While the World Watches the Games

 

We’re a little more than halfway through the Winter Olympics as I write this. For as far back as I can remember, I’ve been a complete junkie for the Games—the competition, the glamour, the drama of it all. I could never get enough.

But this year, I haven’t watched a single minute.

Why?

Four years ago, while I was soaking in every Olympic moment, Russian troops were massing along the borders of Ukraine and Belarus. The signs of invasion were unmistakable. President Biden issued warnings and declassified intelligence in an effort to alert the world. Vladimir Putin denied everything.

On February 24, 2022, he launched a brutal invasion of Ukraine.

No one gave Ukraine much of a chance. The consensus was that Kyiv would fall within days—three at most. I knew almost nothing about Ukraine beyond the fact that it appeared to be doomed. I felt sympathy, certainly. But I assumed it would be over quickly, and life would move on.

Ukraine, however, never got the memo.

When offered evacuation by the United States, President Volodymyr Zelenskyy reportedly replied, “I need ammunition, not a ride.” It was a David-versus-Goliath moment that will live in history.

For the first year, the American people—and our government—stood firmly behind Ukraine. But wars that drag on lose their headline appeal. The daily updates blurred together. Attention spans shifted. Then came the presidential election circus, and Ukraine slipped quietly out of the spotlight.

Now, three years later, much of the world has moved on.

Meanwhile, Ukraine has endured relentless bombardment—attacks on power grids, heating systems, and civilian infrastructure, especially during these past brutal winter months. Millions live with rolling blackouts and freezing nights of below zero temperatures and wind chills. Russia’s campaign is not merely territorial; it aims at erasing identity, culture, and sovereignty. That would be a genocide larger than the holocaust.

And still, Ukraine fights on.

Ukraine is now home to the most battle-tested military force in Europe. No other European nation has comparable recent combat experience defending against Russia. If Ukraine were to fall, that hardened force would not simply disappear. It would become part of Russia’s expanded war machine—the tip of the spear for further aggression.

Imagine the consequences.

The European Union represents one of the three largest economies on Earth, alongside the United States and China. A broader European war would not remain “over there.” It would ripple across global markets, supply chains, energy systems, and financial institutions. Refugee flows would surge. Factories would go dark. Trade routes would fracture.

Southwest Virginia would feel it. So would every other corner of this country.

Yet as I write this, much of the United States—and much of the world—is captivated by figure skating scores and downhill finishes. There’s nothing wrong with celebrating athletic excellence. I’ve loved it my whole life. But this year, my mind isn't able to process the horrors of war with the glitz and glamor of the games. It feels like a betrayal of my values and I refuse to be distracted from the hard realities that exist for Ukraine, Europe and the rest of us. So I choose to pass on the Olympics this year. 

Autocrats count on fatigue. They count on short memories. They count on the world’s attention drifting to something shinier. Four years ago, many of us assumed Ukraine would collapse in days. It didn’t. Today, assuming the threat has passed would be an equally serious mistake.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Whether you agree or disagree, civil discussion is the bedrock of democracy. I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive.

If you try to comment and receive an error message, your browser may be blocking third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” field and simply include your name or initials if you prefer.

Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with me.

Former Fictional Candidate On Our Next President

If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, you may remember that two years ago I launched a fictional campaign for President of the United States. It was a useful exercise: a way to define my platform and articulate how I’d run the country if elected. Because the campaign was fictional, it stayed within budget and required no fundraising, no influence-peddling, and no selling of my soul.

The outcome was predictable. I received too few votes—fictional or otherwise. Still, the exercise accomplished exactly what it was meant to do. And while today is February 2, 2026—Groundhog Day—I have no intention of repeating it.

Having now retired from fictional presidential politics, I have entered the revered role of elder statesman, a position that automatically increases the value of my opinions and qualifies me to comment freely on matters of public concern. I trust the cable networks and print media will be in touch shortly.

Today marks the beginning of what I expect to be a semi-regular feature on this blog: advice offered to voters and candidates alike. Some of it will be playful. Some of it will be deadly serious. I will not be labeling which is which. If you’re unsure, then the column is working as intended.

Whoever becomes our next President will need the wisdom, strength, and moral clarity of Abraham Lincoln to govern a nation this fractured. Healing it will not be easy. But on day one, I hope the President requests the resignations of all nine Supreme Court justices. He need not accept them—but anyone considered for appointment should face a clear, non-negotiable test.

They must commit to reversing the Supreme Court’s 2010 decision in Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission—a ruling that demolished a century of campaign finance law and legalized the unlimited purchase of political power. That decision is the foundation of our current corruption: billionaires buying elections, installing compliant judges, and bending government to serve wealth instead of citizens. Truth and justice were the first casualties.

The question before us is simple: can we reclaim a democracy that has been sold to the highest bidder, one transaction at a time? I believe we can—but only through the same courage and civic responsibility that created this nation 250 years ago.

That means standing up. Getting involved. Supporting candidates who refuse dark money from PACs and Super PACs. Knocking on doors. Making calls. Writing checks. Democracy is not a spectator sport, and freedom comes with a participation requirement. This is what the founders understood. As Benjamin Franklin warned, we were given “a republic, if you can keep it.”

Whether we do is no longer a theoretical question. It’s a choice.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Whether you agree or disagree, civil discussion is the bedrock of democracy, and I hope that all such exchanges are both civil and productive. Please feel free to share your experiences in the comments below, and share this post with others who appreciate both humor and thoughtful reflection about this blue marble we all share.

If you’d like to leave a comment but receive an error message, it’s probably because your browser is set to reject third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” window and simply leave your name or initials if you wish. Thanks for reading — and for walking this road with me.

Faith, Doubt, and the Silence Between Prayers

Photo: Kiev In Winter, Artem Hvozdkov/Getty Images

    Most of my readers know that my blog tends to wander across a fairly wide landscape — from humor and gentle satire to subjects that are more serious and personal. This post falls squarely into the latter category. It’s about something that matters deeply to me, and I hope, in some way, it may resonate with you as well.

    In any relationship, communication is essential. It’s the exchange of thoughts, concerns, questions, and sometimes disagreements. Without it, there isn’t much of a relationship at all.

    But what happens when the relationship isn’t with another person — when it’s with God?

    For people of faith, communication often takes the form of reading scripture and prayer. Yet that raises an uncomfortable question: can a faith relationship survive without some sense — any sense — that our prayers are being heard? Acknowledged? Even if not answered in the way we hope?

    My own faith did not come easily. I was born into a Catholic family, but as a teenager I rebelled hard against what I perceived as too many rules , too much guilt, and too much pomp and circumstance. For nearly a decade, I walked away from organized religion altogether.

    Then, somewhat unexpectedly, I met a barber named Joe. Joe wasn’t a theologian. He didn’t quote scripture or lecture — his life was the lesson. What struck me was his peace — a deep, grounded peace with himself and with the world. His faith wasn’t about rules; it was about relationship. About grace. About forgiveness. That version of faith was far more compelling than anything I had known growing up.

    Over the years, my faith — and my understanding — has grown. I see the hand of God in many places: in the natural world, in moments of grace, and in certain events in my own life that seem to defy odds.

    At the same time, scripture is filled with stories of unanswered prayers and raw human anguish. The Book of Job is essentially the story of a man who loses his health, his wealth, his family, and his friends — and curses the day he was born. His cries are not polite. They are honest.

    One of the most influential books I’ve ever read is When Bad Things Happen to Good People by Rabbi Harold Kushner. Though written from a Jewish perspective, it helped me wrestle with one of faith’s hardest contradictions: how can an all-powerful and loving God coexist with evil, war, cancer, cruelty, and loss?

    In 2026, I find myself needing to revisit those questions often. My thoughts are frequently consumed by concern for the people of Ukraine, and for so many others around the world who live amid violence, injustice, and destruction. I pray daily that suffering will ease, that peace will prevail, and that good will overcome evil.

    And yet — if I’m honest — evil often appears to be winning. Suffering multiplies. Innocent people, including people I know and love, continue to be deeply affected. The Bible speaks extensively about evil, suffering, compassion, and the responsibility of believers to care for the afflicted. It also reminds us that “faith without works is dead.”

    So I try to do more than pray. I write. I talk. I raise money and encourage others to join me. Still, it isn’t an easy road to walk. Perhaps faith that is never tested isn’t really faith at all.

    I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. What have your experiences been with faith and doubt? Have you found peace with the tension between them — and if so, how?

    Please feel free to share your experiences in the comments below, and share this post with others who appreciate both humor and thoughtful reflection about this blue marble we all share.

    If you’d like to leave a comment but receive an error message, it’s probably because your browser is set to reject third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” window, and simply leave your name or initials if you wish.

    Thanks for reading — and for walking this road with me.

Blinded by Headlights, Saved by a Ball Cap: A Used-Car Story

Be It Ever So Humble... My New Ride

For the last several years, I’ve been getting burned out on nighttime driving—and by “burned out,” I mean literally blinded. I’m tired of piloting a low-profile sedan through a world dominated by SUVs and trucks armed with retina-searing headlights. Somewhere between my squinting eyes and my muttered commentary about modern lighting standards, I decided this was the week to bite the bullet.It was time to look for something taller than my trusty 2012 Malibu.

My needs were simple—almost boring, really. I wanted something reliable, with just enough elevation to save my eyesight but low enough that my mother-in-law could get in without a running start. A small-to-medium SUV would do nicely. Heated seats were non-negotiable. And I wasn’t about to drop forty grand just to impress friends or neighbors. I’ve never owned a new car and don’t plan to start now. Anything that loses 20% of its value the moment you drive it off the lot strikes me as the automotive definition of insanity.

So off I went car shopping.

Actually, I went to my desk—because that’s how it’s done now.

Virtual car shopping is today’s reality, and you’d better have fast fingers. Anything remotely worthwhile gets snapped up in a heartbeat. Facebook Marketplace? A swamp of dealers posing as private sellers, scammers, and listings that disappear faster than free donuts in a break room. Actual private sellers? Practically extinct. It feels like dealers are using AI—or dark magic—to vacuum up every decent car before real humans even see them.

I miss the old way: walking up to a car with a “For Sale” sign, chatting with the owner, reading the body language, and slowly triangulating the lowest price they’d actually accept. That art form appears to be endangered or extinct.

The online results were bleak. Finding a decent used SUV at a reasonable price felt like unicorn hunting. Plenty of SUV’s with high mileage and high prices. Very little in the $15–17K range I was targeting.

Here’s where modern tech actually helped. I leaned on ChatGPT to research common maintenance issues by model and year (highly recommended), identify which dealers had decent reputations, and even sharpen my negotiation strategy. With my digital wingman, I didn’t feel quite so much like a lamb headed for slaughter. Information really is power.

Yesterday, I put on my business face, grabbed my USAF Veteran ball cap, and headed into the used-car jungle with a short list of candidates. First stop: a good-looking Kia Sportage at a decent price. I arrived just in time to have some young sales guy tell me that someone else drove it off for a test drive—ten minutes ahead of me. I knew immediately that ship had sailed.  

Two more dealerships. Two more whiffs.

The sun was dropping. My mood followed it down. I was ready to call it quits when a last-minute idea popped into my head: Why not just try the Kia dealership and see what happens?

With the last bit of daylight fading, I pulled into the lot, stepped out into a wind that instantly transported me back to Chicago style winters, and was greeted by a salesman about my age. I didn’t waste time. Thirty seconds, tops. Here’s what I need. Here’s what I won’t do. He didn’t look optimistic—but pointed to a Sportage way in the back. Almost dark. Just over 100K miles. Decent shape.

Then he said the magic words.

“We just took in a Chevy Equinox on trade this afternoon. Long-time customer. Full maintenance records. That’s the one you need to see.”

Hmm. Why not?

He wasn’t kidding. It was clean. Solid. We took it for a drive—at night, of course—and it handled beautifully. Back inside, we hadn’t even talked price yet when his manager walked in, noticed my ball cap, and launched into stories about his two sons—one an Air Force colonel, the other a Marine.

Suddenly, it wasn’t a negotiation. It was three old guys swapping war stories.

That conversation earned me a nice discount before we even discussed numbers—comfortably within Kelley Blue Book. I asked them to throw in new brakes and a new battery for good measure, and they agreed. We sealed the deal yesterday morning and I'll pick it up next week.

In the end, there was nothing digital about it. No algorithms. No online wizardry. Just a few old guys doing what old guys do best: telling stories, building trust, and mixing in a little business.

Sometimes it’s good to be old—and leave the online stuff to the kids.

I’d love to hear your thoughts and experiences in the comments below. If you value humor mixed with serious reflections about life on this blue marble we all share, please pass this along.

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Happy New Year — and thanks for reading.

Another Christmas Miracle at 3rd Street Coffeehouse

 

The Money Shot

    3rd Street Coffeehouse is a place of minor miracles, especially around Christmas time. This past Saturday night, we proved that once again. I say “we” because there’s no single person that makes it happen. It’s a bunch. It’s a community. It’s a whole village. Let me tell you about it.

2025, as a whole, has been a really weird year in America. We all seem more than a little off balance because of things happening (and not happening) around the world and especially in Washington DC.  Earlier in the fall, the U.S. House of Representatives decided to take a few days off because they couldn’t agree on the budget for the country. More than a few days actually. That didn’t really bother me (or a lot of others) because they are a rather toxic and ineffective lot. But as their extended vacation got longer and longer, general safety net programs like food stamps became a political weapon. With grocery prices already through the roof this year, and food banks running low, it was looking pretty grim for low income Americans in Southwest Virginia. The thought of depression era bread lines returning was nauseating to say the least. Local guitar wizard Keith Goggin called me up and said “we need to do something”. We needed to put together a fund-raising benefit concert for Feeding Southwest Virginia. Keith offered to bring his whole band.

Holding a benefit concert takes a little more than just throwing open the doors and cranking out the jams. First of all, you have to find a free date in everyone’s schedule – not the easiest thing with gigging musicians. Second, you’ve got to promote the show, get people to show up and be willing to part with their hard earned money. Show up for people that they probably don’t know, and may never know, unless they volunteer at the food bank or are a person in need. It takes a special kind of person to see a need or join a cause, and then support it with money or something else of actual value. Fortunately, big-hearted and generous people seem to like live original music and, in particular, an itty-bitty music venue called 3rd Street Coffeehouse. They punch way above their weight when it comes time to show up for our community.

Keith and I teamed up with David Dantzler and Lisa Uhl of Feeding Southwest Virginia, along with songwriters and performers Randolph Thomas, Mike DeGiorgi and Larry Sakayama.  We hatched a plan to host a concert last Saturday night and have a huge raffle to go with it. Local businesses like Fret Mill Music, Martin’s Downtown, The Grandin Theatre, The Jefferson Center, The Harvester, and The Spot On Kirk, all came through with great raffle prizes. Local authors like Beth Macy, Bruce Bryan and many others from the Persiflage Writers Group, provided signed original books to raffle off. The prize list grew, and so did community interest and advance raffle ticket sales. Local media including the Roanoke Times, WSLS and WDBJ-7 ran features about the concert and all over social media, people liked and shared our posts. The anticipation and excitement were palpable, and everyone seemed happy to be able to strike a blow for decency for our community of friends and neighbors who needed help.

The final week was not without challenges.  My mother-in-law was hospitalized. The venue went without power for several days due to building renovations and bad weather. Calls for help and more than a few prayers went up, when things got dicey.  But the music and the community would not be denied. Saturday night, with a full house, roughly 1,500 raffle tickets sold and a sheet cake from Sam’s Club, we cranked out the jams all night and raised over $4,000 to feed the people. Better yet, the Board of Directors for Feeding Southwest Virginia dug deep into their own pockets and provided a 100% match.  With that match, we raised well over $8,000 to support our community through the power of music. That's over 16,000 meals. For a small venue, we’ve sure got a great crowd of volunteers and fans, all of whom came together to solve a problem that affects us all – a minor miracle for sure.  I couldn’t be prouder of them. What a way to celebrate the season of giving and honor our traditions at 3rd Street Coffeehouse. If you were there or supported us in any way, my eternal thanks and gratitude go out to you.

I welcome your thoughts and experiences in the comments below. Please share this post with others who value both humor and serious stuff about this blue marble that we all share.

If you'd like to leave a comment, but you get an error message, it's probably because you have your browser set to reject 3rd party cookies. The solution is to select "anonymous" where the window says, "comment as". Just leave your name or initials if you want to let me know who you are. Merry Christmas or whatever you celebrate this time of year. Thanks for reading this!

Illegitimi Non Carborundum - Happy Thanksgiving

 

 

    I started out the month of November a little down in the dumps.  The longest ever government shutdown, the resulting pause in SNAP benefits and mass firings of government employees was both alarming and depressing. The increased number of homeless people pleading for help with cardboard signs while the Government continues to drastically cut or eliminate social safety net programs was and remains emotionally overwhelming and devastating to watch. Reports of daily Russian missile, drone and artillery attacks on Ukrainian civilians and their infrastructure, and multiple war crimes is frightening and appalling. The political divisions in this country and daily chaos coming out of Washington are worse than at any time I can remember. The thought of celebrating Thanksgiving in the midst of all of this suffering seemed both pointless and insensitive.   

    I needed to dig deeper than normal to find my gratitude.  Fortunately, there are a few November days that are worth celebrating and being grateful for. I started to focus on the positive, to try and balance out the negative. 

    My daughter Sarah was born on November 7th of 1983.  I remember holding her as a little baby. We went through some rough years when she was a teenager, which was very understandable as her mom and I had divorced when she was very young. But that's all water under the bridge, and we get along fine now, and I’m grateful for that.  

    I met my wife Denise the day after Thanksgiving in 1985. I was unemployed, broke and living with my dad, but she decided to ask me to her company's Christmas party a few weeks later. I spent that Christmas with her and her family, including her daughters Jennifer and Stephanie. We got married in 1988 and have been together ever since. I’m grateful for that, our home and a long career that I just retired from a couple of months ago. 

    In November of 2022, my friend Heather wrote an article for the local newspaper on two Ukrainian war refugees, a mother and her son who had wound up in Roanoke.  That mother and son became my “bonus” daughter and grandson and brought a whole new group of Ukrainian friends into my life. I was recently asked what I had learned about the Ukrainian people and I was quick to reply “they are just like us”. That was quickly followed by “I love Ukrainian food!”. I’m grateful for all of that and all of them.  

    This month, I was invited to play my music for a couple of places and had a short story published in a book that was published this month. I finished my first co-written song with my writing partner Dan and got to play a couple of song circles (which I refer to as group therapy). All of that to say that my creative outlets are doing well. I’m very grateful for that. 

    While the other problems I mentioned at the beginning of this post are just as real and important now as they were on November 1st, at least I have good solid reasons to feel some Thanksgiving gratitude and not become overwhelmed by everything else. I’m working hard to create change in places where I can, and I’m grateful for the ability and opportunity to do so. We all have a part to play in making the world a little better, so I say to all of us, Illegitimi non carborundum. That’s a mock Latin phrase that means “Don’t Let The Bastards Grind You Down”.  Whatever events or bastards are grinding you down this month, take a minute to reflect on the good things in your life to be grateful for. Then, hopefully, we can all help to bring about some positive change in the world. I’d be grateful for that and so would you.  Happy Thanksgiving. 

    I welcome your thoughts and experiences in the comments below. Please share this post with others who value both humor and serious stuff about this blue marble that we all share. 

    If you'd like to leave a comment, but you get an error message, it's probably because you have your browser set to reject 3rd party cookies. The solution is to select "anonymous" where the window says, "comment as". Just leave your name or initials if you want to let me know who you are. Thank you for reading this!  

The Tigers of Joliet West

The Water Tower and Joliet West High School
Photo courtesy of www.jolietfromabove.com

I looked in the mirror and halfway expected to see a mop of thick black hair and a teenager's furry caterpillar mustache. The face looking back at me wasn’t the one from fifty years ago. In my mind, fifty years wasn’t that long ago. I just needed a time machine and a decent song to get there.  

1975 was a pretty good year for me, and a lot of my friends.  We were high school seniors that year; young dreamers headed for the future. We cruised McDonalds with the Eagles, Linda Ronstadt and Doobie Brothers crankin’ loud.  We took our dates to great movies like Jaws, Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein.  Gas was cheap - about 50 cents a gallon and you could buy a hamburger at McDonalds for about 30 cents. We had it pretty good.  Good things don’t last forever, but good friends can. Especially those who share a bond of shared experience and memories. The class of '75 had held up well for fifty years and there was a lot of positive energy and anticipation for our 50-year reunion.

Two years ago, fellow classmate and songwriter Terry Schnell said to me “we’ve got a reunion coming up - we should write songs”.  Of course I agreed.  Give me a two year lead time, and I can agree to almost anything.  Writing a “one and done” song for a specific occasion didn’t seem like a huge task. Then, about 3 months later, Terry came to town and said “hey, listen to this song that I wrote for the reunion”.  He played it and I was instantly struck by how insanely good it was.  The guy writes and performs like Dan Fogelburg.  I also realized that he had set the bar pretty high and I’d better write a song that didn’t embarrass me in comparison.  The heat was on.

Fast forward to about two months ago.  I had procrastinated and put off writing my reunion song, partially out of knowing it would be played either right before or right after Terry’s song in front of our fellow classmates.  It was just a little intimidating.  While songwriting isn’t a competitive sport, I knew it would be compared to Terry’s, and I didn’t want to be remembered as the guy who wrote the crappy song.  On a Saturday night that I had planned to go see a minor league ball game, the sky turned black, and the rain came down like it was coming out of a firehose.  It was a clear sign from God that I needed to write the reunion song that night. I gathered up my memories and began to write.  

Summing up four years of your life in a couple verses and a chorus takes some effort, but within an hour or so, I had a pretty good first draft of the lyrics and a melody to go with it. It checked all the boxes - good imagery, decent hook, reasonable melody, and above all, not too complex. I recorded a simple version of it with my phone and sent it around to some songwriter friends for feedback. I took some of their ideas and tried them out; I liked the result.  After several rounds of rewrites (typical for me), I was pretty satisfied.  After that, I just needed to play it about a hundred times and burn it into my memory.  I didn’t want to screw it up.

We had the reunion about two weeks ago and over two nights, we partied like it was 1975.  Well, maybe not. But the same old spirit was there. It was amazing to share the old memories and life stories with so many old friends.  On Saturday night, Terry and I took the stage in the front of the room and took turns singing our original songs for a half hour or so. We both finished up with our reunion songs, one after another. As expected, Terry’s song, “Reunion”, was terrific and well received.  I followed with mine, “The Tigers of Joliet West”, which was equally well received. Our classmates and spouses gave us both a standing ovation and requested encore songs, which we were happy to provide.  

It was a pretty amazing experience and afterwards, a lot of people came up to compliment Terry and myself.  Another classmate, Steve Thomas, followed us with his jazz quartet and they were just great for the rest of the evening.  If you wish, you can hear Terry’s song, “Reunion” here and my song, “The Tigers of Joliet West” here. Here are the lyrics to my song.

The Tigers of Joliet West

Bob Schmucker © 2025

The water tower stands, still guarding the high school

Just like it did, 50 years ago 

The buildings are bigger, and I’m a bit older

And it's good to come back home

Looking to the past, I remember the hallways.  

I remember the teachers, the laughter, my friends.

The questions and dreams, as we reached for the future

The issues of life we’d contend

The future it called and each of us answered

We raised up our glasses and hoped for the best

18 years old, how could we have known

What a life time of memories we had

Some went to work, and some went to college

Some joined the Army or or Air Force I’m told

Some they got married and some would die young

And some moved to places unknown

I am a writer, who lives in Virginia

Grateful for each of us here

To hear your life story, and see you again

And cherish the memories we share

The future it called and each of us answered

We raised up our glasses and hoped for the best

18 years old, how could we have known

What a lifetime of friendship we'd have

We’re the Tigers of Joliet West

I welcome your thoughts and experiences in the comments below. Please share this post with others who value both humor and serious stuff about this blue marble that we all share.

If you'd like to leave a comment, but you get an error message, it's probably because you have your browser set to reject 3rd party cookies. The solution is to select "anonymous" where the window says, "comment as". Just leave your name or initials if you want to let me know who you are. Thanks for reading this!