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His name is Jim Stewart. His long term occupation was as a line worker for GM where his skills resulted in his being a trouble shooter up and down the line, able to fill any position necessary to keep the line moving. Folks up and down the Niangua River know him as River Jim who runs a kayak shop literally on the bank of the river where highway 32 crosses the river, just east of Buffalo, Mo. To suggest he is a master of river lore is an understatement. Jim knows the river like few others in this region.

After earning his pension with GM, Jim began tinkering with Corvettes, having completed several off frame restorations of this automotive legend and successfully running a Corvette business in Springfield. His love for the river and fishing led him to buy his riverfront property years ago on the courthouse steps. He then established a kayak business at this location, named, appropriately, River Jims. Twenty two years of line work at GM has slowed his gait a bit, but has not dimmed his enthusiasm for jerking a smallmouth out of a hole below a shoal on the river.

I have owned a terrific Osagian canoe since 1990, having bought the boat after a float or two on Beaver Creek and the Big Piney river. It has also seen service on the Gasconade, Current, and Niangua. The canoe is easy enough to fish out of and will carry everything necessary for a couple days on the water. Canoes are packhorses and easy to manage in experienced hands. Enter the kayak. It is lighter, very maneuverable, and displaces little water. I recently wrote about the inflatable “Bote” that I acquired which revealed the versatility of kayaking. I suspect I will soon sell my Osagian in favor of the kayak. My inflatable does a lot of things, but the newly acquired Perception 12’ kayak does more and unlike the inflatable, is virtually indestructible. I don’t buy a dozen eggs without research and my inquiries led me to the Perception fishing kayak. This choice led me to Jim, who can tell you more about the other kayaks out there than any of their manufacturer reps.

Jim looks like he sounds. A camo hat perched over his ready smile and Ozark drawl make you want to pour a jigger of good bourbon and listen closely as he pontificates on the merits of his favorite small mouth baits. (Hint: Jim loves top water lures.) He keeps what appears to be a hundred or so kayaks at his warehouse and a good selection in his shop, which in high water may see as much as 5’ of Niangua running through it. No problem, though, he designed his building with flood water in mind. Jim handles his customers one or two at a time and by appointment only as business isn’t allowed to interfere with river time and life in the slow lane. I say that with tongue in cheek as Jim finds time to sell well north of 300 kayaks a year. Jim loves what he does and does what he loves well.

The Niangua river is a Missouri treasure, but can be a crowded venue on weekends with a number of good outfitters with large float liveries in house. As in all south Missouri streams, there are parts of it that don’t see as much activity as other parts, lending them to better fishing. Find an outfitter, rent a kayak and give it a try. Gliding smoothly over clear water on a summer morning is a rare treat for anyone who professes a love of water. Better yet, hit the river with your own kayak from River Jim’s and double your pleasure.

Have a good week!

SR

No misspelling here, we tackled the Niangua river this week in our new Bote (Brand name) paddle boards and kayaks after experimenting with the kids Botes last year. We may never go back to the traditional canoe way of floating. I became instantly enamored with these inflatable conveyances which, for the uninitiated, ain’t your grand daddy’s aluminum canoe! So here’s is the cliff note version of our experiences.

The Niangua is in season, but wasn’t bad this week, save a flotilla of high school girls from a camp somewhere close and an occasional covey of plastic kayaks or canoes. There are fish here, but they have to be shell shocked after a weekend of revelry on this popular river. We picked the right week, as this coming weekend marks the “Pride Float” on the Niangua. There were several floaters who were apparently scouts for the main group of diversity seeking participants, which we are told are divided into a ratio of 80% men to 20% women. This event is sponsored by the prestigious “Camp Daddies”. Gay is one thing, a fact of life these days, but the thought of hundreds of “tucked” women’s bathing suits on men strutting around our sandbars is just too much for this old Ozarkian.

One of the primary reasons these boats fit our lifestyle is portability. They deflate and fold back into their large roller bag and are tossed into the beds of your truck leaving room for plenty of additional gear. You do need a 12 volt pump less you are in triathlon shape to man the provided oversized bicycle style hand pumps. The pressures are low, yet result in an extremely firm floor and sidewalls. We ‘re talking pressures between 3 and 10 psi. We’re also talking a lot of air at that pressure, thus the need for a pump. These boats are not your discount store rafts, flimsy and likely to leave you at mush bottom eddy when you nick a rock and lose pressure.

Back to the boats. They are incredibly tough, with a double bottom and an inflatable floor that leaves them completely rigid. They easily slip over the shallow shoals, nearly capable of floating over water that that a leaf would drag on. They are also ingeniously self bailing! Getting on the damned thing set me up for a undignified spectacle, in front of bank fishermen and women near Bennet Springs that were at once sympathetic and stunned. I made Joe Biden look like one of the Flying Wallendas with my performance. Very impressive! Then, after my spectacular entry, and only then, did my son-in-law explain the proper way to mount one of these things. Thanks, Tom!

In short, we had a ball! The boats are maneuverable, extremely stable and glide over water with little resistance. Their durability is impressive and the rigidity at such low pressure has to be seen to be believed. As might be expected, there is a catalogue of accessories for them from rod racks to coolers made to fit in predetermined locations. The boats are not inexpensive and the accessories aren’t either, but they combine to make a tidy, light, packable way to see our beautiful rivers. They are not, however, indestructible. When loading my boat in the back of the truck, we encountered a sharp edge where the roll-down truck bed cover is mounted. It made short work of one of the boats sides, opening a cut eliciting gasps from all in attendance. A quick call to the Bote home office delivered a solution to our carelessness, and these sharp edges will be history when I get to my grinder. Botes are many things, however they demand respect.

Another way to enjoy our rivers! Google “Bote” and look this inflatable over. It is well worth it to not have to take two vehicles to the river to enjoy your own equipment! We’ll see you on the river.

Have a good week!

SR

Sharon and I are country people possessing adaptability. We both came from farm backgrounds, but strongly prefer hard surface roads (infinitely easier to keep your motor equipment spotless) and can be a hazard on the road always looking for wildlife. We live across the road from a farm park, complete with farm animals that make farm animal noise and when the wind is just right, emit farm animals aroma. So it is that we bring a touch of the country to our compound in the form of various bird feeders, in a maple tree in front of my office windows. I admire my birds, here is why.

To discourage black birds and starlings, I have a two feeders, a tube and platform, full of safflower seed. These hard shelled seeds present a problem for long beaked birds as they cannot be easily cracked. These feeders have become a destination stop for a rather large flock of doves and they are a joy to watch. They congregate on nearby rooftops and call gently while I replenish their ration daily. They are patient and oh so polite. Unlike my hummingbirds, which can be testy little guys, the doves will congregate on the ground or in the tree and patiently await their turn. They do not run their neighbors off and readily yield to another bird with grace. I have killed many of these guys in years past and suffered through the indignity of eating them after the hunt. They present a real challenge around a corn field and, regrettably, on the table. I doubt I ever kill another one.

I also have two finch feeders. Now these guys are nervous feeders, industrious, pretty, and armed with voracious appetites. I can see why as they are whirlwinds of activity. I see no signs of territorial instinct in these little guys and love their work ethic. They are not as patient as the doves, nor are they as mean as the occasional starling that drifts in and takes over until he figures out the the impossibility of crushing the safflower seed. As we are equal opportunity hosts, we cater to the occasional cardinal or woodpecker. Both are stately and polite when around the feeders.

Finally, in our backyard we planted a hydrangea tree. It is as round as a bowling ball, has large velvety leaves and presents the perfect place for a robin to build her nest and raise a clutch. Mrs. Robin is the most industrious bird on our property. This tree is fifty feet from our deck and our presence is no longer bothering her. Like any good mother, she seldom ventures far from her responsibilities and is fiercely protective of her nest, which is lined with the soft yellow hair that Tazzy has donated to her nursery. We hope her efforts are rewarded with new robins to add color to the neighborhood.

These little guys get it right. Their peaceful nature is a welcome respite from the viciousness of the world we live in. They know how to mingle without killing each other, willingly share the rewards of the feeders and work hard every day without complaint. One could suggest that I am easily amused, but they would be wrong. My birds have taught me a lot about social order, survival and reasoning on a level we will never understand. The hours at my desk, gazing out at the activity around the feeders has been rewarding. There is a sense of peace and certainty around these guys. As I write there are 6 doves either feeding or waiting, 3 finches sharing the tube and a single Robin searching out earthworms up after the irrigation system shut off.

Peace. We could all use a bit more of it.

Have a great week!

SR

Seventy-nine years ago, give or take a day or so, a B-17 Flying Fortress began a flight into Germany on a bombing run. The airplane was crewed by some of America’s finest generation, young airmen who fully understood the perils of soaring over Germany to further the war effort and bring Hitler and his minions to defeat. The B-17 was a formidable airplane, heavily armed and flown by well trained crew members one of which was a young Missouri Lieutenant named Melvin Meyer. Lt. Meyer had no way of knowing that on this day, he would meet the man about which the Bible in his flight jacket was written. It would be 79 years before the Lieutenant would be buried in his beloved Missouri, with full military honors.

There is a gaggle of individuals who call themselves “History Flight” that work to locate the remains of our servicemen and women killed in combat. After the Lieutenant’s plane went down, his remains were deemed to be unrecoverable, as was the case with so many of our warriors who disappear in the fog of combat. Relying on electromagnetic scanning, high resolution maps and old military maps this group utilizes the latest in technology to locate crash sites and such with the help of archaeologists who are a member of the team. This crash site resulted in the discovery of the complete outline of the bomber with the engines and cockpit clearly discernible. After mapping the location of the aircraft, the archaeologists went to work and recovered both human remains and personal items that led to the identity of Lt. Meyer. Of interest, his Bible was located in a pocket of his flight jacket, oriented over his heart. The Master already knew Lt. Meyer and welcomed him home to that special place in heaven reserved for our warriors.

Lt, Meyer’s burial, so close to Memorial Day, says a lot about our country and our people. We honor those over this long weekend that have died for our country. Sadly, we often lose track of just what the Holiday means. Most Americans have no idea what it is like to awaken on a given day and begin another deadly confrontation with one of our enemies. They will not feel the cold shiver, even on a hot day, that results when you close with an enemy, knowing that one of you is not going to live beyond that moment. This was the day, for so many, that life ended in a blinding flash. It is a character building experience, both humbling and elating when you are the victor. This holiday is about those that did not win their engagement and came home having given that last full measure.

Take a moment over the holiday to say a prayer. In your thoughts to God, mention those that have died guaranteeing you the immense freedoms this country enjoys. Take an extras moment to thank Lt. Meyer…..and welcome him home to Missouri. It is the least we can do.

Have a wonderful weekend and week ahead.

SR

This week we enjoyed a productive trip back to Cleveland, Ohio where a final series of tests indicated I would likely be around for a while longer. We have learned to be efficient in our 750 mile drive to and from the Clinic, establishing our favorite motels and restaurants along the way. My last test on Tuesday ran us a bit late as the doctor wanted to explain the results personally, causing us to leave town later in the day than planned. No problem, we would drive until tired and find a motel along I-70 for a few hours sleep before the final stretch home. This is a risky strategy as we stopped somewhere between our known locations. We found the Bates Motel of movie fame. I’ll explain.

Sharon and I are frequent commenters on both Trip Advisor and Yelp, always candid and never cruel. We have had terrific luck relying on Trip Advisor for recommendations as we tour the country. The commenters on the motel we chose got it wrong, with rave reviews and suggestions of cleanliness and comfort. If ever you have wondered about the concern with AI, our experience here might help, as either the commenters are lying or we are seeing AI at work. We were oblivious as this place had won an award in 2022 on Trip Advisor.

This hotel was far from “quaint” and “showing a little age”. It was decrepit and worn out. I am sharing this experience not to disparage the place, run by a gentleman (Norman Bates?) from a third world country, carefully ensconced behind a glass booth in the “lobby”, as in the end we laughed about the experience. Sharon, Tazzy and I opened the door to our room, under the outdoor stairs, to find a stained white bedspread that was every bit as thick as a sliver of parchment. I hopped down to the office and made my concern known to “Norman”, who smiled and apologized. We were exhausted and decided that if I could survive sleeping in a Vietnamese ditch while being shot at, we could survive a few hours here. The bed was mushy, obviously long overdue for replacement and the A/C was loud enough to cover the sounds of chainsaws and such in the middle of the night. We hopped into bed and attempted to sleep when I asked Sharon if Tazzy was still with us as the crack between the door and jamb was sufficient for him to wiggle through. We laughed about our skills in seeking only the best in accommodations. The toilet was not equipped with seatbelts which it needed to keep from being thrown off into a plastic tub that had been shoehorned into the space reserved for a shower.

We dozed off, I am sure with one eye open. About 1 AM the A/C quit, sparing us the noise but returning the room to a stuffy, humidity laden torture chamber. The ambience was enhanced by the faint odor of sweat and disinfectant. We were both awake. We jumped up, dressed and departed after a leisurely three hours of bliss and hit the road. Honestly, you would need hazmat gear to raze the place, which is obviously indicated. Our adventure was not quite over, though, as we needed fuel.

We stopped at a smaller truck stop where I was met by a lady of the night wearing ONLY a bed sheet, shawl style, hurrying to the restroom while her fiscal analyst waited in the car to hustle her back in service to the parked trucks out back. Time is money to these independent contractors. Sharon also saw this hard working woman and we shared yet another laugh. I-70, in Indiana, is bad but as I live and breathe, it is hell after dark. We made it to St. Louis just after daybreak and coasted home better for the experience.

After Tazzy’s deposit is returned, I intend to provide Trip Advisor with a factual overview of the place, but meanwhile when you are anywhere near Indianapolis, choose your accommodations carefully. There really is a Bates Motel. Our RV never looked better………another lesson in the books!

Have a great week!

SR

Like a lot of folks my age, I am carrying a few extra pounds. As a result of my fondness (really an addiction) to good food, I am meeting new doctors who specialize in metabolic health, the key to longevity. Is it too late? Have I crossed the line causing irreparable damage to my health? Can I reverse the subtle trend that annoy many of us as a result of paying attention to what is good, rather than what is good for us? My recent experiences with a nutritionist and a book that she recommended says yes, there is every reason to believe that it is never too late, until a damning diagnosis occurs. Am I in a position to offer dietary advice to my readers? Nope, I am not. I can however recommend a source of information that should leave you with eyes wide open and a different view of your diet.

The man’s name is Robert H. Lustig, MD, MSL. By training he is a pediatric neuroendocrinologist who is more than up to the task of challenging our food industry, one leg of a deadly three legged stool with Big Pharma and Big Government completing the triad. The man makes a compelling case against processed food and sugar, two foods America loves and that are killing us without firing a shot. We have all been exposed to the evils of processed foods and sugar, but being exposed and having it driven through your heart like a stake in a vampire’s chest are two different things.

Our government is subjected to obscene amounts of money in a food industry lobbying effort second only to the automobile industry. The other culprits are modern medicine which is fixated on symptom relief rather than cures, heredity, and convenience. The Doctor has written two captivating books, “Fat Chance” and his new “Metabolical”. I have read both and have never been more startled than I am after the revelations in his latest, “Metabolical”. What we eat forms the foundation of chronic disease which is not “druggable” but is “foodable”. The evidence is incontrovertible, metabolic disorders are the basis for untold misery in the form of our unprecedented levels of chronic diseases such as diabetes. Our incredible array of processed foods are not just toxic, they are addictive as a result of the sugar infusion designed to make food super palatable in place of the previously condemned fat, a war that should have never been declared. America’s food industry is the enemy of good health, driven by a single word “profit” and they will stop at nothing to achieve their monetary goals. Our Congress is in their pocket and leaving it up to us to cause change. This won’t happen without understanding nutrition, something we take for granted and know little about. Read this book and for the first time in your life, you will get it. With definitive evidence, Lustig demonstrates the relationship between food and our startling increase in chronic, non-infectious disease. Buy the book, read the book and I can guarantee a different outlook on what and how you eat. Lustig lectures internationally and is recognized for his tremendous body of research validated knowledge. His quest is an obsession, and we should thank the Master for folks like him.

The bottom line. “This book will open your eyes to a powerful food industry that is failing at it’s core task”. So says Jeffrey D. Sachs, PhD, professor at Columbia University and president of the United Nations Sustainable Development Solutions Network. “A beautifully written expose’ to a broken system that begs to be repaired”. Kelly D. Brownell, PhD, director of the World Food Policy Center and dean emeritus Sanford School of Public Policy, Duke University.

Don’t take my word for it. Processed food is a charade, and we are wildly anticipating the next sugar laden mix of chemicals, preservatives and crap the food industry is currently conjuring up. It is NOT too late to become knowledgeable and condemn an industry that is serving up the next brightly wrapped convenience for us to enjoy on our way to chronic disease.

Have a great week!

SR

I often write about Missouri, my long adopted state that has so much to offer. It is at the heart of America, where east meets west and north meets south. For folks like me, having spent years on a family farm in South Carolina and again helping Sharon on her family’s farm in central Missouri, it is nearly the perfect location. We enjoy a solid reputation for livestock production and automobile production, two industries that are far apart. We also enjoy a reputation as a state that’s harbors an inordinate number of puppy mills, where the life of a dog means no more than a check for a few dollars, with the pup’s health and welfare secondary to profit. Today, I write about a dog that has a short recorded history, but deserves so much more. A warning is in order….the dog dies.

We don’t, at this point, know the history about the pup in the picture accompanying this article. The Sarcoxie police say she was dumped from a white pickup truck in a convenience store parking lot. She knew the folks that left her bewildered and scared, chasing after them until they drove out of sight. We know, from the photograph, that she had a few years on her, evidenced by the greying muzzle. She was described as a sweet girl by the responding officers. She was alert, staring into the distance, waiting for her family to return. She found her way onto the Interstate, somehow sensing this road was the answer to her abandonment, a way home to the folks who unceremoniously dumped her. Instead, it led to her death.

The responding officers found her badly injured, having been hit by one of the thousands of vehicles that travel on the highway. Sure, she was just another dog on a road, a combination that more often than not leads to death for the pup. The officers made sure she was humanely put down, ending her physical and mental anguish. If you would, consider this piece her eulogy, the least I can do for her. I have never understood folks who dump dogs. My career has seen me removing the collars from many dogs killed on a highway in an effort to locate the owners and let them know where their pet can be found. I have retrieved badly hurt dogs from roadside and taken them to a local vet where care could be provided and in many cases a humane death was their only relief. I will also tell you that I have grown soft in matters involving the critters we are charged with protecting. I walk out of movies where the dog dies. Something about an old trooper with tears streaming down his face just doesn’t add up.

I’ll end with this. This dog shows signs of human interaction and nurturing. She was, after all, trying to locate the treacherous asshats that dumped her. You see, my softer nature does not extend to humans who have no decency. In fact, I damn their callousness and have no regard for them whatsoever.They can quit wondering if someone adopted their pup, she is dead as a result of their inability to fulfill an obligation they made to her at some point in time. The old girl’s suffering is over and she is at the rainbow bridge, waiting to return a loyalty that doesn’t exist. Thank you to the Sarcoxie Police Department for providing her with some dignity in death. She deserved that. The police have indicated they will charge the folks who dumped this pup, so please feel free to share this post. At the bridge, the pup would still lick the hand that dumped her….it is up to us to slap that hand.

SR

He was, by any account, a great kid, the epitome of an all American young man, the middle child in a family of five siblings. He was also a good student, graduating from Lincoln High in Lincoln, Nebraska. Like so many of us back in the ‘60’s he was happiest with his head under the hood of a car, tinkering with stuff to the extent his aptitude and shade tree talents would let him. Endemic to this generation was the smell of scorched rubber at the start of a drag race, a ritual designed to establish a pecking order among the car crazy. It was speed that lured Larry into the military where he earned his wings as an Army aviator, a vocation that routinely resulted in young helicopter pilots being hurried into a jet bound for Vietnam. He was one of those chosen for this duty.

Larry Zich sold the hopped up engine from of his beloved ‘57 Chevy and used the money to buy a ring for his wife, Debbie. They were married in May of 1969. He was on top of the world, a new wife and the new wings of an aviator serving in a war that all thought was a little less intense than the preceding years, but a war never the less. On April 3, 1972, Larry was the co-pilot of a Huey on a routine flight near Quang Tri City in Vietnam. The pilot radioed ground control, indicating they were lost, a not infrequent event in Vietnam as a result of less than stellar maps and before the advent of modern navigational aids such as GPS. Weather was also a factor, resulting in the deaths of more than a few airmen in every war. The crew and passengers were never heard from again. It vanished, without a trace, and the wreckage was never found. Debbie was soon visited by the usual military contingent who explained that Larry was missing in action, a status that she lived with for many years. “Missing” leads to thoughts of captivity as a POW and finally resignation and acceptance of the ultimate fate.

The Army is part of a vast bureaucracy and sometimes things are lost or mistakes are made. In 1988, a Vietnamese immigrant to the US arrived here with an odd souvenir from his war torn youth. He had in his possession a single tooth, part of the remains he recovered from what he described as a terrible helicopter crash back home. The military took possession, but was unable to make an identification from this tooth. Apparently a dental X-ray was misread and the tooth was of no value until October of 2022, when the mistake was discovered and the tooth was identified as one of Larry’s molars. Further forensic analysis confirmed the identity. Debbie, who has since remarried after a lifetime of involvement in missing/pow interests had the answer she needed. This discovery was revealed to her through a television news cast. A shocking closure to a lifetime of wondering. To this day, she says Larry Zich was her first love and that he has been there with her every day of the 51 years since he vanished.

In early June, CWO Larry Zich will be laid to rest, with honors, at the Lincoln Memorial Cemetery. Another patriot who believed in America and who demonstrated his faith in our country with his ultimate sacrifice. The hell that is war is never far from those touched by the experience. It took awhile, Larry, but you are finally back home, where you belong. God bless you sir. I salute your return.

Have a great week.

SR

This past weekend, Sharon and I motored over to Mansfield, Mo. to attend the Baker Creek Heirloom Seed garden show, located a few miles from town on Baker creek. She has shopped there before, each time returning with a couple of their monster cinnamon rolls baked on the premises. Little did I know there would be thousands of folks attending this event from all over the United States. Agriculture is in our blood and we were right at home among the folks who share our interest with gardens, large and small. I was pleasantly surprised at this event and enjoyed the day immensely.

The founder of this seed business, Jere Gettle, began this venture in 1998 as a hobby farm where he doubled down on his boyhood fascination with seed. His expertise and interest soon resulted in the expansion of his heirloom seed business from some 70 variations of seed to well over 10,000 varieties on display in one of his 1.4 million seed catalogs distributed annually. Heirloom seeds are not your genetically modified offering seen today, rather seed with it’s roots going back to the days of the family farm and/or garden. His seed stock includes such delicacies as “French Breakfast” radish seed, dating back to pre-1885 France in origin. His seed is not limited to vegetables, with a bountiful display of flower and herb seed as well. There is a ‘Seed House” on the farm where many of his offerings are on display and can be purchased. He also ships seed world wide, with an international reputation for excellence.

During this show, several country, make that blue grass, bands rotated between two sound stages, replete with bales of straw as seating, wowing the crowd with fingers flying on guitars, violins (fiddles), mandolins and banjos setting the mood with several vocalists singing to this music. I love blue grass and these ensembles did not disappoint. There is a restaurant on the premises serving up country vittles as well as the aforementioned cinnamon rolls, each a meal in themselves. The big attraction was a gorgeous display of tulips, in full bloom, delighting the many camera toting visitors with their color and beauty. The Pioneer Village is relatively small, but well thought our with plenty of room to stroll through the old buildings all built on the site.

There are also a number of green houses for folks to stroll through with guided tours being offered. All of these attractions were free of charge after paying a nominal parking fee, designed to keep the crowd at a manageable level. You were required to purchase your parking permit on-line, as there were no provisions made for drop in crowds. The Ozarks never ceases to amaze me, and this relatively unheralded treasure is yet another reminder of the back to earth nature of the people in this region. Kids were well behaved, as would be expected from mostly rural folks and dogs were welcome, on lead. It was a terrific way to spend the morning and I will certainly plan on attending again next year. The music alone was well worth the drive to Mansfield.

I hope to see you there next year. An hour in this seed house will result in a garden that is the envy of every neighbor within 10 miles, seed as God intended, not altered in a lab somewhere……

Have a great week!

SR

If you are old enough to have seen generational change, you have uttered the words “kids, these days” with an appropriate expletive to complete your thought about folks known as Generation Z-ers or Zoomers. You can be assured that our folks said the same things about us, but there has been no generation delivered into a world of tech, war and instant communication like these kids. For the record, I am referring to kids born between 1972 and 2012.

Conventional wisdom says that first born kids are leaders and scholars, middle born kids are team players, and the youngest child is an irresponsible class clown. So much for pseudo psychology. Can we, though, form generalizations about generations such as the Z-ers and Boomers? Turns out we can.

The Z-ers gave us such terrific pastimes as eating soap (Tide Pods), are thought to have short attention spans, are politically liberal and (gasp) are afflicted with mental health issues. Well, very few ate the pods although a check on their preferred lunch menus would show a taste for healthy stuff as opposed to the carb and fat preferences of folks in my generation. There are, however, generalizations that are applicable.

Z-ers are definitely tech addicted. Instead of a can of snuff imprinting their jeans it is a cell phone. Instead of cute pictures of a car or nature they exchange pictures that would make Hefner blush, all in real time. The information at their fingertips is astounding, with a few keystrokes delivering recipies for nuclear fission or tragedy in real time. (It is worth noting that recent studies show indications the females in this generation are, for the first time, having more sex than males, probably as a result of the instant gratification that instant access to pornography delivers via the smart phone and computer). My generation dreamed of cars, these kids dream of the latest tech fad.

Do the Z-ers have short attention spans? Yes they do. Their spans are in the neighborhood of 8 seconds (seriously) which is 4 seconds less than millennials. This is, again, fueled by tech which delivers information is short, accurate bursts. Now for the bad news. Z-ers are liberals, overwhelmingly. They believe capitalism is declining and their views reflect this on issues such as abortion, marijuana and the protection of LGBTQ “rights”. This propensity toward liberalism, and yes, socialism, is more pronounced in Z women than men. The Z-ERs also are deeply concerned about the health of the planet with “climate change” a top concern. In my generation, climate change would have meant a prediction of thunderstorms tomorrow.

Last up is mental health. These kids were born and have lived in a non-stop era of war on terror. They live with mass school shootings and are more familiar with lock downs than residents of a soviet gulag. Their trust in government is shaky. They resent authority and have a jaundiced view of policing. Service in a uniformed profession is less appealing than ever. Is it any wonder they’re anxious and jittery in general?

In total, this isn’t a bad generation. They are vocal, disrespectful of authority and are in the hands of educators who fuel their anxiety and rebelliousness. They are not failing us, rather we are failing them. It is not that conservatism isn’t a great alternative to liberalism, it is that we have choked off the conservative viewpoint at every turn. This is a generation to watch, tech savvy, anxious and free wheeling. These folks are, indeed, woke broke and very complicated.

Are you doing your part?

Have a great week.

SR