The Interpreted Rock

I recently read an article in the Chicago Tribune about a family's experience with a census worker. It reminded me of the experience I had last year. While we did mail in our census sheet that came in the mail, there was some bureaucratic mix up and they sent a worker to our house. I need to say up front that I understand the need for a National Census. There are political as well as financial consequences attached to the census that seriously impact communities and citizens of this great country. I also think that some of the questions on the census are "politically" motivated and unnecessary. My "trust" in the "Federal Law" sited on the census sheet that protects our privacy is a bit suspect when the Federal Government appears to pick and choose which Federal Laws it decides to enforce. This story is really more about "Character" and "Competence" of those dispatched to collect the data as well as those who provide their tr...

I hope this post can assist those burdened with being raised by an addicted parent to understand some of the characteristics of Children of Alcoholics . It is only if we are unafraid of the truth, will we find it. Alcoholism in the home has long-lasting effects. Children of alcoholics often learn to cope with an unhappy childhood in ways that causes problems for them later in life. If you were raised by a parent who struggles with substance abuse, learning how alcoholism affected your past can help you build a better future. Childhood Characteristics, Beliefs and Patterns Children of alcoholics often act in one of the following ways • Become super-responsible, like a miniature adult • Become a trouble-maker • Become able to adjust to any change, without noise or fuss • Become a family clown or peacemaker, smoothing over troubles Children of alcoholics often believe they are all alone, that no other families have these problems or that it is up to them to cure the pare...

By Stephen C. Schultz "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." —George Santayana (1863–1952), U.S. philosopher, poet The breeze blew briskly against my face as the tree limbs swirled in the ever-changing currents of air. A group of us—Kena, Andrea, Erin, Chad, Matt, Shawn, and I—were walking down a street in Philadelphia, heading to Independence Hall in the City of Brotherly Love. The streets bustled with the energy of the inner city. Elderly women walked arm in arm, shopping bags in hand, window-shopping as they strolled. A young man with gold teeth, baggy pants, and his baseball cap turned sideways leaned against the corner of a building, talking on a payphone. (I noticed this because, in a time when almost everyone has a cell phone, it looked unusual.) Others sat at small round tables on the sidewalk outside cafés and bistros, laughing and discussing life’s experiences with friends and family. The constant hum of cars and trucks, exhaust billow...

By Stephen C. Schultz It was a warm summer morning in Eugene, Oregon. At 5 years old, I was hoping to spend the day on my bicycle. The gold Schwinn Stingray with the “Slick” rear tire was something to behold. I went around to the back of the house to get my bike. As I approached, my heart sunk. The rear tire on the bike was flat. I went back in the house to ask mom if I could walk my bike down to the gas station on the corner of 32nd Ave and Hilliard Street. There was a nice guy that worked there and he often helped me put air in my tires. My mom said, “That's fine…be sure to look out for traffic.” So, off I went down Harris Street walking my bike. My arms were out stretched about shoulder height, hands on the handles, walking on the left side of the bike. When I approached 32nd Ave, I turned left and headed down the hill. It wasn’t a steep hill, but there was a pretty good slope. The bike started to roll faster than I could keep up. I picked up the pace and started joggi...