Are We Hardwired to Believe in God?

    Photo: Crosses on a church property seen through a windshield during 'Superstorm Sandy.'
    
    Bushes uprooted by wind skidded across the highway in front of me. Rain splattered against my windshield. Tractor trailers driven by maniac drivers gunned by on the left, worsening the turbulence in the air.
     As 'Superstorm Sandy' raged against the passenger side of my car--the side facing Lake Erie--I whispered a prayer for protection.
     Near Sandusky, Ohio the tempest subsided. My white knuckles relaxed.
     I can't know if my prayer for help was answered two nights ago. Perhaps it was cautious driving alone that got me through those churns of wind on Interstate 90.
     Some researchers claim our brains are hardwired to believe in supernatural forces. If so, where does this hard wiring originate?
      One theory making the rounds is that supernatural belief, and the concept of religion, derives from evolution. Primitive people joined together in rituals. By forming into groups and associating with each other, their odds of survival increased. Call it strength in numbers.
     Or does an innate belief in the supernatural originate from a divine source?
     One thing's for sure. The next time I face a dicey situation, I'll ask for God's protection. 

Casper the Homographic Ghost

    
     By holding a 'Boo!' sign, is Casper the Ghost scaring people or booing a presidential candidate? Homographs are words with the same spellings and different meanings. To answer the question, the property owner in Ohio who posted the sign endorses the candidacy of Mitt Romney.
     Happy Halloween!
  

Power of Rhythm

     Does rhythm create unity? It seems that way, based on my observations of crowd behavior at presidential campaign rallies.
     A marching band warmed up an audience during a rally for President Obama. When the percussion unit (seen in photo) performed, folks gyrated to its beat. When Obama showed up, the crowd was all the more juiced.
     A pulse of rhythm broke out at a rally for Paul Ryan, the Republican VP nominee. Some people shouted together, "USA! USA!"
     During a rally for Joe Biden, the Democratic VP nominee, an individual shouted, "Four More Years!" Four More Years!" Seconds later, hundreds of people joined the refrain. Hands raised with four fingers stabbing the air. Another cadence. Another outburst of unity.
     At an event with Republican presidential nominee Mitt Romney, a crowd roared, "Four more weeks! Four more weeks!" This chant, uttered four weeks before election day, called for the defeat of Biden and Obama. In a crowd of ten thousand, most people were strangers to each other. By reciting together this spoofed up chant, they experienced unity.
    While in the womb, the first sounds we detected were the rhythmic thump-thump-thumps of our mothers' hearts. It's no wonder that the first bonds we made--our first tastes of unity--were with our mothers.
     Rhythm is primal. Rhythm is fun. Rhythm turns many into a one.    
    

Bathroom Diatribe

     Dirt cheap motels are costly in aggravation.
     A clerk assured me the room was far enough back from the road. Traffic noise wouldn't be a problem. In spite of my skepticism--the road was a stones throw away--I took him at his word and forked over a cash payment. He handed me a key, a real one, not one of those plastic swipe cards.
     I entered my room, closed the door, and heard a rumble of cars.
     The clerk had lied to me.
     To drown out the clamor, I turned on a ventilation fan. The thing was a clunker. Instead of white noise I got more noise.
     My impatience grew.
     I carried toiletries into the bathroom. The sink was tiny.  Hardly any space for personal items. While placing my stuff on the console, a toothbrush slid off the edge.
     Splashdown. A different kind of floater bobbed in the toilet.
     Boy was I pissed off. I won't repeat my choice of words. My wrath was directed at the motel for its skimpy allocation of space, and at that scumbag clerk for suckering me into renting this dump. At least I had the presence of mind to keep my anger to myself. Deep down, I knew the fault was mine.
     When reacting to screw ups, it's easy to point a finger of blame at others. Consider this quote from a person long forgotten:  'When you point the finger at someone, three fingers are pointing back at you.'
     Using two fingers, I removed the toothbrush from its wet embrace.

Curves Beat Straight

     S-turns galore. Downshifting on steep grades. Pickup trucks riding my butt.
     While navigating the back roads of southeastern Ohio, hills and curves broke up the monotony of my driving. So did peeks at small towns and autumn foliage. 
   There's a metaphor here. By taking on challenges in our lifetimes-in a sense following roads less traveled--we invigorate ourselves. 
     If we avoid challenges--choose safe and predictable freeways--life becomes monotonous.

Midnight Rambling

     "Popcorn! Popcorn!" shouted two boys standing outside a church in Ohio. Bags of popcorn balanced on their heads, competing with a breeze. The popcorn was being sold to fund their Boy Scout troop.
     Watching them evoked a memory.
     I joined the Scouts at the age of eleven. It was awkward being the youngest boy in the troop. None of the kids were from my school grade level.
     My first outing was a weekend trip to New Hampshire. The troop visited a camp near Mount Monadnock.
     Upon arrival we disembarked from a bus. Nearby, another troop of scouts watched us. Some of them hassled us with snide remarks.
     Later a prank was hatched. Some of our boys conspired to sneak up and cause mayhem to that other troop. Our chaperones and senior patrol leaders were unaware of the plan.
     One of the ringleaders asked for a volunteer to stay awake until midnight, then wake the conspirators up.
     I took on the job of clock boy. For a couple of hours I lay in a sleeping bag, fighting off sleep as other boys snoozed.
     The winching hour arrived. I woke up the boys. We slipped out into the night. Flashlights led us down a road.
     Nearing the target, we turned off the lights. We crept forward on our and hands and knees. Some  boys held knives with their mouths. Back then, the television show 'Combat' was popular. The boys were mimicking actor Vic Morrow.
     We came upon a collection of canvas tents--the kind that shelter at least four people. Rope guy-lines extended all over the place.
     Blades sliced through rope. Tents collapsed. Angry voices were heard from within them.
     We hustled off.
     Needless to say, the other troop was outraged. During the next morning, their adult chaperones confronted our chaperones.
     "It's horse sh--!" one of them repeated to our leaders. He was referring to our midnight raid.
     Bad vibes were boiling over. The men from both troops devised a solution to restore harmony to the campground.
     That solution was a wrestling match. Both troops chose a single boy--a big kid--to represent them.
     The two boys went at each other. As they rolled around the dirt, all of us other boys cheered them on. After a spell the men put a stop to it.
     From that moment on, both troops got along with each other.
     I was no longer a newbie trying to fit in. The clock boy had earned some acceptance.

Pig Racing

     This photo was taken on a day off from covering the presidential candidates in Ohio.
     Pig races are similar to presidential races.
     Crowds gather and cheer for candidates. They do the same for pigs.
     Candidates make speeches. Pigs squeal. Either way, they both get attention.
     Pigs writhe in mud. Candidates sling mud.
     Some candidates drop out of races. At this piggy race, one of the competitors stopped running before making a turn on the track.
     Candidates make speeches inside a enclosed buffer, guarded by metal barriers and Secret Service agents. Pigs race behind metallic fences. 
     Some political campaigns, like pigs, play dirty.
     Candidates thrive on attention and getting their pictures taken. They're a bunch of hams. Pigs are hams too.
     Candidates promise to 'bring home the bacon.' Pigs are the bacon.
     Forget the Republican Party. Never mind the Democrats. Hooray for the Swine Party!