Lunch Money
12/24/2003
Where did it go ?
I did something entirely new for me this last month. I bought a small pocket notebook and began jotting down impressions of my day to day events. I was driven, of course, by the fact that I spent a good portion of the month with my youngest daughter AJ (aka webmonkey) in Sydney Australia and a few days just before Christmas with number one daughter and grand kids in Southern California. As you can probably tell from that opening, I am going to try to convert my sketchy notes into something that describes what happened over those magic 21 days. But not all in one posting.Besides the overwhelming experience of flying all most 8000 miles non-stop (13 hours in the air) there is another phenomenon that occurs when traveling west to Australia. One of the days of your life just goes away. No I don’t mean the long hours in the plane and in Airports are a wasted day. I mean that for me December 2, 2003 never happened. I boarded QF 12 on December 1, 2003 and took off for Sydney at approximately 11 PM. I flew for 13 hours and landed in Sydney on December 3, 2003 at approximately 8 AM . So where did December 2nd go. I really don’t know or do I understand this International Dateline thing. All I know that it is gone forever and I never experienced it. Ya, sure, there are those who say you gain it back on the return flight but that is just travel agent propaganda. The only thing I experienced on the return flight was the longest December 17th I’ve ever know. I left Sydney on the 17th at 12PM and arrived in LAX on the 17th at 7AM so you figure out how I arrived 5 hours before I left (more on that flight later). I was vigilant in checking, and on the return flight I never saw any evidence that we found or experienced December 2nd. It just disappeared. So, I’ve left instructions to have carved on my head stone the dates of my existence with the following disclaimer "except for December 2, 2003". I don’t want to be remembered for eternity as being inaccurate.
The return flight had its sense of irony also. Seems that in the previous week there had been a world wide gathering in Sydney of Jehovah’s Witnesses (apprx 60,000 believers). I knew something was going on during the last week in Sydney by the large numbers of camera carrying folks with name tags that were headed "Give God Glory". What I did not know was that most of the U.S. contingency would be on the plane with me. I mean no disrespect to the Jehovah’s Witness folks. It is just that most of my contact with them has come at inopportune times, at my front door, when one or more of the believers would offer literature and attempt to sway me to their way of faith. I have never been much for any strict religious doctrine or rigid interruption of the Bible so once I realized during boarding what was happening I was glad for the good novel that AJ had armed me with for the flight home. As it turned out, I ended up sitting next to a Park Interpreter for Australian Parks and Wildlife, who was on his way to Havana and a marketer for an Australian magazine published in Woolloongabba called "Your Local Wedding Guide" who was on her way to Europe via New York. These Aussies really know how to travel. My pleasure at the circumstances says something about my strong distaste of strict religious doctrine.
The great irony for me on the return flight was not the Jehovah’s Witnesses or the similarity in the problems facing the Australian Parks and U.S. National Parks. It was simply that 100 years ago, on December 17, 1903 a couple of bicycle makers took their home built contraption out to the sands of Kittyhawk and for the first time in history flew a powered aircraft. Their first flight was about 120 feet which is less than the wing span of the Boeing 747-300 I was flying. Their longest flight that day was just over 800 feet. On December 17, 2003, I flew with around 400 other people just under 8000 miles non-stop.
In 1969 I had the privilege to sit with my Grandmother and watch live and in color, Neil Armstrong walk on the moon. My grandmother was born in 1886, long before the Wright brothers flight, long before Henry Ford started producing automobiles for the masses, long before the electrification of the country, or the information age, or the atomic age, or many of the things we today take for granted. I remember her telling me of a worker the family had hired to help on the farm who was a freed slave from the Civil War. I remember the wonder and delight in her eyes as we watched the fuzzy pictures live from the moon. I do not believe she fully comprehended the science involved with that historic day but I do believe she saw the magic in it. And for me, QF-104, non-stop from Sydney to LAX on that historic day was also magic.
11/25/2003
CONNECTIONS
I spent three years as the Maintenance Mechanic on East Anacapa Island, Channel Islands National Park. While there, I did some reading as to the history of the Island. I am also an avid sailor and had the good fortune to become friends with another avid sailor named Larry Dudley. In the 1940’s Larry was first mate on the vessel "Santana" owned by Humphry Bogart. From my reading and conversations with Larry I pieced together this interesting group of connections:There is a late 19th century government etching of the east end of Anacapa Island, now part of Channel Islands National Park, which depicts the arch rock located at the east end of the Island with a few sea gulls flying above the arch. The drawing was part of a set of navigational charts produced by the government for mariners. The artist who made that drawing was James Whistler, of Whistlers’ Mothers fame, who was later fired from his government job at the United States Coast and Geodetic Survey, for including the sea gulls in that etching, a no no for government drawings, and various other non-permitted inclusions in his drawings. A report on his job performance stated "he is often tardy or absent and has a tendency to doodle on government charts." The Anacapa drawings were later used as the basis for locating what eventually became the Anacapa Lighthouse. Built between 1928 and 1932 it was one of the last major remote lighthouse stations to be built in the U.S.
Whistler moved to Europe and pursued his career as an Artist where he would occasionally take on paying students in order to generate some income. One of those students was a young lady from New York who wanted to improve her skills as an illustrator for the children’s books she was writing. While studying in Europe she met a young American man who quickly displaced her interest in art for romantic interest in him. A marriage soon followed and the couple returned to New York, Maud Bogart nee:Humphry continuing with writing children’s books, De Forest Bogart pursuing a career as a surgeon. The child of that union we all know today as Humphry Bogart born in 1899.
The adult Bogart was an avid sailor and owned a beautiful ocean racer named "Santana"(also the name of the boat in "Key Largo"). He would often sail in the "Channel Islands Race" which ran from Long Beach Harbor, around the Channel Islands, back to Long Beach. The navigational aid used by all participants in the race to locate the Channel Islands was of course Anacapa Lighthouse, placed there from drawings made by Whistler, who had been his mothers illustration instructor.
Small world.
11/11/2003
In 1918, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day in the eleventh month, the world rejoiced and celebrated. After four years of bitter war, an armistice was signed. The "war to end all wars" was over.I was standing at the checkout stand today while the lady ahead of me struggle to fill out a check to pay for her purchase. After what seemed a lifetime she handed the check the cashier who reviewed it and then handed it back saying "you need to change the date to the eleventh" . Oh, said the lady as she looked back at me apologetically. I smiled and said "no problem, today is Veterans day you know, the eleventh hour of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month. That’s the way I remember it". Both the lady and the cashier looked at me dumbfounded and the cashier asked " what’s that’ I’ve never heard that before !". I actually felt a tear well up in me. At that moment I heard the collective sigh of thousands of young souls. Young soldiers buried throughout the world, lost to the various wars (maddness) that has come to almost every generation . Had their loss, their sacrifice, their blood, their bravery and gut retching agonizing fear been lost from the collective memory of those they died for, the next generations ?
I am a Veteran. I do not say that often or do I often talk about my experience in Viet Nam from 1966 to 1967. I am like thousands of others who went to war and did the not so glorious part of war called support. I did not participate in any battles, sieges, campaigns or actions. I was not physically wounded. I lived in a tent with twenty other guys and did a job ten to twelve hours a day, six days a week for three hundred and fifty five days (I circled every one on a calendar). As so aptly put in a scene from what I believe is a great antiwar movie Mr Roberts, I "sailed from boredom to tedium to apathy and back again". It was a backward , foreign country and a war zone, and I never was not scared and lonely , except when I was drinking to much beer which was all the time that I was not working or sleeping.
There was a skinny young guy from Los Angeles in the tent next to mine. His parents would occasionally send him copies of the L.A. Times and he would share them with me. A taste of Southern California, of home. I remember how great it was to read about familiar names and places. I cannot say we were close friends but friends we were. Comrades in the struggle to sane in a crazy world. Coming from a small mostly white and Hispanic Southern California town, Cleve became the first black American I had ever known let alone befriended. And I felt privilaged that he would let me in his small circle of friends. Even in my training companies there had been few blacks and everyone seemed to self segregate themselves. Black and white alike. Many of my racial prejudices based from ignorance were erased by Cleve and his friends.
About halfway through our tour of duty in the Nam, Cleve, became quite ill. He would go on sick call and the medics would send with back with a handful of aspirin to try to reduce his fever, and orders for "bed rest" which meant that he got to lay in his bunk in 110 degree heat all day. On the third day of being sent back from the hospital with aspirins and bed rest, Cleve collapsed in the middle of the company area while trying to walk to his tent. One of the few decent Officers in our outfit saw Cleve, found out was going on from us and immediately drove Cleve back to the Hospital. We were with him when he literally ordered the intake Medics to admit Cleve or heads would roll. Two days later while laying in one of the largest Field Hospitals in Viet Nam, Cleve Jackson of Los Angeles California died of an infected bowel.
In 1985 I visited Washington DC and one of the first things I did when I arrived there was to visit the Wall (The Viet Nam Memorial). I searched the list of names for Cleveland Jackson and found nothing. I went to the information booth and asked for help. Why wasn’t Cleves name in the book? How could I find his name on the Wall ? The guy at the booth was a Veteran himself and I think understood my sense of urgency. He told me in matter of fact but understanding way that because Cleve did not die of wounds received in hostile action or in combat, his name is not on the Wall. I was dumb struck and still am.
So to Blogging world, on the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, I offer in memory of a fallen soldier the name:
Cleveland Jackson
11/08/2003
Dos Guys
For those of you who still remember some of your High School Spanish 101, dos guys loosely translated means two guys. I t was the name of a two person motorcycle club that a couple of old friends of mine started years ago. They both had purchased motorcycles (Harley Sportsters I think). They formed the club, had jackets made and of course limited membership to the two of them. I would see them all over town, just the two of them, with jackets and bikes having a great time together. What fun!I just spent over a week with my daughters' (aka webmonkey) Australian boyfriend (aka significant other). He was in the States on Unversity business and arranged his schedule to spend time with me.
Why is it people always seem to wait for company to arrive in order to take advantage of the fun things to do around there home town? My sister lives just south of San Francisco and often remarked she hardly ever went into the city until I came to visit. I guess we all just get caught up in our day to day routines and forget how to play in our own back yards. Adam and I played well together in my back yard. We enjoyed the Experience Music Project in Seattle, bike rides around Bellingham harbor, and the funky and fun Bellingham radio museum. It was good to have someone to kick around with or just hang out with. It was just as great to play some cards (he thoroughly thrashed me) or share a video and discuss it afterwards. It's been a while since I've been able to do that and for sure I need to do it more often. I think we kinda became dos guys. What fun!
Thanks Adam
10/12/2003
Where are you Emperor Ming?
It was a dark and stormy afternoon sooo---. No this is not the beginning of one of Snoopys’ famous novels. It really was a dark and stormy afternoon hear in Bellingham.This morning I read an article in the Seattle PI about how we Americans were working to long and hard and relaxing to little. Believe it or not I related to a lot of what the article had to say. I currently have over one thousand sick leave hours on the books with my employer and three hundred sixty vacation hours. I am really looking forward to the seventeen day visit I am going to make to Sydney to be with my daughter AJ (aka webmonkey) this December. This will be the longest contiguous time off I have had in about fifteen years. So of course, by mid day I found myself thinking, as usual, about what I needed to get done that day. Then it stuck me, duh, "you just read an article about taking time to play and relax". Is this what you are going to do with today. Try to "accomplish" something.
When I was growing up in Southern California, a rainy weekend afternoon was the perfect day to head off the a matinee, catch the show, eat junk food and generally have a fun afternoon at the theater. The show would usually start with a Buck Rogers, Lash LaRue, Flash Gordon, Dick Tracy or some other serial or two, at least two or three cartoons, previews of coming attraction’s and of course a main show targeted at the young audience. If we were lucky it would be an Ed Wood horror movie or a classic cowboy good verses evil flick or an Abbot and Costello comedy or one of the many other Saturday afternoon fodder movies produced by Hollywood in the late fifties and early sixties. Not once do I ever remember thinking that those Saturday afternoons were time wasted and unproductive.
Armed with my new self awareness, I headed off in the rain and cold to the local theater. The first thing that struck me other than the cost of the movie , small Coke and small popcorn equaled what I once paid for a good used Schwinn bike, was the absence of people. Granted it was a multi-screen theater so that thinned the crowed in each one a bit. But as the lights dimmed in a room built to hold about one hundred sat about twenty people equally dispersed throughout the seats. A far cry from the noisy chaos of the almost full theaters that I attended when I was a lad. There were no ushers with flashlights ordering us to take our feet off the back of the seats in front of us. There were no pubescent couples in the back row more interested in physically exploring each others anatomy than any image that might be on the screen. There was no cheering, whistling, talking, popcorn box throwing, coke spilling, running up and down the aisles, or any of the "fun" stuff that happened on the Saturday afternoons past. In fact, it was really quite sterile.
The lights dimmed and we were treated to a short series of commercials for things I have blocked out, about one half hour of previews and finally the main feature. I watched Bill Murry in " Lost in Translation" which could be the subject of another posting, but not this one. The movie ended and we were reminded to pick up our trash as we left.
I do not regret spending the afternoon at the movie theater. It was truly the right thing to do with this cold rainy Fall afternoon. The movie was OK and as I said, possibly the subject of another posting. I have become accustomed to the sticker shock of theater tickets and junk food so can accept that as the price of admission, literally. I am old enough to know that I would not enjoy the chaos of the past though I would someday like to spend the afternoon in the back row "physically exploring each others anatomy" with some sweet thing. Something I never experienced first hand in my youth.
But I really, really did miss the action serials and cartoons.
9/27/2003
BUMS ON BIKES
Some years ago I had the unique experience of watching the limited showing of the live production of Bums on Bikes. It was a high school written , produced and acted two act play that my daughter (aka webmonkey) was involved with. I do not remember much about it except it involved a lot of high school kids riding around the stage uttering lines that I only half heard and understood less. But, My daughter was in it and I was truly the proud Papa.I recently became a "bum on a bike". No, I don’t ride around uttering unintelligible lines, I don’t need a bike to do that, but I did buy a bike and I have become addicted to riding around the excellent bike paths that Bellingham has to offer. We are having the greatest Indian Summer right now and I have found myself counting the work days until the weekend so I can get out and just explore the area by bike. This morning I got up early, finished the last of my chores so I could get out on the path near the Bay during the early morning hours. I was great to be by the bay, feel the fresh ocean air and smell the salty sweetness that only the seashore can produce. As I rounded the north end of Boulevard Park, there she was and she stopped me cold. She was about forty feet long, sloop rigged and well outfitted for sea. She was alone, resting on anchor, in almost flat calm waters with only the occasional small swell that rocked her gently. Her dingy was drifting off the stern and I fantasized the crew snug below, rocked into sweet slumber by her gentle motion.
I spent a long time just watching her as a flood of memories came to me. The many soft foggy mornings at anchor I had laid wrapped in the arms of Morpheus on my own 38’ sailboat Katherine, or the Grampian 31 Nightfall, or the Columbia 26 Nicole. There is no way I can explain to those who have not experienced it, that feeling and sense of security that comes from being tucked away in a snug harbor, anchor well set, aboard a well founded boat. Of course there was no way for me to know what storms this boat had weathered to get to that spot. I know I weathered quite a few during my voyages. Any sailor with some sea time knows that every voyage has the potential for moments of shear terror. But, right then, right there, just for a moment, I envied the crew of that boat as they let her rock them ever so gently like a loving mother with a baby in her arms. Maybe that is why boats are always referred to in the feminine.
Then I rode on.
9/06/2003
One of the things I became aware of years ago, as I learned to sail, was that I could not enjoy what sailing had to offer until I got rid of a lot of the fear that often controlled my actions. I used to spend inordinate amounts of time, money and energy working on the boat, installing oversize rigging, studying sailing techniques and worrying over each voyage. It was not so much afraid of getting hurt or dying or anything so dramatic. Oh no, what drove me was the fear of somehow failing and there in being humiliated. I spent many hours at sea working hard at looking good. And while doing so I missed most of what the voyage had to offer.On one windy afternoon I decided to take my 26’ Columbia out in spite of the small craft waning flags that were flying. The wind was 25 to 30 kts and seas were getting big. But I had just rigged the boat with reefing gear and felt it was time to try it out. All went well on the first two tacks after we left the harbor and I was feeling more confident but edgy as we ran before the wind and seas on our way back to the harbor. It happened in an instant. A large rogue wave came up on our stern, crested, broke and knocked the boat completely down. She wallowed for a moment, shuttered, the stood up, wind caught the sails and off she went as if nothing had happened. Of course I knew different. The cockpit was full of water but draining well. We were all soaked. And, the outboard was trailing behind the boat like some big lure attached only by the safety chain rigged to the outboard mount.
For me it became a small epiphany. The worst had happened. I had been knocked down and for a while I was out of control and at the mercy of the breaking wave. But, the boat took care of herself. She was well built, well rigged and did what she was designed to do. And we, the crew did what we needed to do. We hung on. For me there was no sense of failure or humiliation. I had survived and was feeling exhilarated. We continue on in to the harbor, rescued the dangling motor and secured the boat in her berth. Dried out and warm again I felt a sense that I had gone through something that had the potential to be disastrous and that had not only bonded me to the boat but had change me. From then on every boat I owned became a trusted partner in this thing I call sailing and I came to trust that partners ability to do what she was made to do. I was free to enjoy the sail, to feel the boat move with the sea, to listen to the song she would sing as the wind moved through the rigging, to sense when she was trimmed proper and running free.
I have been able to apply the lesson learned that afternoon to many aspects of my life. And, I have come to grow more and more confident in my ability to handle the breaking waves that come up on my stern. I am now I starting out again after another one of life’s’ knockdowns. My marriage of almost 29 years came to an end and I moved into a small apartment overlooking Bellingham Bay. There is no need for me to write of the details of the divorce. That is too personal for this site and has no relevance to what I am trying to say. What I am feeling is that it is time to slacken the sheets a little, fall off and let the boat run with the weather for a while, she can handle it.
9/03/2003
I've spent the last week and a half trying to work with the most god awful citrix connected program that ties my office with some mega sever in DC. Nothing, absolutely nothing has gone right with this program and almost everyone involved agrees this whole project has been a farse. Add to that virus infections, lockouts and unrealistic deadlines. So as I sit hear in answer to my daughters gentle nag " now that you have broadband connection you'll probably be posting more often, I look at the keyboard, the flickering monitor and the only thought that comes to mind is-------------- BLAHHH8/24/2003
My Best Friends Wedding
I've been stalling posting this story because I have not been able to organize my thoughts enough to tell about Don and Carols' wedding. And, as I was talking to AJ last night I realized I would not ever be able to tell the story the way I wanted to.Don is my longest and bestest friend and one of the things I love about him is the ecclectic and interesting people that surround him. They were all there on June 21st and it was beautiful. But the most beautiful thing to me was the affirmation we, Don and Carols friends, were able to give them by just being there for their wedding. It is not often in life that we are able to experience how our existence affects others. So often it is only after we have lost a friend or loved one that we realize how precious they are to us. I once heard a story about a missionary who was working in Africa. A small boy he had befriended brought him a gift one day and when he opened it, he realized that the boy had had to travel many days just to get such a thing. The missionary thanked the boy profusly but went on to say what a chore it must have been to travel such a distance for the gift. The boy smiled and said "I know and the trip is part of the gift".
The "Happy Couple": http://www.jngm.net/pix/LunchMoney/DandC.jpg
8/03/2003
Road Trip/ My Best Friends Wedding
Thanks to AJ (daughter aka webmonkey) for the new Lunchmoney look. I know the look is right because there is a picture of Hop-a-long Cassidy in it and God knows anything affiliated with "Hoppy" just has to be good!My best friend Donald had made the decision to marry the girl of his college dreams. He had loved her from afar through his college years, and after many years and different marriages for both of them the circumstances arose for them to get back together, and Donald did not hesitate to pursue Carol. A respectable courtship, then reasonable period of cohabitation and on June 21st, "My Best Friends Wedding".
The event was to occur in Santa Fe New Mexico which is no short hop from Concrete Washington. However, soon after receiving the invitation, I made the commitment to go. Exactly how I was going to make the trip had not been decided. But, I would be there.
I have always had a yearning for the road and have come to learn that the road trips I have taken have always been much more that just "puttin on miles". In 1985 I took my wife and daughter on a 3 1/2 month odyssey that covered 25 states and three providences of Canada. A one ton truck, a small fifth wheel trailer and the three of us. I had cashed in everything and we were heading out to see the country. Shades of "Lost in America" the Albert Brooks movie of similar theme, however we started out before the movie was released so take that Hollywood. In my youth I had done a trek with across the old Route 66 from Santa Paula CA to Edina Minn. The stories on that trip could fill another page so I’ll save them for another time. Also, throughout my life have been a series of small personal road trips some of which included my youngest daughter AJ (see above reference ). The point I’m trying to get to is that for me, road trips have held a magical / mystical quality that have almost always lead to something more than just the trip itself. For me, such a trip is a way of cleaning the spiritual windows or airing out the dusty corners of my soul. Literature is full of similar themes and I am not trying to compete with Jack Kerouac here but, my road trips tend to help me better understand me, by seeing how much there is out there that does not have to do with me. So, with all that in mind I decided to avoid the airport and shuttle buses and the swiftness and drive the 1602 miles to Donald’s wedding.
So what is it about driving east through Idaho and Montana that allows me to clear the clutter of the ever day, work a-day, relationship a-day, money a-day, aging a-day world and find inner peace or as Chuck C. says in his book " A new Pair of Glasses" see the world in an entirely different way, like a new pair of glasses, seeing it clearly. Is it starch heavy meals in the small town diners that I always choose for food. Or the beautiful averageness of the people I see in towns like St Regis Idaho, or Montecello Utah, or the marvelous panoramic views of lakes and mountains viewed from I-90 while passing though Cour de Lain. I don’t know where the magic lies, maybe in all of this. But I do know the magic happens and the clutter goes away and I begin just for a little while to better see me and where I may fit in this thing I call life. And for me, it is a wonderful experience. And so it was traveling east then south to New Mexico.
Peacefully exciting.
Next to come, "My Best Friends Wedding"
5/09/2003
My youngest daughter Andrea has been struggling for the past fourteen or fifteen months to get a permanent work visa for Australia. Never mind why or how she came to pursue this endeavor, enough to say it is something she really wants to do. She has already "migrated" to Sydney, Australia and is living there on a tourist Visa awaiting final acceptance from the Australian Immigration authorities. Lo and behold three weeks ago she finally received notification that she could pick up her Visa. However she had to do it at an Australian Consulate Office outside of the Country. So----- after dutifully notifying the proper authorities of her itinerary ( as required by them) she flew it New Zealand to pick up the precious document at the Australian Consulate’s office in Auckland. Of course, things did not go as smoothly as one could hope for and I and many other well- wishers waited on pins and needles for word of her final approval. She had worked hard to get this damn thing and no bureaucrat was going to stop her.
I came home from four days in the field today and there was a printed out email message from Andrea. Visa was in hand, success at last. I could not have been happier and wanted to share my feelings with her so I took the chance to dial up her cell number ( we had spoken earlier that week so I knew it was possible to reach her). Again surprise, she answered right away. Where are you I asked, since she sounded out of breath and quite excited. Half way up a volcano on Rangitoto Island, New Zealand. Your kidding was my response. " No really" she quipped, " It’s beautiful today and I’m going to hike to the top". We talked more about the visa, her adventure, and I could hear the excitement in her voice and almost smell the fresh air of the mountain. "What a world". I told her. "I’m talking to you half way across the world while you climb a volcano. These are marvelous times". I felt a real sense of wonder and hope at what is possible with technology.
I was reminded of another time when the marvel of modern technology filled me with awe and hope. It was the middle of the cold war and pall of nuclear annihilation seemed to always hang in the background. But on one magic day, I sat with my seventyish year old grandmother in our living room and watched live, grainy TV images of Neil Armstrongs’ walk on the moon. What marvelous time and what an appropriate person to be with. This woman who in her life time had seen so much change. Airplanes, cars, TV, so much technology in such a short time. We both felt and shared a sense of awe and wonder and hope. Of course, the wonder and awe was short lived and as a Nation we soon became blasé about all the wondrous things that NASA was up to, and Viet Nam came along, and Nixon sold out the White House. etc., etc.,
And the hope faded ------------.
I finished the call and still felt elated not only at Andrea’s success and the start of a new chapter in her life, but just for a while I was hopeful with this techno world and the future it might bring. I decided to sit down with the Seattle P.I. and catch up on the news. Within three pages I had read : how the USS Lincoln rather than enter port had steamed for over 20 hours just off the San Diego coast so "W" could make a side show of his arrival on the flight deck. (this is the same guy who went AWOL for over a year from the Texas Air National Guard during the Viet Nam war) And, how the current band of idiots in the Bush administration are proposing that we scrap our treaty commitments and begin new research in and new production of nuclear arms thus thumbing our nose at the world, spending billions more dollars, and re-opening the madness that was the nuclear arms race. etc., etc.
And the hope faded----------------
3/22/2003
These selected excerpts from a speech given by JFK express better than I ever could what I am feeling today along with anger, distrust, and disgust with the current adminstration. God save the USA !
On June 10, 1963 John F Kennedy in part spoke:
"I have, therefore, chosen this time and this place to discuss a topic on which ignorance too often abounds and the truth is too rarely perceived - yet it is the most important topic on earth: world peace.
What kind of peace do I mean? What kind of peace do we seek? Not a Pax Americana enforced on the world by American weapons of war. Not the peace of the grave or the security of the slave. I am talking about genuine peace, the kind of peace that makes life on earth worth living, the kind that enables men and nations to grow and to hope and to build a better life for their children-not merely peace for Americans but peace for all men and women - not merely peace in our time but peace for all time.
I speak of peace because of the new face of war. Total war makes no sense in an age when great powers can maintain large and relatively invulnerable nuclear forces and refuse to surrender without resort to those forces. It makes no sense in an age when a single nuclear weapon contains almost ten times the explosive force delivered by all of the allied air forces in the Second World War. It makes no sense in an age when the deadly poisons produced by a nuclear exchange would be carried by wind and water and soil and seed to the far corners of the glove and to generations yet unborn.
Today the expenditure of billions of dollars every year of weapons acquired for the purpose of making sure we never need to use them is essential to keeping the peace. But surely the acquisition of such idle stockpiles - which can only destroy and never create - is not the only, much less the most efficient, means of assuring peace. I speak of peace, therefore, as the necessary rational end of rational men. I realize that the pursuit of peace is not as dramatic as the pursuit of war - and frequently the words of the pursuer fall on deaf ears. But we have no more urgent task.
First: Let us examine our attitude toward peace itself. Too many of us think it is impossible. Too many think it unreal. But that is a dangerous, defeatist belief. It leads to the conclusion that war is inevitable - that mankind is doomed - that we are gripped by forces we cannot control." -----------------------------
---------------------- "Our problems are manmade - therefore, they can be solved by man. And man can be as big as he wants. No problem of human destiny is beyond human beings. Man's reason and spirit have often solved the seemingly unsolvable - and we believe they can do it again.
I am not referring to the absolute, infinite concept of universal peace and good will of which some fantasies and fanatics dream. I do not deny the value of hopes and dreams but we merely invite discouragement and incredulity by making that our only and immediate goal.
Let us focus instead on a more practical, more attainable peace - based not on a sudden revolution in human nature but on a gradual evolution in human institutions-on a series of concrete actions and effective agreements which are in the interest of all concerned. There is no single, simple key to this peace - no grand or magic formula to be adopted by one or two powers. Genuine peace must be the product of many nations, the sum of many acts. It must be dynamic, not static, changing to meet the challenge of each new generation. For peace is a process-a way of solving problems.
With such a peace, there will still be quarrels and conflicting interests, as there are within families and nations. World peace, like community peace, does not require that each man love his neighbor - it requires only that they live together in mutual tolerance, submitting their disputes to a just and peaceful settlement. And history teaches us that enmities between nations, as between individuals, do not last forever. However our likes and dislikes may seem, the tide of time and events will often bring surprising changes in the relations between nations and neighbors.
So let us persevere. Peace need not be impracticable, and war need not be inevitable. By defining our goal more clearly, by making it seem more manageable and less remote, we can help all peoples to see it, to draw hope from it, and to move irresistibly toward it."----------------------------
"The United States, as the world knows, will never start a war. We do not want a war. We do not now expect a war. This generation of Americans has already had enough - more than enough - of war and hate and oppression. We shall be prepared if others wish it. We shall be alert to try to stop it. But we shall also do our part to build a world of peace where the weak are safe and the strong are just. We are not helpless before that task or hopeless of its success. Confident and unafraid, we labor on - not toward a strategy of annihilation but toward a strategy of peace."
3/01/2003
I don’t do sick well and for the last week I have been as sick as I have ever been with flu followed by infected sinuses. Double yuk!
In one of those half aware fever driven times I crawled into my sick bed ( wearing my sick jammies, those magic jammies that I only wear when I’m not well and which I hope will impart some healing properties) and sunk down into my pillow and felt that warm, primal, all will be OK feeling that has it’s roots in childhood memories. Memories of my room, my bed, my mom taking care of me, and I free associated into the following:
I was twelve or thirteen. My Mom and I would travel one Friday a month to an old family friends house for an evening of "mad canasta". A card game more complex than I can now remember to explain but kind of a cross between canasta, gin and pinochle. We would play for nickels and dimes and mom and I each had a small stash of change we would horde for the game. More than the game this was something that my mom and I shared. A night out together. The game required four not three players and I became moms’ partner. Not child, but playing partner. It was my introduction into the world of adults and a special time for mom and I.
The friends, Merle and Vera, were previous neighbors and my mom had kept the friendship alive long after we had moved to another city after my fathers death. Merle was as much a gentle-man as I have ever known. He was strong but kind, wise but earthy, and never ever talked down to me. He had taught pilots to fly during world war two, traveled extensively and shared many fascinating stories that always held me in awe. Vera, a short perky woman of Spanish, not Mexican she was always quick to remind, decent. She was the perfect hostess, homemaker and wife. It was obvious that they cared for each other deeply and I always felt comfortable in their well kept upper middle class home on the hill.
The evening would always fly by. Lots of small talk about this and that and lots of witticisms about the play or the cards or life in general. Merle would smoke his Viceroy cigarettes, lit by the coolest Zippo lighter with it’s WWII Army Air Force emblem on it, and nickels and dimes would change hands. More importantly we talked and laughed and shared the evening. Somewhere into the evening we would break and Vera would produce cake or pie or some other wonderful treat and the card playing stopped and the feasting began with hot coffee or milk and more discussion and laughter. The refreshments finished we would delve into another round and continue until the wee hours of the morning until brain dead from counting tricks and sorting hands we would call it a night. Nickels and dimes back into the pouches, we would gloat over the winnings and moan over the losses and say good night.
On the way home in our land barge of a 59 Chevy Bel-Air, I would talk mom into stopping at an all night burger joint that had as a specialty, "Boasted Chicken Basket". The specialty consisted of chicken cooked as I have never again been able to find, french fries made from real fresh potatoes and a hamburger bun buttered and toasted on the burger grill. I would devour the meal on the twenty or so mile ride home while mom and I talked. Can’t exactly tell you what we talked about, we just talked.
We would arrive home around two or three and the house would be still, cold and feel a little alien. I never felt right moving about the house after midnight. I would go quietly upstairs to my room, get ready for bed and crawl in between the covers and sink down into my pillow and feel that warm, primal, all will be OK feeling.
2/08/2003
As the drums of war beat louder I have found myself remembering back to the early 60's when we were told by our government we must protect the world from the "threat of communism in the far east". When in 1967 I found myself drafted, "trained to kill", and sitting in a 5 ton truck riding from the Saigon airport to a receiving area just outside the city. I had never felt such a sense of impending doom as I did on that hot, humid, smelly afternoon. Never before and never again until now as I listen to leaders, who used their power, connections, and money to avoid experienceing what I did ( remember George W went into the Texas Air National Guard and served all of 4 years of an 8 year commitment in the good old USA), try to convince me, this nation and the world that this war is necessary to preserve peace and freedom.
So, I relied on my old friend Google to see what I could find to give me some words to what I believe is going on. I typed in the words Adolf Hitler because my gut has been telling there is a lot similarty to what I'm hearing from Washington and what he told the people of Germany. Next I did a search within using the word speech, then another search within using the word peace. I list below two paragraphs from the first link listed from that search. I leave the interpretation to the reader.
Adolf Hitler
Speech of April 12, 1921
"Certainly a government needs power, it needs strength. It must, I might almost say, with brutal ruthlessness press through the ideas which it has recognized to be right, trusting to the actual authority of its strength in the State. But even with the most ruthless brutality it can ultimately prevail only if what it seeks to restore does truly correspond to the welfare of a whole people." -------------------------------------------------
"And fourthly we were further persuaded that economic prosperity is inseparable from political freedom and that therefore that house of lies, 'Internationalism,' must immediately collapse. We recognized that freedom can eternally be only a consequence of power and that the source of power is the will. Consequently the will to power must be strengthened in a people with passionate ardor."
1/31/2003
A love story.
I had been on a quest to try to resolve some really old issues with my father. He had died of alcoholism when I was nine years old and I had never come to grips with the resulting childhood scars that came from growing up a fatherless child. There was also a sense of shame around his memory since he had left the family pretty much destitute. My mother did not speak poorly of him she just did not speak of him at all so I never really had any information on this man who sired me. Only that he had died a shameful death and left us to fend for ourselves.Some years ago I decided to visit his grave. I thought that maybe there maybe I could finally put him to rest in my mind and move on. I had not been there in 25 years so I had to stop by the cemetery office to get directions. So with map in hand and, plot number on a slip of paper, and a prayer in my heart for some closure I walked out to the green grassy field. Without to much trouble I found the headstone with the words "Clarence Cecil James " dates of existence and the word "Daddy" carved in the stone. I thought what an irony, for of all the things my father may or may not have been, Daddy was not a very good description. I stood waiting for some epiphany and drew only silence except for the occasional chirping bird and the highway sounds off in the distance.
It was then that I noticed that the plot next to my father was vacant. Odd, since this was an old section of the cemetery and there were few empty spaces. My mother had died some years ago and we had buried here in our home town, miles from where I stood. In a moment of panic I wondered had we buried Mom in the wrong spot. Was there some plan, that we did not know of, for her to be interned here. I went back to the office and inquired as to the ownership of that plot. The clerk dug out a dusty book, thumbed through the pages and wrote down the name of the owner and the date of purchase. Addie James, March 4 1954. The date was close to the date of my fathers death and the last name was the same as mine however, I had no idea who Addie James was and the date and name similarity were too close to let it go.
I immediately drove to the home of my uncle Ward James, the only surviving relative I had on the James side of the family that might be able to help me solve the mystery. It was there I learned of Addie James or Ted as she was affectionately known. She was the first wife of my Uncle Ward and they had divorced long before I was born. She had know my father since childhood, but no explanation as to why she was scheduled to be buried next to my father. I found out that my Uncle had stayed in some contact with Ted and she knew of me and always had asked about me. She lived just a few miles away so with address in hand I continued to try to solve the unfolding story.
I called first and was told how wonderful it would be if I came by for a visit. Thirty minutes later, and with great anticipation, I knocked on her apartment door. The door opened and it was then I first met Aunt Ted. Not more than 5’ 2" and pretty trim for a woman in her early 80’s. She invited me in and after the usual niceties I had to ask the obvious question. Why had you bought the plot next to my Father. It was from that moment that the healing process began and I learned about the roots of my and my fathers life that I had never know. She told me how she and all the James brothers had grown up in the same small town in Oklahoma before and during the great depression. She brought out tons of pictures of my Dad, his brothers and sister, when they were just kids struggling to have fun in the harsh environment of depression Oklahoma. Pictures of kids standing in front of a circus tent being used as a school because the town was to poor to replace the burned down school. High School football pictures and stories of a kind and loyal young man who stayed in Oklahoma to care for a blind mother when the rest of the brothers had fled to California to find work. We talked for hours and the enigma that was my father began to unfold. And as the afternoon wore I began to love this wonderful old woman who looked you in the eye when she talked and even when she spoke with some anger in her voice, she never spoke with bitterness or spite. She told me that even in the final days of his alcoholism, my Father always told her how proud he was of his son and how he wished he could spend more time with me (Mom and he had separated when I was seven and there were only occasional visits) . She told of the time he was showing off a new comb. Seems he had gotten it as a present from his son, me. Then after 35years I remembered that time. We had had a visit together. He was living in a flea bag hotel and we spent the day just browsing downtown. He bought me a small toy helicopter at the toy section of the drug store. For some reason I thought I should give him a present back. So, I gave him my comb. Ted went on to say that in his final days she took care of him. She did it because that’s what friends do. And, when he died she still had some of his things at her house including that comb. She said no one knew, but she visited the funeral parlor alone before he was buried and slipped that comb into his pocket.
By now I was choking back the tears. My father, the stranger who had abandoned me so many years ago, the man I never knew had become a person just like anyone else. A man with all the complexities of any of us. Good, bad, loved, lonely, all of the things I had never known till then. He was just a sad drunk who never found sobriety. But still, why did Ted buy the plot next to my father. She said that in his final days he had told her that he did not want to be buried. He did not want to be stuck in the cold ground alone. He had spent enough time cold and alone . He wanted to be cremated. Ted was not able to convince the family not to bury my father so she bought the plot next to him so he would not have to be alone for eternity.
Ted and I became friends in the ensuing years and I have visited her as often as I could. I am always refreshed by her energy and good spirit. Up until a few years ago, while in her 80’s, she would drive to L.A., some 90 miles, once or twice a month to help out at a downtown shelter for street winos. She felt is was something she just needed to do. She always has stories of the times in Oklahoma with my Dad and family and has shared a lot of my family genealogy with me that I never knew. Though we are not blood, I believe she is the best Aunt I could ever have had.
A few years ago and after much healing and forgiveness for my father, Ted wrote and asked if I would consider taking the plot next to my father. She had decided to make other arrangement but did not want to abandon her commitment to my father. After much thought, I wrote back and accepted her offer. I felt that though we never were able to be together in life, perhaps we could in eternity. And, since I am a recovering alcoholic, perhaps I could share what I have found with my Dad.
Addie (Ted ) James died January 23, 2003. One thing I know to be true is that by her living, the world is a little better place and with her death, heaven is a little brighter place.
God bless you Aunt Ted,
rest in peace.
So for those of you in Blogdom who may see this I ask in memory of Aunt Ted.
Do something kind for someone, give a smile to someone who doesn’t have one, live life with out bitterness and keep her legacy alive.
1/16/2003
Been entirely too long since I've posted anything (as if someone is really checking) and my guilt voice is yakking at me " Andrea gave you this sight and you shoulda, hadda, oughtta, better do something with it. At least after some reading and snooping around at other sights and finishing the first of two books on blogging that were a Christmas present, I have a better understanding about what this is (or may) be all about. This is my blogging site to do with as I wish. And thats' all I have to say about that!
