DIVERSITY

I have a FaceBook account and I go there often. I keep some of my 87 friends there in the (Hidden) mode which means that if I want to see what they are posting, I have to click on their icon. They don’t just pop up without any warning. It’s just too much scrolling and scanning to get through a day’s news. After a while you can anticipate what certain folks ares going to share and when that becomes too much, you hide them. Still, I keep track of wonderful, special people whose views and bias fly in each other’s face. I don’t share much on FB, politics or religion in particular simply for that reason. I don’t want to fly in the face of a friend in such a public venue. I would prefer the privacy of a rational, agree to disagree conversation.

But my Blog is different. It belongs to me. I do all of the editing and there is no easy way for someone to comment or amend it other than through me. The only way to see what is there is to go there. Even at that, I tend to stay away from controversial material but I’m stepping over the line today. I checked in this morning to learn that my friends focused on the Supreme Court’s, marriage equality decision. By a predictable 5-4 majority, they found on the side of LGBT couples and the blow back has been as predictable as the narrow margin, 5-4 vote. Some of my FB amigos are adrift between disappointment and devastation while others are delighted. 

In regard to the Supreme Court and comments aimed there, I note that when they decided 5-4, that corporations are no different than individuals, that campaign contributions are expressions of free speech; the same people had nothing but high marks for the Supreme Court, even if they are unelected, life long appointments. I ask my FB friends to remember that Supreme Court Justices are appointed by political animals, with political motives. The judge has a rule book that is full of holes and muddy distinctions. Their job is to clarify the unclear. To do that they rely on their knowledge of the law but even more so, the bias of their experience and what it means to them. It is what it is and we should not be surprised; political animals. 

A true Democracy works well, at least for a while, in small populations. But a bad idea can run amok shortly when driven by whims of the moment and short sighted appetites. The Republic is about laws and representative leadership. You get to vote for the leaders but they make the rules. The founders had a republic in mind from the start. They were a bunch of affluent, white businessmen (Plantation owners) who are still spinning in their graves since we allowed poor commoners to vote, women to vote and people of color to not only vote but hold office. The idea of economic mobility for the lower class was never, ever, their intention, (are you listening Justice Scalia?). Even after the nation was founded, they identified by region or state more so than as Americans. They didn’t trust each other, didn't like each other and they didn’t get along. Slavery and the unfolding of capitalism pitted state against state. To suggest that the constitution is an iron clad expression of the founders intent is naive if not stupid. It is a carefully worded compromise that in effect, kicks the can down the road so it has to be revisited regularly. It is redefined and redirected whenever the collective chemistry of the court changes. 

First generation Americans were galvanized by need to be free from England. After that, our differences have been equal to our commonalities. We are as divided now as when we fought over slavery. In hindsight, we are only the 13th or 14th generation of Americans. Before that our ancestors were British citizens. We are still tweaking the great experiment. That we haven’t got the rules perfected should be no surprise. Part of the ‘Republic’ fail-safe is that change should come slowly, through much deliberation. Jefferson wrote into the document a safeguard for religious concerns who feared government establishment of a national religion. It is referred to as a ‘wall of separation between church and state.’ Today, on FB, I’m seeing 13th generation descendants who can't agree on what that means. I hear Christian zealots saying, "Government must not interfere with my religious freedom but of course, by all means, it should and must marginalize any other spiritual/religious belief or unbelief. The recent court ruling hurts no one. It upsets evangelical purists but it hurts no one. 

Yesterday I visited a coastal, wild life refuge; a huge tract of undeveloped shore on the Texas coast. In 1941 the planet's Whooping Crane population dropped to 21. With human intervention, there are now over 500 of these birds and many of them spend their winters here at Aransas National Wildlife Refuge, north of Corpus Christi, TX. The birds are all way up north now, raising their next generation. It is really hot here; by 9:00 a.m. the birds have roosted in the shade, won’t feed again until the sun gets low, except for a Great Blue Heron standing in the shallows, motionless, for half an hour it stood there waiting for a fish or a crab to come into range. Live Oaks here are small compared to New Orleans but they grow thick on high ground, only a few feet above sea level. As you move along, changing altitude foot by foot, dominant plants change. What thrives at 2’ gives way to something else that does better at 4’ of elevation. Diversity works. There is a tower with an overview of the shoreline, backwater and marsh system. It stands 70’ with a 360 degree view, above the trees. Bird poop covers the hand railing and deck. This is where the top predators bring their dinner, perch here to feed. There were plundered feathers and owl pellets on the deck as well. If you didn’t know, owls often swallow their prey whole, bones and all after they pick off what they can. After a few hours of digestion, what won't disolve is packaged into a pellet that is regurgitated. We walked fast enough to make mosquitoes work for their dinner and employed long sleeves in the heat as well as liberal application of insect repellant. Walking or driving, there is a thin veneer of calm. Everything alive, living there, is always working for it’s living. There is no rest in the wild. Perched birds are working at conserving energy. 

We on the other hand, we live in an artificial construct, one that is complicated and distorted by fear of mortality and fear of change. The fear of what could possibly be seems greater than the worst of what actually is. 'One-man, one-woman' is the stable mate of 'One slave = six tenths of a white man.' That's how they calculated the weight of a white, male land owner's vote. The more slaves you owned, the more weight your vote carried. So much for one-man one -ote. It's starting to sound like political action groups and campaign contributions. We argue about who should and should not be allowed to marry. Marriage doesn’t keep owls or people for that matter, from being together and following nature’s law. But people surely do construct rules and ritual that subordinate the natural. I prefer the god of the marsh and mosquitoes to the God of self absorbed religion. Fear of change is natural but you reason your way through it. The alternative is to be left behind. Change is the nature of nature and that nature will still be changing after all of our foot prints have weathered away or turned to stone. Leave people alone, let them marry who they think they love. If they make a mistake they can divorce and try again. A short hundred years ago interracial marriage was against the law. We grew a little and changed it. Diversity works without paranoid oversight. Even with people, whatever happens, someone will be best suited to answer the need and we, being social creatures, we depend on each other. I think Jesus was straight on the mark with the beatitudes. But the church of his name is more concerned with capitalism and a corporate mentality that can not get beyond punishment and reward. The mourners and the meek, even peace makers and the persecuted, everybody gets a place and a turn at table. 

FATHER'S DAY

It’s Father’s Day. Mother’s Day was last month. It’s a nice idea, so politically correct, sort of an obligatory, ‘Show Respect Day’. It doesn’t make up for all those ‘Get even with Mom & Dad’ days when they were 12 & 13 but hopefully they balance out. You can come at it from either direction, as a child reflecting on the parents of your growing up or as a parent, remembering your kids before they became whatever it is that they have become. My kids have been checking in with shout outs throughout the day. It’s really nice that they still like you. My growing up experience was still unfolding when they came along. It gives the saying, ‘Blind leading the blind’ a different twist. If we had put off having children until we could afford them and knew enough to be prepared, we would be an endangered species. So kids are just a generation behind on the learning curve, like the next cog on a very big gear. Having a smart 14 year old can be the best of times or the worst and you won’t know which until you get there. So Father’s Day is also 1st Born’s Day, and Next Born’s Day and so on until you run out of Borns. As a father, you open your mind and realize you’ve been acting out a part that was written into the script a million years ago. Homo sapiens is a paradigm that has no other function than to sustain. So while we find food and a safe place to sleep, we procreate then nurture our little ones until they can do for themselves. Come Mother’s and Father’s Days, we yield to our culture and say, “Thank You Mom & Dad.” Between what we know and how we feel, the bond somehow defines us.

I understand my parents better now, especially after having children of my own. When you are a kid, they just are and it just is. However they frame the picture, that becomes your normal. By the time I was old enough to study multiplication tables, I knew they were inseparable. I knew their word was sacred to them and that they would protect me, even when I was in trouble. Over time, growing up and looking in my own children’s eyes I realized when they were not buying what I was selling. Mom and Dad would both be disappointed that their born-again religion died with them and that the legacy of their southern culture did not take root in me. But love has power that ideas can not shake. Mom would dispel my dismissal of the 10 Commandments but she would love that I replaced them with the Golden Rule. She wouldn’t like that I don’t bow my head or pray but she would walk the high meadow with me and agree that it is a holy place. Dad took his racist legacy into his 70’s but confided in me, “We was wrong.” He would be uncomfortable with people of color who I break bread with but he would approve of me and my choice. There was a time when I didn’t want to be anything like him. Those areas; his temper tantrums, closed mind, resistance to change, I’m nothing like him. I wasn’t buying what I thought he was selling. But then, the other stuff, it was going on at another level and I reek of it. Mom & Dad, wherever you are, I remember the good times and the hard times. Sometimes the hard times were good times. I lean hard on your integrity and your character, always taking the high road. If I could rewrite history, all I would change would be to have talked more often, about anything, before you had to go.

HEROES

  Recently, like in the last two weeks, several things have happened that collectively make me feel small. Not that, ‘Small’ is bad so to say but it does give some perspective on the world, its turning and on the turning of a single, simple life. If you live long enough to try and to fail, to try and succeed, as you keep trying, it is too big to think about all at once. It’s like juggling; how many hoops can you keep in the air, searching for a common denominator? It doesn’t matter because they keep coming until you fail.

Thousands of Richard Nixon’s classified tapes and communications were recently declassified and made available to the public. Who in their right mind would want to dissect that can of worms? But writer, Don Fulsom did just that and wrote a book, ‘Nixon’s Darkest Secrets’. I listened to his interview. It seems Nixon was more than obsessed with winning the war in Viet Nam, so much so that he became paranoid, suspicious, even hostile with his own advisors and political supporters. He didn’t want a peaceful resolution, he wanted victory so much that he undermined the peace process going on in Paris. Thousands of American lives were spent in the last year of fighting as a result. Evil wears a white hat when it’s on your side. His accomplishments in China and legislation at home went contrary to his political ideals, smoke screens to put pressure on North Viet Nam and placate congressional oversight. In the end his skullduggery amounted to not only a cover up but covering up the cover up. He dug a hole so deep he couldn’t find his way out. By the end of his reign he had been reduced to an alcoholic insomniac, too incapacitated to attend his own security briefings. Power in the wrong hands. . .

Not long after listing to that program I drove to Baton Rouge. A friend gave me an audio book to listen to on the way; ‘Citizen Soldiers’ by Stephen Ambrose. It chronicled WW2 from D-Day to the end. In 1985, Studs Terkel wrote ‘The Good War’, a compilation of interviews with WW2 veterans and relatives of soldiers killed in the war. Ambrose’s narrative followed the same format only he included data from daily reports and records. Terkel stopped the war momentarily to emphasize the personal experience. Ambrose tied it all together chronologically in a sweeping, unfolding of events with the same personal feel. Not that one battle was more futile than another or that the brass was more out of touch with the front more than in other commands. The fighting in Germany after the Battle of the Bulge was so persistent, so grim, so grizzly, so pointless you question the idea of intelligence. Everybody knew the war was in its last days but as long as Hitler said, “Fight” the unwilling obeyed. GI’s became seriously aware that someone would be the last GI to die in this war and nobody wanted to be that guy. From D-Day on, the odds were stacked against anyone below the rank of Major, surviving the war all the way to Berlin. Companies, Regiments were decimated. In March of ’45 the average length of time in front line units was measured in weeks. Nobody thought they would live through it but then all at once, they were all afraid they would be the last man to die. 

A few days ago I went to the National Naval Aviation Museum in Pensacola, Florida. Overhead, the Blue Angels demonstration team was rehearsing for a big show on the weekend. Young, modern day warriors were putting their F-18 Hornets through intricate, close formation maneuvers above a crowd that had come to watch them practice. With a deafening roar, high speed, low down passes shook the ground with smoke trails and steep vertical climb outs. It was awesome. Inside the museum, airplanes and models of aircraft carriers were everywhere. You can walk the floor, touch the planes and see up close, authentic memorabilia from past wars, the machinery for making war. Inconspicuous in the crowd were a dozen or more distinguished, elder gentlemen in blue blazers. They were volunteer docents, retired Naval Aviators who engaged visitors with detailed information on the aircraft, naval history and their experiences. From the Korean and Viet Nam era, they provided the personal, human element. So many years after the fact it was easy being drawn into their realm, their sense of urgency and purpose. They knew first hand the adrenaline rush of knowing thousands of bullets were coming at them and that the nature of the business required an undivided attention. They, our docents, were the real deal. They didn’t learn it from a book or a three day seminar. 

         The darling of the museum is an unpretentious, Navy gray, WW2 SBD Dauntless Dive Bomber. It looks like just another period air craft, displayed without fanfare but it is an unparalleled treasure. It is the only surviving air craft to have flown and fought in the Battle of Midway, our first major naval victory of the war. June 4, 1942, I was 2, going on 3. Both the pilot and the gunner were seriously wounded and the plane returned with heavy damage, over 200 bullet holes. After repairs the plane was recycled back to the States where it was reassigned to the Great Lakes Training Center to be used for training in carrier operations. In 1945 the plane’s engine failed and it ditched in Lake Michigan where it remained for fifty years. After it’s recovery and over 70,000 man-hours of restoration, it was reassigned to the Naval Air Museum in Pensacola; and I walked up to it, touched aluminum patches that had been riveted over Japanese bullet holes. All you need is one, even a thin one, a link to history and you realize that we all live on borrowed time, breathe borrowed air, burn borrowed energy and accept our lot that life is short and, “War is hell”. Union General William Tecumseh Sherman realized that as he plundered Georgia, burned Atlanta and marched through the Carolinas. “I am tired and sick of war. It’s glory is all moonshine.” Glory and victory come in the same wrapper but it’s no more than a drunken stupor. Evil done in a righteous cause is still evil. Yet our warriors are our greatest heroes and that dichotomy is more than I can resolve.  

That night I happened to catch a rerun of Ken Burns special, ‘The Roosevelts,’ episode 6. It dealt with FDR’s 3rd term, the lead up and early years of war. As you watch politicians maneuver and the public react, it begs the question, do men make history or does history make men? After the fact, winners profit and take credit while losers are lucky to make it home, disgraced and empty handed. As I listened to an old Navy pilot sharing his knowledge of engaging the enemy I wondered about brave, patriotic pilots who fought on the losing side. Their great mistake was being born to the wrong circumstance. After the Battle of Britain, Winston Churchill said, “Never was so much owed by so many to so few. . .”  referring to how the Royal Air Force held off an impending, German invasion. That quote carries a lot of weight but so does General Sherman when he equated the glory of victory to a numbing hangover. In reflection, I feel small, like the soldiers who didn't want to be the last casualty of the war, like a leaf in the wind. I have no passion for blood and thunder but I understand that powerful people can not leave it alone. 

SOME DAYS ARE BETTER THAN OHTERS

My job today was chauffeur. Dropped my rider off at 8:30 and had to kill six hours in New Orleans before picking her up at 3:00. I know, I know but somebody’s got to do it. Parked in the usual spot, Elysian Fields & Esplanade; with an umbrella in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, I started down Decatur St. Since Katrina, everything costs more but people seem happy and vendors don’t look any the worse. I cruised through a candy store where they make pralines right in front of you. The free samples are too much to resist so I made a second pass, and a third. Made me think of WW2 bombers on their missions over target except these bombs were flying up, into my wide open, bomb bay doors.

The Quarter is a good place to be in the rain with lots of covered sidewalks and open doors. You just duck inside and shop around until it lets up. I sat on the bench under the Joan of Arc statue while I text messaged my cousin in California and my daughter in Alaska.  An old, homeless dude with all of his belongings in a beat up grocery cart sat down against the base of the statue with his cart between us. All I could see was his crossed legs. He was talking  to himself and I tried to listen but it made no sense, cursing and mumbling. When I got up to move on he ignored me, kept on talking. It started to rain and I leaned against a door frame, under a balcony. 

Last year I discovered Doreen Ketchen and her band, under a big umbrella on Royal St. They were jamming in the shade on a hot afternoon. Royal St. was blocked off to auto traffic and the buskers were spaced out for several blocks. She plays the clarinet; I stood there for half an hour listening. The Quarter wouldn’t be the same without Street performers, some are famous, others are still finding their way. I took a photo and posted it in my blog, only to find out she is already famous, shares the stage with Ellis Marsalis, Doctor John, Trombone Shorty and a long list of other legends. But there they were, playing for tips. Today I thought, ‘It’s Friday, I’ll check out Royal St.’ Doreen was there; they were on the sidewalk, leaning back agains the wall. The street was still wet and only a few tourists were stopped to listen. I checked my wallet and didn’t have any one dollar bills. Across the street is a neighborhood market so I went in and bought a banana for 22 cents, got some ones. When I went back out the sun had come out as well and the crowd was growing. The sousaphone is played by her husband who also plays trombone and drums. There were only three of them today but the music was great. She played, ‘All Of Me’. She put her horn down and I thought she was finished but the big horn and guitar went on with the melody and she began to sing; “All of me, why not take all of me, can’t you see, I’m no good without you?” - Blew me away. I watched for about ten minutes, two songs, in that time I saw at least 25 or 30 dead presidents slipped into the plastic buckets on the curb. I put a couple of mine in there too and headed up the street knowing very well why they bother to play for tips.

A guy I know is a foreman, working on an old house; 1225 Bourbon St., several block beyond the tourist traps, into the residential end of the Quarter. It’s a 150 year old, 3 story residences with court yard, carriage house and slave quarters. The court yard has a new, big fountain with aquatic plants and exotic Koi fish swimming through the stems and leaves. The walls are up to 5 courses of brick and mortar with huge cypress beams. They are converting it into condos with 7 separate units. He’s been there for over a year, will be finishing soon. I checked out the stair cases, light fixtures and the solid, four panel doors. Not for sale but they will lease by the year. Before I could ask, he said, “You don’t want to know.”  I saw it last November when it was gutted, getting rewired and new plumbing going on. He’s anxious to move on to something new.

I started back toward the parking lot but only got as far and the French Market. It’s an open air flea market under a roof with vendors of every ethnicity. While wandering from booth to booth, checking out gaudy, bawdy t-shirts I felt a gust of cool, wet air and looked up to see the beginnings of a deluge. Sheets of water from one direction then another inundated vendors along the outer edge of the building and tents set up outside blew over and away. Everybody seemed to naturally gravitate to the middle of the space but I don’t think anybody bought anything. It lasted for 10 - 15 minutes. Some of the venders were sorry they came today. I picked up a couple of 1 lb. tins of Dark Roast Chicory, Decaffeinated Coffee. By the time I got to the car it was time to play Chauffeur again. On the way back to Baton Rouge we stopped for a fried shrimp salad, with remoulade sauce. - By the way, check out Doreen Ketchen on You Tube.

THE EMPTY PAGE

   

          The best time for me to write is early morning. After a bowl of cereal and berries, I sit down to an empty page and turn the key. Sometimes I know exactly what I am about and it comes easy. Other times I haven’t a clue; it’s like reaching down a dark hole to see what’s there, hoping something bites you. If I pull my hand out and there’s a varmint chewing on my thumb, I have something to write about. So here it is early morning with stuff to write about but I don’t remember just what it is. It was crystal clear last night and I thought about it several times, as if it would help, but I should've known better. Right now I can’t remember what I’m wearing; just got dressed twenty minutes ago but looking at the computer screen, I don’t know what I’ve got on. I can feel  shirt, pants, shoes and socks but if I don’t look, I don’t know. Well, maybe; I can tell by the feel that I have socks and sandals. Oh yea, now I remember; I took a tee shirt out of the drawer and put it back because it was the wrong color. I have green pants and a shirt that goes with green. Well, I cheated, looked down and saw the ‘Taylor’ guitar logo on my chest. It’s a black shirt. I didn’t forget, I just couldn’t remember. It worked itself out, sort of like a 12 step program without the addiction. 

I like to think of this as a journal rather than a diary. Dictionaries and thesauri define them as synonymous in one case and different in another. I think of a diary as a private, personal work that is not meant for public consumption. A journal piece can certainly express feelings and experiences but you know from the start that other eyes will go there. So this morning I’m having fun at my own expense. Jokes about old people and memory loss are universal. But I’ve got so much more to remember now than when I was 35, it takes longer. It’s like digging in your pocket, looking for a penny amongst the nickels and dimes. You know there is one in there but everything that comes up is silver. Two hours later, when looking for a quarter, the copper coin will come up on top. You either be patient or change your plans. I push a dime across the counter and collect 9 pennies in return so I have pennies next time. I keep coins in a coin purse now. When I pull it out I get all my change at once, no digging for the solitary penny. If it’s not too full I can shake it around and see what’s there. Otherwise, I dump it all out in my hand or spread it out on the counter. It has several zipper pockets so I keep my pocket knife, several guitar picks, a good luck Petoskey stone, a couple of Canadian Toonies and a spare key to the lawnmower in there too. A lady behind me in line, waiting for me to finish sorting coins mumbled something about needing a bigger purse. I don’t have any issues with a shoulder bag except that I understand the principle: ‘Unnecessary stuff accumulates to fill the available space.’ If I carried a shoulder bag it would fill up and then, as I would unavoidably dig through it, hear comments about needing a wheel barrow. 

Speaking of need, I need a magnifying glass. I don’t see as well as when I leapt tall buildings, faster than a speeding bullet so I keep a magnifier on a cord around my neck; I don’t lose it that way. I kept getting questions about my heart monitor so I added several Native American totems on two other cords. Now I am asked about my jewelry. I say they are religious articles, that I am pagan, which either ends the conversation or begins a different one. On one cord there are four items, a piece of Polynesian coral, a raven trinket from Alaska, a lizard from New Mexico and a thunderbird from Argentina. On the last cord there is a nice piece of Hopi silver, a hoop with thunder and rain symbols on both sides. I got it in 1992 up on 2nd Mesa in Arizona. It all goes together nicely and they don’t weigh much. Can’t say the same for my coin purse. Between it and my ‘Biker’ wallet, I can’t keep my pants up. I was ready for thinning hair and the memory thing but saggy pants was a surprise. Not that I ever had a big butt, but factor in the age element and muscle mass goes away. Gluteus Maximus are the big muscles of the butt and that’s where my pants used to hang. Now, with the extra weight of coin purse and wallet, my jeans work their way down so it’s difficult to do anything. I bought a pair of suspenders and that works but you have to be careful not to wear clothes over the top, it puts too much drama into pit stops at the local Home Depot. I don’t know anything about how pants are engineered but my jeans fall off without the ‘spenders’ and my cotton pants do not. Today is a ‘cotton pants’ day and I feel so liberated. 

ENTOMOLOGY

In college, Entomology was a 300 level biology course. I took it my junior year in the fall. There were about a dozen of us in the class along with our professor, Charlie Newlon. Charlie was the best teacher I had in college, maybe the best ever; I had him for two other classes as well. He loved it all, Biology; and he truly enjoyed sharing that passion with us, his students. His enthusiasm and deep well of knowledge pulled us in like fish on a hook. At the time I wondered, ‘How can anyone know that much about anything?’ 

Insects; you may find them fascinating, absolutely gross or you may not care at all but these creatures are there, and there, and over there. Insects are everywhere. I was fascinated from the get-go. I particularly liked beetles (Coleoptera) and bees (Hymenoptera.) The Lady Bug was a favorite; not a bug at all, a beetle. They feed on aphids, mealy bugs and scale which makes them precious to vegetable farmers. They buy live Lady Bug Beetles by the thousands to turn loose in their green houses and veggie patches to control destructive insect pests. My mother showed me when I was a toddler; put a Lady Bug on your hand and point a finger upward. The bug will climb up your hand to the end of the finger. Then you have to watch closely. The black spotted, little red or orange insect, a little bigger than a split pea, will spread its elytra like garage doors swinging open. Ninety percent of what you see of the Lady Bug are its elytra, covering its back and protecting its flight wings. Then the fine veined flight wings unfold like tiny umbrellas and they fly away so quick they just seem to disappear. It was so cool then, still is. 

2015 is going to be a banner year for Cicadas. We have two different broods coming  out together. The 17 year Cicadas are in sync with the 13 year brood and the noise should drive us nuts. They live as larva in the ground for all those years until Nature prompts them to crawl up out of the turf and up a tree. Their hard, tough outer shell (Exoskeleton) dries out and splits down the back from end to end. Then they crawl out of the old shell, sort of like we crawl out of our long johns, unfold their wings, finish drying and begin to sing. That ‘Rheeeee-a-Rheeeee-a-Rheeeee-a’ cacophony of Cicadas, calling out, all craving sex, looking for a mate, not understanding why; but it all works out and they lay their fertile eggs, restarting the 13 or 17 year cycle all over again. Soon the spent insects dissolve back into the food chain and some other species profits from their demise. All that is left are thousands of old, dry Cicada shells, clinging to the twig or tree trunk where they emerged only a few days before. Bees follow an entirely different protocol but then that’s another story.