I fly different flags on my front porch.  I have a big blue marble flag, an Oregon state flag, a Choctaw Nation flag, a Peace on Earth flag for the holidays, a PACE flag I bought in Lucca. Today, I put out the Stars and Stripes for Memorial Day.  Whenever I put it out, I always tear up a little and think of my daddy for some reason I can’t explain, all the while hoping no one mistakes my political views.  I love this country, but I don’t think I am better than people from other countries or that my country or my language is better than theirs.  I just think I’m incredibly, incredibly lucky.  And I will never, ever take this for granted.

I wear black pants.  Always.  Well, I may have a pair somewhere of very dark grey and one of dark brown. I bought a pair of khaki ones last summer, but they didn’t really work out.  Black pants are my bold fashion statement from the waist down.  I have about eight pairs of cheap cotton knit pants.  Depending on their level of worn-out-ness, I wear them to church, to work out in, to garden, to walk the dogs.  The really stretched-out ones, I sleep in.  I have a few pairs made of different materials, slightly nicer, like linen or wool.  I think there is probably a pair left from a previous life made of silk.  I don’t wear denim.  I think it is ugly and uncomfortable. My kayaking pants are nylon and come just below the knee.  I think this length is presently called “Capri,” for some reason that has nothing to do with the nice island near Naples. I have some workout pants that length too.  My good linen pants are called “cropped.”  Black, all.

My jackets, not so much:

This is not about my recent kayaking adventures.

My Exclusive Texas-Oregon Book Discussion Group of Two is presently reading Robert Caro’s fourth volume of his exhaustive LBJ biography. I started it late one night without a pencil in hand, which is very unusual, when I came across an egregious grammar error. I thought I could go back and find it the next morning, but alas. My friend in Corpus Christi does his reading on his Kindle, so I felt pretty sure he could search for the offensive verb. He could. He did. Half the boat did not “sunk.”  It SANK, for heaven’s sake. In my copy it’s on page 37. I have now marked it with my big red pen. You never really get over being an English teacher. My friend says it is the same with old CPA’s and sloppy bookkeeping. I went to Caro’s Facebook page and posted him the following. I’m sure it will break his heart.

“Did you actually write, on page 37 of The Passage of Power, “One half of the boat SUNK immediately . . .”? Seriously? This is your old English teacher writing: sink; sank; have, has, or had sunk. It SANK! Jeeze! I hope this is just a typo. There is an actual typo on page 129, last paragraph, eight lines from the bottom. Typos happen. Grammar matters.”

I wish I could call his parents in for a little conference.  However, Caro’s books are exhaustively researched and documented.   I don’t believe the dear boy ever plagiarized a single word or thought.  His “Debts, Sources, and Notes Index” is one hundred three pages long.    I highly recommend the book,