The Poor Letter X

I feel a little sorry for the letter X. Of course it’s as well known as its more popular brothers and sisters, but poor old X just doesn’t have much of a home.

I was flipping through my mom’s dictionary the other day. She’s into this word game with her friend Joanne. It’s called Quiddler. It’s sort of like Scrabble, but you play with cards. Anyway, you declare words and lay down cards when you have them and your opponent can check your words to see if they indeed exist.

My mom said there is a word xi. Now my mom has taught me the art of speaking with authority as a way to convince someone of your accuracy (even when you could be bluffing). Because I am on to her game, I had to look up the word to be sure myself. Sure enough, xi is a real word. According to Webster’s, not only is xi the 14^th letter of the Greek alphabet (I should have known that I suppose but I was never in a fraternity), it is also an unstable element of the baryon family existing in negative and neutral charged states, with masses respectively 2585 and 2572 times the mass of an electron.

And that’s the thing about X, most of the words are so obscure that no one ever uses them. Oh sure, you’ve got x-ray and its derivatives (x-ray astronomy, x-ray diffraction, etc.) which account for 9 of the X words. And you’ve got your xylophone, the percussion instrument made of different sized wooden bars. It’s a very pretty sounding instrument, we had one when we were kids. But all of the rest of the X words are almost never really used in conversation – unless you’re some kind of scientist I suppose. But without x-ray and xylophone, what would we even be able to put on the picture alphabet cards in our early childhood classrooms? And when you read the definition of many of the X words, you have to look up even more words in those definitions to understand them. That's not really fair.

When was the last time you used xanthic in casual speech? It has a red squiggly line under it for goodness sakes. Doesn’t my Mac realize that xanthic means of, relating to, or tending toward a yellow color? Or how about xanthrochroi? (Another squiggly red line, by the way.) It’s a noun meaning white persons having light hair and fair skin. Could you possibly see xanthrochroi on an alphabet card in a Kindergarten classroom? Believe me, that is one of the only likely contenders for the ABC cards compared to the rest of the X’s.

I am not sure that X should even have regular letter status. It’s more like a letter-territory than a letter-state. Or maybe a letter-district, as in the District of Columbia. It is certainly there holding down the 24^th spot in the alphabet, but is it really a letter? I mean even Rhode Island has people in it. When I counted, X only started 84 different words and some of them are sort of cheating words like Xe (for the element Xenon – that’s an abbreviation, right?) and xing – marked with the letter X. Those are not even really definitions. And X-mas (probably the third most commonly used “word” for X) is only a lazy person’s (or non-Christian’s) way of writing Christmas. And Xerox is really a proper noun like Kleenex or Tampax (hey, 2 more words with x’s), but it had to make it into the dictionary because there just are so few X’s. They have to put something on those one-and-one-quarter pages.

So here’s a little quiz for you. I’ll give you 5 words with definitions. See how many you can match up.

(A) – xeric (B) – xiphosuran (C) – xylan

(D) - xylophagous (E) – xylotomous

1. 1) 1) feeding on or in wood

2. 2) 2) a yellow gummy pentosan, abundantly present in plant cell walls

3. 3) 3) any of an order of arthropods, comprising the horseshoe crabs and extinct related forms

4. 4) 4) requiring only a small amount of moisture

5. 5) 5) capable of boring or cutting wood.

I guess we’re so used to having those precious 26 that it would seem silly to demote poor old X just because it really doesn’t have many members. Thank goodness for xylophone and x-ray. But just think how cool it would be to have 25 REAL letters in the alphabet. 25 is a perfect square (5 x 5). It’s a quarter of a hundred. Everyone can remember 25. It’d be like having the 50 states. I’m just saying.

(A) = 4 (B) = 3 (C) = 2 (D) = 1 (E) = 5

Trust

I have come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element in the classroom. It’s my personal approach that creates the climate. It’s my daily mood that makes the weather. As a teacher I possess tremendous power to make a child’s life miserable of joyous. I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration. I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal. – Hiam Ginott –

I was walking around in our computer lab at school while my third grade students were taking a standardized test on the computers. It was a really hard test. Math. If the kids did well on a few problems, it took them to a higher level - sets of problems that were way over their heads. I think there was around 50 problems altogether. It is the kind of situation that is frustrating at best and could easily make you crazy.

The concentration among the children was amazing. Breathtaking really, considering what we were asking them to do. What I was asking them to do. While there were a few audible sighs, a lot of stretching and looking around to relieve eye stress, no one whined. No one complained. No one fussed or questioned why they had to go through this.

I wrote about this before, and I continue to be humbled by the trust kids have in teachers.

Day after day we give them exercises and projects. We teach them algorithms and facts. We ask them to read the stories that we choose and to write how we want them to write. They go by our schedule, use the restroom and go to lunch and recess when we say. We ask them to be quiet at certain times, and then insist they share what they are thinking with the group.

When I reflect on it my plans, no matter how open-ended and full of choice – are still THE plans for the day. “Boys and girls, it’s time to clean up… Let’s get our Charlotte’s Web books out and meet up front… Don’t forget to write down your homework… You guys, I need your attention…”

That must be the rhythm. Someone must be in charge. But there is a level of trust from kids that is so complete. It’s true for parents too. No one gets to choose me as his or her child’s teacher. They take who they get. I was lucky in that our sons were in the classrooms of our best friends, teachers we knew to be professional, caring individuals. But my kids’ parents don’t know me from Adam when their child ends up in room 104.

So here we were in this somewhat ridiculous testing situation, with the kids working so hard, pushing a boulder up a hill as Sisyphus did, only to have it roll to the bottom again when they got challenging questions correct. When we reached the room afterwards it was just a normal day to them. “Can we read The Wizard of Oz? How much time before lunch? Can we publish some of our memoirs?” They were all just fine. I didn’t make a big deal of it, we just forged ahead and taught and learned and talked and shared as we always do.

It was another reminder of how much power teachers have in the day-to-day lives of kids. I try very hard to keep that trust in mind and never take it for granted.

Notes to the Teacher

I am not out of school very often. I take a couple days off every few years to go to a conference. It is rejuvenating. I took a personal day last year when my brother Dan came into town on a Friday. But other than those, I don’t remember taking a day off school. For years.

I am not tooting my own horn. I have been blessed with good health. I have been able to schedule doctor visits after school and during vacations. I had a pretty serious health scare summer before last, but I didn’t have to miss any school.

For one thing, writing substitute plans is a pain. I don’t really teach from textbooks, so I can’t just say to turn the page in the teacher’s edition (you know, the book with all the answers) and do what comes next. It’s fairly hands on, the way we teach and learn at my school. There are lots of conversations and lots of exploration and sharing out. It is a challenge to get that kind of thing down in writing for a sub.

I get an occasional cold or sinus infection, but I cover the symptoms and tough it out. I’m not a tough guy; it’s just that it’s not all that easy on the class – and definitely not that easy on me.

But the other day I went to NC to see my mom who has not been feeling that great. It turned out that she had an important doctor’s appointment on Monday and I wanted to be there with her for it. So, I arranged for a substitute and discussed it with my intern, Trina. I called school around 10:30 from my mom’s and the secretary put me through to the room. I talked to the children on the speakerphone. It was fun and I felt good knowing that the kids were in good humor and in good hands.

When I got to school the next morning I was earlier than usual. I hadn’t slept great the night before and so I was in a bit of a haze. The room was tidy. The chairs were still up on the tables so the custodian could vacuum effectively. Even my own table, usually messy, was tidied up. It was good to be back.

There, right where I usually sit, was a pile of notes the children had written to me while I was gone. OK, it wasn’t on the lesson plans, but as I sat down to read, I could tell that it was time well spent…

I hope that your mother is feeling better! I really miss you today but you are probably helping your mother right now... I give you good wishes for your mother… It’s not the same in this classroom without you. I really hope that your mom feels better. It’s important to you so it’s important to me… I know what you must be feeling. I’ve felt that way before… I really miss you a lot. When you get back, let us know how your mom is doing, OK? I don’t think O-Ball [our homemade version of dodge ball/capture the flag] will be as fun as it is with you. I miss you so much that I think I want to cry… If your ma feels better then I know you will feel better… I missed you today and I want you to come back soon. Trick-or-Treat, smell my ____ What comes next?... We missed you today, a lot! I think it’s OK that you were out because your mother is sick. I don’t want to leave you at the end of this year. We love you sooooo much!... I missed you a lot. And I wish you were here. It is sad that you’re gone but you’ll be back tomorrow and I’ll see you again, but I miss you!... I miss you soooo much. I want you to come back. You’re a good son but I can’t handle one more day without you…

Almost every one of these little notes was signed with the most important word of all.

Love.

And, I think they meant it. I certainly love them. And they know it. No one was sucking up. They were sincere.

You know, not every day is an awesome day. There are afternoons after school when I am plum worn out. I get cross sometimes. And demanding. And sarcastic. I have my faults. We all do. But I always feel like a lucky guy to be doing just what I am doing. Who else gets to hang around and think deeply about real important stuff with a big old group of best friends?

I am blessed. And I am loved.

The Hat

I wrote this little piece a couple of years ago when my third grade class was working on memoir.

It was gray when I woke up; misty, foggy, cool – no, cold. Not a great day for the beach. It was chilly and gusty. The kind of day that made my ears ache when I went swimming. Michigan City, Indiana. 1968. I was 11 years old.

In early summer the downtown area was home to a bazaar, a fancy name for giant sidewalk/garage sale. All of the shops had racks and shelves of bargains outside. People were invited to bring their used clothing and household items and set up tables to sell their wares.

My mom was a bargain hunter. With seven children she had to be. My brothers and sisters decided to stay home that day. I’m sure they had better things to do. I wanted to go with my mom.

This was the kind of day my brothers and sisters loved to swim. There was a cold northwest wind blowing and the waves on the beach would be enormous, way over my head. I loved these days as well. There was danger involved in swimming these waves. They towered over you, threatening to squash you into the sand if you didn’t catch them just right. If you went out too far, the undertow could snatch you up and pull you out.

This latter danger was for people who didn’t grow up on the beach. Almost every day that the wind whipped up from the northwest during swimming season someone along the beach would be swept away. Chicago, Gary, Miller Beach, Porter Beach, the Indiana Dunes State Park, Beverly Shores, Michigan City. We would read about it in the paper, occasionally see a helicopter flying by on these days. When we did we knew someone had probably died. We pretty much knew what we were doing. We never ventured out far. Still there was the danger.

As for being smashed into the sand if we didn’t get on top of the waves we were body surfing, that happened all the time and we routinely walked back into the house with bad scrapes and sand rashes from this hazard. Those wounds were all right. Those scabs would become badges of bravery.

I got ear aches on these days. I could have worn ear plugs but that would be a sissy thing to do. So I chose to go with my mom to the sidewalk sale. With six brothers and sisters, I didn’t get much time alone with her anyway so this would be my chance.

The bazaar was very busy. Vendors, crowds of people, the smell of sausages and popcorn, laughing, bargaining, little kids clinging to their mothers’ dresses, occasional babies crying. Teenagers, parents, old people.

My mom let me wander around by myself for a while. There was a huge clock tower so, even though I didn’t have a watch, I could see to meet her at noon. I only had a quarter with me so I was just looking. I’ve always been intrigued by crowds, always been a people watcher even as a kid.

There was a table of old used clothes in front of St. Anne’s church. They were musty and wrinkled and piled on the tables not folded neatly or hung on racks as the clothes were in front of the stores. The poorer people were drawn to this area because the prices were so low. There seemed to be something for everybody. They were practically giving the clothes away.

One old man was wandering between the rows of tables. I’m not sure why I was drawn to him especially. He was one of so many. But I watched him carefully for the next few minutes. His clothes were very worn. Gray pants frayed at the cuffs and pockets. They were pleated pants. My mom would have called them trousers. He wore a tired old jacket which could not have kept him warm on this chilly day. His fancy old dress shoes were terribly worn. He needed a shave. His cheeks and throat were covered with short gray stubble.

His head must have been cold. It was early summer, but that northwest wind… He was very bald and the gray fringe that surrounded his head was shaggy and blew in the cold gusty wind. He could have used a hat.

I wished that he had newer clothes. In those few moments that our paths crossed I felt sad for him. I’m not sure why I remember him after all of this time, after all the years and distance; his windblown hair, his disheveled yet somehow classic clothes, his stubbly cheeks and the smile lines around his eyes. I don’t think I could pick him out of a lineup after all this time, but I remember the feel of him.

It was chilly. His head, shiny on top, was blotchy from the cold. He must have been freezing with his threadbare jacket and his thin, worn pants.

As he walked down the long tables in what I thought of as the poor peoples’ section in front of the church, he would pick up one item then another. He would pick up a woman’s scarf, turn it over in his hands and, almost as if he were having a conversation with himself, would shake his head and return it to its place at the table.

Finally he came to an area on one table with hats. There were stocking caps and baseball style caps, earmuffs and old fashioned felt hats like the one my dad wore to church. The old man stopped at these, meticulously searching through them for just the right one.

Why was I concerned about him finding the right hat? I had never seen him before, would probably never see him again. But I was mesmerized, silently urging him to find something comfortable to warm his bald head.

He picked up a gray felt hat with a wide brim. Is it called a fedora? He tried it on and it fit snugly. He sort of swiped his hand around the brim in an automatic gesture. I had seen people do that kind of thing in movies. They were rich people or gangsters.

The hat looked great on him. A lady at the end of the table was eying him suspiciously. She had a gray metal box in front of her – the money box. Perhaps she thought he would walk away with the hat without paying for it. The old man didn’t look at her. I could tell that he was pleased with the hat. He had this dreamy faraway look in his eyes like he was remembering something from long ago. His fingers went around the brim again. He smiled a small stubbly smile, a satisfied smile, the smile of a younger man. It was the look of one who has found a jewel.

The money lady continued to glare at the little man. He reached up and took the hat off. There was a little piece of masking tape on the band inside the hat. A price tag. I couldn’t make it out but the man stared at it unbelieving. I could see his disappointment.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. All change. It surely wasn’t enough. I could tell by the look on his face. I wanted to buy it for him. I only had a quarter. It wouldn’t help much.

With a look of quiet disappointment and even embarrassment the old man put the hat back on the table - slowly, almost reverently. His shoulders drooped and he shuffled softly away. The money lady smirked.

All these years later I wonder why the image of the old man stays with me. Certainly I have witnessed sadder moments. On the news. In the papers. In books. So many tragic stories with greater magnitude. Why this man? So long ago and so far away.

Perhaps in a way this little story has served to make me aware of the small sufferings all around me. Perhaps this little memory reminds me of all the rich blessings in my own life. I pray that I never take them for granted.

I Believe In Music

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.

Aldous Huxley

Music must be the purest form of human endeavor. Think about it. We take an empty space and silence (or at least quiet) and fill it with sound, the only purpose for which is to make something pleasant, to share emotion. It marks our lives in such a way that we can be taken back into our pasts in just a few measures of a song. Music is truly the universal language. It brings very different people together – for good. Music touches this healthy emotional core of many of us. It allows us to express feelings that are difficult to express any other way. There are songs that inspire, songs of praise and worship, protest songs, love songs and lullabies. Songs are sung at birthdays, weddings and funerals. What would our lives be like without it?

From the time children are quite little, they experiment around with their voices in a quiet room. Babies in cribs coo and gabble, sometimes running their voices into incredibly high registers. When they get old enough, they hum or sing to themselves. They make rhythms on tables and chairs and any other surface around with their fingers, pencils or anything else that happens to be around. Mothers and daddies sing to the children from the very beginning, creating our own lullabies as we rock and caress and soothe.

A few weeks ago, Heidi and I went to Colin’s chorale concert at the high school. There were actually five groups singing, and Colin’s was last. The auditorium was very filled with parents and brothers and sisters. There were grandparents too. Although it was still the beginning of the school year, the high schoolers were amazingly prepared. From pop songs to ancient Latin songs, the effects were mesmerizing. Tall and short, stout and slender, the young adults worked together to create something beautiful and inspiring from nothing. It worked. Maybe it was just me, but the power of those voices washed over me and made my heart race. During that time, there was no place I would rather have been.

I have a few friends, Kevin, Thomas, and others - whom I have taught their first few guitar chords, maybe their first song or two. They have proceeded to zoom past me in technique. I have had some students in the past who, when we cross paths again, have told me that they picked up guitar or bass because of the songs we sang together back in second grade. There is no finer feeling than knowing that I might have started a little musical echo in someone's mind that became an avalanche. But it really wasn't me. I know. It is simply music.

When my dad dropped me off at college, on my very first day, when I was scared and lonely for my neighborhood gang, when I felt like my family would be thousands of miles away – I had my old Toyota guitar with me. I know that it sounds syrupy sentimental, but there was comfort knowing that that little wooden box strung with simple wire (thanks Harry Chapin) would take me home any time I pulled it out. And it did. Within the first half hour of getting to my sweaty little dorm room I heard guitar chords coming from down the hall. I picked up that old $60-six-string and invited myself into the room of another freshman guy, sitting on his bed, looking a little afraid. Pat Gallagher and I became best friends for many years from that one chance moment.

In the next week or so I had other happy coincidental meetings. Walking through the lounge of our dorm I heard brilliant piano music. I had to stop and listen. He became my old friend Marty Lucas. I met my old friend Tad Robinson similarly. He was singing Van Morrison’s “Moon Dance” the first time I saw him. Then it was, “Hey you gotta meet this guy…” Bob McCarthy. It wasn’t long before we were jamming and harmonizing. And Jeanne and Joyce would sing sometimes and we would fill our dorm rooms with folk rock and laughter and friendship and the stories of our lives.

It seems like everywhere life took me I was able to find a friend or two to jam with. Some for a short time, some for many years. It might be a sad commentary on my ability to form bonds with adults, but so many of my friendships outside of work revolve around music.

Last weekend my mom came down to visit for a couple of days from North Carolina. We did all kinds of things from bouncing around on the boat watching Colin do amazing feats on the wakeboard, to looking around at condos, to eating homemade pasta for dinner. But we always get around to music. She always asks to hear me play. And I always oblige. No need to twist my arm though, playing and singing for my mom is one of the best things in my life. Because she listens.

My mom is a fantastic musician. When my brother Pat and I were in the CYO band when we were kids (second through eight grade for me) my mom taught us to play the clarinet and tuba as much as Mr. Suroviac our band instructor. Sometimes she would go months at a time and not play and then pull out amazingly complex classical piano pieces. She was always self-deprecating about it saying something like, “I used to play that so well,” or “You should hear that the way it was meant to be played.”

Sometimes at Christmas she would play carols on our old, out of tune, upright piano and we would sing along with the gusto of little kids enchanted by the season and vacation and anticipation of the presents that were always left by Santa when we were out looking at the lights.

My mom is a John Denver fan and I’ll admit it, I am too. I could say that it’s because I am a child of the 70’s, that many of my high school chums were into him too. But honestly, I am a sucker for a troubadour. I love his voice, his songwriting, his fingerstyle guitar, his often used 12-string.

The other day I heard “Rocky Mountain High” coming through the wall of my classroom after school. My buddy Chris was playing a little JD in his room while he was working on progress reports for our students. “John Denver’s cool,” he said. What sold him was a John Denver/Muppets Christmas album they had when he was a kid. Chris is at least 15 years younger than me. I really respect his musical taste. When he asks me to listen to music, I know I’ll like even before I listen. So if Chris thinks he’s cool…

Back to my mom’s visit. I wanted to let my mom hear “This Old Guitar”, one of my favorites by John Denver. She hadn’t heard it, so we went to YouTube and found this old TV special where he explains the song. Great song. Enjoy.

Boys to Men

There comes a time in every parent’s life I suppose, when your kids grow past you in some important ways. If you know me at all, or if you have read many of my posts, then you know that Heidi and I have two boys sons. I’d better get over the boys part, huh? Devin is 19 and Colin just turned 18.

I don’t mean for this to be a “Gee, doesn’t-time-fly-when-we’re-having-fun?” post. But I do have this very strong feeling of “Where-does-the-time-go?”

We have this big empty lot across the road from where we live. We’ve always called it the meadow. There is a short piece of fencing there set up as a little league backstop and a weedy pitcher’s mound. The whole area, maybe a couple acres, is surrounded on two sides by the road and two sides by dense vine filled forest.

When the boys were little and we would get home from school together, that field was often our play area. We played baseball, although that was a short-lived occupation. Sometimes we played frisbee. For a while we played this silly made up version of football where one of us would throw up the ball and someone would catch it and run away with the others chasing.We’d all come tumbling to the ground in a mass tackle only to get up and do it again. We played something similar when I was a kid called “Cream The Kid With The Ball”, or simply “Cream The Kid”.

Sometimes we’d go to the meadow to catch bugs with a big butterfly net or just our hands. Sometimes we’d bring a jar and take the bugs to school to study or feed our classroom pet turtle, Angelo.

One of my favorite games was our version of soccer. The boys were from about Kindergarten to 3^rd or 4^th grade. It was the two of them against me. I scored by kicking the ball into the short backstop fence. The boys scored by kicking it anywhere into the big wide forest. They had hundreds of feet of goal while I just had about ten.

When kids are little they think of their parents as superhuman. I thought that about my own father. I watched him put an engine in a car once. I helped him build a room off of our basement. He could do anything he wanted to. He wrestled with my two older brothers and me on his Saturday morning bed from time to time, just as I wrestled with our two boys when they were young.

Time The Conqueror catches up to all of us, right? When Devin was 12 he commandeered my little weight bench and started training. Soon it wasn’t good enough and he got a newer one with brackets so he could bench press in earnest. I could lift twice as much as he could. But with relentless training he could outlift me before long. I was too busy at work to train, I’ve got arthritis in my shoulders, and … [whine, whine, whine] the ball took a bad hop and the sun was in my eyes and…

Nope. Not really. Devin got stronger. He became a young man right before my eyes. Last weekend he was washing his car outside with his shirt off. He said, “Dad, check this out,” and he puffed out his lats and did one of those “We’re here to pump you up!” poses that muscle guys do in magazines. He has gotten huge and defined and, frankly, he could take me with one hand tied behind his back.

Colin started playing music when he was really little. He had lots of toy instruments that really worked like bongos, a Little Tykes piano with colored keys, a cool steel drum with eight tones, and a little bamboo xylophone. When he was in third grade he wanted to try drum lessons. I didn’t think they would take. But we went to the music store and then to his instructor’s studio for about five years. When he began he had no real rhythm, he kept speeding up and slowing down.But gradually, with countless hours of practice, he got better and better.

The neighbors were very patient with us for Colin’s room over the garage faces the road and, even with his window closed, they were treated to hour after hour of his practice exercises, and then his drumming to songs while he wore his headphones. Of course they didn’t have the benefit of any of the other instruments.

About three years ago he took up guitar, borrowing one of Devin’s or mine. He studied keyboarding in school and learned theory, which he applied to his playing. Then he started writing songs. Complex melodies and chord structures and alternative tunings. He plays in a band with other really talented guys and they play all of his songs.

He has started playing at the youth services at church in the old sanctuary – where I played years ago. At first he filled in on drums – rock solid. Then he played bass. Then rhythm guitar.A few weeks ago he lead worship, singing lead, getting people to their feet. Heidi and I were in the balcony videotaping. He sang his heart out. And the youth sang their hearts out with him.

I could say that I don’t have the time to hang out for hours a day playing music and that I am making a living here and it was really windy and the ball took a bad hop and the sun was in my eyes… But the truth is, his learning curve is about 85 degrees and mine is about 10. I can still learn new chords, but not very quickly. I can memorize new songs but it takes forever. I can honestly say that he knows more about guitar now than I’ll ever know.

It is not a sad feeling knowing that my sons have outgrown me in some ways. While I DO MISS those little guys who used to chase me around and try to tackle me, one hanging on each leg while I marched along toward some imaginary goal line making the sound of the crowds cheering for Tim O’Keefe (“How does he DO IT, ladeez and gentlemen?”). While I miss carrying them in the dark, still asleep, to the car and buckling them up and tucking blankets around them on cold days and driving them to school so they could wake up to cereal-in-the-classroom-and-kissing-daddy-goodbye-mornings. While I do miss those wrestling matches and those sleepyheads and those underwear-to-breakfast weekends – When I look into the eyes of these men, well on their way to lives of their own and maybe even Saturday morning wrestling matches with their own children – I feel happy, satisfied, like Heidi and I helped them live into lives full of promise and strength and creativity and joy.

So I am older, and they are stronger. I am wiser (air quotes if you will), they are smarter. While my spine is probably curving over, they are still growing in every way. It is completely natural. It is the way. And it feels right.

Rick Perry

QUESTION: Which scientists have you found most credible on this subject?

ANSWER (?!): "Well I do agree that, uh, there is... the sciences is not settled on this. The idea that we would put American's economy at, at, at jeopardy, uh, based on scientific theory that's not, uh, settled yet, is to me is just, it is nonsense. I mean it, it... And I tell somebody... I said, "Just because you have a group of scientists that have stood up and said here is the fact"... Galileo got, uh, outvoted for a spell. But the fact is to put America's economic future in jeopardy, asking us to cut back in areas that would have monstrous economic impact on this country is not good economics and I will suggest to you is not necessarily good science. Find out what the science truly is before you start putting the American economy in jeopardy."

I'm just saying. Read this man's words. Does it sound like he knows what he is talking about?

Knowing what we know about global warming, does it seem to you like he is sincere about the issue of global climate change? Could he come up with the name of a single scientist who might agree with him about climate change? That was the question asked.

Is he comparing himself to Galileo, as in - I find myself gettin' outvoted for a spell here?

Is he suggesting that the 97-98% of scientists who study the facts about global climate change and who agree on the human impact on climate are wrong? Should we believe Rick Perry's science over theirs?

NOTE TO MR. PERRY:

*The science is settled on this. I'd suggest you read up on it. Find out what the facts are before you start spouting science.

*Good economic policy for our country would include doing something about this impending disaster before it gets worse, not pretending/hoping it doesn't exist.

*You are no Galileo. Not even close. I'd leave that one alone.