All posts by Chuck Fager

Enter The Next Trump Campaign Manager: It Might Be ME

I was trying to avoid any political posts until after Labor Day; but this is just too good to keep to myself.

You see, I’ve been doing a lot of important work for the Trump campaign.

No, really. I mean, I must have. And I did go to one of his rallies here in North Carolina, back in March. So it must be true, because that’s just what he and several other campaign bigwigs have told me, repeatedly.

And it’s about to pay off. Look what he wanted to sent me. An Executive Membership card! (Well, really just the picture. But who could resist?)

And yes, I was a little surprised; but he’s a super-smart guy, and he said,

“You’ve done a lot for our campaign, and you deserve to be rewarded.”

So there it is. Besides, I actually do know a thing or two about politics. (I can even remember that old American Express commercial where this guy in a suit says, “Do You Know Me?” And I DID — it was William E. Miller, who ran for Vice-Pres. with Goldwater in 1964. Bet YOU didn’t know that.) And recognition of your skills is always welcome, don’t you think?

Grace In Your Face: Remembering Bill Kreidler

My first memory of Bill Kreidler is from St. Lawrence University, at the FGC Gathering of 1984. I was leading a workshop, my first for FGC, on the Basics of Bible Study, and he was in it.

Well, partway in it anyhow. As I recall, he spent most of those weekday mornings perched on the sill of an open window, there on the second or third floor of our old classroom building. I didn’t think he was going to jump out; it was brutally hot, the building was not air-conditioned, and he was trying to breathe.

But at the same time, he did seem to be keeping a safe distance, a space between him and the dangerous book I was waving around, and maybe the bearded breeder who was waving it as well.

During the workshop we spent a lot of time reading aloud the story of David, Jonathan, Saul, and Jonathan’s crippled son, Mephibosheth, as I had culled it from the First and Second books of Samuel. This is a gripping, mournful story, which I called “The Bible as Soap Opera,” and perhaps it went on too long, especially given the weather.

But all through it, there is a clear image of Bill, still on the windowsill, head cocked to one side, paying close attention as we plowed through this saga of love, betrayal, death, and loyalty beyond death. Glancing over at Bill from time to time, I wondered if something about it was sinking in. I now think that it was.

Quaker House: Still The Best Quaker Job There Is

Quaker House: Still The Best Quaker Job There Is As Quaker House of Fayetteville NC begins the search for a new Director (or Co-Directors), the situation there is in many ways different from my time as Director, from 2001 to 2012: then we faced a couple of big wars. Today’s many small wars are almost entirely invisible to the U. … Continue reading Quaker House: Still The Best Quaker Job There Is →

Dog Days Stories: Who Needs A Machine Gun?

It was on one of these trips, in one of those big new stores, on a warm spring day in 1954, that I found the most exciting toy gun in the world.

I had lots of toy guns, usually squirt guns or cap pistols. The cap pistols were almost all long-barreled six shooters, like the ones Roy Rogers and the Lone Ranger used in the movies or one TV. The caps for them came in little thin rolls of reddish papers, with a row of dark bumps down the middle. The bumps were the gunpowder, or whatever it was that went BANG when I put them in a cap gun and pulled the trigger.

Caps were always fun, even if my favorite toy gun was broken. I could unroll them on the ground, and take a rock and pound on the dark gunpowder bumps with it. If we hit them just right they’d go POW and make a flash and a little puff of smoke. Sometimes we would find a big rock and smash a whole rolled up roll with it, to see if all the caps would explode at once; but usually they didn’t.

The only trouble with caps was that they got used up fast and didn’t last long. So whenever I found myself in the toy department of a store with a little money, which wasn’t often, I would buy some.

I didn’t have any money at all the day I saw that new gun, and there was only sixty-five cents in my piggybank at home, so I could only look at it longingly.

This was not some glossy cowboy weapon, made to look like it was invented a hundred years ago. No, this was a submachine gun, a weapon of modern warfare, a soldier’s gun. It had a dark blue metal barrel and a wooden stock and a key on one side which I could wind up so when I pulled the trigger it would go rat-tat-tat-tat and shoot a few dozen times like a real machine gun. And I could put caps in it too, so the noise would be really loud.

Dog Days & Chicks: “Ain’t had a prayer since I don’t know when . . . .”

I caught up with the Dixie Chicks in Raleigh, and couldn’t get enough. But that was not all: there were two special, non-musical bonuses in their Tarheel gig:

One was a give-back. Since this is the summer of the notorious HB2, the Chicks had to think about whether to cancel the show, as Springsteen, Itzhak Perlman and so many other top-flight artists have.

They didn’t cancel, but took time to make plain where their sympathies lay: they passed out thousands of free hats with a special label, and mocked the absurdity of the bathroom law between songs.