The old familiar door creaked a bit every time it was opened, a sign of it’s use and age. It was the entry to a brown clapboard neighborhood grocery store, Paul’s Market, that had flourished for half a century, even though almost hidden and nondescript between the brown clapboard middle class homes that surrounded it. At one time it was called Frank’s Market, but then Paul bought it and his name was not Frank, so it was renamed Paul’s. The neighbors did not need a neon sign or elaborately decorated window to know that it sold all the foodstuff they would need to satisfy their daily meal planning. Upon entering the compact store, my mother would be standing at a small steel cash register, her sparkling blue eyes ready to greet everyone who entered with a warm smile and hello. She would then wipe the flour sack apron that was tied around her waist and suggest that some chuck roast had just been ground and two pounds would make enough Swedish meatballs to feed and delight their entire family. The customer would perk up, happy their meal worries were over and say that sounded great! My mother, proud of her salesmanship abilities, would then proceed to write down the recipe for them onto a brown paper bag…the one that would soon hold two pounds of ground chuck. Then, with a wink, my mother would suggest that a can of corn, mashed potato and fresh green beans would go very nicely with it.
As the customer got to the very back of the store, Paul, my father, would suddenly poke his head out the open doorway, beckoning them to the fresh meat and seafood department, a narrow back room that consisted of a walk-in refrigerator and a three inch thick butcher block table that spanned the entire length of the wall. Perched on the end of the table was a large stainless steel meat grinder and tucked underneath the counter was a small stool, so that when asked, I could help grind up some hamburg for that day. I loved putting a hunk of meat into the funnel shaped opening at the top and watch as the meat came out the bottom chute, like big blood red strands of wiggling spaghetti. It was much more fun than my other job, restocking the shelves. Extra cans of everything were in the basement below, down a set of rickety stairs, and the dark gloominess seemed a mile away from the cheery atmosphere above.
My favorite job at Paul’s, was delivering groceries. The surrounding neighborhood was a beehive of humanity and Paul’s was the cohesive honeycomb, the sweetest spot in town, where everyone gathered and shared the day’s news, at a time when the internet did not exist and communication was still done the old fashioned way, by word of mouth. I listened in on many a conversation and learned that what was being whispered was not said in a gossipy way, but rather in a helpful way to quickly learn of the latest “goings on” in town. Paul’s became a place to mourn someone’s death, celebrate a birth or even just have some friendly chatter when feeling alone and out of sorts. My goodhearted parents were great listeners and always there when someone was sick and needed help. They would be the first to call old Mrs. So and So who had just fallen to see if she might need some groceries hand delivered to her front door step. That is when my ears would perk up because I knew that hand delivering meant I would soon be out the door armed with bulging brown paper bags filled with food items that were desperately needed right away. I was used to walking everywhere; school, church, the library and the doctor, never needing to worry about gaining weight from mom’s Swedish meatballs with mashed potatoes, and enjoyed the walk almost as much as the greeting I would receive once arriving at the recipients house. They were considerate deliveries and my errands would always be rewarded with grateful hugs. While walking back to the store, I always felt happy that I had been able to help, in my own special way, a person in need. That feeling of contentment lingered for the rest of the day and prompted a smile on my lips at the most unexpected times. Perhaps that was my first brush with learning that unselfish deeds were so selfishly rewarding and that caring neighbors offered the palpable love that kept our town’s heart ticking, alive and well.
In stark contrast to community caring and love, Saul Alinsky, a Marxist from Chicago, created a much different model for community life, a concept he coined “community organizing” a clever euphemism for community communism. Alinsky, who wrote “Rules for Radicals,” and dedicated his book to his favorite radical, the devil, did not focus on transfusing good back into the community, but rather focused on sucking it dry of all its underlying goodness, hope and promising future, a future called the “American Dream.” His communist model instead relished the “redistribution of wealth” or in layman’s terms, the taking of wealth from the hardworking middle class and giving it to the lazy, government dependent, underclass. He became the master puppeteer who trained his community operatives how to pull the strings of jealousy, race, and class warfare in order to obtain his nefarious quest for power. Barack Obama, who was hustled back and forth from Africa to America during his childhood, was never part of a functional family or community. His high school days in Hawaii were spent experimenting with drugs, not neighborly love, therefore, the Marxist, Alinsky model played right into his greedy hands; to him, community organizing was fair game in an America that he had never bonded with and the fast track tool to help him achieve his political ambitions.
Are America’s neighborhood’s any better off now under Obama’s, agnostic “social justice” programs and community organizing? That question can only be answered in truth by our neighbors. My neighbors are moving after losing their homes, trying to find low rental apartments or moving in with family; my neighbors are buying whatever is on sale at the supermarket and making their short grocery list last a week; my neighbors are no longer going on weekend getaways or vacations because they can no longer afford the gas; my neighbors are losing their health insurance and good doctor’s, wondering how they will be able to afford the new insurance tax being levied upon them; my neighbors are losing their full time jobs because their employers cannot afford the new “affordable” Obamacare; my neighbors are being audited by the IRS because they are active conservatives; my neighbors are veterans who proudly served our country and are now watching as their benefits are being diminished and used as political bait; my neighbors now have to think twice before hanging the American flag or displaying a cross in front of their own homes for fear of reprisal and fines; my neighbors are watching as America’s sovereignty is slowly slipping away and being handed to the United Nations; my neighbors are being spied upon at every street corner and traffic light; my neighbors are stocking up on supplies, waiting for the next false flag event or manufactured “crisis”; my neighbors are buying guns and ammunition because they no longer trust our tyrannical government.
Who will get us out of this mess? Can we trust and depend on bullying community organizers or slumlord-like bureaucrats who are blind to the needs of “We The People?” The answer can be found in our neighborhoods. My neighbors are tithing their very sparse spending money at their local churches so as to help the most needy among us. My neighbors are making sure that the family whose home burned down last week has a place to live. My neighbors are volunteering to work in the food banks and soup kitchen’s to feed an ever increasing poor population. My neighbors are busy knitting scarves and hats for those who cannot afford the basic necessities of a cold winter. My neighbors are risking their lives and serving in the military to help keep us free, in spite of a Commander-in-Chief who has injected the Pentagon with the enemy. My neighbors are standing in front of Planned Parenthood clinics, praying that our government puts an end to its purging of God and the abortive murder and stealing of America’s future.
2014 will be a banner year for the righteous transformation of America and my good neighbors are the heroes who will make that happen.
“Righteousness exalts a nation, but sin is a disgrace to any people” Proverbs 14:34