Would he be a Democrat today?

It seems that every Democrat politician loves to drape themselves in the mantle of John Kennedy. Bill Clinton traveled to the White House as a teenager, and the picture of him in a group, listening to JFK, was a staple of his first campaign. Earlier this year we were subjected to the spectacle of JFK's daughter, Caroline, being considered for appointment to a New York senate seat for which she had no recognizable qualifications other than being JFK's daughter.

I admit to a special spot in my heart for JFK as well. As a competitor in high school speech contests, I chose his speech announcing the effort to go to the moon, which is really an inspired piece of prose.

But it's another of his speeches - his inaugural address - that got me thinking the other day about the remarkable transformation of the Democrat party over the course of my lifetime.

In January, 1961, JFK stood on the steps of the capitol after taking the oath of office, and gave a tremendous, well-crafted speech that included this phrase:

"Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, in order to assure the survival and success of liberty."

Powerful words, and words that he had to stand behind a short time later, when he faced down the Soviets by blockading Cuba in order to stop the shipment of Soviet missiles.

But put those words in the context of today's Democrat party. Bear any burden, meet any hardship? Those words ring hollow when you consider the rabid anti-war folks - the Daily Kos bashers, the Code Pink operatives, the nutjobs like Cindy Sheehan - who control most of the party.

Support any friend, oppose any foe? Again, those words are a joke to the people of Iran, who are trying to throw off the shackles of tyranny, but hear the current American president say "The political situation in Iran is for Iranians to work out internally."

In fact, there's so much of JFK that seems not just out of sync, but in irreconcilable conflict with the views of most Democrats today. Take the most famous line from that inaugural: "Ask not what your country can do for you; Ask what you can do for your country."

Today that vision is totally backwards, with the Democrat party's largest constituencies being public employees, teachers, labor unions and shakedown enterprises like ACORN, whose primary concern is what their country can do for them.

In fact, when you think of JFK in his totality - an advocate of strong defense, an interventionist abroad, a tax-cutter (he dramatically rolled back rates on high income earners, rather than "soaking the rich") and someone willing to be a vocal advocate for facing down tyranny ("Ich bin ein Berliner") then you have to wonder if today's Democrat party would have any room for the man they consider their icon.

Arnold Palmer and Me

Of course, there is no "Arnold and Me," but the King is back in Minnesota this week as the Senior Tour - oh, sorry, "Champions Tour" - rolls through Minnesota. A few months shy of 80, he remains a giant in the golf world, the business world and, heck, the world. And every time I see him come through town, I'm reminded of one of the most traumatic events of my life, in a brief moment when Arnie and I intersected in Chaska, Minnesota.

It was June of 1970, and 13-year-old Tim Droogsma was very excited. I had been playing golf since I was 8 or 9, and Arnold Palmer immediately became my hero. I watched him on TV whenever I could, I read everything I could get my hands on about him and even emulated that knock-kneed putting stance on the greens. My jr. high library had a Palmer biography written by his business agent, Mark McCormick, and I read it over and over, soaking up every little detail.

I knew how Arnie had grown up as the son of a club pro, how he had once thrown a club in a junior tournament and was told by his father "If you ever throw another club, you'll never play tournament golf again." I knew the stories behind his four Masters wins, the 30 he shot on the front nine to help win the 1960 U.S. Open, the tragedy of the 1966 U.S. Open, his love of airplanes, his various business ventures. I was a total Palmer junkie, ready to argue all night with anyone who dared to insist that Jack Nicklaus was better.

And now, in the summer of 1970, my hero was coming to Minnesota. The U.S. Open was at Hazeltine, the first major for the young course, and I put an elaborate plan in place so that I could see my hero up close. I mowed lawns to earn the money for a ticket. I knew that getting there wouldn't be easy, since we lived in Fridley (a northern suburb) and my dad worked near South St. Paul. Chaska - out beyond the western suburbs - wasn't exactly convenient.

But I mowed a few more lawns, and offered my parents gas money if mom would take dad to work, then take me to Chaska, then come back and get me that evening. They agreed, in part - I think - because they couldn't believe I was actually out finding work to make it all happen, and they wanted to reward this unusual behavior.

So I got a ticket for Friday, the second day of the Open. Mom got me there around 8:30 and said she would be back at 7:00 to get me. I went right to the driving range, where I figured Palmer would be before his tee time. Good call.

There, just 30 or 40 feet from me, was my hero, smashing balls down the range and getting ready for his round. This was the first pro golf tournament I had ever seen, but the other 149 golfers didn't really exist for me; My only goal of the day was to get Arnold Palmer's autograph.

In retrospect, there was an amazing collection of talent on the course that day: Nicklaus, Billy Casper, Lee Trevino, Tony Jacklin (who had won the British Open the year before, and would win this tournament), Gary Player, Sam Snead, Ben Crenshaw (still an amateur), Johnny Miller, Tom Weiskopf, Chi Chi Rodriguez and others. But I was only there to see Palmer.

He finished his work on the driving range, and started up the hill towards the 1st tee. Today you wouldn't get near a player making this walk unless he chose to stroll along the ropes, but in 1970, security was pretty much non-existent. And so a crowd of us surrounded Arnie, making our way up the hill, shoving programs and pieces of paper in front of him, hoping for that signature.

I immediately fell a little behind the crowd and hustled up to try to get into position. With everyone trying to stay in front of him, I decided to get in close behind him and try to somehow get his attention. I was getting close, and then it happened: I stepped on his heel.

A total accident, of couse, and it was just a little nip, but there was no doubt my foot had made contact with his. And in case I had any doubts, the King made them go away by looking over his shoulder and saying "Off the heel, kid."

I froze, traumatized. The crowd kept moving and I just stood there. My idol had actually spoken to me, but the words were "Off the heel, kid." I was devastated. Here was my hero, trying to win the U.S. Open, and I had stepped on his heel.

I spent the rest of the day following him around the course and saw almost every one of the 74 shots he took that day. And as he left the 18th green, there might have been another chance for an autograph, but I was too afraid. I didn't want to risk angering him again. When mom picked me up later that day and asked if I had seen Palmer, I was too embarrassed to tell her what had happened. For years I had daydreams about someday meeting him, just so I could apologize for what happened on the way to the 1st tee.

Over the years, he's remained one of the people I most admire. During my annual trips to Myrtle Beach I've played two of the courses he's designed - River's Edge and King's North - repeatedly. I've played Arnold Palmer golf clubs, worn the shirts and still prefer Heinz over Hunt's ketchup because that was "Arnie's brand."

And in 39 years, I've forgotten most of my teenage traumas, but that one will never leave me, and I get reminded every year when Arnie comes back to town.

In 2002, Hazeltine again hosted a major, the PGA. I took my son William, and the parallels were eerie: He was 13, seeing his first pro tournament, on the course where I had been 13 and seen my first one. And for him, seeing Tiger Woods up close was every bit as big a deal as seeing Arnie had been for me. On the way to Chaska, I told him the story and reminded him that if got near Tiger, he should take special care not to step on his heels, or it would haunt him forever.

My 4th of July reward...

...In addition to being able to play 81 holes of golf (27 Friday, 36 Saturday, 18 Sunday), I was rewarded on Sunday after church by The Smartest Little Girl in the Universe, who ran up to me screaming "Opaaaaaaa" and was wearing this little patriotic outfit. For comparison's sake, the second picture is what she looked like last year on Independence Day.

We hold these truths to be self evident....

I'll admit it right up front: Except for Easter Sunday, this is my favorite day of the year. When I was a kid, the 4th of July was the highlight of every summer.

I grew up in a church in Pease, Minnesota, which back then was a town of about 95 people, and I think it's grown to something like 200 now. But in the center of Pease was the Pease Christian Reformed Church, (pictured below) and attached to the church is a large picnic grounds with swings, a softball field and a nice little natural amphitheater. Back then the church - in a town of just 95 people - had an average Sunday attendance of 300-350 people. It seemed like every Dutch farm family in a 20-mile radius belonged to the Pease church.

And every year on the 4th, we went to Pease, because these folks knew how to celebrate Independence Day. It usually began just after dawn, when some locals would blow off a little dynamite, just to wake people up. Then there was a service at the church, in which the younger kids would come up front and perform a well-rehearsed song-and-dance routine with patriotic music. A guest speaker would give a talk. Around noon, all the families would start setting up in their usual part of the picnic area. Every clan knew their spot: The Kiels over here, the Droogsmas over there, the Tellinghuisens by that tree.

After a potluck lunch, the games would begin. Running races for the kids, a greased-pole-climbing contest that went on all day. A dunk tank. Volleyball. And because fast-pitch softball was all the rage, the two Pease teams - imaginatively named "Pease 1" and "Pease 2" - would face off at 2 p.m. The kids ran around all day, while the adults rested, visited, maybe took a walk in the adjacent cemetery to look at grandparents' graves.

Around 4:30, things would come to a halt. There were lots of dairy farmers in the crowd, and it was milking time. But they all starting filtering back around 7 p.m. for the evening program. We'd all sit on blankets on the hillside and listen to performers who led us in "God Bless America" and "America the Beautiful" until it was time to move to the other side of the grounds and watch the fireworks.

It was like being in a real-life Norman Rockwell painting, and every year I spent May and June just waiting for those fireworks. I'd sit on the grass and be thrilled by every single one, and I hated having it end. Pease, I later learned, has held a fireworks display every 4th of July since 1915, but when that last shell went off, I was afraid I might never see fireworks again.

And what I soaked in from this great day every year was that these people loved America. I grew up in the '60s and '70s, when the fight for civil rights, political assassinations and Vietnam were huge stories, but every 4th of July in Pease I was reminded all over again that America was good. Almost everyone in the crowd had an ancestor that came here from Holland or some other part of Europe to find a better life, and that lesson just seeped into all of us. America was where you came to find freedom and opportunity, and no one was embarrassed to celebrate it.

I took my kids back there a few years ago, hoping they would feel some of that same magic, but like everything from our childhoods, it's changed. The church is smaller now, and while there is still a morning program at the church, the picnic grounds don't fill up with as many people. Folks still show up for the fireworks, but there wasn't much left of the day-long celebration. The kids had a bit of a laugh at the old man, but that's okay; the 4th of July is still my day.

And over the years, it just keeps meaning more and more to me. The story of the Declaration is as compelling today as the first time I heard it, and my admiration for the vision and courage of the men in Philadelphia continues to grow. They challenged the mightiest country in the world because of their belief in freedom and self-governance, and they pledged - as the last line says - their lives, fortunes and sacred honor.

So enjoy the day. Have fun at the cabin, enjoy a round of golf, watch the Twins game, see some fireworks. But take a moment to remember the genius of Jefferson's writing - "We hold these truths to be self evident..." - and appreciate the fact that all of us today are still reaping the benefits of what they did.

The Smartest Little Girl in the Universe

Indulge me, please, in a little bit of grandfatherly boasting. My granddaughter Anne, known to regulars here as "The Smartest Little Girl in the Universe," has made me proud again.

It's not just that she already has a huge vocabulary, or that she remembers all sorts of obscure things, or that she can string five or six words together to make a sentence at an age when most kids only say one or two words at a time. It's all of those things put together. Granted, it's my first grandchild (her baby brother arrives in about seven weeks!) so maybe I'm a little out of touch with what kids should be able to do, but I don't think so.

Anne's mother - a school librarian who knows tons about child development - tells me that a 22-month-old child should be able to stack four - or maybe six - blocks.

Yet here is Anne, just this week, stacking up all 10 of her nesting blocks. I'm telling you, there is some sort of advanced brain in that giant head!

Now if we can just get her mother to fully dress her in the morning......

How liberals view free speech

Meet Karen "Largemouth" Bass. She is the Speaker of the California Assembly, which makes her the most powerful Democrat in the Golden State.

California, of course, is in the worst fiscal condition of all the states, due in part to the ridiculous spending habits of the past 10 years. California's government spending has far outpaced the rate of inflation, largely because the public employee unions (huge contributors to Ms. Bass and her fellow Democrats) exercise powerful control over the legislature.

This past session, Bass led the way for the liberal knee-jerk response to a crisis: Raise taxes. Despite having one of the highest tax rates in the nation - and a business tax structure that is driving hundreds of thousands of jobs out of the state - she saw a tax increase as the only way out.

In response, California conservatives - including a number of talk radio hosts - opposed the tax increases, and let their legislators know that they would not accept tax hikes. Ms. Bass was asked about the role of talk radio in opposing the proposed tax hikes, and here's what she told the Los Angeles Times:

"The Republicans were essentially threatened and terrorized against voting for revenue. Now [some] are facing recalls. They operate under a terrorist threat: "You vote for revenue and your career is over." I don't know why we allow that kind of terrorism to exist. I guess it's about free speech, but it's extremely unfair."

Got that? Letting your representative know you are against tax increases equals terrorism. Producing obscene art with a government grant is "free speech," of course, but if you dare to question the need for higher taxes, you are a terrorist.

Note to Ms. Bass: Here's the text of the 1st Amendment to the Constitution. I've bold-faced the points of emphasis you should make yourself familiar with. The Constitution remains in effect, even under the Obama administration, and even in the People's Republic of California.

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

A Life Well-Lived

Those who know me know how much I revere military veterans, and over the weekend the remarkable story of Kenneth Reusser came to my attention. I don't have much to add to this AP story, except to express my incredible admiration for what Mr. Reusser, and my my renewed pride in a society and culture that produces men like him. Here's the story, and RIP, Colonel Reusser.

Most-decorated Marine pilot dies at 89

CLACKAMAS, OREGON (AP) — Retired Marine Corps Col. Kenneth L. Reusser, called the most decorated Marine aviator in history and was shot down in three wars, has died at age 89.

Reusser flew 253 combat missions in World War II, Korea and Vietnam and was shot down in all three, five times in all.

His 59 medals included two Navy Crosses, four Purple Hearts and two Legions of Merit.

In 1945, while based in Okinawa, he stripped down his F4U-4 Corsair fighter and intercepted a Japanese observation plane at a high altidude. When his guns froze, he flew his fighter into the observation plane, hacking off its tail with his propeller.

In 1950 in Korea led an attack on a North Korean tank-repair facility at Inchon, then destroyed an oil tanker almost blowing himself out of the sky.

In Vietnam he flew helicopters and was leading a rescue mission when his Huey was shot down. He needed skin grafts over 35 percent of his badly burned body.

Reusser, who lived in the Portland suburb of Milwaukie, was born Jan. 27, 1920, the son of a minister.

Reusser raced motorcycles to help pay for college and earning a pilots license before WWII.

After retiring from the Marine Corps he worked for Lockheed Aircraft and the Piasecki Helicopter Corp. He remained active in veterans groups.

Reusser died June 20 of natural causes. He is survived by his wife, Trudy; and sons, Richard C. and Kenneth L. Jr. Interment was Friday in Willamette National Cemetery.