Bob Gibson
Daily Progress political blogger

Should Virgil Goode’s accent keep him from taking the oath in the next session of Congress?

The mountain twang is strange to the ears of most Americans.

Goode has said on many occasions that English should be the official language of our nation.

What kind of English? Good English, or Goode English?

Can someone with Goode English uphold all the traditional American values that we all cherish?

I worry that someone whose speech is so foreign sounding to most Americans might not fully cherish and protect the fundamental American values of religious freedom and full and fully legal immigration.

On second thought, Goode’s accent might not disqualify him as he is a card-carrying American born in the Commonwealth of Virginia who has represented more than one political party in the Congress.

I can understand him, but then my redneck ancestors moved into Southwest Virginia in the 1700s, giving me two good red ears for hearing and understanding Goode’s reluctance to welcome too many people to America and the real Virginia.  Too many people whose speech sounds strange to him.

Romper, bomper, stomper-boo; tell me, tell me, tell me do; magic mirror tell me this season that my fellow Fringsters are having fun—within reason.

I see J-Mac and Sylvia and Les and Bob and Bobby (where are you boy?  ) and Ronnie. I see Stevie and Kevin and Bruce and Matt. I see Dennis and Nancy (get a bike girl. You know you want one ). I see Brian and Pam and Andrew and Sam. I see James and Jimmy and the whole Jarman staff. I see Hoss and Palmer and the Orangies at Waugh. I see the Ladd and the folks at Shendandoah.

Be good y’all and Merry Christmas too all on two wheels or four.

B-Mac

I saw a man throw a soft drink at a peaceful protester dressed as a chicken and I thought about the First Amendment and tolerance.

I saw a mother cuff her young son upside the head at a local toy store because he didn’t come fast enough and I wondered how that kid would treat his own children.

I got knocked over by angry liberals at a healthy food grocery as they espoused tolerance and smacked me with their carts, glared at me for being in the way, and went around without so much as an “excuse me.”

I saw people nearly slamming into each other in parking lots to get the best spot nearest the mall, flipping fingers and making angry gestures while their car stereos blasted carols proclaiming “peace on the Earth, good will toward men from Heaven’s all gracious King.”

I came to work wondering what Americans are really like and opened my e-mail to find this story about Army Pfc. Ross A. McGinnis, 6 feet tall and 136 pounds. The 19-year-old stationed in Iraq would “go into a room and when he left, everyone was laughing...He did impersonations of others in the company. He was quick-witted, just hilarious. He loved making people laugh. He was a comedian through and through.”

The turret gunner on a truck would take new soldiers in, show them around, visit friends in the hospital. “He was easy to talk to. You could tell him anything. He was a funny guy. He was always making somebody laugh.”

McGinnis was manning the gunner’s hatch when an insurgent tossed a grenade from above. It flew past McGinnis and down through the hatch before lodging near the radio. His platoon sergeant, Sgt. 1st Class Cedric Thomas of Longview, Texas, recalled what happened next.

“Pfc. McGinnis yelled ‘Grenade! ... It’s in the truck,’” Thomas said. “I looked out of the corner of my eye as I was crouching down and I saw him pin it down.” McGinnis did so even though he could have escaped. “He had time to jump out of the truck,” Thomas said. “He chose not to.”

The grenade blew, killing McGinnis and wounding everyone in the truck. Everyone but McGinnis survived, however.

Thomas remembered McGinnis talking about how he would respond in such a situation. McGinnis said then he didn’t know how he would act, but when the time came, he delivered. “He gave his life to save his crew and his platoon sergeant,” Thomas said. “He’s a hero. He’s a professional. He was just an awesome guy.”

McGinnis, who was awarded the Silver Star after his death, was just a fun-loving American with honor and dedication to his friends.

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

It’s good to know we’re still making Americans like Ross McGinnis.  We could use many, many more.

Christmas: It ain’t about who gets the baddest gift or who gives the bestest present. It ain’t about keeping up old family traditions. It’s about seeing that couple on the side of the road with their dog and a sign asking for food and giving them your last Pretty Boy Hamilton or even a Big-Head Jackson. It’s about doing something for others.

Sometimes true Christmas comes from the unexpected, like this story told by Catherine Wharton:

Over the course of the last two years I have been working to complete a needlepoint Christmas stocking for my middle child, Wyant. For the last month it has been an evening project that has begun to drive my family insane, however I was determined to have it finished by Christmas, as was my child.

I missed the deadline offered by most needlepoint stores to have it sent off to be sown together and had an alternative solution to send it to a woman in neighboring Richmond. In order to get it to the woman in Richmond, I had to complete it prior to leaving for a 3 day business trip last week. I rushed off the night before I left, amid the frightful frantic shoppers to Jo-Ann Fabrics and Crafts to purchase the flannel that would line the inside of the stocking. The velvet had already been specially ordered and was due to arrive while I was gone. The thought of how I would possibly finish the stocking that evening prior to leaving at 5 am the next morning had crossed my mind several times, but I was determined. Whilst at Jo-Ann I ran into an employee who commented on the stocking and I asked if she knew anyone locally who could complete the project upon such short notice - buying me more time of course. She gave me a name and I phoned her on the drive home that evening. The woman on the other end of the phone told me she’d be able to help and I promised to drive it out to her first thing on Friday when my flight arrived back in C-ville. I had just bought myself at least another 6-8 hours to complete the stocking. On the way back from the business trip I was delayed because of fog in Charlotte for at least 6 hours - which gave me the time I needed to finish the stocking.

On Saturday I drove the stocking half an hour from C-ville to meet Victoria in her modest yet cozy home. Victoria is a seamstress extraordinary - her house was filled with Christmas presents ready to be shipped. All home made. It was evident that she was busy but had made time to complete this project.

She told me she would be in touch in several days once the project was complete. I received the much awaited call and ... Wyant and I drove out there to find what we had anticipated for 2 years - the completed stocking. Victoria explained how, rather than using her sowing machine to complete the project, she had hand-sewn the stocking because she knew that this was an heirloom and that it had to be perfect.

She had spent 14 hours and it was just beautiful. I gulped at the thought of what it would cost, realizing she charged $20 an hour times 14, but regardless I was so thrilled the stocking was complete. As we were getting ready to leave, I asked Victoria what I owed her and she replied “not a cent. You have poured hours of love into this Christmas stocking and I refuse to let any money change hands over this labor of love. So this is my gift to you both.”

I teared up, realizing that Victoria could probably use the money. I insisted on paying her - but she flat out refused.

Wyant and I left for our drive back to Charlottesville, appreciating the true gift of giving.

That’s what Christmas is about: Giving time, giving effort, giving respect to others. The gift doesn’t matter. The thought, however, does.

U.S 29 North and Rio Road. 5:30 p.m. The light is red. I’m riding Thumper, stopped in the right through lane, waiting for the go-light.

Traffic on The Big Road stops. The left-turn arrow goes. The cars to my left begin to move and do the cars across the intersection. It’s almost time for me to go.

Wait. There’s a flash of white. A car is casually cruising into the intersection. A new Dodge is pulling out to turn left and ..... wham!
The cars barely touch but the speed is enough that the whole front fascia of the Dodge is smacked, the radiator hoses whacked and body work cracked. The Dodge is dead with its nose barely in the path of travel. The left turners around him go around and go on their way.

The light turns.

The through traffic goes through. I start off and see no one stopping to check on anyone. I pull the Buell into the old service station at the corner, park it and carefully walk across the street, my Waste Management-issue yellow/reflective vest making me look semi-official. I dial 9-1-1. The guy in the Dodge is dialing, too. He’s OK. His car, however, isn’t.

I see the driver of the other car get out. A passenger also exits. I tell 9-1-1 no one is hurt.

I don’t see anyone by the other car so I walk over. Another gentleman is nearby. The passenger has a sore wrist and bit of a bump on her head. The driver, is distraught and speaks little. That’s OK. My Spanish is not as good as his English. I call back 9-1-1 and tell them they need an EMT and a translator.

The squad arrives. The cops are there. I walk back to my Blast and it dawns on me: There must have been 20 or 30 cars going through that intersection and at least 10 who saw it happen up close and personal, including me.

So why did only two drivers stop to check on our fellow motorists? Why did only two of us stay on hand until the authorities got there?

Is there something wrong with other drivers or something with me?