and Kennedy, the U.S. built suburbia, replete with world-class public schools, modern highway systems, and state-of-the-art communications and utility grids linking urban, suburban and rural America.

Today, 60 years later, elected leaders and corporate chieftains no longer boast about investing in America and in America’s future. They no longer prioritize supporting a prosperous middle-class, which was the economic and moral backbone that made America the richest and most admired country in the world.

World-class nations renew and maintain top-quality public services as utilities, roads and schools. Second-rate powers and third-world nations allow infrastructure to erode and deteriorate, as the middle-class drifts downward in influence and prosperity.

U.S. leaders, both in government and industry, must decide if they’re up to task of leading a first-rate nation, and if they care about America’s future. They must decide, now, if America will remain a great nation, or fade into blacked-out oblivion like so many other once-admired countries.

Meanwhile, I guess I’m supposed to feel “lucky” when Southern California Edison, a 15,500-employee public utility conglomerate serving 14 million customers, deigns to replace old, now-dead electrical cabling in our smallish corner of the community.

After all, it could have been much worse. Like the residents of San Bruno, we might have foregone power for weeks. Or had our home destroyed. Or be dead.