VERNON, Conn.

“The problem with bad manners,” the late conservative Republican writer (and Connecticut resident) William F. Buckley Jr. told us “is that they sometimes lead to murder.”

No scholar in Connecticut has yet produced a study showing a correlation between bad manners and murderers once on Connecticut’s death row, abolished several years back by a well-mannered state Supreme Court. Scholars and prison records and even the personal testaments of prisoners have led us to believe that prisons, as a general rule, are schools of bad behavior.

One of the prisoners set free from death row by Connecticut’s overly compassionate state Supreme Court in 2015 was Frankie “The Razor” Resto, a candidate for a death penalty and an ill-mannered character.

The abolition of the death penalty in Connecticut was a three-step process. In 2012, Connecticut’s House of Representatives voted to repeal capital punishment for future cases, choosing to leave past death sentences in place. The Connecticut Senate had already voted for the bill, later found unconstitutional by the same state Supreme Court that had found the death penalty unconstitutional, and on April 25 it was signed into law by then Gov. Dannel Malloy. In the same year, the state Supreme Court, unsurprisingly, ruled that applying the death penalty only for past cases was unconstitutional, and capital punishment in Connecticut was promptly shown the door.

Resto, who burned his mattress while in prison and dealt in drugs, was called “The Razor” because he was known for shaking down drug dealers on the street with a straight edge razor. He was paroled early owing to a newly created program, separate from the usual parole process, devised by a former co-chair of the state House Judiciary Committee, Mike Lawlor, then a prison czar appointed to the newly created position by former Gov. Dannel Malloy, that awarded “get out of prison early credits” to deserving prisoners.

Immediately following his early release from prison, Resto easily acquired a gun, despite Connecticut’s stringent gun laws, and held up an Easymart store in Meriden, Conn.

When the co-owner of the store handed over the cash, Resto shot and killed him, without so much as a “thank you very much.” This is not the kind of well-mannered behavior one expects of Errol Flynn’s Robin Hood.

When I attended high school way back in the early ‘60’s, honorifics were very much in vogue. We addressed teachers as Mr., Mrs. and Miss. The fear that, caught out in some deplorable indiscretion, intelligence might be shared with our parents made us toe a straight line, at least in school. In the close-knit world of the neighborhood, eyes were everywhere and police far less necessary than they are in this post-modern period. Boys loved, respected and feared their fathers.

When my father asked me at the supper table, “How did your day go?” he knew beforehand exactly how my day had gone, particularly if it was spotted with delinquencies I had overlooked. No one in the family ever thought of lying to him, whether the lies were black or white lies.

“You know,” he told me once – and only once – “if you lie, your word will never be trustworthy.”

All manners are related to moral obligations, and all moral obligations, Immanuel Kant tells us, are related to duties – not convenient private moral codes. This whole system of Kantian morality – enforced by fathers and mothers in intact family structures and aunts and uncles and sometimes nosey and mischievous neighbors -- has collapsed in the post-modern period. Morality is now related to power and force.

My wife, Andrée, legally blind since birth, was among the first visually impaired persons to teach in public schools in Connecticut. Getting there was a fierce battle. Today, more than four decades after she had left teaching, she still receives notes  from some of her grateful students, all bearing the same moral stamp – “You were the toughest teacher I ever had, but thanks to you...” and here followed a series of personal accomplishments.

Andrée’s most memorable teacher was an accomplished Jesuit priest who taught a course in aesthetics at Fairfield University, where she had gone to acquire her master’s degree in American Studies, in order to convince then Gov. John Dempsey that, having graduated at the top of her college class, and having taught with distinction for three years in two separate Catholic schools, and having appeared with special notice in Who’s Who in American Colleges and Universities, and having now acquired her master’s, with honors, in a new discipline, she was perfectly capable of teaching sighted students in public schools. Letters had gone back and forth for about two years, the governor claiming he could not overrule college administrators. But finally after much clarifying correspondence a letter appeared from Dempsey that said, “OK, Andrée, you win,” and she was certified to teach in public schools.

The priest was big man in a flowing robe, in appearance somewhat like the British writer G.K. Chesterton. We became friendly and one evening over our meager supper he said that Socrates was a moral man.

“How do you know?” I asked him.

“Socrates’s last word, after he drank the hemlock,” the priest explained, “was an instruction to one of his disciples to pay for a rooster he wished to sacrifice to Asklepios. Socrates’s last words to Crito were, “Don’t forget to sacrifice a rooster to Asklepios,” whose father was the god Apollo. Asklepios had special powers of healing; indeed, he had the power to bring the dead back to life.

The instruction, credible scholars believe, was a code to his followers. One scholar commented on “what Socrates means as he speaks his last words. When the sun goes down and you check in for sacred incubation at the precinct of Asklepios, you sacrifice a rooster to this hero who, even in death, has the power to bring you back to life. As you drift off to sleep at the place of incubation, the voice of that rooster is no longer heard. He is dead, and you are asleep. But then, as the sun comes up, you wake up to the voice of a new rooster signaling that morning is here, and this voice will be for you a sign that says: The word that died has come back to life again. Asklepios has once again shown his sacred power. The word is resurrected.”

The conversation – the splendid dialogue -- may now continue. New roosters crow eternal truths from the housetops. Though the messenger of truth had died, the truth and the means of conveying the messages were, for all practical purposes, eternal.

The post-modern world has left very little of all this intact. Manners are bad and getting worse. Courts rule, in many cases, in favor of social anarchy. Fathers, especially in major cities in Connecticut, have fled their familial obligations. Honorifics have become as numerous as they are meaningless. Teaching, once considered a calling – like the priesthood – has become a grinding chore. And college graduates, armed with degrees in Yeti Hunting or Tree Climbing or Lady Gaga or Zeitgeist Science, almost certainly do not know who Asklepios or Socrates was.

Don Pesci is a Vernon-based columnist.