Ross Perot: The Man Who Refused to Leave His People Behind

Some time ago, I wrote about a man for whom I have enormous regard. Today, I want to look more closely at something I mentioned only briefly in that article: the rescue of two of his employees. I hope you enjoy their story.

Ross Perot, the Texas billionaire who founded Electronic Data Systems (EDS), later became one of the most successful independent presidential candidates in modern American history, winning nearly 19 per cent of the popular vote in 1992. But one of the most revealing episodes of his life took place long before he entered politics.

In late 1978, as Iran moved towards revolution, two EDS employees, Paul Chiapparone and Bill Gaylord, were imprisoned in Tehran. When efforts to secure their release through official channels failed, Perot organised and financed a private rescue mission led by retired US Army Colonel Arthur “Bull” Simons.

The mission became known as Operation HOTFOOT - Help Our Two Friends Out of Tehran.

We stopped teaching goodness. Now we’re living with the consequences.

There was a time when Sunday School was part of almost every child’s life. In the early 1960s, one in seven children under fourteen went every Sunday to hear Bible stories, talk about God, and learn Christian values. We put on our best clothes and headed off to join our friends in fellowship and safety -  in a place of love.

The idea of Sunday School began in 18th-century England. Robert Raikes, a Gloucester printer and philanthropist, saw the suffering of child labourers in factories and mines. Their only day off was Sunday, so he created schools where they could learn to read -  first the alphabet, then the Bible.

As Raikes said, “Vice could be better prevented than cured.”

Can you believe it? Another weekend has rolled around. I was speaking with Redhead a while ago and we got to talking about Niggles, Giggles, Wiggles and Biggles. Not the ex Queensland Premier referred to as Giggles because of the supercilious grin he constantly had. Not the WW II legendary flying Ace Biggles James Bigglesworth, wartime air ace and peacetime Sergeant in the Special Air Police, known to his friends and some of his enemies as 'Biggles'. Not the Wiggles either. 

But mostly we talked about Niggles.

So, what exactly is a niggle? Picture a tiny stone in your shoe. It’s not big enough to really hurt, but it’s definitely annoying. Now imagine the stone is made of worry, or doubt, or maybe a creeping feeling of irritation. That’s what a niggle is.....a minor but persistent source of discomfort. It doesn’t exactly ruin your day, but it sure does like to hang around and poke you in the gut now and then.

And we talked about who would we swap places with?  Is there anyone who does not have a niggle or two these days? And, in truth, are our niggles that bad anyway? 

The Plumber, the Pipes and the Great Reset

By Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble, currently reporting from a cavern beneath McFookit Peak via a mysterious paw-held device found in a wallaby's kneecap. In my absence, the Editor records these updates from my dispatches.

This is based on real events. Some events may have been invented for purposes of dramatisation.

Act I -  The Mouse at the Signpost

Dusty McFookit was considering his plight.

Mrs McFookit was locked in the Wrong Tower, he had an emu called Tony as a house guest, and there was nobody to cook him dinner. Except Tony. 

Last time Maureen had been away, Dusty had undertaken what he later described as “a straightforward sausage operation.”

It was not.

So when Mavis Thomson arrived with a thermos of tea and a plate of scones, his spirits rose considerably.

Tony, who had been outside collecting insects for what he clearly regarded as a thoughtful contribution to supper, was temporarily forgotten.

Where the Heart Registers

My adult daughter contacted us yesterday with a small piece of news.

She has recently moved from Queensland to Tasmania, and today she was going to the motor registry to hand in her Queensland number plates and receive new Tasmanian ones.

Nothing unusual in that. Thousands of people do the same thing when they move interstate. It is one of those mundane administrative tasks that must be attended to when life takes us somewhere new.

But then she said something that stopped me.

She felt sad about surrendering her Queensland plates.

"Surrendering.*

It was an odd word to use for a pair of number plates. She wasn't surrendering her car, after all. She was simply registering it in another state.

Yet I understood what she meant.

Or at least, I began to wonder whether I did.