REQUIEM

It is the last day of this year leaving a few hours to wrap up the goodbye and jump both feet into the New Year. There is something empowering about new beginnings where the best you can say about endings is that hopefully, the letting go doesn’t hurt very much. My New Year resolutions have been more wishful thinking than commitments but it certainly is about forward leaning-anticipating. But I like reflections too. Stories don’t hatch in a vacuum, not without a seed. My resolutions for 2018 will be shallow, easily modified as need be. Low expectations improve the probability of success. 

The Unitarian Church of Baton Rouge is a modern, red brick building under live oak trees on Goodwood Blvd. They have a tradition there for the last Sunday in December. The program is called “Requiem”. On Requiem Sunday both the minister and the choir take the day off as the service is in the hands of a committee. They've been preparing all year. If anything is as fundamental to us as birth, it is death. Every year, people who leave a legacy of what is good and to what we would aspire, some of them run out of days, just like the old year. So today at church we listened to their music or note their contributions to the arts, to literature and service to others. 

This time a year ago, nobody knew who would pass from us but preparation had to begin. Musicians were lined up to sing and play, not knowing any of the details. Readers without scripts agreed to fill spots. The 2017 program began with Tom Petty, rocker supreme. Popularity was one thing but the way his lyrics mirrored his life was another: “Well I know what’s right, I got just one life, In a world that keeps on pushin’ me around, But I’ll stand my ground.” Then it was tribute to Mary Tyler Moore and her work not only as an actress but a producer, film maker and author, on the front edge of women breaking the glass ceiling and a fledgling women's movement. Jerry Lewis was Dean Martin’s wacky sidekick but remembered more for fund raising against childhood disease; he died in 2017 too. They went on from Glen Campbell to Della Reese, Fats Domino and Chuck Berry. 

When the program ran out of time, just like an old year, we found ourselves reflecting on what we could still hang onto and what had slipped out of reach. It’s been 50 years since the group “Blood Sweat & Tears” recorded, “When I Die” but the message still moves me. “And when I die, and when I’m dead, dead and gone: there’ll be one child born and a world to carry on.” I think that’s the bottom line. This life doesn’t transition, year to year. It slides through our fingers moment by moment and if we try to digest it in bigger bites, the good stuff can get lost between headlines. Tonight I’ll be at Snug Harbor, a jazz club-restaurant on Frenchmen Street in New Orleans, just a few blocks off the French Quarter. Food and music will be great and I keep only the best company. We will be home before midnight and I’ll sleep well, wake up a few hours later, next year. 

IT'S ALRIGHT

While lauding the “Breathless woods . . .” Lord Byron said, “I love not man the less, but nature more.” This time of year I default to that kind of logic when I think, “Not that I don’t like Christmas, I just like Solstice more.” Western culture doesn’t embrace it as a holiday, more an astronomical, geophysical occurrence but I celebrate just the same. Maybe a thousand years before the patriarch Abraham cut his deal with Yahweh (God), astronomers were keeping track of the sun’s arc and the shadows it cast. At Stonehenge they had stone pillars aligned so precisely, at Solstice-sunrise a thin beam of sunlight knifed between them, reaching the alter if you will, at the center of the observatory. They knew winter was upon them but unlike Yahweh’s mythical rainbow promise, not to drown his creation again, Solstice was then-still is a tangible signpost that days will grow longer and the sun will arc a high path across the sky. It still means that even though you must endure a cold passage, things will grow and food will be on the menu again. I don’t know how they celebrated but I bet they did; I bet it involved fire and something that would pass for music. 
         It was cloudy all day yesterday and dark early. I took wood shop scraps from my basement to the patio and fashioned a pyre in my Mexican chiminea. Soon the flames were crackling and I was both warmed and illuminated by the flames. The day was mild but turned cold with wind out of the north. I turned my back to it, booted up my laptop and selected an I-tune play list I assembled just for the day. Then I poured two fingers of Peach Brandy in a red enamel tin cup and sipped. George Harrison’s guitar framed the introduction to my pagan ritual, and he sang: “Little darling, it’s been a long, cold lonely winter. Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here. Here comes the sun, here comes the sun and I say, It’s alright.” I sang backup on the chorus and it sounded good to me. Sunshine songs gave way to my favorite, feel-good artists; Jerry Lee Lewis, Buckwheat Zydeco, Bonnie Raitt, Etta James; all the time knowing tomorrow, daylight will last a little longer, cast a shorter shadow and arc a little higher in the sky than today: Here comes the sun, and I say it’s alright. 

MIDDLE WAY

It’s the week before Christmas already and I’m not hearing any holiday music. I see lights and tinsel here and there but it is sneaking up on us. It will come and go and if you blink, you’ll miss it. My gift giving is pretty much confined to grand children so I don’t really have any shopping to do. I give them each a Silver Eagle, technically a silver dollar but made of one Troy Ounce, 99.9% silver so their worth depends on the price of silver. My thought was, still is, that someday they will each have a collection that didn’t wear out, didn’t depreciate or go out of style. They get enough toys, clothes and technology from other directions that I avoid that hungry hole. Giving money may be practical but it’s pretty cold and calculated. I’m not religious but the holiday was always warm and fuzzy, feel good more because of people than presents and at least the pretense of Good Will. It’s when we celebrate baby Jesus’ birthday and that’s enough to hope for some Peace on Earth whatever your bias. So my choices are, or seem to be, either get some religion or take a few days off and throw money at people who expect you to shell out. 

I want to find a middle way; my experience is that family and food bring out the best. We should all watch one version or another of Dickens Christmas Carol even though we’ve seen it, know it by heart. I think he got it right. Things change and we’re all about as happy as we chose to be. So for a while at least, appreciate the good life we take for granted otherwise. God Bless us every one. The idea that a new baby can turn our attention to hopes for a just and a peaceful world is profound. The premiss of Original Sin is, I think, a human construct. We are certainly born with the capacity to be mean and evil but you have to know you're being mean and evil before it's a sin. When Baby draws that first breath and imprints with its mother’s odor, that is pure innocence. I’ve never been one to handle little babies but never the less, I am smitten with them at a distance. It’s not until later when we understand both the selfless We and the selfish Me, and we chose the latter at someone else’s expense that sin sprouts. I have some devout relatives who pray for me regularly so I feel like my heresy is covered in that regard. 

I remember Christmas when snow and cold was pretty much guaranteed. My brothers and I got mostly clothes, a toy of some kind and a bag of fruit and nuts. Not saying the old days were better but they were good. Television hadn’t made it to our house yet so we played board games and worked on jigsaw puzzles, listened to the radio. We got together with my aunts, uncles and cousins, kids ate in the kitchen while grown ups circled the dining room table. After dinner the men all smoked, ladies went to the piano, sang carols and declared the kitchen off limits. Kids play, always have. I don’t know what it is that we do now but some day my grand kids will tell their grand kids how cool it was. 

Gone away is the bluebird.

Here to stay is a new bird.

He sings a love song, aw we go along . . .

3 MINUTE SKETCH

I had a friend in high school who worked in a shoe store. He said you can tell a person’s character by the shoes they wear. “Women who wear high heels with open toes are looking for love.” I thought everyone with five toes on each foot were looking for love.  My friend died young so I’ll never know how he would have turned out. If he were here he could check my shoes and tell me how I did. My little bit of insight turns, ironically, on reading and writing. I think what one reads and writes is an indicator of, maybe not their worth but certainly their possibility. I have friends who read only menus and street signs, who write only to text message and sign their names. It doesn’t make them any more or less but I get a sense of their curiosity and their need to know, about anything. I get a feel for the size of their ideas. I don't think Buddy got beyond handling ladies feet and sneaking a peak up their skirts. We all went through that phase but he died and I didn't.

Sixty Minutes is a television, news-magazine program that has been running since the 60’s, still going strong. Recently they devoted a full program to honor former reporters, showing clips from their best projects and listened to off camera comments and observations. Beginning with Harry Reasoner and Dan Rather they did in depth exposés and human interest stories into a new century and finished with Andy Rooney. Up until his retirement and subsequent passing, Andy Rooney wrote for the program and did a short, 3 minute sketch at the end of each show. He took a bit of trivial fodder and made something of it. Sometimes with humor, sometimes with irony, he put his own skeptical, unpredictable spin on ideas that should not have held your attention, but they did. He was a great student of the Human Condition. Andy had great quotes. One was, “A writer’s job is to tell the truth.” He thought his readers deserved that. He could be bothersome, even offensive but he dug after the bone until his story was complete. Sometimes he was wrong but he never made excuses or passed the buck. After critical comments on NAACP strategy and boycotts in the south he was arrested for riding with blacks in the back of the bus. When he was wrong he apologized and fixed what he had broken. 

I read a self help book back in the 1990’s titled ‘Do It!’ At one point the author used writing as an example: “If you want to be a writer” he said, “you don’t need an agent or a computer, all you need is a pencil and paper. When someone reads what you’ve written, that makes you a writer. If you want to be famous or win a Pulitzer, that’s still where you begin.” That makes me a writer; not famous or even successful but sometimes people read my stuff. I can’t say Andy Rooney was my hero or that I even wanted to be like him but if someone today would include us in the same sentence, I would be flattered. The fact that he was a writer with bushy eyebrows, an agnostic, more liberal than conservative earns him high marks in my book. I really identify with his quote, “I didn’t get old on purpose. If you’re lucky it could happen to you.” And, (I know you never begin a sentence with 'And' but I did anyway - Creative License) and he also said, “People accept facts as truth only if the facts agree with what they believe.” All I can think of now are climate change deniers, anti vaccination/anti sex-education people. Maybe Andy is a hero after all. 

DO THE MATH

Breathe in, breathe out, I see the sun is out and leaves are all on the ground: and it’s time to breathe again. If you live to be 90, measuring life by the breath, the breathe-in-breathe-out loop will repeat itself about a billion times, 9 zeros; do the math. Think of Tarzan swinging vine to vine through the jungle; each vine only good for 5 or 6 seconds, then he has to catch another vine, another breath or the machine starts shutting down. If there is no other vine or if he misses, he only has a couple of minutes swinging back and forth to catch another vine, draw another breath or his swinging-breathing journey is over. Discounting modern medicine, it doesn’t leave much room for error. But evolution has made us pretty consistent, pretty proficient at the breathing in and breathing out. Still, you understand the unforgiving aftermath of failure, just for missing one breath, the next one. I was 20-something, studying human anatomy & physiology in college: the simple consequence of missing the next breath got my attention. 

My dad wasn’t complaining, more a resigned lamenting. In his 80’s, the 20th Century was winding down, his friends were dying and all he could do was go to their funerals. He would say to me, “The curse of long life is, losing your friends.” It left him weighing two dilemmas: how to cope with this pattern of loss and the weight of his own inevitable demise. In her own time Margaret Mead observed, and nearly all credible anthropologists agree, end of life rituals (funerals/memorials) are about the only venue where we openly mourn the loss of life. But what we do according to (Mead) that is not so obvious or public is, in the shadow of another’s passing we grieve for the loss of our own life. Mortality lurks out there somewhere but it is no less assured. People can accommodate that grim reality by either denial or distraction and meeting the day's need is a powerful distraction. But deep down in the brain where we can not be trusted with the keys, we understand: Ask not for whom the bell tolls.

I just learned of the passing of a friend. His health had not been good but the news was unexpected. My sympathy and affection for his family are real. I will miss him but I still have things to do. You can’t let grief weigh you down; you can’t be afraid of when or how your journey will end. My friend lived long and well and there is some consolation there. But then in the last year I saw a photo of a drowned refugee, a Syrian child washed up on a Mediterranean beach. The photo made a statement about war and politics. It was news intended to move a person’s sense of humanity. Too far away, not enough in common to go fight another man’s war but I can only speak for me. I’m thinking of my own next breath. You can be young or old, good or bad, it doesn’t matter; do the math. One’s next breath is so important, the one you can’t live without. I’m old enough I don’t take anything for granted. Life is good; I am the old Tarzan, clinging vine to vine, breath to breath, remembering a time when vines had handles, too many to count. 

EAVESDROPPING

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. I’ve always loved holidays, especially the ones where you get paid for taking the day off. Retirement has scrambled that scheme a little bit. Someone, whose job it is to keep my pension payments secure and delivered on time is the one who gets paid now for taking the day off. I get paid regularly but all of my days are days off. I’m sort of like the birds at my feeder. Yesterday I overheard one bird to another, “Hey, did you remember that today is Thanksgiving?” They were woodpeckers at the peanut feeder. The other Red Belly nodded. “You could have slept late, taken the day off and nobody would have called you out.” The first Woody replied, “I woke up hungry so I got up early, flew down here. But I am grateful. These peanuts are in a squirrel proof container and when it is almost empty, voilá; it gets filled up full again.” Eavesdropping on wood peckers is nearly a lost art. You have to depend a lot on body language and even at that you have to guess now and then. Woody #2 hopped off the feeder to the top of the post; “Yep, I’m grateful this post is too tall for the feral cat in the storm sewer to pounce. He, or is it she; I don’t want to get close enough to sex any cat but either way, this one is a stealthy S.O.B. and you can’t be careless.” 

Being thankful is easy. Sometimes people ask why can’t I look for the best in people and let it go at that. The analogy I give is about meeting a horse. I go to the back and note the sphincter first, after that I go to the front; not that the sphincter is all important but I need to be mindful. What goes in the horse’s mouth and what comes out the sphincter are obviously different but they are both stereotypes of the same horse. So I hope for the best and plan for every possibility. Suffering and joy are opposite ends of the same rope. 

On the day after Thanksgiving I’m still giving thanks. Being grateful does not require gravity, acceleration or a contract. It’s just a subtle, low level awareness that you could have gotten the sphincter but you didn’t and that makes you happy. Tomorrow will go much the same way; thankful the good is good enough. I am not a Pollyanna, OMG no. I do, on the other hand, understand Yin & Yang. It’s not what you get as much as what you do with it. So I’m thankful, I’m grateful because it works. We have a place in time and what comes with it is what we get. Someone famous said, “You can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.” Yin & Yang - what you make of it, and I’m thankful. Somebody else famous said, “Happiness is a choice.” I like that too. Happiness comes easier when you’re thankful to begin with.

The woodpeckers had moved on, making room for a titmouse and a nuthatch who had been waiting on the fence. Mouse ate one nut at a time while Hatch took one and flew off, only to return shortly. It isn’t squirrel proof and I’m curious how that works but he was stashing peanuts in the groves and cracks of the bark on the Ash tree. “Are you going to have a big family get together today?” asked Mouse. “It’s Thanksgiving you know.” Hatch looked up and leaned into the Mouse. “No; by this time of year I don’t know where any of them are. I’m grateful they made it through the summer and you don’t have to be in each other’s face to know they love you.” Mouse nodded in agreement,”I know, I know: ain’t it great that they fledge and move on?” They exchanged some insults and prejudice against Blue Jays and took off for the bird bath on the other side of the house. Of all the holidays, I like Thanksgiving best. You can make it whatever you want it to be. 

WHO SAID THAT?

I collect quotes. Over time they have grown into a collection that is organized either by subject or by source. There is a large file on “Life”, another on “Persistence”. Some individuals are so well represented that I keep their contributions together, whatever the subject. It’s a way to identify with people who have not only lived notable lives but also shared a clear eyed view that resonates with me in the here and now. If I concur with Mark Twain, Buddha, Albert Einstein, Carl Sagan, Mother Theresa, Jesus, Shakespeare, not to mention so many other notables; I think it’s fair to say that I keep some pretty good, philosophical company. When presented with a vexing or at least conflicting set of possibilities I think to myself, ‘What would Marcus Aurelius or Chief Joseph say about this?’ 

My mother had a flip-calendar on her kitchen windowsill with a different bible verse for every day. By the time she got back around to January, they were all new again. I could do that, make my own flip-calendar with my own sense of timely quotes rather than religious affirmations. On New Year’s Day I could go to Lao Tzu, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” MLK Jr. Day could come from the Bible but I would lean toward his own words concerning; “. . . the content of one’s character rather rather than the color of their skin.” On April 15 it’s JFK’s, “Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country.” Then on the 4th of July, Samuel Johnson, “Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.” Hey, I’m on a roll. Imagine 365 sound bites on a single rolodex, funny, insightful, profane, divine, one for each day of the year; all applied to nurture a healthy attitude. A calendar of date appropriate quotes; that will be a task. I’ll have to start now if I want it for next year. 

TOKENS & TRINKETS

Even though I’ve recently cleaned house and culled out lots of junk, my life is awash with tokens and trinkets, things I’ve picked up that have no other value than to remind me of a story, of a particular day and a particular place. For whatever reason, I am attracted to stones with distinct markings that slide easly into my pocket. Neither can I resist feathers left behind by a bird that couldn’t wait; and sea shells, I pick them up as well. As a boy I helped my mother hang clothes on the clothes line to dry. I moved the basket ahead of her and handed her the next clothes pin. In the same way those clothes pins held my t-shirts and pillow cases out in the breeze to dry, my tokens pull up stories that would not have stirred a memory otherwise. 

Last week I was meandering through an old cemetery, reading what was there. Like a detective you have to find clues and put them in order, try to frame a story. You may not get it right but it’s an effort to make connection, if not knowing for sure then you settle for a feeling. I had been to Grand Isle before but never to the cemetery. A small, barrier island community on the gulf coast, it has been there well over 200 years. As I walked the path, reading names and inscriptions on crypts and grave stones, I was thumbing through the pages of a town’s history. 

As you go in the gate you come to the oldest graves first. Moving along with no particular agenda, I noticed marble monuments with detailed pedigrees and respectful, affectionate farewells. Marble doesn’t grow in south Louisiana, you have to ship it in from far away, but over time even the marble wears away making it difficult to read. The man’s name was Louis Chighizola, 1820 - 1893. I looked at it, did a double take and looked again. I was not familiar with the spelling but pronounced phonetically, the dates and the location, I thought, ‘OMG’. I know this story. I had to research some facts before I could have confidence in the obvious but it all fleshed out like I thought it would. 

Louis (Nez Coupė) Chighizola was a notorious pirate, a high ranking subordinate to the famous French pirate, Jean LaFitte. In his youth Louis lost his nose in a sword fight, thus the nick name; Nez Coupė (Cut Nose). After the War of 1812, LaFitte and his men were granted pardons for their crimes since they helped defend the City at the Battle of New Orleans. The days of pirating had come to an end and those aging sea rovers needed to find a new occupation. Many stayed on at Grand Terre and the adjoining barrier island, Grand Isle where they became fishermen, trappers and farmers. LaFitte sailed off to the west, starting another pirate colony on a barrier island off Galveston Bay but it was short-lived. Louis (Nez Coupė) Chighizola stayed on at Grand Isle, married, lived a long life with many children. His first son, Louis, was born in 1820. There I was some two centuries after Nez Coupė’s pardon, on his island, at the grave of his son, reconstructing the story. One could presume the old pirate’s bones are decomposed by now but they are certainly nearby. If he didn’t get a marble marker I’m sure there is a great story instead, if only someone had written it down. In the mid 1950’s, Paramount Pictures made a movie about LaFitte and his pirates. I saw it on VHS tape in the 80’s. Chighizola only had a bit part but then movies are about entertainment, not authenticity. 

What is so cool about the whole thing is the way it came to me, and then the way I lost it, and how it came back again as if to say, “Hey, I’m still here, don’t forget me again.” Moving on through Grand Isle’s cemetery you discover, it is full of Chighizolas. They are still there, on the island, every generation, the living as well as deceased. I don’t think I would want to live there or be defined by their story, but it is an awesome story. As a sort of follow up post script; I read that LaFitte had offended or provoked Louis (Nez Coupė’s) wife in some way that she would not let go. LaFitte gave a gold coin to the black smith to shape into a thimble. It was his peace offering and she accepted it. On the internet the legend is, that thimble is still in the hands of a Chighizola, somewhere in south Louisiana. The lady at the grocery said without hesitation, “The golden thimble is not a legend, it’s common knowledge. The lady with the thimble lives down the street, right here on the island.”

On the beach, before we left Grand Isle, I noticed something in the sand. You find everything on the beach from plastic debris to fish bones and decaying sea weed. I expect those eye catchers to be disappointments but I keep picking them up. It was just a little bump in the sand with a black dot on it. Brushing the sand away, blowing on it to get the last bit of wet stuff and I see a small, oyster half shell. It was solid black with no gray speckles or markings, no bigger than the end of my thumb. I’d never seen one like it, a new token to go in my pocket. I’ll have to throw something out now. I promised myself I’d get rid of something before I bring home anymore trinkets. 

EVERYBODY'S GOT TO EAT

Grand Isle, a small barrier island on the Gulf Coast only 50 miles south of New Orleans but if you want to drive the highway it’s more than twice that. Barely 4 miles long and a stone’s throw wide, a couple of thousand people live here year round while many thousands come to fish and vacation. In the live oak woods on the leeward side there are a few old homes down on the ground but everything else is built up on piers, 8, 10 feet, some higher. Storms and currents keep moving sand around, leaving long, narrow sandbars just offshore. If plants establish a dune system they collect more sand and you have a barrier island. When people build towns there it requires special adaptations to cope with big storms and to protect the dune system. When the oil and gas industry invests in off shore drilling it requires even more. 

Back in the 90’s I taught school in an urban setting in Kansas City, MO. We had money, lots of money. In the education business you learn fast; spend all the money as fast as you get it, all of it. Not unlike the biblical principle except in this case it could be the Board of Education or the state or the judge in charge of the desegregation plan that giveth and taketh away. If you don’t spend right away, it may be reassigned. Part of my job was to develop program, to spend money on projects that infused our Environmental Issues theme, across the curriculum. Bringing a busload of 7th graders to Grand Isle for 4 days is how I was introduced to the island. That program lasted 5 years before the money dried up, my job disappeared with it and I moved on. It was a good program, no frills, good science, a window of possibility none of those street kids would ever experience if not for the state’s money and my job. I still hear from a few of them. They remember details we hoped they would. They remember the food chain works in two directions and people are at both ends, and how water, CO2 & Nitrogen cycle, that if you tug on any part of the environment, the whole environment responds. They think it was worth it even if the state did not. 

I went back to Grand Isle this week, first time since I was there with students. The levee along with its road has subsided into the marsh. In its place is a 12 mile stretch of elevated causeway. Great swaths of grassy marsh have disappeared, now open water stretches where we waded and seined for crabs. In ’91, on the beach, they had built jetties perpendicular to the beach, out into the surf. Huge granite boulders were stacked in rows to stabilize the sand against storm surges. Granite boulders on a Louisiana beach; they didn’t wash up there, they came on railroad flat cars all the way from Tennessee. They are still there but somewhat rearranged by wear & tear from 25 hurricane seasons. I thought about the students, 12-13 year-old street kids with their shovels and buckets, waves washing over their feet and ankles as they dug in the swash, collecting macro invertebrates and shell fish. I thought about the shrimp and crawfish boil we were treated to by the people at Conoco Oil’s shore base. 

Sun was setting, I was sitting on a granite boulder watching colors change, hoping to see big birds on their way to roost in sheltered water somewhere. In the low light I didn’t see the them until they were on top of me. By the time I got the camera up they were overhead. Pelicans, not a hundred feet up; I turned to follow them and noticed a full moon in the frame. Shutter-click and they were gone. Out in the gulf you could see oil rig lights and barely hear the drone of a diesel engine coming off the water; a shrimper pulling a trawl, far enough out I couldn’t see his lights. The breeze kept mosquitoes at bay but inside the berm they would be buzzing. Everybody’s got to eat.  

WANNA-BE SCONES

I made pumpkin scones last night. This morning my suspicions were confirmed. Boxed mixes where all you do is add water, stir and bake; they miss the mark. The scones were alright but that’s not much of an endorsement. They are supposed to have a coarse texture with subtle, complex flavors. My box mix was fine texture and synthesized pumpkin was all you could taste. The coffee helped and I’ll not complain. Sometimes it’s just fuel for the machine. 

Headed down to Grand Isle, Louisiana today; about three hours along bayous and salt marshes. It’s a great place for birding and that’s the plan. We will scope out the dunes and the Oak/Hackberry woods this evening for an early excursion in the morning. My eyesight leaves a lot to be desired and I’m not all that familiar with shore birds but we have the field manual and binoculars. I’ll be happy with some Ibis and a few pelicans. Regardless of how the birds cooperate, I have great confidence there will be a brunch somewhere with fresh-off-the-boat shrimp and crab cakes. 

The train ride last Sunday is still fresh in my mind. To some extent it’s like a basketball game, you can doze off for a few minutes and get caught up in a sentence: “We crossed a bridge and the sun came out for a few minutes." On the up side, everything feels good; feeling the floor rock side to side, up and down and you think of sailors and sea legs. It doesn’t take long to know why they don’t fill cups or glasses all the way to the top. If all you wanted was coffee and a ride, you could have gone to work. 

We got to talk with the engineers when we did the turn-around in Summerville. They were as excited about the tandem run as the passengers and spectators along the route. If I didn’t always love my job, I always felt good about it: I wanted to be there. I got the same feeling from the crew and staff on the train. Maybe not enough pay and maybe the hours aren’t the best but nobody wanted to be somewhere else. 

MORE TRAINS

The Kansas City Southern RR ran through a cut just west of our house when I was a kid. We played on that timber trestle while chuffing steam engines pulled their freight trains underneath. I wanted to ride a train and I finally did but by that time they had replaced the steamers with diesel engines. The diesel horns were louder but it was just a single note blast. The old steamers could waggle the whistle rope and get a tone that was musical, with a Whooo, Woo-uuu-oooo sound that no kid could resist. Now, when you get the time and the money together you can buy a ticket on one of many Steam Excursions. Last Sunday we pulled out of the station in Chattanooga, Tennessee at 9:00 in the morning, gone all day and back by 6:00 p.m. The Tennessee Valley Railroad Museum has two operating, coal burning 4-8-4 engines and they double them up in tandem four times a year. Yesterday was one of those days. From our perch in a pullman window, we saw railroad buffs lined up at nearly every crossing guard, filming the tandem performance.  Of course both engineers were hanging on their whistle ropes. 

Meals in the dining car were served with traditional formality, all crystal and china. Coffee cups were tiny but white coated waiters were always there with a refill. In Summerville, Georgia they had to turn the engines around (one at a time) on a big turn-table and hook up to the opposite end of the train for the return trip. Midway back, we stopped at a convenient crossing and off-loaded everyone who wanted an action photo of the tandem hookup. The train backed up a quarter of a mile into the woods and then gave us a full steam drive-by. Thousands of shutter clicks and go-pro videos rolled. They stopped, we boarded again and it was up the road, headed back to the barn. Between cars you could hang out the half-door and take photos as opportunities allowed. You learn fast the difference between steam swirling back and down, and coal smoke, full of ash and cinders. I’m still working ashes out of my eyes. 

There are plenty of train songs; yesterday it was Steve Goodman’s ‘City Of New Orleans’ - Willie recorded it. I kept mouthing the words as we rumbled along, one particular line; “Rocking to the gentle beat, and the rhythm of the rail is all they feel.” The rails south of Chattanooga make for a bouncy ride and our top end was maybe, 30 mph. The narrow gage train from Durango, Colorado to Silverton is another steam excursion on my Bucket list. It runs up the Animas River canyon where the views are spectacular, any time of year. So I work at staying healthy, save some dollars and it’s not if, but when. OMG - this is so much better than anything I would have been doing at home. 

DOWN THE ROAD

I drove up to Small-Town Iowa the other day. Iowa is one story and small towns are another but they do go together. Wonderful place to spend the day; don't think I want to live there. Three hours on the interstate, then another half an hour on a two lane blacktop before I saw church steeples and a water tower. Chariton, Iowa is Mayberry without the mountains. My destination was on the square, a bicycle shop in the old movie theatre building. An extra layer of parking took up the space where the old court house lawn had been. I suspect when they built the tan brick and field stone court house, parking space was not an issue. Sometime in my lifetime they sacrificed the lawn for the sake of progress. When I got out it felt like Barney Fife should be coming up the sidewalk. 

The bike shop wasn’t really a bike shop. They specialize in trikes, three wheelers. Three related issues had brought me to this place; I crashed my go-fast bike and broke bones, I want to keep riding and I’m not getting any younger. I was interested in a recumbent trike, one wheel in back and two in front. You sit down low with the crank out in front. The technology is high tech and riding one was a new experience. After a couple of hours test riding three different models, I settled on one. He didn’t have the color I wanted so he had to order it and I’ll have to make the trip again. 

Well into the afternoon. Dave, the trike guy, gave me a coupon good for a meal at a restaurant on the other side of the square. The three story, red brick, Chariton Hotel was old on the outside but fitted out with the latest black and white and chrome decor inside. The BLT was good as any city sandwich. Across the street, another old, red brick building bore a big sign over the window that read, Piper’s Grocery, Meats & Chocolates. The store was old on the outside and just as old inside. Must have been 12 ft. up to the old tin ceiling tiles. The lady who owned the store recognized me as a stranger and gave me a 15 minute tour of the building and their inventory. 

Built in 1888, the board floor may have been replaced at some time but then it looked worn enough to be original. The place was a combination grocery, candy, meat, gift, antique store. Since it was built it has always been a grocery and owned by different generations of only two families. One section was for Amish products; jams and jellies, chutney and canned vegetables. I recognized Amish names on the labels, Troyer and Bontrager. I asked if there were any Yoder labels but no. She was impressed by my familiarity with the Amish. They make their own chocolate candies right there in the store, all displayed in a glass front case. I asked if they gave samples; in New Orleans they give samples. She said “Not usually, but you can sample any candy in the case if you like.”  I passed and went on through the gifts and antique section. The meat counter was full of red meat and sausage, what else in rural Iowa? I bought a quart jar of Amish pickled eggs and an antique Prince Albert tobacco can. She invited me back when I return for my new trike.

In all three places I shopped I couldn't miss cultural markers that I associate with rural, small town, midwest America. If it wasn’t evangelical plaques with come-to-Jesus wisdom it was “Make America Great Again” propaganda on bumpers and windows. I tried hard not to do or say anything that would out me. I think they know anyway, they know by osmosis just like I can tell when they chance into my secular,  progressive domain. But they smother you with kindness anyway; it’s the righteous way. Dave, at the tike shop, probed with some sanctified assumptions and the fact I didn’t affirm them certainly must have set off his “Heretic” warning bells. But he didn’t have any reservations about my credit card; funny how that works. He likes it best right where he lives and so do I, wherever that may be; over a hundred miles down the road, in another universe. 

THE TRUE MEASURE

 

Yesterday I went to the big-box Costco store. It’s a wholesale warehouse like Sam’s Club (Walmart) only they pay employees a living wage and hire them full time, with vacations and medical insurance. Costco’s CEO made about half a million dollars last year compared to high end Walmart exec’s tens of millions. So I shop at Costco, part for the good buys and part for their principle of investing in employees. The humus or the toaster oven may not be any better but I’d rather have that portion of my dollar going to employee’s benefits than to Walmart stockholders. 

I was pushing my empty cart up a main isle when I heard someone call my name. I glanced around but didn’t recognize anyone. Then it came again. A smiling lady was approaching me, she said, “You are Frank Stevens.” She told me who she was; I would not have recognized her without help. We went to school together, she married a friend of mine, they divorced and then he died; gotta be more than 40 years. 

Our conversation moved predictably. It didn’t take long before she alluded to the good old days and how the world has gone to hell, undeserving people work the system, kids are bad and schools are no better. I made a career of kids and schools and couldn’t let that insult go unanswered. I reminded her of a famous quote that lambasts youth in general for their self centered ambivalence and disregard, paralleling her just uttered feelings. The source was Socrates 420 BC. I said, “You know, what made the good old days good was that we were young.” Our parents thought our generation was on the fast track to hell. Nothing is more normal than old people resenting youth and resisting change. I went on to defend the education business. Kids are just like we were, they test the boundaries. Teaching is like carrying water in a leaky bucket; we do our best with what we’ve got. She didn’t really want to fight and we moved on.

Within a few sentences she began to unload on freeloaders who play the welfare system, food stamps and medicaid, making babies just for the welfare check. I tried to shed light on that common but distorted view. Nobody choses poverty for the sake of a welfare check. For that matter, nobody gets pregnant for profit. Babies are the result of something much more inherent than beating the system. We are high functioning animals but not clairvoyant. If people could predict the consequence of their well intended actions, we wouldn’t need welfare. Of course people cheat. What I don’t understand is why we want to punish the poor for working the system when billionaires manipulate tax loopholes so they don’t pay any tax at all. If that’s not beating the system I don’t know what is. Instead of taking them to task, we elect them to high office. When I said that she shrank. I hit a nerve and her body language betrayed her. She had voted for the tweet-man. We managed a civil, friendly exchange for a few more minutes and resumed shopping up different isles. 

Time will fly and I’ll change along with everything else. But I won’t blame what I don’t like on rude kids or people who simply want a better life but lack the means to make it happen. The underlying prerequisite of free market capitalism is that we compete on a level playing field. But that element is the first to be ignored or dismissed when there is a dollar to be made. I think it was Gandhi who said, “The true measure of any society is how it treats its most vulnerable members.” I didn’t share Gandhi with her; I think she had had enough. 

BE NICE

         I haven't been on a road trip for a long time; hard to remember. Add to that, rehabbing an injury and you get ants in pants syndrome. I’m ready to lock windows, reset thermostat, hold the mail and get out of town. I’m sure there is a neurological, psychological explanation but it’s enough to know that I simply feel better in motion than at rest. When my kids were fussy we would take them for a ride and they settled down; maybe it's the old axiom about fruit falling from the tree. On the bicycle, in the pool, in the car, even walking; my reason for being is both simplified and satisfied. 

         Not this week but the next, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, I’ll get out of town for a couple of weeks. The Tennessee Valley Railroad Museum in Chattanooga is home for the Summerville Steam Special, steam locomotive excursion. Southern Railroad Engine #4501 and its train of 1940’s passenger cars trek all day south into Georgia and return. That’s the plan; breakfast and dinner in the dining car with china, crystal, two forks and linen napkins. A couple of hours exploring Summerville, Georgia for a mid day break and the ride back. With luck, we get low angle sunlight for good photographs. Then again, Lord willing, we want to take the backroads for a few days, antiques and flea market hopping all the way to Baton Rouge. I’m well aware of how best laid plans can discombobulate so I tend to qualify everything with the “Lord willing/high water” disclaimer. Fall colors should be near peak, end of October in the Great Smokies. 

         The last time I got away was in June, an overnighter to Omaha; before that it was March and Michigan. I guess I do remember after all. Writing while on the road provides a great segue, from what I notice to something else, something I hadn't noticed but need to address. Otherwise you bog down in the mundane, navel gazing, ruminating on stuff that has no up-side. A friend, former minister turned sociology professor told me, “You didn’t screw the world up, neither can you fix it. So live the best life you can. Be responsible. Be nice.” Responsible can be tricky; Nice comes easy. 

UNDER A LEDGE

Most of the time I write with an audience in mind. But sometimes it’s just me, chewing on stuff that won’t go away and this is one of those times. It is 2:30 in the morning. I woke up from a dream or maybe just restlessness, unable to sleep. I usually post my journal work in a blog that anybody can access but I don’t know about this one. 

I am at odds with my own kind. At the root of that dilemma is a marginal, manageable case of misanthropy. I don’t hate people, I just find over and again that humanity or society, whichever you like,  falls terribly short of my expectations; so much that I don’t want to identify with them. People may  be alright on a one to one but let them get together in a bunch and they bring out the worst in each other. Here in America they call it competition and it's supposed to be a good thing but if that’s the human condition, I’m not comfortable with it. Buried deep in the human psyche is the principle of the Golden Rule. “Do Unto Others” is not only altruistic but also self serving. Without reciprocity, the GR doesn’t work. Being treated well doesn’t have to come back from a particular source but it has to show up in the mix. People want to think otherwise but the less one’s good works come back around, the easier it is to look the other way. When good will comes easy we feel self righteous and when it’s difficult, we make excuses. Hypocrisy and integrity are opposite sides of the same coin and we spend both sides with a clear conscience. Human nature; that’s what we do. 

  I feel alien in my native culture. I do believe in the axiom, “Power corrupts” and my country has been the most powerful nation on earth for several generations. I don’t know how to unbelieve something so self evident. Patriotism has descended into unconditional narcissism, an all embracing addiction to nation and the military. Anything less borders on treason. I do love my country but it’s the same kind of ‘tough love’ we apply to self absorbed, bullish children. To that extent I feel like an Old Testament prophet, calling out my neighbors for their both their sins and their denial. As with the old prophets, nobody is listening. As a people, we want to be loved, admired, respected, feared and catered to, all in the same breath. In 1946 at the Nuremberg War Trials, Hitler’s second in command, Herman Goring was asked, “How did you get good people to go along?” His answer was timeless. “All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the peacemakers for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country.” 

If I were truly brave enough to push back, the FBI would have an agent assigned to me and I’d be on the No-Fly list. So I do cognitive therapy, self help exercises to ease my mind. I am human, I’m an American, too old, too poor to start over somewhere else. Wouldn’t it be grand if people used mirrors to view the world we’ve looked away from instead of tunnel vision on one’s own painted face. If we can't do that it would be great to leave a legacy like MLK Jr or Woody Guthrie. But I’ve always been a dreamer and life has me on another path. My legacy would be one of sitting under a ledge, waiting for the storm to pass. 

WEAK HYDROGEN BONDS

I was the middle son of three boys, wanting nothing more really than to please my parents. Sure I wanted a bicycle and a ball glove but at the end of the day was the hope that something I did would make them proud. They never preached thank goodness, what I should do or believe; it wasn’t their nature to preach. What they did was to live day by day, hour by hour, consistent with the rules and beliefs of their experience. To that end, my foundation was not one of lectures or instruction but one of demonstrated examples, behavior and a sense of identity I could hang my hat on. 

Even if boys don’t rebel they have an inherent need to assert themselves. That often pans out as the prodigal son who spurns his parent’s wisdom in a quest for his own revelation. I questioned their politics and held on to their religion. In college I really took the bait of a conservative world view. The free will, personal accountability model sounds so right when you have time and privilege on your side. We are what we chose to be, you get what you deserve. Amen, thank you Jesus. After a couple of decades, that youthful meandering corrected itself.  

I had rediscovered the wisdom of “The Greater Good.” As much as Western thought has emphasized the importance of the individual, the greedy self still has to balance with a generous spirit. We are an Ultrasocial, Hive Culture, like bees. As much as we need to take care of ourselves, we must take care of each other as well. Specialization and division of labor makes individuals interdependent. Bees don’t fly off when times get rough, looking for a better job. If the hive fails, the bees all die. Interestingly, there are no King Bees; but that’s another story. I love the freedom that comes with individuality but I also realize it comes at a price. “Liberty” zealots would easily point out my error but that would be like football coaches around a chalk board, arguing one strategy over another. Whoever gets the chalk last, wins.

Faith based Believers would also take me to task. As a kid I got the omnipotent God thing but never could buy into Jesus. He had a good story but so did Pinocchio. I really tried to walk that walk but I think that was about pleasing Mom & Dad. It was like shooting hoops alone in the side yard, pretending I was a star in the Olympics. When lunch time came, I was just a hungry 10 year-old. An adult life invested in science education simply sucked all the air out of that balloon. Big “B” Believers are statistically happier than heretics but so are children who still believe in Santa. It is amazing how much better you feel when your own personal, irreversible truth is that you get to live forever. When we feel vulnerable we want absolute, universal truth, right now and the only place they sell that is at the myth store. Science is a system with people and process, not a belief. It simply claims: We have a good process, slow at times but it works. We share and explain what we learn. If it changes we write new books to show that change. In practice, the purpose of science is not to prove something, but to disprove everything. What survives that gauntlet then has to stand on its own legs. The fact that we use what we learn to advance our own interests and profit is about us, not about science. 

Faith is strong stuff but your faith is about you, not the object. What I believe is always followed by a disclaimer; “...until I learn otherwise.” As close as I come to Faith is a high degree of confidence in gravity and weak hydrogen bonds in DNA. I’ve nothing to gain by attacking someone else’s Faith. Live well, be happy. If you want religion, if you need it you should have it. It's better than Prozac and you don't need a prescription. 

HARD TO IMAGINE

If this turns out to be a rant I apologize. I have been watching PBS, the Ken Burns special on the Viet Nam war. If you’re old enough, you remember. I had completed my military obligation, came home from Southeast Asia before Americans started dying there. I was in college, didn’t have to worry about the draft. Americans don’t like to be reminded of the war we lost so we dwell on the ones we won. But the puzzle pieces fit together now since the big players are all dead and there are no special interests to sustain the myth. My generation experienced the war in many ways, from patriots who believed the propaganda to patriots who did not; from those who lost friends and loved ones to those who did not. As I watch the story unfold the feelings and memories leave me disillusioned still.  

What weighs most is the 50 year interval and how things haven't changed. Every president from Kennedy to Ford acknowledged privately that the war in Viet Nam was unwinnable. But the choice was either, appear to be weak or send more troops, drop more bombs. In hindsight, the egos and blind ambition were so transparent it’s hard to imagine anyone trusting those people. Lies are when you say something you know is not true. If you believe your own fairy tale, it’s just a mistake. Government officials lied, the generals did both. At the end of the day, getting reelected or leaving a legacy was the first priority, more important than tens of thousands of American casualties. In the beginning, the “John Wayne” charicature general promised that with 40,000 troops he could win the war in six months. Three years later he went to the president with a two year plan, asking for a quarter million troops to win the same war. Nine years later, we abandoned the unwinnable war. 

Now, 50 years up the road from that, we have been waging war in Afghanistan for 15 years, calling it something else. With some similarities to Viet Nam and some differences, we are currently preparing to send thousands more troops with a two year plan to win the fight against the bad guys (who change allegiance, reinventing themselves as need be). Is this deja vu or what? Our leaders are mostly indifferent to the lessons of Viet Nam but they are all committed to whatever it takes to be reelected. The logic I’ve been hearing all along is this: “I’m the one who will do ‘Right’ but that can’t happen if I don’t get elected.” One glaring weakness of a democracy is that we are free to elect terrible, incapable or corrupt leaders. I don’t think it’s a question of politics, rather a failure of human nature. 

This little monologue could spin off in any direction but I don’t have the stomach for it. I’ll watch again tonight and have the same mixed feelings. As a young man I was both naive and malleable, wanting to believe the pro war propaganda. When you’ve been naive and realize how you’ve been exploited, unforgiving cynicism comes easy. From the president down; from the top general down, I have no reason to believe they have learned anything from history or that any of them care at all about the world their grandchildren will grow old in. 

A PLACE TO BEGIN

Charles Caleb Cotton was an Englishman, an eccentric cleric and a popular writer, back when Englishmen wore powdered wigs, sailed sailing ships, nearly 200 years ago. Remembered more for short works and quotable aphorisms, I have no other reason to remember him. I do remember, “When you have nothing to say, say nothing.” I knew the quote but had to look up the source. When I think I should be writing but draw a blank, I remember his, “Say nothing.” 

I know some very good writers who would disagree. They say the blank mind is a wonderful place to begin. If you write rubbish for a while, just keep writing and something will come together. It’s as much about playing with words as it is about story. At the moment I’m more in tune with Cotton than my writer friends. Unmotivated rubbish is about all I’m good for. 

Maybe it’s a good sign; I should be glad it doesn’t hurt so much and I can do some things. Recovering from my bicycle crash is slow going with a lot of recovering still to do. I can move my arm all around but can’t put enough pressure on a sharp knife to cut a piece of cake. My ribcage only hurts when I take it for granted. Physical therapy begins tomorrow; expect that will disturb and excite some sensory neurons. But without some adversity I wouldn't know the difference. 

PLUS 21

“I woke up still not dead again today.” In a recent interview, 84 year-old Willie Nelson shared the hook line from a new song and some carefully worded views on the times. Libby Casey, a reporter for the Washington Post asked him several loaded questions about the current administration which he deflected. Willie is a savvy political animal when it comes to biting the hand that feeds him so he danced around issues saying, simply, “Something ain’t right.” Obviously his views on marijuana are at odds with the Attorney General and he made a few good natured jabs in that direction. Printed in small type, under her paper’s header, she showed him their motto for the year: “Democracy Dies In Darkness.” You could see the gears turning but it didn’t take long for him to grin and concur. It doesn’t take a journalist to make the point: a free press is the critical, active agent against tyranny. Every President in my memory has complained about negative press coverage but that in itself is proof of its worth.

As much as I like his music and warm to his charm, Willie is neither a solution nor a fix. He might not answer your question at all but I don’t think he’s a liar and if he was paid to perform, he will deliver. As tarnished as he may be, his integrity sparkles. I take him for what he has always been, a transparent, self serving hedonist with a good heart and a soft spot for the underdog. I liked it when he reflected on the importance of living in the present. Yesterday is gone, tomorrow never comes: do something important with the "Right Now." I think that reality is unavoidable as you near your destination. 

Today is Bike-Crash plus 21: three weeks of painfully slow healing but healing none the less. I can’t do anything very well but most things, I can, within reason, still do. I still love my bicycle: we crashed because I failed. Someday I’ll appreciate the lesson I’m supposed to learn from it: and I woke up still not dead again today. 

12 ZEROS

There is nothing I can say that hasn’t been said better, by someone smarter, more knowledgable than I. But nothing is more human than ‘Story’. For me to process both the way I feel and what I know, I need narrative: I need to frame story from my own experience. Sometimes my stories are meant to be shared and other times, it’s all about me. In this case I’m not sure which; we’ll see. 

A week after landfall, Hurricane Harvey has generated nearly 20 trillion gallons of rain. How do you reconcile a double digit number with 12 zeros behind it? Most of that deluge is still contained in and around Houston, Texas where property loss and human suffering are compounding like interest on a payday loan. Every news & weather report show new and different accounts of the same story: it won’t be over for a very long time. 

Human nature can be unavoidably obvious and subtly cloaked, all in the same breath. Nothing new about natural disasters, they happen but the world is a big place. Some population somewhere is being devastated one way or another, all the time. The way we react depends on degrees of separation. Tsunamis in Japan and earth quakes in Nepal; suffering and loss were immeasurable. But when viewed from a distance, across borders, cultures, religions and languages; if we give more than a passing thought it is of course about “those poor folks” but more about “thank goodness it wasn’t here.” In either case, I am unaware of any spontaneous efforts to raise money or send aid to Asian victims of nature’s wrath.

If we don’t love or know someone ravaged by Harvey we certainly know someone who does. Sympathy is one thing, empathy is another: their pain is our pain. Twelve years ago, Katrina touched me by only one degree of separation. I can’t forget the sense of helplessness and the overwhelming burden of shoveling mud out of the house, into the street; removing worthless jetsam, once treasured, reduced to toxic rubbish?  Then, after you have literally spent yourself in that grueling ordeal, how do you start life over? I don’t think it’s about choices or free will, I think it’s inherent, programmed into every cell in the body. We are compelled to find food and rest, we move and do rather than lie down and give up. At the end of the week or the month, I had a place to go, high and dry, in a community with a strong economy and functioning infrastructure, removed from the chaos. 

I identify somewhat with the protagonist in Stephen Crane’s novel, “The Red Badge Of Courage”. Henry Fleming was not a hero in any sense. Still by proximity and coincidence he prospered from the carnage. I have a real, personal experience with wind, flood and human tragedy but I didn’t have to bear its weight. That hurricane-disaster story is being replayed in Houston the same way a Broadway musical is recast and taken on tour, city to city, decades after its first performance. We know it will happen but pray it will be somewhere else, to people we don’t know. 

News media, being what it is, gives us a scripted account that emphasizes devastation and glorifies human resiliance. It draws high ratings and tells the story we want to hear. Instinct serves us well when the tribe is under siege. Media stresses the nobility of selfless individuals and to some extent I agree. But that collective, altruistic response, expressed by individuals is deeply rooted in our common genetics. We don’t make the decision; it makes us. 

I have no skin in this game. I feel the pain because we have tribal ties and I’ve seen for myself. There are plenty of individuals and organizations in motion, moving to assist and provide for those people in need. There is nothing significant that I can do now. But six months or a year from now, when the news has moved on to some other crisis there will be opportunity. An old man can be the extra hands and eyes that someone in south Texas needs. I did that in ’07 in Waveland, Mississippi after Katrina. There was still plenty of work to do, plenty of people who needed help. I don’t have a plan but I trust, something will come together. The fact that I think about it, that I want to do something is more about meeting my own need than about how it will serve someone else. 

I’ve been reading Yuval Harari’s book, Sapiens; A Brief History of Humankind. He makes the point that; “It is an inevitable rule of history that what seems obvious in hindsight is impossible to predict beforehand.” So I will keep putting my best foot forward in the hope that something good comes of it.