Purist

New Year’s Eve–about 2 p.m.  Zero precip, with scattered clouds.

My cell brings me out of my nap.  My wife, visiting friends in South Austin, is calling to remind me to take the dogs out for their midday potty.

Our plans for NYE involve dinner with friends.  I have been informed that we are departing the apartment at 6:25.  I need to be back in the apt. by 5:25 to get ready.  I have 3 hours to do some motorcycling.

I don my leathers, kick the tires, and get onto A.W. Grimes, heading north.  Right away I see several of my fraternity brothers.  The nastiness of the last couple days has burned off, and the roads are not wet anymore.  It seems that everyone is taking their bikes out for some exercise.  This is Harley country, and many of the bikes I see are Aitch Dees.

I remember the afternoon I picked up the Suzuki from the dealership.  I was new to the service.  I hadn’t even reported for duty on the Goldthwaite yet, as I was still in school at Great Lakes Naval Training Center.  Let me tell you, if you ever get the chance to be a 19-year-old sailor purchasing your first motorcycle, do it.  It was a spiritual day for me.

I left the dealership in Lake Villa and headed southeast.  Almost immediately, I was getting waves from other operators, heading the opposite direction on the two-lane blacktop.  A couple of helmetless guys on crotchrockets extended their left arms as they sped past.  A yuppie on a BMW touring bike flashed a peace sign.  An old-timer, clad head-to-toe in black leather, pointed his clutch hand at the ground as his ancient hog rumbled past me.

After being the proud owner of a brand new machine for only 20 minutes, I realize that I have purchased more than just a new set of wheels.  I am now a member of an informal fraternity of other riders that stretches the world over, from Illinois to Japan to Germany and back.

I am thinking of that first day when I turn right off of A.W. Grimes and onto Gattis School Rd, to catch up with two of my ‘brothers’.  They stop at a red light and I pull in behind them, to get a look at their bikes.  They are both riding Aitch Dees with large engines.  The guy to my 11 o’clock is on one with a black gas tank (how novel!) and apehanger handlebars.  The fella at 1 o’clock is riding a big purple Harley, and wearing one of those helmets that offers little in the way of protection.  It looks like a stainless steel soup bowl.

Ape and Soupbowl vigorously ignore me while the three of us wait for green.  At the green, both of them get on the throttle like only an Aitch Dee rider can.  They both make plenty of noise, but my old Japanese girl performs well, and stays with them.

Next red light, and it’s much the same drill.  Ape, with iPod buds hanging out of his ears, listens to Coldplay or the Village People or whoever while I try to get a better look at his bike.  I’m beginning to think it may be the Fat Bob when the light turns green.  This time they both give it everything they have.  I stay with Soupbowl, but Ape’s bike kicks the Suzuki’s ass in that first 100 yards.  I must admit, that when it comes to performing off the line, Ape is working with superior equipment to mine.

At the next red light, I pull in closer and holler at Ape.  He pulls his earbuds out and looks my way, stone-faced.

“That’s a beautiful machine you got there,” I shout to him.  “That’s awesome!”

He nods at me, and then turns his attention back to the light.  They both turn off of Gattis School Rd at the next intersection, as I continue straight.

I hate to say it, but sometimes the Harley purists can come off as arrogant.  Some of those guys don’t wave.  They tend to look at a Suzuki or a Yamaha with disdain.  I suppose I do understand the pride in owning something made right here in the States, but the fact is I can’t afford an Aitch Dee.  They’re expensive!  You practically have to be a doctor or lawyer to own one.

I reckon that’s it for now.  I’ve gotta get ready for the New Year’s Day ride.  Be careful out there, no matter how much engine you got.

Bondsman

11/17/2009.  Oh-dark-hundred.  Smalltown jail.

It’s early morning.  The half dozen other inmates in the holding cell with me are fast asleep.  To a man, they are old pros at this.  They’re used to being in and out of county.  The stupid white boy locked up with them is not.  I’m pacing the cell, wondering when I’m gonna be able to make a phone call.

Officer Buffalo Bill, a good-natured jailer about my age, comes to the cell and cuffs me, for the short trip to a stainless steel counter across the way.  I stand and fill out more paperwork, occasionally muttering about how my wife is definitely going to leave me.  Bill, God bless him, tries to reassure me.

“Nah.  I’m sure your wife wouldn’t be with you if she didn’t love you.”

“You don’t understand.  I’ve really fucked up this time.  I was already in the doghouse.  When she hears about this, she’s going to divorce me.  Period.”

“What kind of bike do you ride?” Bill asks, trying to change the subject.

“1998 Suzuki Marauder 800,” I say, automatically and without enthusiasm.

“Nice.  I have a Valkyrie.  I love it.”

The jailers in NM are about ten times cooler than the jailers in TX.  They will occasionally talk to you as if you’re a human being, who has yet to be convicted of anything.

Buffalo Bill cuffs me to a chair and allows me to make phone calls.  The first person I try to call is Johnson Sendi, the man I trust most on Earth. We served together onboard the USS Goldthwaite for 4 years.  We’ve been shipmates/roommates/wingmen/confidantes for most of my adult life—Johnson was the Best Man at my wedding last year.

I dial the number, hear a couple rings, and then hear someone pick up the phone to listen to an automated female voice…

“You have a collect call from an inmate at Curry County Detention Center.  If you’d like to accept the charges, press 1.  If you’d like to deny them, press 2.”

I hear a tone as Johnson (or his wife) chooses the latter.

“Your call has been denied.  Goodbye.”

Dialtone.

Johnson has about 5 jobs.  He works his ass off.  Besides managing rental properties, plowing snow, cleaning septic tanks, and who-knows-what-else, he’s a first-rate operator.  In his case, the word operator means Missouri general bail bondsman.  Even though I’m not in MO, I figure he will have a plan for getting my skinny ass outta jail.  The only problem is, he thinks the automated call he’s getting in the middle of the night—the one that’s probably woken up his two small children—is from one of his methhead clients.

I try again.

“…you’d like to accept the charges, press 1.  If you’d like to deny…”

Someone in the Sendi household presses a key before the message is even over.

“Your call has been denied.  Goodbye.”

Dialtone.  You motherfucker, my inner voice says to my best friend.  Answer the phone, you piece of shit.  I’m not one of your brokedown skips.  The voice in my head curses him, but it’s out of love.  When you have a best mate that you met while serving in the Navy, you tend to talk to one another in vulgar terms.  The more appalling the names, the more fierce your loyalty to the other guy.  ‘Motherfucker’ and ‘piece of shit’ are nowhere near as bad as what we generally call each other.  I’m just trying to keep this post readable.

I decide twice is enough for now.  Who else can I call at this hour?

Patrolman

STATEMENT OF PROBABLE CAUSE

On November 16, 2009 at approximately 1927 hours, I over heard on my department issued patrol units radio of a public affray taking place at the Town and Country located at 2200 West 7 Street, in Clovis.  Clovis Police Department units were busy at this time and were unable to send a unit.  I was patrolling on 21^st Street in Clovis and started in route to the location.  When I arrived I observed individuals at the door to the business calling and motioning for me to hurry up and enter the business.  When I entered the business I observed an individual on his knees on the floor wearing a black leather jacket, black leather pants and a red motorcycle helmet.

The individual was extremely agitated and was yelling about his 2^nd amendment rights and that he wanted to bring a weapon along on this trip but didn’t and other intangible statements.  I observed that several display cases were on the floor along with food stuffs that were opened and smashed.  I also observed an ice chest on its side with the wheels broken.

I drew my department issued taser and ordered the individual to lay flat on the floor with his arms out stretched.  The individual remained on his knees as if he did not hear my commands.  I stepped forward and took hold of the individual’s jacket collar and placed him face down on the floor with out resistance.  At this time a Clovis Police Officer arrived and assisted in handcuffing the individual behind his back.  I patted down the individual for weapons.  I located the individual’s wallet in his right rear pocket where I located his Texas drivers’ license.  I identified the individual as Jake Geiger with a date of birth 04/25/1979.

With the assistance of a Curry County Sheriffs Deputy Dimitri Scott, I escorted Mr. Geiger outside to my patrol unit.  I placed Mr. Geiger under arrest.  While searching him for weapons before placing him in my patrol unit I located a black plastic bag in his left front pocket of his jacket.  Within the plastic bag I observed a glass pipe which contained the smell and residue of burnt marijuana along with a green leafy substance in a separate plastic bag, I believed to be marijuana.  I placed Mr. Geiger in the right rear seat of my patrol unit.  I then released Mr. Geiger to Curry County Deputy Dimitri Scott in order to transported Mr. Geiger to the Curry County Adult Detention Center while I continued my investigation and took statements from the victims.

I spoke to Johann Barley with a date of birth 09/18/1983 who stated he was in the business when a male in a motorcycle helmet came in and attacked him.  Mr. Barley said Mr. Geiger pushed him back against the counter and up against a display case and struck him several times.  Mr. Barley stated Mr. Geiger stopped and said he was sorry and started talking gibberish.  I observed several bruised areas on Mr. Barleys back and side which I photographed.

I also spoke with Fred Carr with a date of birth who stated he saw Mr. Geiger hit and attack Mr. Barley.  Mr. Carr stated he obtained a broom and started to hit Mr. Geiger as he started around the counter to possibly attack one of the clerks, Selena Cash with a date of birth 08/29/1978.  Mr. Carr said Mr. Geiger attack another male in the store.  This individual pushed Mr. Geiger to the floor and left the area.

Mr. Geiger was released to the Curry County Adult Detention Center without further incident.  Mr. Geiger was charged with POSSESSION OF DRUG PAPAPHERNALIA, POSSESSION OF MARIJUANA UNDER ONCE OUNCE, AGGRAVATED BATTERY and CRIMINAL DAMAGE TO PROPERTY.  While at the jail I read Mr. Geiger his Miranda rights.  After asking if he understood his rights Mr. Geiger refused to answer any further questions.

(Signature) Brennan O. Cary, Patrolman New Mexico State Police

Scholar

Monday evening.  6:30 p.m.  Air temp:  about 37 degrees.

Sitting in the dark, my thoughts turn to my father and brother, and my hopes for healing our divided family.

I have not seen my father in 6 years.  In 2003, after I had just left the service, he showed up on my doorstep in Austin, an old broken man in a VW bus, just trying to patch things up with his eldest son.  I rebuffed him, telling him to get out of town.  The last time I had seen him before that was 1996, when a fistfight left us with no real relationship.  In effect, I am going to Albuquerque to bury the hatchet after 13 years, not wanting to lose any more time.

I have not seen my brother in something like 8 years.  The last time I saw Kingston, we were both visiting my mother in Houston for Christmas.  I was on leave from the service, and he (and my sister) had taken a Greyhound in from NM.  Despite being an adult (yeah, right, I’m still not sure I’ve reached adulthood) I had for the most part spent the visit treating him no differently from the way I did when we were coming up:  lousily.  I had always been a shitty big brother, and I wanted that to change now.

A vision comes into my head suddenly, brighter and more perfect than even the bike’s chrome, gleaming in the moonlight behind me.  Or at least in my state, I think it is.

I will hold a ceremony in Albuquerque, and assign Indian names to these two men, who I hope to reconcile with.  Then, perhaps one day, the three of us will hold the same ceremony for Cousin Abe, and my best friend Johnson, and Tre, my sister’s kid!  We will create a family tradition for our untraditional family, and we will be closer, stronger, wealthier, and healthier for it.

“Holy shit,” I say.

I jump up from the ground, trying to zip closed my leather jacket and put on my gloves at the same time.  Reaching around the gas tank, I turn the key, still sticking out of the ignition.  The engine purrs, but that isn’t good enough, so I give the old girl a healthy piece of throttle, just because I can.  She roars beautifully.  I leap onto the bike, and get her moving, making a dangerously tight about-face in the grass.  I manage to keep her in first gear for the 50 or so yards through the grass, but once I reach the VFW’s gravel lot I enter second.

Motorcycling through a gravel parking lot in second gear is stupid, but folks, we have entered the stupid part of this trip.  Jake, the operator (my 2009 Dr. Jekyll), isn’t in control anymore.  The man on the bike now, at 6’3” & 200 lbs, does not physically resemble the short Mr. Hyde, but evidently he has some of the same lust for hell-raising and dumbfuckery.

As the front tire meets the pavement of the two-lane blacktop, I lean to the right, and my rear wheel fishtails violently to the left.  I almost lose it right there, and truth be told, a wreck at this point would have saved me a LOT of trouble.  If I could go back in time and be a less skilled motorcyclist, instead of one with 11 years experience, I would.

I speed into the night, vigorously shifting gears and cursing out loud, bound for disaster.

Legionaire

Monday evening.  6 p.m.  Air temp:  38 degrees.

I’m so charged up with positivity, I barely notice the cold as I enter Clovis, NM, which my ATX eyes decide is a small town.  The folk back in C City, and their generosity, have left me feeling good.  Damn good.

This trip was spontaneous, so although it is past nightfall, I have yet to decide where I’m crashing tonight.  The plan (dreadfully poor, especially for an operator) was to simply camp at whatever facility was nearest around dusk.  As I cruise around, I spot a VFW hall and my plan changes abruptly.

I’m excited at the prospect of a chance at more fellowship.  That’s what this trip is about, after all.  It’s not just about seeing family, it’s also about touching and being touched by as much of humanity as possible.  In this rotten age of TV and Internet, Americans don’t talk to each other anymore.  We don’t know our neighbors.  We avoid important discussions, especially if they’re religious or political.  We base our worldview on what we see on a screen, rather than on what is actually being experienced in our communities.  This trip is about speaking to perfect strangers, even if I come off as talkative or crazy or aggressive.

Last winter, while visiting TN, my Cousin Abe bought me a membership in the Columbia American Legion.  The new plan, I decide, is to put on my American Legion ballcap and march into the VFW hall to talk to some strangers.  Experience has taught me that there are no friendlier strangers than veterans.  I reckon since I’m a Legionaire now, I’ll be welcome.

I walk up to the door, and again, my plan changes abruptly.

Above the doorway is a sign reading MEMBERS ONLY in block letters.  I stop short, and then turn around.  I realize how presumptuous I am being, to think that I’m free to simply stroll into anywhere I please.  If it had been a Legion post, I would have gone in.  It’s probably not too much of a stretch to think I would be welcome at any American Legion in the country.  But the VFW is a completely different organization.  Besides, hadn’t I already been profoundly blessed by strangers the evening prior?  It was probably unfair to ask God to provide me with another amazing experience, simply because I’m willing to be presumptive.

The new plan, I decide, is to park the bike among a clump of trees about 100 yards from the VFW’s door, and take a break.  I carefully guide the Suzuki through the tall grass to the trees.  As my headlight pierces the darkness of the cluster, 3 or 4 fat rabbits flee from its beam, further into the brush.  I park a few feet from the trees and kill the engine.

I sit in the grass on the left side of the machine, and lean against the hot 805 cc of engine.  Since I’m wearing my leather jacket and several layers beneath, I don’t get burned.  The bike’s warmth feels quite nice, on a night as cold as this one is.  As the engine ticks and cools, I decide there’s nothing wrong with sitting here awhile, alone in the darkness.  Alone with my thoughts.

Alone with my demons.

Child

Monday morning.  6:30-ish.

My lanky form is sprawled out on a couch in a (very) modest house in Smalltown America.  It’s actually more of a loveseat, or at least it seems like one to me.  I’m a tall drink of water.

I marvel at my good fortune in acquiring such accommodations, however, as otherwise I’d be sleeping out-of-doors.  Theresa and Tater, like many of us in this dreary economy, are struggling to make ends meet, but they didn’t hesitate for one second to offer me their couch last night.

Tater used to make his living driving a big rig, but for reasons I don’t ask about he is unemployed.  He and his wife and five children are living off of a convenience store clerk’s wages.

I hear Theresa get up and roust her kids.  I rise and stow my sleeping bag on the bike, while the house comes awake to get ready for school.  The 5 children, ages 7 through 15, accomplish their morning routine with a remarkable speed that I didn’t expect.  The older ones help the younger ones find clothes, shoes, and backpacks.  The youngest boy, Moses, drifts into the living room to stare wide-eyed at the leather-clad stranger he finds there.  He doesn’t dawdle long, though, because the oldest boy, the 15-year-old, comes in to hurry him along.  I stand up and offer my hand to the young man.

“Good morning.  My name’s Jake.”

“Noah,” the young man says, his grip firm.

“I hear you’re a footballer,” I offer.

He nods respectfully.

“That’s great, man.  I wish I’d played football when I was in high school.”

Polite but shy, he heads off to continue getting his siblings ready for school.

A short time later, I am sitting in the living room when little Moses comes in to address me, his voice barely above a whisper…

“Would you like to pray with us?”

I follow him in to his parents’ bedroom, where the other six members of his family are already standing in a circle, their hands joined.  I take a place among them, in awe of this family, obviously poor financially, yet rich in Spirit.

“Go ahead, Noah,” Theresa says, and the young man says a simple, short prayer, asking for God’s blessing on their family as they head to school, and for God’s protection over me, as I head to New Mexico.

Later, after the kids have been dropped at the bus stop, I breakfast with Theresa and Tater at the Colorado City Dairy Queen.  I manage to pay for their meal, despite Tater’s protests.  As we eat, we talk about theology and American society.

Back at the house, we say our goodbyes and exchange contact information.  Theresa gives me a mother’s hug, and the old truck driver’s meaty fist swallows my hand in a vise-like grip before I hug him, too.

The Suzuki’s pipes rattle nicely in the brisk morning air, as I cruise away from their house and out of town.  I feel blessed and inspired.  I feel as if the mission I am on this November morning is an important one, a fun one, but most of all, I feel as if my Heavenly Father has given me His stamp of approval.

By midnight I’ll be in the Land of Enchantment, and in jail.

Disclaimer

The following statement applies to the blog, leftandrightunite.wordpress.com, and ALL its entries (from June 2009 on forward).

All characters appearing in this blog, including the narrator, are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Clerk

Sunday evening, around 10 p.m. Colorado City. Air temp: about 45 degrees.

I fill up the tank, and then go inside to pay the clerk. The clerk is a woman in her early 30s, with striking blue eyes. As I’m counting out the ones with my cold hands, I gush to her about how happy I am to see her store, as I coasted in on fumes. We chat amiably for a minute, and then her husband joins us, as he had been stocking the cooler for her in the back. He is an old, but solidly built, black man. I recognize him as an operator right away.

I tell them that I am passing through their area on my bike, heading for Albuquerque. They ask me where I’m staying. I tell them I’m looking for a place locally to camp. The woman, Theresa, looks at her husband, Tater.

“We have a park in this town, but I don’t know if the cops’d hassle you or not,” he says, his eyes unreadable behind his spectacles. I nod understanding.

“You can stay on our couch,” Theresa says, “you can’t sleep out in this cold.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine. I have my REI sleeping bag with me, and it’s rated to 10 degrees…”

Theresa interrupts me,  insisting I stay with them. I ask, “Are you sure? I’m a stranger—you don’t know me, and…”

“Long as you don’t kill my kids,” Theresa says, in such a way that I know she doesn’t suspect any such thing.

I look at the old man. He is the man of the house. “Is that OK? You sure ya’ll don’t mind?”

“You should stay with us,” he says.

I thank them, and then gladly accept a cup of coffee and a stool from Theresa, as her shift doesn’t end until midnight. They ask more about what business I have in New Mexico, and because of their kindness I tell them the truth: I am on a spiritual journey. I explain that I haven’t seen my father in something like 6 years, and I haven’t had a real relationship with him in 13 years. I am going there to “bury the hatchet”. I have no grand expectations about the trip. I don’t expect us to be a happy family, or to never have conflict again, but I thought that it was important to establish some kind of connection with my father, despite the resentment and anger I hold in my heart for him.

Theresa whispers, “I’m going to cry,” her blue eyes shiny. She nods toward her husband, “He did the same thing with his father.”

Tater shares with me that two years before his father passed away, he was able to make peace with the old man. “I used to HATE him. I used to wanna fight him whenever we were in the same room together,” he admits. He looks at me seriously. “The Lord will bless you for this thing you are doing. You are being obedient to His word, and He will reward you.”

You see, out of all the places to fill up, I’d stopped at a waystation manned by God’s people. Theresa and Tater are Christians.

Motorcyclist

Sunday evening.  I’m on a stretch of two-lane asphalt called 163, somewhere between San Angelo and Colorado City, heading north.

Air temp:  about 50 degrees.  Speed:  about 55 mph.  Tank:  practically empty.  That’s right…I’m in the proverbial “middle of nowhere” and about to run out of gasoline.

For those of you who have never motorcycled, allow me to explain a bit about fuel:  most bikes, including my Suzuki, don’t have a gas gauge.  We use two things as a “gas gauge”—the reserve tank and the trip odometer.

The way I operate is I typically ride my bike until the engine begins to sputter.  This lets me know I’m out of gas, so I switch to the reserve tank.  The bike begins drinking gas again, and happily surges back to life to continue down the road.  At that point, I know I only have a little bit of gas in the tank, so I stop at the next gas station to fill up.  Waiting until all I have left is my reserve tank works just fine in Austin.  There’s a gas station on every corner, so I never have to be on RES longer than a mile or two.  But tonight I’m on a West Texas farm road, and the last gas station (somewhere just north of San Angelo) was ignored by this operator b/c my trip odometer read 77.  You see, after 11 years, I know that I can get about 100 miles before I have to switch to reserve.  Surely they’ll be another Shell or Exxon in the next 30 miles, right?  Wrong.

I see my goof after being on 163 only a little while, with nothing in the darkness ahead to indicate a town or structure of any kind.  At night you can see gas stations or chemical plants or some rancher’s porchlight from a long way off.  The fact that I see nothing out there worries me, because it means I may be spending this November evening on the side of the road, with nothing for shelter except a sleeping bag and a poncho.  That’s what I’ll do if I run out of gas out here—try to get some sleep, so I’ll be good and ready for the long walk into Colorado City in the morning to find petrol.  It’s not unthinkable or even undoable, it’s just not preferred.  If I have to sleep under the sky, I’d rather do it in a campground that has a toilet and somewhere level to park the bike.

I slow down to better study a sign telling me that C City is 19 miles away.  I feel the knot in my stomach tighten, because I’ve already been on the reserve tank something like 5 miles.  I’ve been lucky enough to never run my machine out of gas, so I don’t actually KNOW how far down the road I can get on reserve.  10?  12?  15 miles?  I’ve never tested it, but it looks like I might tonight.

Further up 163, and I’ve resigned myself to studying the ranchland streaming past on either side, trying to imagine what it will be like to sleep out here on the ground with God-knows-what for company.  Suddenly I notice a faint red glow up ahead, and I send up a desperate prayer for my Heavenly Father to bail me out yet again.  I’m 90% certain the prayer won’t be answered.

My prayer IS answered.  I coast into C City and into a Fina bay.  I am so relieved, and thank God profusely aloud.  The sound of my own voice vibrates throughout my helmet.  No one, except for myself and my Creator, hears the sound.  It’s just me and Him talking, and I realize I do not pray nearly as much as I should.

Roe v. Wade v. Self-Determination

I’d like to make a few comments about abortion.  Part of me thinks I should not, since I am positively certain that issues like abortion and gay marriage are simply around to get us fighting amongst ourselves.  I suppose, though, that I could never pretend to be trying to get Left and Right to dialogue, while at the same time ignoring emotional issues like abortion.  I’d also like to do a post about abortion because I have been, at one time or another, on both sides of this complex issue.

With the exception of a few eugenicists, I think we can all agree that less abortions would be better.  I don’t believe that pro-choice equals pro-abortion.  When I called myself pro-choice, I did so because even though I abhorred the idea of a perfectly healthy woman aborting a perfectly healthy baby, I didn’t believe that anyone should be making that decision for her.  That decision, to have or not to have a medical procedure performed, should rest with the woman.  She should consult her doctor, of course.  And if she has religion, she should consult with her pastor/rabbi/shaman/whatever, as a decision to abort her child WILL have spiritual consequences for her.  She should consult her husband, if she’s married.  She should consult all of these people, but there shouldn’t be a law requiring her to do so.  The decision is ultimately hers.

Being a Christian, I’ve also described myself as pro-life.  We shouldn’t be killing innocent babies.  Everyone knows this—even liberals.  Myself, and my two siblings, were all born on a hippie commune called The Farm.  One of the many contributions of The Farm over the years has been in the field of midwifery.  In the 1970s, when Stephen Gaskin and Co. were setting up their community in middle Tennessee, they put the word out that all pregnant women who were thinking of abortion were invited to come to The Farm to have the child, free of charge.  The commune claimed that The Farm would adopt and care for any of these babies, and if/when the mother decided to come back and claim her child, she could.

I think Roe v. Wade was a bad decision, especially when looked at from a 2009 perspective.  My belief in the Judeo-Christian ethic Thou shalt not kill notwithstanding, we are in dire need of a restoration of states’ rights in this country.  I envision a united States where if you want to get an abortion, you go to a state that allows them.  If you happen to live in a state where the citizens are staunchly opposed to the procedure, so be it.

The point is that We the People should be able to govern our own affairs, and as close to home as possible.  Why should some far-off, centralized, “Rome” (the federal government) concern itself with these issues?  Easy…it shouldn’t.  Let the legislatures of Texas or Vermont or wherever address these issues with Texans or Vermonters, rather than with a bloated federal bureaucracy.