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.