Monday, August 1, 2011

"no" confidence in U.S. banks

http://wwwspirit-in-sky-paul.blogspot.com/2011/05/he-is-me.html


Blessings ripple when you share your heart
To those who are lost upon life's path.
Share your time, your love and your compassion
With someone who is facing a difficult situation.
Then let God do the rest
And you will be richly blessed.
For those around you will also find
That they are blessed because you took the time
To hold their hand when they were scared
And you prayed for them in their time of despair.
Now isn't that truly amazing
That God gives both of you His blessing.
That's how blessings ripple my friend.
Once you start sharing there is no end
To the blessings you receive from heaven above
And it all begins when you take the time to
share God's love.

Gail is a friend I met over the Internet. She lives with her
husband and children in Canada.


spirit-in-sky-paul-1.








An improbable meeting with a future major league baseball great and
Not Appropriate for “polite” conversation

I know not what you did last night or this morning. And, that is okay because it really is none of my business.

There is no shortage of euphemisms to convey this point of view: children are to be seen but not heard; mind your manners; you are entitled to your opinion, as I am to mine; etc

Renewal, rebirth, hope and spring are in the air. But these are to be found mostly in our Faiths. We are invited to express ourselves freely in matters of religion and politics. How freely, is almost continually, debated.

In the 1950s, the emerging middle class, aspirants to the middle class and middle America widely believed that certain subjects, namely politics and religion, were “off-limits” in “polite” conversations. Exchanging recipes and talking baseball were generally accepted as being fair game for “polite” disagreements. My recipe/team is superior to yours (although yours our nearly as good).

In the early 1960, manners in general and “polite” conversations in particular were increasingly under attack as cover-ups for hiding infringement upon basic freedoms of expression. By the mid-60s, the country was literally splitting apart. The great under and over 30 year olds divide. Trust no one over 30 versus kids nowadays are nothing but spoiled rotten, ungrateful brats. To political and religious divisions was added a third rail, baseball.

One evening in August 1964 stands out as a personal benchmark for me against the macro backdrop I have briefly sketched out above. I was 21 at the time and considered myself to be political aware. I had followed politics even in my pre-teen days, and volunteered in JFK’s presidential campaign when in HS. I believed that as a country we were committed to delivering on promises of equity and justice for all. And, why not? I had not, personally, encountered anything less. (except, over-looking the obvious; I was white and male). I shared in the numbing sorrow of President Kennedy’s assassination but held onto the belief that this was an aberration.

I would be graduating with a BA from S.F. State in June of next year and applying to law schools. I came so awfully close to being drafted and sent to Vietnam. But my political awareness came second to keeping my eyes squarely fixed on “my” ball and moving forward.

I would continue to see as many games as I could at Candlestick Park. Watching from the ice locker of left field, as Mays, McCovey, Cepada, the Alou brothers whacked on. I vaguely remember an “issue” of racial treatment by then coach Alvin Dark. But my own life was speeding up and my full attention was beginning to focus entirely on one person beside my self.

And, so it comes to that evening in San Jose of 1964 at San Jose State. I was there to pick up a girl that I had seen once before and even that was briefly. We were to meet at her apartment with a couple roommates and there dates. We would then, as a group walk over to watch the opening game of the football team. As people gather in the apartment, I am the elder at 21. The rest are fresh from HS graduation and are 18; my date was to become 18 in a week. Upon seeing and being with my date I was transported. I did not then drink, smoke or do drugs. But if a spaceship landed and my date wanted to board, I would join her without further thought. Of the six to eight other people in the apartment, only one do I remember speaking to. He introduced himself to me as, Bobby; Bobby Bonds. He was, like the rest, 18 (born March 1946). He exuded a presence that was palpable. And, indelible.

Fast forward, four years to 1968. Bobby would be playing in the S.F. Giants outfield along side Willie Mays. In his career spanning more than 20 years, he hits 300+ HR; had 1,000+ RBI; 3 X, GG. One of his children is Barry Bonds. Willie Mays is Barry’s god-father. Bobby died in August of 2003.

In 1968, I was an expectant father and married to my date of that August night in 1964.
Liza Zacherl Servelle was born August 27, 1946. The mother of our two young children, she died in an accident in July 1975 that also claimed the lives of our two daughters

In 1968, war in Vietnams continued claiming lives of young Americans and Vietnamese of all ages and would continue to do so until 1975.

In 1968, demonstrations continue to grow as does violence of all kinds. Martin Luther King, Jr. is killed. Robert “Bobby” Kennedy is killed. The whole world is watching as Chicago police fire on demonstrators. Ghettos in major cities across the country are aflame.

In 1968, Nixon is elected and escalates the war in Vietnam and attacks on demonstrators at home.

In 1968, the age divide hardens. The young rejecting everything of their parents: from dress to music to drugs to morals. And, over 30 side become ever more buttoned down and imposing whatever punishment they can against the “law-breakers” (often their own sons and daughters.

Turning back to my opening: I know not what you did last night or this morning. And, that is okay because it really is none of my business.

I now wonder, just what is my business.






Jeff Madrick’s Age of Greed: The Triumph of Finance and the Decline of America, 1970 to the Present is an attempt to chronicle the emergence and persistence of this pattern.


The first thing you need to know about the cycle of financial overreach, crisis, and bailout is that it was not always thus. The United States emerged from the Great Depression with a tightly regulated financial sector, and for about forty years those regulations were enough to keep banking both safe and boring. And for a while—with memories of the bank failures of the 1930s still fresh—most people liked it that way.



Over the course of the 1970s and 1980s, however, both the political consensus in favor of boring banking and the structure of regulations that kept banking safe unraveled. The first half of Age of Greed describes how this happened through a series of personal profiles.



The nation's five largest mortgage servicers -- Bank of America, JPMorgan Chase, Wells Fargo, Citigroup and Ally Financial -- have also been the focus of a federal investigation into whether the banks defrauded taxpayers in their handling of foreclosures

The recession might be officially over, but American views toward the institutions that brought the economic system close to collapse have never been worse.



According to a new poll by Gallup, 36 percent of Americans now say they have "very little" or "no" confidence in U.S. banks, the highest percentage on record since Gallup first started tracking that data. Those saying they have a "great deal" or "quite a lot" of confidence in banks has also stagnated, stuck at 23 percent for the second straight year, after falling to a low of 22 percent in 2009.



Gallup, who has been tracking confidence in banks for over thirty years now, notes the steady decline of confidence in their release, pointing out that 60 percent of Americans had at least "quite a lot" of confidence in banks in 1979. That fell to 30 percent in the early 1990s, but then steadily rose to 53 percent in the mid-200s.

The percentage of Americans with a good deal of trust in banks has been nearly halved since 2007:

But we could also be talking about 1991, when the consequences of vast, loan-financed overbuilding of commercial real estate in the 1980s came home to roost, helping to cause the collapse of the junk-bond market and putting many banks—Citibank, in particular—at risk. Only the fact that bank deposits were federally insured averted a major crisis. Or we could be talking about 1982–1983, when reckless lending to Latin America ended in a severe debt crisis that put major banks such as, well, Citibank at risk, and only huge official lending to Mexico, Brazil, and other debtors held an even deeper crisis at bay. Or we could be talking about the near crisis caused by the bankruptcy of Penn Central in 1970

There are times when it is good to stop moving, acting, thinking and just be still and quiet...soon your path will be revealed.

An All But Empty Tool Box

When all you have in your tool-box is a hammer, everything begins
to look like a nail…


Due to the vagaries of life, I have been a primary care giver for two sets of biological children.

My first years were 1969 - 1975. My first child was a daughter born in 1969. I was a graduate student and part-time college instructor. These years were during the counter-culture period. A Dad and his daughter were viewed as trend setters and breaking new ground. It was assumed that I would be a model for male parenting for the future.

My second period began in 1994 with the birth of my third child and first son. At age 51 I was almost always mistaken as the grandfather. As a grandfather with a feminine touch and therefore a welcome and admired addition.

You’ve probably heard the phrase “driving while black,” which refers to a perception that black drivers are more likely to be stopped by cops. This was whispered in the African-American community for years before it broke out into the wider cultural conversation and was gradually validated by empirical studies.

Similarly, stay-at-home dads have whispered for years about feeling unfairly targeted for "parenting while male," and recently their concerns have started to get mainstream attention.

In last week's Wall Street Journal, Free-Range Kids author Lenore Skenazy explored what happens when “when almost any man who has anything to do with a child can find himself suspected of being a creep.”

At some point, though, I realized being a full-time father was my role and that’s what my wife and kids needed more so than a paycheck. Once I reached this mindset, what other mothers thought of me didn’t matter anymore. I just did the best I could, and tried to be as charming as possible. In a way, it turned the tables because most of these mothers had insecurities of their own in their role.

I think that’s the best answer. Just do the best you can. Love your kid shamelessly, and don’t hold back. Reach out and build relationships. Be a big boy and rise above the playground squabbles—hard as it may be. The kids—and the country—will be better off for it.

“It’s clear dads have become much more hands-on when it comes to parenting. From cooking meals to driving the kids to soccer practice, dads have been consistently taking on increased roles at home. Here at Salary.com, we see fathers as versatile workers who perform a myriad of day-to-day jobs that would make them attractive and valuable to any employer.”

Just in time for Father’s Day, Salary.com has released an intriguing survey of 1,074 stay-at-home and working dads.
This year’s survey found stay-at-home dads work an average of 52.9 hours a week. Factoring in base pay plus overtime, these dads would earn $60,128 a year. Working fathers would be paid $33,858 a year after spending 30.6 hours a week on parenting duties. And that’s on top of working an average of 44 hours a week at their day jobs.
The survey was in part motivated by the 154,000 American men who became stay-at-home dads last year.

But how about we start giving dads the love they deserve

The majority of the men responding reported that they spent at least 30 hours a week as primary caregiver. Twenty-four percent claimed they had been refused entry to a playground or playgroup, while a majority had felt they had been criticized by other parents in public. Most also felt this treatment was based on the fact that they were male.

If these men, who are not only fathers on the playground, but coaches, role models, and mentors, too—if these men are prevented from being human in this way, what is that teaching the children about the role men play in their lives? A society that believes in gender equality should recognize the importance of men as well as women in raising kids. As more and more men take on the traditional homemaker’s role, we are going to see a lot more dads at mom’s groups. Moms, you’re going to have to make room. But this is a good thing.

I am Paul in Spirit-in-sky-Paul. I write stories about my memories of growing up.

At 68, I have accumulated a very large store of memories. I was born '43 in Sequoia Hospital in Palo Alto, CA. Until age 6 or so, I lived with my book-ending sisters...1 18 mo. older, the other, 15 mo. younger. For our 1st 3 or 4 years, we thought of ourselves as one person with 3 identities.






BRENDA--HART GIRL NUMBER FOUR


I was nearly nine when Brenda was born
A fourth little girl now in our home.
How thrilled we were, except for Dad
He wanted a boy really bad.

He did, however, accept her with grace
and fell in love with her smiling face.
She was a very wonderful child
Always smiling and her manner was mild.

After a little more than a year
Our family had weeks of nothing but fear.
Fear that Brenda would not survive
As we asked God to let her live.

Brenda had just begun to walk
And make pleasant sounds as she tried to talk.
Now she could no longer move
This little girl that we all love.

We couldn't even hear her cry
So we prayed and prayed to God on high.
The diagnosis came - oh, what a blow
You see, they said she had polio.

They took her away - it seemed so unfair
But she needed to get therapeutic care.
I guess I finally understood.
But, I wanted to see her - if only I could.

Each Sunday, Mom and Dad would go
Hoping to bring her home.
But the therapy was very slow
And they returned home alone.

After nearly a year, progress was made
Those memories will never fade.
My little sister had finally returned
The homecoming for which we all yearned.

Surgeries and braces she faced for years
Her continued therapy had us all in tears.
All those discomforts, God used as a tool
In order that Brenda could start school.

She did very well - an excellent student
Even skipped sixth grade - she is so prudent!
At age 16 she became a high school grad
How could we any longer be sad!!!

She started work in a five and dime
Brenda wasn't one to waste her time.
Working there meant being on her feet.
Nine months of this without defeat.

A position in the medical field was to be
Transcribing records for many MDs.
She completed her work with lots of pride
We all are able in her to confide.

Brenda and Mom were very close
On each other they came to depend
But Mom died and Brenda lost...
not just her Mom, but her very best friend.

After thirty-five years, Brenda did retire
She is taking care of our Dad.
He's eighty-six and a little senile
Her strength I wish I had.

With the faith, love and loyalty
That I see in my sister, my friend
I know our God is with her
And will be to the end.

© 1997, by Betty Hart Lynn
Betty is my sister and lives in South Dakota with her husband.
She has 3 children and 5 grandchildren.

I have carried in my soul a memory of a shooting star gracefully
flashing across the mid-night sky....she of amazing grace in movement
belie the secret she hides...just happy to be alive...her smile radiant
as she tosses those pompoms into the air. Me too full of myself would hide
my true feelings of wonder with "my isn't she terrific" stare.
How was she to know, how I secretly prayed, that the day she bought me
as her slave, would be just the first day we would be this way.
Why now do tears spill from my eyes...it is far from easy to live
a life of borrowed emotions that cannot allow you to totally there.
Why is it so difficult too share a friendship with you, dear Brenda,
whose wish it was, too just be there.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

SOMEONE SPECIAL

You're someone special, Brenda Joyce Hart,
A unique branch of our family tree.
So far back as my mind can remember
You've always been my "Aunt Brenie".

But even more than being my Aunt
You've been so much more to me.
You've been a shining example
Of what a Christian should be.

You've been given many challenges in your life
From braces to casts to canes.
I know it couldn't have been easy
And yet the strength of your spirit remained.

I'm sure there were times when your faith faltered
And yet you didn't let it show.
You continued to be a blessing to your family
Someone we were proud to know.

If I were to draw a picture of your faith, Aunt Bren,
I'd start with a tall oak tree.
It's many branches and leaves make it so beautiful
But there'd be more to my picture you see.

There'd be deep roots that stretch way down in the soil.
These roots would represent your faith.
The soil would be your relationship with God
And together they would account for your strength.

I love who you were, I love who you are,
And I love who you're going to be
As God continues to do a work in your life,
You'll grow even more special to me.

© 1994, by Karen Fox Stroupe
Karen is my niece and lives in Pennsylvania with
her husband and daughter.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

SAFE IN HIS GRIP

I am safe in His Grip
As I travel down life's road.
Confident that God is with me
No matter where I go.

I am safe in His Grip,
Even when I am in the pit of despair.
He enables me to climb out
When I am overcome with fear.

I am safe in His Grip
When my health is slowly fading...
He comforts me with Words
That are soothing and uplifting.

I am safe in His Grip,
When the winds of life blow hard.
He surrounds me with His Love
As I travel down life's path.

I am safe in His Grip,
When happiness beams down on me.
My heart explodes with gratitude
As I think of how much He loves me.

© 2000 by Gail Parks
Gail is a friend I met over the Internet. She lives with her
husband and children in Canada. She wrote this poem for me
because I always sign my messages with
In His Grip, Brenda
http://vimeo.com/27277771