Nancy Grace: Is she fanning the flames of racial hatred for ratings?

Nancy Grace (CNN/Google)

Nancy Grace continues to repeat the claim -- which her network reported early on concerning ZImmerman's profanity laced 911 call -- that Zimmerman used the term "f'ing coons."

Justifiably, folks were enraged, arguing that was solid evidence of his racial profiling, even hatred.

But what Nancy missed, or chose to ignore as she fanned the flames of outrage over Zimmerman's acquittal (which has plenty of other, legitimate reasons to question, BTW) is that the FBI said that was incorrect, and now CNN has since acknowledged their initial analysis was wrong.

A new, enhanced analysis by CNN shows what was said was "(it's) f'ing cold."

I bring this up NOT to in any way justify what happened with Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman, at all. I bring it up to show the irresponsibility and arguably lack of professional ethics by Ms. Grace in continuing to fan the hate with claims she knows, or should know, are just plain wrong. 

The FBI report, for what it's worth; I make no judgments based on this one small part of the puzzle. It is what it is (click on the hypertext link to hear for yourself).

I'm a grandpa . . . for the first, and the third time.

So, I am a grandpa. For the first time . . . and for the third time.

Let me explain.

I already had two grandkids. Joshua, now in his 20s, and Lela, 6, are what I call grandchildren born in my heart. They came to us through marriage from our daughter-in-law and son-in-law, respectively.

But there are ties and bonds of love that will last or eternity, nonetheless. My wife feels the same way -- and that is how we will treat them, now and, well, forever.

This past Friday, though, my daughter gave birth to Gabriel Idal Mims-Tchoundjo. Gabe came about six weeks early, so he will be in the Neo-natal ICU for several more weeks. But the prognosis is excellent: he is active, alert, breathing on his own, gaining weight (born at 3 pounds, 3 ounces) and strength daily.

On Saturday, my wife Barbara and I were able to "Skype" with the proud mom and dad from their hospital in Baltimore to the proud grandparents (us) in Salt Lake City.

It was about a half an hour of watching Gabe thrash around, dine on pumped breast milk from Brenda (thank goodness, the pumping was not part of this "live" broadcast!), and respond to his mother's and father's caresses.

Gave me a totally new feeling of . . . completeness. It's a father-daughter thing, I suspect. And it wasn't just about the survival imperative, i.e. DNA being passed on to forge ahead in Time.

 

 It was, more I think, seeing her happy with her own family, and watching how tender and attentive my son-in-law was to her and his son.

 

 Think of the last time we smiled seeing a mother, father and infant huddled together in a mall, airport, train, bus, etc. There was just something "right" about it all . . . then multiply that feeling 100 times.

Sort of like that. 

Lessons from Woodrow: You can poop and walk at the same time, but not pee; and stand in the stirrups at a trot

 

Still thinking of yesterday's horseback riding. I was on "Woodrow," (someone likes Lonesome Dove at the stables?), a quarter-horse /Percheron cross with a steady, gentle and yet energetic demeanor and a beautiful black and silver coat.

Very responsive on the reins, the knee squeezes.

 Halfway through the ride he suddenly stopped, wouldn't budge. Then I heard the cascade, and the "oooooh!" of the kid riding behind me.

The drover, with his slouch hat and Texas drawl, said "It's OK, sir. They ken walk 'n poop at the same time, but not pee 'n walk."

 I remarked that was true for horses, perhaps, but I've witnessed humans do both. Albeit with dire effects on undergarments and pants.

I was given an El Paso groan.

Another quarter mile or so, Woodrow unleashed a mighty baritone blast of 20-25 seconds duration, eliciting not one but several "ooohs!" and gags from the riders behind. And a quarter mile later, out came the fertilizer, green and glistening in the morning sun. That drew more exclamations from the rearward portions of the trail.

"Good boy, Woodrow!" I murmured, stroking his neck.

This horse and I were soulmates.

Or so I thought. When the drover and my wife, Barb, got a bit ahead, Woodrow decided to break into a brisk trot to close the gap. I was . . . unprepared.

Things were getting whapped and slapped that should not be so treated. The stars were out, and it was mid-morning. I had a burning in my bosom, as my Mormon friends would testify, but the burning was about a foot and a half lower.

"Whooo-aaaHHhhhh," I croaked, weakly easing back the reins and taking a few deep, if ragged breaths.

No doubt about it. A gelding's revenge.
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P.S.  So, I'm told when the horse gets to a trot, I'm supposed to stand up in the stirrups. Or, adjust the stirrups accordingly.