An American in Cairo...and Jefferson City

The story of three American college students recently detained in Egypt was of particular interest to me. One of the students, Derrik Sweeney, is from my hometown. I don't really know Derrik, but he went to high school with my son. Derrik played baseball growing up, but never on any of the team's I coached. I have met his mother on a couple of occasions, but I doubt that she really knows who I am.

As a parent, I was relieved when Derrik was released by Egyptian authorities and allowed to return home. I read many accounts, in the paper and online, about his experiences.

I was saddened, though, by the comments made by other readers on the various news sites. It didn’t matter if I was looking at the websites for Fox News or MSNBC. The majority of comments were along the lines of: “Why do idiots always travel in threes?” and “These young anarchists should have been punished.”  Other commentators assumed these college students were radical socialists “like the Occupy Wall Street crowd.”

When did we reach the point that we want Americans punished in foreign prisons because we “know” they must have been doing something wrong? Just because we can comment immediately online, and make up facts to fit our pre-conceived agendas, does not make it right to do so.

Unfortunately, this is the level of most political discourse in our country nowadays. We argue for the sake of arguing, totally convinced not only in our own righteousness but also in the absolute evil intentions of the opposing side. People around the world are struggling for democracy, and with our rude and impulsive commentary, we give free speech a bad name.

On a personal level, though, as the father of a 19-year-old, I can only imagine what it feels like for Joy and Mike Sweeney to be able to hug and hold their son once again.

You Never Forget Your First Dog

I grew up in a fairly large family—5 kids, one bathroom. I was 9 years younger than my nearest sibling, Sue.  When I was 3, we moved from St. Louis to Jefferson City. About a year later, my parents promised me a dog.

I can’t remember asking for one, but I must have.  Why else would parents add a dog to such a crowded house?

I remember the day I got Jerri. She was a tiny pup, black with a patch of white on her chest. When I held her, she melted into me. I fell in love instantly. Jerri was a gift from my father’s best friend and cousin, Jerry Walther—hence her name.

My father was out of town that day and I couldn’t wait to show him MY puppy. After what seemed like forever, I saw the white Ford station wagon pull up in front of our house.

Dad got out of the Galaxy, walked around and opened the tailgate. Out popped a large, hyperactive, hound that lumbered next to him as he walked toward me. I was horrified and wondered what this creature was doing at my house.

It turns out that Dad had no idea his friend had found a puppy for me. While traveling through Southern Missouri that day, Dad had come across someone that had a dog they were happy to be rid of (or at least that is how I remember it).

The hound, already named Patsy, never had a chance. She was bigger than me. She was hyperactive and Ritalin was not prescribed to dogs in 1964. But most of all, she wasn’t Jerri. Obviously, Patsy had to go, and she did.

Jerri had been described as a “pocket beagle”—supposedly she was a dog that should remain small enough to fit in your pocket.  In reality, she could not be described as anything other than a mutt, a sweet and loveable mutt.

In my memories, she was always by my side. Many of the photographs from my childhood include her. Once my sisters dressed me up in a topcoat and hat. In the black and white picture, there is Jerri , on her hind legs, reaching her fronts paws up toward me, with her tongue curled, trying to lick me. Jerri was my best friend.

Alas, as I grew up, she became less and less of my focus even though I still loved her immensely. The summer before I left for college, she approached me one day, limping and with an unrecognizable expression on her face. It was clear something was wrong.

Dr. Burgess said she had a stroke and he kept her for observation. When my mom approached me the next day, I already knew what she was going to say.

In a strange way, I found it easier to leave for college that fall, knowing that Jerri was gone. A part of me had felt guilty knowing I would be leaving my friend behind. When I look back now, I realize that the average lifespan of a dog is the time it takes a child to grow up. Jerri left when her work was done.

Every Dog has its Day

This past Saturday, Jesse and I went to a Cardinals game for the first time in 3 years. It turned out to be a "pooches at the park" day sponsored by Purina. Hundreds of dogs were dressed in Cardinals gear. All breeds--from Great Danes to Chihuahaus--were lined up nose-to-rear, waiting to get to their assigned sections.


Here are a few photos: