The picture of the shoes above is evidence of an experience I had a few weeks ago. It was one of those experiences that brings you to the limit of sanity. Sometimes, I am surprised at how short the path can be from here (the normal, sane and rational world) to that crazy place where, it seems only parents can go.

I’m learning how to be a good dad. I actually think I’m getting better at it, as time goes on. For example, I haven’t taken my kids on any more random four-wheeler trips where I almost kill them on accident. That’s got to be a sign of improvement. But, some days I am strikingly aware of just how much further along the road of “being a good dad” I have yet to travel.

Our youngest son Erick is just thirteen months old. But, even at his young age he and I have been having a sort of father and son duel for the last several months. How is it possible, for a rational adult to be in a duel with a on-year old you might ask, well, in the place I am now (normal, sane, rational) that statement sounds a little ridiculous. But, when I find myself at my wits end with one of my kids, particularly this boy Erick, as silly as it sounds somehow it’s exactly the truth.

The thing is, Erick doesn’t really like his daddy yet. I’m not really all that panicked about it because I figure its kind of normal given that that large majority of his life up to this point has been spent at the side of his mother.

I remember, for example, that it wasn’t until about month eight or ten that I could really tell that Bethany, our oldest, knew me as her daddy and I think it was about the same with Marty, our middle child. Certainly by the time each of them was over a year, we had developed the beginnings of the father-child bond. But with Erick, at this point, he just barely tolerates me as some sort of inconvenient stranger who periodically intrudes in his otherwise peaceful life.

Let me see if I can explain. If Michelle is holding Erick, he’s usually happy, smiling and quietly interested in the goings on around him. The goings on can even include me, because if I’m nearby its like I’m just another part of the world he’s exploring with his penetrating glance.

From a distance I get smiles from Erick and I’m even convinced he can already say “da da.” So, that’s all pretty normal right? Well, as soon as I pick him up, and hold him in my arms, the very disconcerting oddness beings.

It usually doesn’t take more than about fifteen seconds before he starts to squirm, then whine and in maybe thirty seconds its progresses to a full on cry, then soon after a heavy bawling interrupted only by his sporadic breathing and frantic turning this way and that, trying to see if his mother hears and is on her way to the rescue. If he doesn’t get his way quickly, in a matter of just a few minutes, its as if somehow he is trying to warn everyone within ear shot that he’s afraid for his life and that I might just be the end of his world and theirs.

Seriously, no matter what I’ve tried, it’s not uncommon from him to be in my arms (previously happy, smiling and peaceful) and in less than sixty seconds he’s screaming uncontrollably at increasing levels of both volume and intensity. Its during this kind of, “I’m absolutely convinced I’m gonna die, so someone please come save me” tirade that I find myself rapidly transported to that “crazy place” I mentioned earlier.

I mean, at first it didn’t bother me too much. But now, it really drives me crazy. Reason seems to escape my brain in those situations and I start having this conversation inside my head, of course, talking like Bill Cosby saying, “Look here boy, I brought you into this world and I’ll take you out!” I’ve never really said that out loud by the way, maybe its because since he’s adopted, its not exactly true and therefore looses some effect. I’m not sure.

I know it’s a bit risky being this candid, knowing there are rabid socialists out in the world secretly plotting every day to disrupt the life of The FreeCapitalist, and I rationally know that there are in all likelihood a number of completely plausible explanations for his behavior. But, somehow it is my experience with this one little boy that uniquely sends me (Mr. Rational) flying down that one-way track to the crazy place.

Even as I write this, I’m not convinced I’m quite capturing the essence of what has been going on between me and my boy. (Okay, side note; if you haven’t caught on, I’m trying to be dramatic-for effect).

The thing is, there are times when I am almost convinced that he’s actually waging some kind of personal war with me, intentionally creating these attention getting protests just to drive me crazy and at the same time giving him some sort of strange satisfaction like only a rebellious teenager could understand. He is indeed a rebellious little guy, I’m serious.

For example, one day not long ago, we were going through this father-son ritual when one of our good friends, who happens to be female, came strolling by. She must have discerned the desperate. “I really think I could kill this kid” look on my face because she offered to hold him for a minute.

As I quickly passed him over to her, I must have been thinking to myself, “Lady, you have no idea what you’re in for, because unless this kid gets his mommy in about t-minus two minutes and counting, he will mysteriously rob you of your sanity, your dignity and your willingness to remember that you are indeed an adult on planet earth.” I think its kind of like a magic spell. I bet he’s gonna grow up to be a Harry Potter kind of kid or something. On second thought, I don’t think that would mean good things for me.

Well anyway, do you know what happened next? Seriously, as soon as his trembling hands-when he gets really dramatic he twists his hands at his wrists with outstretched arms, in some kind of waving fashion, back and forth, back and forth (wow I just realized, this is like his magic gesture.)

Okay, sorry about the distractions, as I was saying, as soon as his trembling little hands made first contact with her, he immediately relaxed, straightened up his back, stopped screaming, and turned around to look at me (completely uninvited and unprovoked I might add) and deliberately grinned from ear to ear.

I’m not sure how to write, into words, the exact expression I would be making right now if we were talking in person. But, suffice it to say she walked away with the happiest kid in the world and I stood there thinking to myself, “Maybe I have some sort of weird-I’m your Dad and we’re gonna go toe to toe someday-energy and this little boy is already trying to get the upper hand in that yet to be formally initiated battle of wills.

Okay, I’ll admit once again that from where I stand now, this all sounds a bit ridiculous. But, when I’m in that crazy place it really starts to sound believable.

So, back to the shoes. It wasn’t more than a hand full of Sundays back, when Michelle and I, with our three very cute kids in tow headed for church. We were all dressed very nicely-or smartly if you prefer-and we arrived probably thirty minutes early to the meeting. That is a very satisfying victory all by itself, but once again I digress.

Everything was going well, the kids were all happy and Michelle and I were both actually pretty relaxed as we sat there enjoying the calm, peaceful atmosphere listening to the organists’ prelude music.

But, this particular Sunday, church was going to be a bit different for us. It was a day where Mommy was going to be signing in the choir. How exciting, right? The cool thing was that she was able to sit with the four of us in the congregation (with me and the kids-just in case you’re not paying attention) until about half way through the program, at which point the plan was that an announcement would be made from the pulpit that the choir would now come forward and perform a special musical number.

So, the point is, I wasn’t really that nervous about the situation. I thought to myself, “I can certainly handle all three kids on my own, for at least the length of one hymn, even if it’s a really long hymn, because, I mean-come one, I am their dad after all.” But, as has become the rather usual pattern when I’m wearing my “dad hat,” I sort of miscalculated the challenge.

It was about five minutes before Michelle would be heading to the front of the chapel and out of the blue our oldest daughter, who had just recently mastered the whole, “I’m a big girl now, don’t need diapers and can easily tell when I need to go” thing. Sometimes she doesn’t give us a whole lot of warning, but she’s pretty darn good at being serious when its time.

Well, there we were, this nice, normal, and (very importantly) calm and happy family sitting in church, just like everyone else. Of course, I wouldn’t be writing this whole story if it wasn’t obvious that our peaceful Sunday was about to take a serious, Sabbath altering, twist.

Since I don’t feel all that great about taking my daughter into the men’s bathroom, in situations like this I usually try to see if Michelle can just do it, leaving me to take care of the two boys. Even though Erick freaks out when he’s alone with me, it doesn’t take Michelle and Bethany that long to take care of things, and I figured Michelle could make it back before Erick had fully bewitched me.

But today? Nope, as reasonable as that may sound, it wasn’t meant to be. See, I was thinking to myself something like -

“Well, if Michelle takes Bethany now, they’ll be back just about the time that Erick starts to get pretty freak-o. He’ll calm right down and it will be a good conditioning experience just in time for Michelle to head to the front of the chapel. At the front of the chapel, Erick could - though tortuously I’m sure - be in my arms, but still see his mommy and hopefully be fine for the few minutes she’s signing.”

As you can tell, just anticipating the coming conflict with my son had already started to dement my thinking. So, as I sat there in church, that innocent Sunday morning, I wasn’t even worried about managing the other two kids at the same time because I was pretty sure of my own supper-daddy abilities. This is what I mean by the whole “dad hat” pattern of miscalculation.

Michelle and Bethany headed out and Erick watched desperately and yearningly as his mother abandoned him-to me. When she was out of sight he began, in what was an even quicker than I expected manner, to wage a public protest. I mean seriously, when he does his thing, it’s as if he were a paid lobbyist for the IWW trying to convince the whole world that his dad, the FreeCapitalist, was single handedly exploiting all innocent infants in some diabolical plot to destroy the world.

Of course, sitting there in church that Sunday (like all other times when this happens) I’m doing no such thing. I’m just sitting there, minding my own business doing all the things desperate dads do when they sense a coming eruption. I’m smiling and talking in the highest falsetto I can manage, and this Sunday I even tried enlisting the cooperation of my willing two-year-old son Marty, as a “distraction factor.” None of it worked.

Even writing this I can feel the tension building. Within a minute or two Erick is so worked up that there is some sort of tear soaked saliva draining constantly off his lower lip and chin. His nose is pumping out more problems in what seems to me at the time to be a bewildering, physics defying manner, and now he is starting to push away at my chest with some strange finger gripping motion-like a falcon trying to sink his talons deep into his enemy, just before flying off.

Nothing I’m doing is calming him down-not one bit. Marty gives up and for some unexplainable reason, maybe instinct, decides its best to sit down squarely, shoulders back and head straight, arms politely folded, staring at the speaker at the pulpit, almost convincing me that he’s really listening to what is being said. Its about that time that I can tell that my trip to the crazy place is rushing ever so close and is already starting to have its effects. Because, there is no way my two-year old is coping with the situation better than I am.

It finally gets to the point where Erick wins his political protest. With his head tucked to the side of my face-where in between cries I start to worry that perhaps he’s smiling and winking to the people behind us-I decide its best if we just get up and move out into the hallway.

I have two motives. First, I really don’t like the attention. Second, I can’t imagine that this whole Koerber family circus routine is making it very easy for those around us to enjoy the service. If it wasn’t for these two concerns, and the fact that I’m trying to do all of this while protecting my newly dry-cleaned suite and one of my favorite silk ties, I’d probably have already forgotten that it was Sunday since all of those feelings have long since escaped somewhere between the first few innings of mine and Erick’s epic World Series level rivalry.

As I stand up to head out, I look down and Marty seems to have no clue that I’m about to have a small nervous breakdown. Evidently he has no idea how desperately I was hopping that he’d just sort of get it and start heading to the door. So, I kindly-with all the fatherly affection I can yet muster, palm his head with my left hand, turn it deliberately to the isle, and gently move him in that direction with my right knee pushing very convincingly at his side.

Did I mention that Erick had gotten pretty loud by now? Oh, and did I also mention that we were sitting about two rows back from the very front of the chapel? So by now, most in attendance are paying more attention to us than anything else going on in church-at least that’s how it seemed in my mind?

One more detail, right before Michelle and Bethany headed out, Michelle had just finished feeding Erick a six ounce bottle of whatever that is that kids drink at that age that magically turns into bones and hair and finger nails and stuff.

So, I’m sure you can probably put the pieces together. I really think this kid knows how to vomit at will. I also think he is skilled at precision timing. No, really.

If he could have waited like thirty more seconds, what was about to happen could have been our little secret. But, alas - I’ll admit, he won our battle that day.

Right as we got to the edge of the pew-Can a Mormon call church benches pews, or is that word reserved for Catholics? Well, right as we got to the isle and I could actually see the chapel door, feeling certain that we could reach the exit before anything got any worse, Erick started making very violent stomach motions accompanied by those ever so recognizable “Ol’ Faithful is about to erupt-RIGHT NOW!” sounds.

For some reason, I misinterpreted the message and decided to hold Erick out away from my shoulder, just a bit (with Marty now headed in the right direction- he escaped all evidence of being involved-I actually had back the use of both hands and arms) so that I was essentially looking Erick right in the eye. That’s how boys and their Dads are supposed to do it, right?

Six ounces of still warm baby formula shot out, high-pressure like, hitting me right in the center of my face. Turning ever so slightly, it continued to pour down my shoulder, my chest, my silk tie, my pants and miraculously into both shoes. Yes, I said into.

I never have liked the smell of baby formula. Stunned, I stood there-now with my own chin dripping with gross, gooey baby stuff, taking a quick inventory of the situation. Now, I’m not sure if this is actually true, but it seems, as I look back now through my memories, that everything in the church sort of came to a silent standstill.

I don’t remember much else about the details, but I do remember nonverbally acknowledging my defeat, bowing my head, and with Erick once again tucked back up against my neck, and Marty now, even unprompted, leading the way-we headed for the door and out into the hallway.

I squished as I walked, and disgustingly, left a faint but definite trail that unmistakingly told the story of the battle which had just taken place. True to form, with his victory sure in hand, Erick had stopped his most serious protesting, and I don’t even think he was still crying.

Standing in the center of the foyer, trying to use the brain in my head that had long since stopped working, I couldn’t quite figure out exactly what I should do next. Thankfully, just in time, here came Michelle and Bethany walking happily up the hallway. That is of course, until they saw us.

I think even Bethany could tell that a battle had just been waged, and that from the looks of things, baby brother Erick had won. Without saying much, but shaking her head slowly, with a look on her face that only started the sentence, “Uh…what…?” Michelle quickly rescued the boy from my grasp and Marty, probably sensing it was safer, took up a position beside Bethany and behind Michelle’s left leg.

My shoes were still squishing by the time we got home. Everyone stayed except for me. I washed up-especially my goatee, and changed clothes. I had to change everything because the consequence of my drenching had been so thorough.

I put on a suit that had not recently been pressed, a shirt that I normally wouldn’t have worn to church and an old pair of shoes that I had actually forgotten were in my closet. Michelle kindly packed me a super large zip-lock bag full of essential cleaning supplies, and I headed back to the scene.

I don’t know if it’s just me or if all guys feel this way, but returning to the exact physical location of a previous defeat (baseball, football, after being turned down after asking a girl out on a date, etc) just does something to you.

When I arrived at the meetinghouse, the service was just ending. Without making eye contact with anyone, I quickly slipped past the exiting crowd and made my way to the front of the chapel. I didn’t need the trail, but it was still visible.

I went straight to work cleaning, scrubbing, and soaking up all evidence of what had taken place. Somehow I was hoping to go unnoticed in my effort. You see, I don’t like leaving my own messes for others to clean up (that is another story) but even more importantly I was starting to get my rational mind back and was thinking to myself that if I did a really good job cleaning up the mess, maybe not that many people would find out about the morning’s drama.

As I was just about finished scrubbing the most seriously affected area I looked up for a moment and noticed another father sitting maybe five or six rows back. He appeared to be taking his time, calmly packing up the whirlwind pattern of toys and other affects evidently left behind by his own children in a battle they too had waged that day, but they were nowhere in sight as far as I can remember. He had a big smile on his face and I could tell he had something he was planning on saying to me. I really wasn’t looking forward to the conversation.

I replaced the now swollen contents of my zip-lock back and headed out, having done my duty. Exiting meant I had to walk right past this guy, so I preemptively asked, “So, I’m not sure how many people saw all this, but I think its all cleaned up now.”

Then, and this was the first time I had known anything about it, at that very moment it became obvious to me that I had actually passed some sacred initiation ritual and was now a part of something, something much bigger than myself.

I don’t think I’m really supposed to talk about it, but its safe to say that I now belong to a very special, but secret brotherhood- a sort of father’s fraternity, that I had up until this point in my time as a dad, not yet qualified to even know it existed. With a chuckle and the same smile on his face he said to me, shaking his head,

“Well, we saw it, we all saw it. And it was quite a thing to witness.”

“We,” I thought to myself. “Who is we?”

Clueing me in to my newfound position in the ranks of fatherhood, looking back up at me, he nonchalantly confessed,

“Thanks man, you really took one for the team today.”

Nothing else was spoken between us that day. But, I walked out of the chapel a different kind of dad. I don’t know if it’s my new fraternity, or my willingness to admit such a sound defeat at the hands of a one-year-old, but Erick and I are actually doing pretty good these days.

Today, for example, I think he sat in my lap for exactly five minutes during church. In Sunday School Michelle even left us alone together-if that makes any sense-for maybe another five minutes, and believe it or not, I think we both had a pretty good time.

In all seriousness I love my kids, and I especially love my youngest boy. I think the “dad hat” is fitting a little better these days, but I don’t even want to think about what kind of battle of wills might be lurking around the corner.

In the mean time, I still have those shoes in my closet, and I know I should wash them and clean them off, but in some strange way they seem like a trophy to me. They’re some kind of sign I think, part of the secret initiation ritual onto the team that I so unwittingly “took one” for that memorable Sunday, not long ago.

Nevertheless, I’m sure the “Crazy Place” chronicles might still have a few chapters left to be written, but I sure hope that the trophies of the future don’t squish. I’ve really had my fill of that.

A few years ago I was surprised when out of the blue, Utah Congressman (R) Chris Cannon came walking into our office. He had come across a copy of the original “FreeCapitalist” newsletter and was curious about “who would be publishing” such information. From that day on Congressman Cannon expressed a sincere interest in all we were doing with the Project and has been a repeated guest on my radio program. I consider his knowledge and understanding of the fundamental principles of related to our battle for liberty - to be sound and deep. While I do not agree with many of his specific votes, I am grateful he represents Utah. I would always support someone who I agreed with in principle, but who I occasionally disagreed with over policy than to vote for someone who made policy promises I liked but whose principles I could not discern or could not agree with. I consider Chris a friend and patriot. I hope Utahan’s vote wisely tomorrow. I’ve written an opinion piece at FreeCapitalist Daily trying to convince them to do so.

I had a great end to my week. I was privileged to be invited to speak at BYU Idaho’s annual Entrepreneur’s Conference. I was one of several entrepreneurs that had the opportunity to judge a few competitions, participate in a panel discussion, speak to a few business classes and to present a break-out type workshop for BYU Idaho students.

Let me just say a few things about the experience that caught me a bit off guard. First, the students and faculty hosting the event were amazing. Not only were they kind and informative but they put on an event that was top notch. I have been to several similar style events all across the country and this event was of the highest caliber. The content of the presentations, the attention to organization, the different events - all great. Second, the students who attended the event were also quite exceptional. I speak to thousands of people at a time on the seminar circuit - and there are often participants who stand out as exceptionally thoughtful and interested but this past weekend was really something. Take a look at the picture above. Notice anything unusual about this group of about five hundred students attending one of my presentations? What percentage of the students have pen in hand, feverishly taking notes? I don’t think it is an exaggeration to say that any presenter, educator, or speaker of any kind would have enjoyed speaking to this group of serious and thoughtful students. On a side note - prior to attending the conference I had tried to inquire as to how many students I should prepare for, that would be attending my sessions. No estimate was given, largely because attendance at the different sessions was left open to the students. Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised that when I walked into my first workshop the room was packed with several standing on the sides. I had hoped that maybe 50 students would be interested in capitalism, our estimate is that through the course of the weekend I was able to present to or visit with approximately 750 students. On top of all that, my message of Freedom, Prosperity and Peace was very well received.

I loved the opportunity to interact with the students. It had been over 15 years since I last spent any time on this Rexburg campus and back then it was still Ricks College. I liked the name for obvious reasons, but I have to say - though its now bigger and the change to BYU has brought many new things to the campus experience - the students and faculty still had a very special spirit about them and the environment there is still very unique. I had forgotten the powerful and obvious difference that can be felt on this campus. I had life changing event on this campus 15 years ago - where I remember feeling the Spirit of the Lord very powerful in a formal educational environment for the first time - that is a story for another time - but I will say that it was a great experience being reminded of that powerful feeling once again.

In addition to all of this, I was also able to catch up with some good friends and spend some quality time with a few others. So, all in all it was a great opportunity. Though it required a few days away from family and the business, it was well worth the trip. Oh, in addition - some real progress was made I believe in terms of helping take a few of the FreeCapitalist Project programs to students up there in Rexburg, ID. Stay tuned…

It’s not uncommon for someone to approach me and ask my opinion of some leading figure in history. I enjoy conversations about historical figures, particularly those whose lives were dedicated to the cause of liberty. So many people today claim to be for the cause but so few actually live for it. I have often thought to myself that I felt more at home studying the lives of those who have gone before me than in the company of those who make it a common practice to only talk of freedom doing very little for it.

The following list is my “Top 25″ list of the most prominent individuals influencing my learning and development related to the cause of liberty. I have only included those individuals who are no longer living and while it was my privilege to be personal friends with only two on the list, I feel like I know each of them individually. There are, of course, many disagreements in philosophy among those on the list, however their ideas and attitudes towards government, church, and their fellow men harmonize quite consistently in the battle for liberty and freedom.

I’ve compiled the list in chronological order, as opposed to order of influence. I could list many others who have had a serious influence on me personally but have carefully selected these individuals for this list and have placed an asterisks next to the names of those I consider the “Top 5″ most influential to me and my intellectual development. I’m certain that as I continue to study additional individuals I might want to re-organize my list which is a prospect I happily anticipate.

1. Francis Bacon, 01/22/1561 to 04/09/1626, Philosopher/Statesman
2. John Locke, 08/29/1632 to 10/28/1704, Philosopher
3. Isaac Newton, 01/04/1643 to 03/31/1727, Intellectual, Physicist
4. Benjamin Franklin, 01/17/1706 to 04/17/1790, Polymath/Statesman
5. Adam Smith, 06/05/1723 to 07/17/1790, Moral Philosopher
6. George Washington, 02/22/1732 to 12/14/1799, Military/Political
7. John Adams, 10/30/1735 to 07/04/1826, Political Leader
8. Thomas Paine, 01/29/1737 to 06/08/1809, Intellectual
9. Thomas Jefferson, 04/13/1743 to 07/04/1826, Polymath/Statesman *
10. James Madison, 03/16/1751 to 06/28/1836, Political Leader
11. Brigham Young, 06/01/1801 to 08/29/1877, Religious/Political *
12. Frederic Bastiat, 06/30/1801 to 12/24/1850, Theorist/Political Economist
13. Joseph Smith, 12/23/1805 to 06/27/1844, Religious/Political *
14. Abraham Lincoln, 02/12/1809 to 04/15/1865, Political Leader
15. Susan B. Anthony, 02/15/1820 to 03/13/1906, Civil Rights Leader
16. J. Rueben Clark, 09/01/1871 to 10/06/1961, Legal/Religious
17. David O McKay, 09/08/1873 to 01/18/1970, Education/Religious
18. Ludwig Von Mises, 09/29/1881 to 10/10/1973, Economist/Philosopher
19. Napoleon Hill, 10/26/1883 to 11/08/1970, Author
20. Ezra Taft Benson, 08/04/1899 to 05/30/1994, Religious/Political Leader
21. Ayn Rand, 02/02/1905 to 03/06/1982, Author / Philosopher *
22. Ronald Reagan, 02/06/1911 to 06/05/2004, Political Leader
23. W. Cleon Skousen, 01/20/1913 to 01/09/2006, Author Legal/Political *
24. Milton Friedman, 07/31/1912 to 11/16/2006, Economics
25. Les McGuire, 12/07/1970 to 06/08/2006, Philosopher/Business

For those who want to learn more about the cause of individual liberty, who want to learn more about the FreeCapitalist Project, and for those who are looking for a “starting point” to initiate their own personal study, I highly endorse and recommend the study of these individuals. Additionally, I consider the following twenty publications, by these same authors, as essential primers for personal study regarding capitalism and freedom.

1. The New Atlantis, by Francis Bacon - 1627
2. Two Treatises of Government, by John Locke - 1689
3. The Theory of Moral Sentiments, by Adam Smith - 1759
4. The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, by Benjamin Franklin - 1771
5. An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, by Adam Smith - 1776
6. Common Sense, by Thomas Paine - 1776
7. The Rights of Man, by Thomas Paine - 1791
8. The Age of Reason, by Thomas Paine - 1793
9. The Book of Mormon, published by Joseph Smith originally in 1830
10. The Law, by Frederic Bastiat - 1849
11. The Laws of Success, by Napoleon Hill - 1929
12. Human Action, by Ludwig Von Mises - 1949
13. Atlast Shrugged, by Ayn Rand - 1957
14. The Naked Communist, by W. Cleon Skousen - 1958
15. For the New Intellectual, by Ayn Rand - 1961
16. Capitalism and Freedom, by Milton Friedman - 1962
17. Capitalism, the Unknown Ideal, by Ayn Rand - 1966
18. The Proper Role of Government, by Ezra Taft Benson - 1968
19. Making of America, by W. Cleon Skousen - 1985
20. An Enemy Hath Done This, by Ezra Taft Benson - 1992

So, it was Saturday afternoon and the entire family was bored.  In a stroke of genius I decided it would be fun to take the two older kids (Bethany is three and Marty is two) on a four-wheeler ride.  Behind our house is what seems to be an endless wilderness and its also fun to ride the four-wheelers, with the kids, up and down our driveway.  So, we all got jackets on and headed out for the afternoon. 

As you can see by the picture above, no comments about how fat I’m getting please ;), we have a green, rugged, four-wheeler that has a large passenger seat on the back.  It’s just big enough for two small kids.   Off we went.  We drove around the back for a while, and then up and down the driveway a few times.  After about twenty minutes the driveway and the grassy area you can see in the photo seemed less than adventurous to all three of us.  Both kids kept laughing, and we were all having a good time.  So, with their encouragement, I headed up a little higher on the hill behind our house, intending to show the kids a pretty fascinating view of Utah Valley.  We got to the top of the hill with very little problem; since none of us were wearing any real protection at all I think I capped the top speed on the four-wheeler at about 10 mph for our journey.  Speed, was not our problem.  It was heading back down the hill, very slowly, when we ran into a problem.  Having not been on a four-wheeler all winter, maybe my mind was just dull – or maybe I was just absent minded period, but I hadn’t dawned on me that going down hill might be a bit tricky.  As we started down, almost immediately we were in a surprisingly difficult predicament.  At least it was surprising to this dull-headed dad. 

As you can see from the photo, when we set out, each kid had both legs off to either side of my body.  This works great for flat surfaces and even going up hill.  But, as you have probably guessed by now, I didn’t take long, going down hill, for me to become strikingly aware of a problem.   Before I knew it both kids were sliding forward, right off the four-wheeler.  We were headed down a pretty mild hill, but it was a hill nonetheless.  I was using my left hand to ride the back brake a bit (in hindsight I should have been using the foot brake), and I turned to each side to take an inventory of the kids.  Bethany had a panicked look on her face as she explained, “Daddy I’m getting off.” 

Now, though it sounds like she was making a declaration, what she was really saying was, “Like it or not I’m falling, and there is nothing I can do about it.”  She was on the declining side of the hill as well, so I was immediately concerned.  At about this same instant, for some still unexplainable reason the brake cable snapped.  I switched hands, using my right “front” brake to bring us to a complete stop.  Taking my left hand off the handlebars, I reached to grab Bethany before she slid completely off the four-wheeler.  Gripping the front brake with my right hand had consequences all its own. I turned to check on Marty and as a result of the rapid stop, he was headed, somehow, head first for the dirt.  It was like he was in slow motion, sliding ever so slowly, but certainly, down.  His face was towards me, and in a very calm way he said with a kind of matter of fact tone, “Daddy, help me.” 

There was nothing I could do.  His head was about six inches in front of the rear tire.  My left hand had a hold of Bethany, and if I let go of the front brake with my right hand, the four-wheeler would roll forward with both of my hands off of the handlebars.   So, I just watched my boy fall – helplessly, head first to the ground.  My only thought at that point was related to keeping the four-wheeler from rolling forward and right over the top of him.  In a panic, I stood Bethany up on the ground on my left, I used my left hand to grip the front brake, reached down and grabbed Marty and brought him up as quickly as I could.  I think the whole ordeal lasted maybe two or three seconds all together.  But, looking back in my memory, it feels like a full length motion picture.  Bethany started to slip down the hill, not able to keep her balance, so I laid Marty across the gas tank in front of me, grabbed Bethany, and forcefully put her behind me in the rear seat.  Of course, we were still pointing down the hill, which explained why her response was, “Dad, I don’t want to start over.” 

After sitting there for a few seconds, making sure I was not in the middle of having a heart attack, I got Bethany situated behind me, facing forward with one leg to either side of me.  I told her to hold on and I could feel her arms around my waist – that felt better.  I had Marty straddle the gas tank, and I showed him how to use his hands on the tank to keep his balance.  It had never before dawned on me that my kids just didn’t instinctively understand how to “hold on.”  Nevertheless, now that we had it figured out, trying not to let the kids notice just how panicked I had been – I slowly let off the brake and we started back down the hill.  Neither of the kids was saying anything.  I realized that they were trying to figure out what had just happened.  Worried that I might have scarred them for life, I forced myself to say something.   “Wow, wasn’t that exciting?” I chuckled.    Marty responded first by saying, “No, I hit my head.”  Bethany, in a very sullen voice could be heard behind us adding her disapproval saying, “Dad, can we not do the scary part anymore?”

Once we were back in safe, flat territory, things lightened up a little bit.  Marty actually asked if we could do it again because he didn’t want to go home.  Bethany explained to Marty that we “half (sic) to go home,” because he had “bleed” on his head.  When we got home, I took a minute and tried to clean Marty up.  I was already thinking that I really didn’t want to explain to Michelle what had happened.  But, there was no cleaning up the scrapes on his forehead.  Fortunately, he wasn’t hurt.  As we walked in the house I remembered the time when I was three years old and had returned with my dad from a similar motorcycle accident. Things didn’t go so well for him back then, when he had tried to explain to my mom what had happened, and I imaged things weren’t going to go so great for me as I explained our adventure to Michelle.  Of course, she was right there to great us as we walked in.  She couldn’t – according to the laws of the universe I’m sure – have been busy with the baby somewhere far away from the back door. 

“Mommy, I fell off the furwheeler (sic),” was Marty’s first comment to his mom. Bethany once again explained that he had blood on his forehead.  Michelle calmly asked me what had happened, but I stalled.  I suggested that we just get the kids jackets off, Marty’s head cleaned up, and both of them seated at the kitchen table so we could all eat some lunch together.   That didn’t work so well either - the kids told her everything.  

Well, as you can see from the picture, Marty is fine.  Both kids can’t wait to go for another ride on the four-wheeler, but I can’t stop thinking about it.  I can’t stop thinking about a) how fortunate we were and b) how darn stupid I was.  I have been feeling like the worst dad on the planet.  I couldn’t sleep very well last night as I kept replaying those critical seconds in my mind.  Over and over, I searched.  It wasn’t the general ordeal that haunted me as much as it was my son.  Watching Marty hit the ground, his head bending towards his shoulder as his neck gave way to the weight of his body, is the moment I keep playing over and over again.  He had the look of a child counting on his dad to save him.  I was feeling helpless, unable to figure out how to help in any way.  That is what has haunted me.   When we woke up this morning, I full expected him to be mad at me.  He wasn’t. 

So, today in church, I sat there listening to a lesson about repentance and Godly sorrow – and something struck me. When we talk about repentance, one of the first things that usually comes to mind is the feeling of guilt.  Guilt is accompanied by other related feelings of regret and remorse.  These emotions combined to form what we could refer to generally as simply the “feeling bad” emotions.  I was certainly having my bout with these feelings on Sunday morning.  But, to any student of the gospel its obvious that simply feeling bad is not enough to truly repent.  Now, on a side note, it wasn’t that I was particularly preoccupied with the idea of repenting for what occurred on Saturday, its just that Saturday was on my mind.  Nevertheless, in order to repent, something has to happen inside which results in a rebirth – a new commitment to want to live differently.  It is this change that eliminates the desire to sin, and it’s this change that allows repentance and forgiveness to actually take place.  Unfortunately, many of us get stuck on the “feeling bad” part of the process.  This “thing” that happens to create the change of heart is often referred to as Godly sorrow. 

What is Godly sorrow?  Well, I suppose that is a lecture for a different time, but the insight I had today has been poignant.  Contrary to what many teach, I don’t think God has much interest at all in any of us getting stuck, “feeling bad.”  Of course, that might be an essential “piece” of the process but it cannot be an end in and of itself.  The self-loathers, the mystics, and the tyrants in the religious world have leveraged the “feeling bad” part of the process to the point of codifying it into doctrine in many faiths (closely related to the false notion called “the depravity” of man).  No, us feeling bad – even to the point of mourning in “sackcloth and ashes” doesn’t make the world a better place (no matter how much authority rests with the person claiming that this is our proper position with regards to God). Lacking the conscience and the spiritual sensitivity to “feel bad” for sin is another problem entirely.  But, past the point of feeling bad there is a place inside our hearts that can be called Godly sorrow, where our bad feelings and our regret for our actions fade into the background. 

Here’s the insight and the connection with my four-wheeler incident.  No matter how many times I replay the four-wheeler incident in my mind, I can’t seem to come to grips with the “thing” that haunts me.  I keep trying to find a way to “fix” the situation – to explain it in a way that doesn’t hurt so badly.  As I replay the incident in my mind the temptation is to try and “fix” the problem.  I want to blame the four-wheeler, the rear brake cable did snap and without that happening the whole incident would have probably been much less dramatic.  This would mean, if I just fixed the brake cable, find out why it snapped, I will have fixed the situation.  Right? 

Problem is, brake cables or some other “thing” might go wrong at any time on a four-wheeler excursion.  So, I’m tempted to argue, “If I would have just had the kids put on a helmet” then this wouldn’t have been as bad.  Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that I was stupid on Saturday.  I want to say, “Well next time I’ll just take one kid,” or next time this or next time that… but nothing soothes the pain caused by the deeper and much more important truth.  The deeper truth is this.  There will always be uncertainty – and there will always be unforeseen “accidents.”  That is NOT the problem in this situation.  The problem on Saturday has to do with the kind of dad I was being.  I was not being the kind of dad that I want to be.  On Saturday, I was thoughtless.  I can’t change that, that is the kind of dad I was being then.  That is the haunting truth, the ordeal with Marty hitting the ground was merely the consequence. I was not being attentive to the kids before the crises.  I was not prepared. The consequence of the way I was being - the incident - is simply a reminder.  It is an undeniable reminder that I was not living the life that the “dad” in my mind must live. 

This is how it seems to be, when I think of sin.  When we feel regret for our actions, that’s good for a short time.  It’s an acknowledgement of the message that God is sending us about our actions – through natural consequences.  Consequences are not punishments as much as they are reminders.  Feeling guilt and remorse and regret is focusing on the consequence – as if the consequence of our action is the “bad thing.”  Thinking this way makes us ever weaker victims as we confront so many of life’s uncertainties.  If we only experience guilt or shame in the face of such circumstances our whole life can become consumed with our feelings of failure and inadequacy, and we can become hopeless.  If instead, however, we focus on “how” we are “being” or how we were being in a given situation – and we compare that to our potential, to the God given potential that represents what we “could be” with God’s help – then we have a new feeling inside.  Its not so much a feeling “bad” for our actions but it’s a longing for “being” a different person – a better person – the person God would have us be.  Recognizing this difference, I think, has something very important to do with this idea of repentance, Godly sorrow and rebirth. 

In a real way, I have repented for Saturday.  Some laughed at me in church today when I shared this insight, thinking perhaps I was being a little melodramatic.  But, what can be more important than repenting for being a lazy dad?  What could be better for me, for my kids or for any dad than to repent of his absent mindedness and commit (not to his kids – that would be out of regret or remorse) but to God – and to himself – that he is going to live differently.  Of course this commitment provides all the benefits to the kids that would be present if he were to make a commitment out of guilt or shame, but the difference is that HE doesn’t loathe himself in the process.  This kind of recognition, of our desire to live a better life, when faced with an undeniable consequence of our previous actions – is at the core of becoming the “new man” spoken of in the scriptures.  It, I believe, is at the core of finding hope in Christ and in his atonement.  Well, for what its worth, I certainly think I’ll sleep better tonight – as a result of this insight.  Maybe it might help you if you ever find yourself at some point in the future, stuck replaying in your mind, some scenario filled with regret when, no matter how many ways you look at it, there is a deeper truth that still haunts your soul. 

I love my kids, and I love the fact that in the years ahead neither of them will likely remember anything from Saturday. As for today, I just hope that I can keep the commissars away (that’s supposed to be funny) while I work on overcoming my “Dumb Dad” of the year routine.   I have much work ahead, but as a result of Saturday I think I’m a better dad already.  When I took the picture of Marty with the scratch above his brow, I told him what I was doing and he responded – “I wanna go ride on the furwheeler.”     

For many years now I’ve been using the title “FreeCapitalist” and have enjoyed watching the odd expression in the faces of others as they attempt to contemplate my meaning. I have my own reason’s for calling myself a capitalist, and a few of them are not what most would suspect. In this same line of thinking, I am always learning something new. Recently I stumbled across something that related directly to my own personal reasons for using the title. Surprisingly, it was while I was reading an essay first published in 1886 by Rev. James W. Cole entitled, “Earning the Capital.” I thought it might be valuable to re-publish a portion of his essay to illustrate a point about capitalism that is seldom noticed in our world today, one hundred and twenty two years later.

Selection from “Earning the Capital” By Rev. James W. Cole

What is capital? Most writers on economics answer, “Capital is surplus; the storage of the labor of the brain and muscle; the overplus from the daily needs and uses of men.” If this general definition be a true one, it can apply only to the outer, material forms of wealth. For one’s wealth does not consist solely in the possession of money, however vast that sum may be. A simple definition of the word will show this. Strength is strongness. Length is longness. Breadth is broadness. Wealth is ” wealness ” or wellness; things that make for one’s well-being.

Is the miser a wealthy man? Do the millions of gold some men get tend to their well-being? Is it not true that the getting of money develops in some the baser elements of their nature, so that occasionally you may see persons whose riches have but served to make them meaner than the meanest poverty could ever make them? Can such persons be truthfully said to be wealthy or well-being persons?

The word, you see, has broken away from its original foundation, and is by many persons regarded as simply synonymous in meaning with money. But money is not an end; it is a means to an end, and that end is nobly to live the life that is given you. If money or any other product of the earth will help you do that, then get it, get all you can of it; but if it would hinder you in your development of true manhood, then avoid it. Earn something else by your brain and muscle, if you would be wealthy.

When that noble man, the late Prof. Louis Agassiz, was asked why he did not use his great talents to gain money, when he was offered three hundred dollars each for a course of six lectures, he replied with lofty scorn, ” I cannot afford to lecture for money.” To him there were far more valuable and wonderful things in this world than money. Alas! that there are but few like him.

The citizens of ancient Rome were wont to place the statues and images of their great ancestors on pedestals, and in the vestibules of their houses, in order to remind themselves and their children of those ancestors’ virtues and glorious deeds, and to inspire them to emulate them; and for one hundred and seventy years they allowed no painted or graven image of a deity among them, with the result, as Plutarch tells us, that for two hundred and thirty years after the founding of Rome no husband deserted his wife, nor any wife her husband, and for six hundred years there was no parricide known, and for forty-three years, during the reign of Numa Pompilius, the temple of Janus, the god of war, continued closed, there being no war, nor sedition, nor conspiracy.

Would that Americans could be diverted long enough from their worship of Mammon to cultivate some of the virtues of those old heathen! Perchance, then, they might, for the peace of their families and the good of the republic, imitate the example of that famous Themistocles of Athens, who, when two suitors, one a poor man and the other rich, sought for the hand of his daughter in marriage, chose the poor man, saying he desired as a son-in-law a man without riches, rather than riches without a man.

But now you are a man, and a man of business desires and wishes to succeed in some particular business. You have virtues and some talents, but, it may be, very little money, perhaps none. Can you succeed without money? Certainly. Some of the richest men in this country began their business life without a dollar. Nature is just as ready to help you to get riches as she was to help them. She will give as good returns today and tomorrow as yesterday.

Money is but one of the numerous and valuable things to be found in her vast storehouses on land, and in the seas, and in the air, and in the sun, and you can get it out if you wish and will. Perhaps you have heard it said that, ” it takes money to get money.” No, it doesn’t. Money is not a loadstone, drawing its kind only. Money is only lumps of matter dug out of the ground, and shaped in certain forms and stamped with a design, and you can get an abundance of it without digging in the earth for it, and trying to catch it with another piece of the same kind.

What! Get money without capital? No, with capital. Why, man, you are a capitalist! Wages are only a form of income. An everyday laborer is a capitalist. Every person to whom God has given brains and a good body is a large capitalist.

Your mind, your muscle, is your capital, and with them you may earn what you will. All the riches of the world are the product of the labor of brain or muscle. Your brain may be a veritable gold mine if you will but develop it.

In 1882, at Christie’s rooms, London, a little daub of matter, only twelve by nine inches, that a brain had put on canvas, sold for thirty thousand dollars. It was Meissonier’s “Napoleon the First in the Campaign of Paris.” The same artist’s “1814″ was sold for one hundred and seventy thousand dollars; eight years later, Millet’s “Angelus” brought one hundred and ten thousand dollars, and Murillo’s “Conception of the Virgin” one hundred and seventeen thousand dollars. Great fortunes, you see, that the brain produced.

The musician Paderewski spent a few weeks in this country a year ago, and then carried home with him one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars, as the proceeds of his brain.

Sir Walter Scott was a silent partner in the firm of the publishers of his books. The firm failed, and he was involved in debt six hundred thousand dollars in consequence. He was then fifty-six years of age. Summoning all the energy of his mighty brain to the task, he labored incessantly, by night and day, sending out volume after volume, until in five years he had paid it all by the product of his brain. Yes, brains are great money-getters, if you use them for that purpose.

The son of a farmer in the state of New York, a sickly lad, Samuel J. Tilden, so used his brains as to bring him a fortune, by the practice of law, of five millions of dollars. A Swedish young woman, Jenny Lind, twenty-eight years of age, came to the United States with nothing but her voice, that her brain had cultured, and in ninety-eight nights she had sung out of the pockets of the American people seven hundred and twelve thousand dollars. Another Swede, Ole Bornemann Bull, so manipulated a violin as to draw out of the same American people in a single season more than a hundred thousand dollars; while an American-born lad of English ancestors, Edwin Booth, so used his brains while an actor, that in less than two months’ time he had taken in from the people of San Francisco alone, over ninety-six thousand dollars.

But why multiply instances in literature, art, oratory, music, the drama, all going to prove that your brain is your capital, and that all you need to do if you wish for money is to use it.

UTAH COUNTY, UT | 4 April 2008 | The Salt Lake Tribune’s least credible columnist, Paul Rolly, has recently demonstrated how scared and inept the democratic party loyalists are when conservatives get organized in Utah. Absent any credible criticism of Carl Wimmer (R – Herriman), Ken Sumsion (R-American Fork), Chris Herrod (R-Provo), Keith Grover (R-Provo) and Steve Sandstrom (R-Orem) Rolly decided to make a political argument by sarcastic metaphor, but like most liberals – he doesn’t quite come to grips with the power of action over rhetoric.

For example, Rolly whimsically claims that the GOP is out to “rescue its superheroes” because of a flier recently distributed for an event designed to support the “Fab Five” state legislators. Funny thing is that Rolly has no argument to back up why a normal, organized fund-raising event is a rescue attempt. Could Rolly imagine that the event might be instead, a victory rally?

Of course, Rolly doesn’t see it any other way, because like many in his camp he’s still too busy gloating over the Utah vouchers issue to see much of anything. In fact, Rolly’s only substantive remark in his entire essay is that “All five dutifully followed leadership’s admonition to vote for vouchers…”

The facts are however, as they say, stubborn things. They are especially difficult for Attila like bullies who call it a job to poke rhetorical fun at good men who serve their community.

Fact #1 – Vouchers.

Rolly argues that the GOP leadership is supporting these five legislators because they “dutifully” followed orders this past session. Funny thing is that three of the five campaigned in support of vouchers long before receiving any orders from anyone. Sometimes Democrats forget that to hold office you don’t actually have to wait for a leader to call you up and tell you your position.

Fact #2 – Stand-Out Legislation

Rolly glosses over all of the legislative details with a blanket accusation that none of these five elected representatives had any “stand-out legislation.” The first error in Mr. Rolly’s argument is t o think that Utahans, especially Republicans, send freshman legislatures into office solely for the purpose of writing new laws.

I think it is a serious surprise to most liberals to actually try and imagine a government whose effectiveness isn’t measured in the number of new laws passed. Additionally, Rolly ignores records like Wimmer’s where fully half of his “introduced bills” were proposed amendments to existing laws, on such important subjects such as child abuse, environmental crimes, toughening prosecution on those who hurt children, etc.

Other legislation sponsored by this freshman group included immigration reform, the rights of adopted children, and the reform of certain outdated criminal codes. Of course, this isn’t “stand-out” to Rolly because it left out global warming.

It is quite obvious that Rolly doesn’t count on educated Utahans to simply hop on the Internet and take 15 minutes to view the actual records of these freshman legislator’s – which records speak for themselves (with or without the support of leadership).

Fact #3 – Republican Challengers

It is true that four of the five candidates mentioned are being challenged by members of their own party, however it is far too early to tell how serious the challenges are. The state and county conventions will play their role, and the newly elected delegates will get to decide if any of the challenges are serious enough to merit a primary election. The irony is that Rolly lumps Wimmer into the same analysis (Wimmer is the Mr. T of the group Paul, just to answer your question) – when he is not even opposed by a Republican. Wimmer, as Rollly notes, is opposed by a “former” Republican who is now running as a democrat. Small details, I’m sure, for Mr. Rolly.

Think about this for a minute, Dave Hogue was in the state legislature for ten years as a Republican and has now come out of the closet as a democrat (which most of us already knew by the way.) Stubborn facts.

Rolly’s “ad hominem” humor is no substitute for “brain-on” activity. Thank goodness he writes for the Tribune, or else some voters who are actually affected by the decisions of these legislators might have been confused.

It does take a superhero these days to stand up against the politics of liberalism, socialism, and do-gooders who think that the reason a man or women is elected to office is to continue the plunder of previous legislatures. Rolly also ignores important events that are actually working to root out government abuse, waste, and corruption here in Utah, events that would not be happening without the support of men like these. For example, it will be interesting to see what tongue in cheek quarterbacking Rolly offers when the legislative audit of the Utah Department of Commerce comes out if it tarnishes the reputations of his fellow travelers such as Francine Giani, Wayne Klein, and Thad LeVar. But, we’ll leave that for a future day.

The truth of the matter is Rolly is simply trying to stoke the flames of some internal conflict with the Republican party, but as appropriate, the Republicans are best left to solving their own problems. In the end we can all be thankful that the “Superheroes” and the “A-Team” showed up this past legislative session because the alternative would likely have been some version of Mr. Rolly staring as Pinky’s “Brain” devising some new diabolical plot to take over the world. That is certainly frightening.

As for me, I’ll side with Representative Wimmer and his superhero colleagues, thank you.

If you’ve never read Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand you’ll never fully understand this essay. So, before you go any further let me just recommend that if you’ve not yet done so, obtain a copy of that book and start reading. It has the potential to change your perspective on life. This was the case with me and it was also the case with my friend Les McGuire.

I remember hearing about Atlast Shrugged back in college, but for some reason I never decided to read it. Blank out (that’s for you objectivists). After going completely broke in 2001 I remember seeing my wife reading it and her encouraging me to read it, constantly. I even remember reading somewhere that President Ronald Reagan had reportedly said something like, “Next to the Holy Bible, I prefer to read Atlast Shrugged by Ayn Rand.”

Nevertheless, I still didn’t read the book. I remember hearing others joking around from time to time with the question “Who is John Galt?” but aside from knowing it was some allusion to Rand’s book, I just wasn’t that interested. As a matter of fact it wasn’t until another friend of mine told me that he could not understand how I could claim to believe in freedom, free markets and in America and still resist reading Ayn Rand, that I finally relented and read the book.

About my experience I can only say what is bound to be a serious understatement. I wish I wouldn’t have waited to so long to meet Dagny, Reardon, Francisco, Midas Mulligan, Ellis Wyatt and John Galt. I have since fallen in love with the book and its author. I don’t mean to say that I enjoy everything in the book, nor do I mean to suggest that when it comes to Ayn Rand I turn my brain off and give a blanket endorsement, of course I don’t mean that. But, I will say, that if you have any interest whatsoever in living a life that you love, it is time for you to get to know the characters of Ms. Rand’s book. Or should I say books? We’ll leave that for a different discussion.

It was reading Atlas Shrugged for the first time that I realized what it meant to be a man of the mind. Reading the book also helped me to remedy a number of intellectual contradictions that I’d been stewing over privately for years. Most notably, I was finally able to identify a rational explanation to my mental aversion related to the common notions of faith and religion. These concepts are, to me today, something entirely more useful than they were before I read Atlast Shrugged.

I could go on and on about the many different ways reading Ayn Rand quite probably saved my life. Reading Atlas Shrugged saved me from something much more profoundly disturbing than the demise of my physical body, mental death. The paramount hero in the book is John Galt, though the reader doesn’t really get a sense for this until at least half way through the book. In Galt’s famous radio address he says,

“Man’s mind is his basic tool of survival. Life is given to him, survival is not. His body is given to him, its sustenance is not. His mind is given to him, its content is not. To remain alive, he must act, and before he can act he must know the nature and purpose of his action…To remain alive, he must think.”

I had already reached a point in my life where after long struggle I had learned for myself the substance of what John Galt is here pointing out. However, it was Ms. Rand, through her characters, that gave me added courage to stay the course, and the idea that I was not alone.

Many objectivists are still surprised, that having become fully indoctrinated by Ms. Rand’s writings and speeches, I have managed to keep my “faith” and still hold my religious convictions. This too is a topic for another time and place, but let it here suffice me to say that thanks to Ms. Rand I now have a more firm grasp on many rational, conceptual formations critical to life beyond the typical mysticism so prevalent in the minds of so many today. I’m sure this could be discomforting to my fellow religionists and Ayn Rand disciples alike. But, like Ms. Rand’s classical protagonists, the discomfort of my associates does not tempt me to equivocate on matters of truth.

Over time, and after much study Ms. Rand and her fictional characters became prominent heroes of mine, and back to the topic at hand, also to my friend Les McGuire. A full description of the friendship between Les and I is, yet again, something for another time. But, it is important to explain that we were friends of the most rational kind. We were not friends because of mutual emotional affinity, childhood association, family or church connections, etc. Les and I became friends because of our common ideas and interests and this defined our relationship.

Unfortunately, Les and another friend of mine, Ray Hooper were tragically killed in an airplane crash in Provo, UT in June of 2006. With Les gone, I have found myself often returning to the characters of Ms. Rand’s novels for the familiar feeling that so closely resembles how it seemed when I was spending time with my friend.

Les and I did a morning talk radio program every day of the week for almost a year. We talked about subjects across the board, from silly to very serious. We shared our ideas together in a public form that was engaging and satisfying for us both. I’m not so sure we would have changed our pattern even if someone would have told us that the conversations weren’t going out over the airwaves, because the time we spent was rewarding all by itself.

One day, as Les and I sat discussing something - off the air - he turned to me and out of the blue asked, “Rick, if you had the opportunity to exchange your mind for one day with anyone who has ever lived, who would it be?”

The question was unexpected. The first thought that came to my mind was “I’d rather keep mine, thank you.” Les laughed and teased me from that day on for being so arrogant. I told him that if I was arrogant, then I was rationally so. My explanation to him was simply that in my estimation I had spent my life developing my own mind and it would be useless to exchange my brain with someone else only to return a day later with my own mind, remembering nothing from the experience.

I told Les at the time, “I’d rather have a good visit with anyone in history who had a brilliant mind and therefore be enabled to improve myself.”

“This,” I explained, “is why I read.” This is the point. Les and I agreed, that for both of us, reading had become a way to probe the minds of great men and women, to get to know them and their ideas, and to measure the value of their contribution to the intellectual marketplace of ideas.

“Improvement,” I later suggested in our conversation, “is my constant goal, not just an experience here or there.” I suppose each of us could answer the question Les asked me that early morning, and give different answers based on our unique life perspectives. But, to me, it boils down to one fundamental point. Do you love your life?

Are you living the life you would freely choose if nothing stood in your way? If you can honestly answer yes to these questions it speaks volumes about where you are headed in life and what you have to offer those you love as well. Improvement and progression are easy to talk about, but to live a life dedicated to such a goal takes more than simple wishing.

Just a few months before the plane crash Les started hosting his own radio program called “the Producer Revolution.” Every weekday morning at precisely 9:05am anyone in the world could tune in and hear Les make his bold yet quizzical pronouncement, “I am the man who loves his live.”

He started his show almost every day with this declaration. Of course, to the readers of Atlas Shrugged, he was obviously copying the statement of John Galt, early in his radio address - answering the then common question, “Who is John Galt?” But, why did Les do that? He even had custom plates for his Mercedes once again taking on the persona of John Galt. I don’t think very many of our friends have ever taken the time to think it through.

Les was a great example of someone who strived for perfection and progression in his life. I never saw him yield to the momentum of the tide of mediocrity. He loved his life and he loved those around him - starting with his wife, his children, his close family and friends. Anyone who spent any time around Les could easily see this, and could see that ideas like the one’s I’ve been talking about caused his entire demeanor to seem noticeably different than almost anyone who happened to be around him.

John Galt, in his radio address, goes on to answer, “I am the man who does not sacrifice his love or his values.” This, to me, is not simple fiction. It’s an invitation to live a different sort of life.

Not everyone is ready for Ms. Rand’s invitation (delivered through Galt), but in time – I’m convinced that almost all of us begin looking for it. Every man born into the world without serious mental defect has an innate sense that his life is important, that he is important, and that it is within his grasp to accomplish great things. It is not in the nature of man to be depressed or to harbor deep despair about the future. Apathy is not our natural state of mind.

Small children are the best example of how naturally hopeful and heroic the opportunity of life is to mankind. As Ayn Rand clearly explains in her introduction to The Fountainhead:

“It is not in the nature of man—nor of any living entity—to start out by giving up, by spitting in one’s own face and damning existence; that requires a process of corruption whose rapidity differs from man to man. Some give up at the first touch of pressure; some sell out; some run down by imperceptible degrees and lose their fire, never knowing when or how they lost it. Then all of these vanish in the vast swamp of their elders who tell them persistently that maturity consists of abandoning one’s mind; security, of abandoning one’s values; practicality, of losing self-esteem. Yet a few hold on and move on, knowing that that fire is not to be betrayed, learning how to give it shape, purpose and reality. But whatever their future, at the dawn of their lives, men seek a noble vision of man’s nature and of life’s potential. It does not matter that only a few in each generation will grasp and achieve the full reality of man’s proper stature—and that the rest will betray it. It is those few that move the world and give life its meaning…“

The key to living the heroic life is rediscovering that fire within. I have learned for myself that in order to understand the affairs of societies and nations, one must first come to understand the basic nature of men and their affairs.

In order to understand how to reform or improve a nation or a community, it is first necessary to clearly understand how to change individually. This is the tragic error of so many who set out to save the world with no real clue of how to save themselves.

There exists no shortage, in the world, of those whose own happiness seems eternally illusive to themselves and yet who at the same time naively and irrationally embark on a mission to save the world from their own despair. This is a dangerous condition for all those affected. No leader can be trusted who cannot first lead himself. No teacher should be trusted if he has not found in his own life the principled path to happiness. No politician, no businessman, no coach, no adviser, and no parent can effectively perform the sacred responsibility of guiding and directing others if they do not themselves know the ultimate destination of their prescribed path.

This is a critical difference between the producers and the consumers in the world. Beware of those whose own misery drives them to a constant and desperate search for escape from reality by ordering around others for their “own good.” Beware of those who have no vision of the future but thrive off of being a leader. Look instead for those who have a vision of the future and who have some principle-based reason for leading.

The greatest of all teachers has said, “By their fruits ye shall know them.” I know this advice to be sound and powerfully effective. There are innumerable voices in the world speaking to those looking for the reality of life, the path of freedom and prosperity and peace. It is important to discern between the voices of consumers, who simply seek to control and manipulate, from the voices of producers, who actually have a substantive desire and ability to lead.

Look for the producers, they are the men and women of the mind, who love their life. Most of us spend a significant portion of our lives yearning subconsciously for someone to help us find answers to discover this same state of mind. Unfortunately, too often were are unable to articulate the source of our gnawing discontent.

The metaphor created between the two main characters of the Wachowski brothers’ film The Matrix illustrates a similar situation.

Morpheus: . . . They got to you first, but they’ve underestimated how important you are. If they knew what I know, you’d probably be dead.

Neo: What are you talking about? What . . . what is happening to me?

Morpheus. . . I imagine that right now you’re feeling a bit like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole? Hm?

Neo: You could say that.

Morpheus: I can see it in your eyes. You have the look of a man who accepts what he sees because he is expecting to wake up. Ironically, this is not far from the truth. Do you believe in fate, Neo?

Neo: No.

Morpheus: Why not?

Neo: Because I don’t like the idea that I’m not in control of my life.

Morpheus: I know exactly what you mean. Let me tell you why you’re here. You’re here because you know something. What you know you can’t explain. But you feel it. You’ve felt it your entire life. That there’s something wrong with the world. You don’t know what it is but it’s there, like a splinter in your mind driving you mad. It is this feeling that has brought you to me. Do you know what I’m talking about?