LIP BLUBBERING

I have taken leave from my FaceBook account. I realized the other day that there is no joy there. It began as a cool way to keep in touch but that didn’t last. Now FB is just a lot of uninvited, electronic junk mail. If someone sends me a message, I get a notice on my telephone and I can check it without suffering through the adds, insults and pet pictures. Still, I took some pet pictures a couple of weeks ago that I’d like to share. 

Once upon a time, The ‘Robinson’ family was shipwrecked on a remote island and. . . no, wait, that was the Swiss Family Robinson. My story is about the Scottish Family Robinson. They lived on a wonderful old farm a mile or so west of us in St. Joseph County, Michigan. Mrs. Robinson was a teacher at our elementary school, had two of my kids in 3rd grade, different years. I was a high school science teacher in the same district; had her youngest in my Biology II class. James Q. was plenty smart but didn’t particularly care about being the Number 1 GPA in the class. He just wanted to learn everything about everything. His energy and motivation elevated the scope and depth of instruction, much to the angst of others in the class. I gave them open ended assignments to chose a research topic of their choice, from a list I provided; (anaerobic respiration, environmental succession, nerve impulses, etc.) write a paper, 3 pages, 3 sources. This was 1982 and they didn’t like it, all except J.Q. 

J.Q. was several years ahead of my oldest boy but they were friends. He went off to Michigan State to study Veterinary Medicine but we kept in touch. He went on to teach Veterinary Medicine at a university on St. Kitts in the Caribbean. We tried to get together last year in Michigan but something happened and we missed. A few weeks ago, we tried again. His father had passed away and he was back on the family farm, working at a clinic in Indiana. We had lunch and he invited me out to the farm. His mother at 96 still gets around very well in the big house. Two of his sisters lived there with her. I stayed for supper. 

I noticed Mr. Robinson’s pets outside in the pasture between the house and the road. He loved playing his bagpipes and working his draft horses, kept teams for farm work and for competition at county and state fairs. They had excellent tractors but you still have to feed horses when you use the tractor. Some people train small dogs to run obstacle courses; others train really, really big horses to pull heavy, heavy loads. They were his babies. We went through the gate at the corner of the yard. When they saw us they came running, not hungry, just curious, just wanting some attention. I understand when a Rottweiler or Doberman leans hard against you it’s a clear message. With half a dozen horses it’s not leaning, just getting close enough for some hands-on affection. Everybody gets moved around and we take it personally. The patting on the neck and smoothing the jaw; the smell of horse flesh is one of a kind. It only took a fraction of a second to digress, I was 8 or 9, coaxing our horse up to the gate with a hand full of grain. I would climb up, grab a hand full of mane and pull myself aboard, then turn around, lay down with my chest on his rump, put my head down on folded arms. We would lazy our way around the pasture, all afternoon, out of earshot, out of sight. 

With his dad gone, the horses don’t get the attention they were accustomed to. His sister still works them but not as often, not the same. They were happy to see us. As much as I loved having them so close, breathing on me, nuzzling my chest, doing that sloppy-horse, lip blubbering, I had to keep track of their feet. They weren’t interested at all where mine were. It was driving all day, back to Missouri the next day but I came with some great photographs. Thanks J.Q. 

NOBODY'S FOOL

All it takes to spoil my day is an exposé on private prisons or Dick Cheney and Halliburton. Then it trickles down to big business and businessmen. Who do I think of then? It’s not the guy who has the Sherwin-Williams paint store in the strip mall. It’s not the part time contractor who installed my on-demand hot water heater at night because he has another day job. It’s not the man whose restaurant burned last month, who is rebuilding in another location. I know they have to jump through hoops, keep more records and file more paper work than a special education teacher. I know they struggle just to be their own boss and if they go broke, only their insurance company cares. I don’t think of them. I think of CEO’s and managers whose only purpose is to grow the business, regardless of who goes under the bus. I think of men and women whose business is better bombs, bullets and mercenaries who call themselves contractors. I understand national security and the home of the brave but they profit from other’s misery, just like Pay Day Loans and private, for-profit prisons. 

Once, JFK made an off the cuff observation; “Businessmen are bastards.” Businessmen were outraged; the bastards. Before that, my mother was either incredibly perceptive or she listened to someone who was. She said, “Business works two ways. For everyone doing business, someone is getting it, the business.” When I was a kid it was the union that kept us from getting the business. Times change and people forget; some don’t want to know. Stockholders are too important to lose money, much less fail. They are too important to make just a reasonable return; it has to be unprecedented. People are expendable. So much for the new capitalism. 

I live a charmed life with low expectations and a low profile. My secret is; I am sustained by Educated, White, Male, Christian privilege. Even though I shun the church, I have been steeped in its culture all my life and I can’t shake it off. I know smarter, harder working black men who struggle, day to day while I can coast. A well meaning preacher told me not to fret over it; my job is to live the best life I can. Good fortune (Privilege) is not my fault. But I do feel its weight. It’s part of our Puritan legacy. It is sinful to receive more than you’ve earned. It is very important to ‘Deserve’ a good life. Even if it's only a small privilege, we want to believe we deserve every morsel of the good life we enjoy. After all, we are the 'Work Hard-Work Smart' people who made this country great. God approved of slavery then; in southern cotton fields and in northern industry where white immigrants had to solicit their own masters and then work forever to pay off the company store - and we'll call it the Land Of The Free. The preacher was full of the stinky, brown stuff because he was riding the wave on somebody else’s sweat and he knew it. But then Joseph Campbell said, “We can’t fix the sorrows of the world, but we can chose to live with joy.” So I’ll stay with Campbell, if not a hero at least an honest scholar. Then there’s JFK, and not to leave out my mother, nobody’s fool. I’ll feel better tomorrow. 

RIGHT HERE

“So, where are yah now?” Pause . . . I smile and reply, “I’m right here.” Another pause; you get that puzzled, hollow stare. “No, I know you’re here right now but where’re you from now?” I know it seems I don’t know where I’m from because I’m having to think about it. I have to decide if I concede to convention or be real. I understand that my Normal is comfortable for me but not so much others. I have intelligent, responsible friends who remind me as needed, I move to a different drum. The feeling of being different can either cripple or empower the psyche but sometimes all it does is make you feel isolated. My friend Kirk is waiting for an answer and I’m still thinking. All he really wants is a way into a conversation; how you’ve been, what have you been up to and so far, I haven’t given him anything. Do I cave-in to his version of normal? I could make up a story; that would be fun but someone would out-me. “I’ve been in prison in India for killing cows.”  There would be another pause; “Yeh, bread and water for 11 years, hanging upside down, getting the Chinese water torture. You should’ve been there.” Then, not everyone appreciates my humor and I guess I do move to a different drum. He’s still waiting for an answer.

I often answer that question honestly; “I try not to be from.” Social security, the IRS and your bank require an address where they can send registered mail. If you don’t check your mail now and then, respond to official notices; they get testy. So my driver’s license has an address on it and the IRS has the same one in their file. But my belongings live in another state and most likely, I’m not there either. I don’t want to be defined by where I’m from, if you will. I’m a long way from almost everywhere. I pay my taxes but I’m just a little fish still, bureaucrats with their lines in the water from every state and town where I receive mail think I should belong to them. Taxes are important but even so, we have been nurtured at the nipple of, “Where you from?” It’s about identity and I simply don’t want to be painted into that corner. 

I asked my friend, “Does it really matter?” He chews on that for a few seconds, smiles and says, “No, I guess it doesn’t.” We start talking and we’re into a good conversation. He likes traditional, familiar things, packaged in predictable fashion. He’s lived in the same county all of his life. His kids grew up and moved away but he’s still there. The worst thing that could happen to him is to lose that grounded sense of time and place. I was his football coach a very long time ago. Of all the kids I ever coached, running full speed, he could gather himself physically, drop his hips and extend his body up and through a ball carrier like nobody I know. All I ever taught him was where to line up and that failure is temporary; not to fear failure. He thanked me for being a good role model; I returned the compliment. 

Another former player saw us, came over and slid into the conversation. “Hey Coach, how you been?” I said I was finer than frog hair and we laughed. “Where are you now?” Pause. . .I looked at Kirk, we both smiled. “I’m right here.” You know what comes nest. “No, where do you live?” Kirk leans forward and asks, “Does it really matter?” In the next breath we were rehashing the ’75 White Pigeon game. We won in three overtimes on an automatic call between me, the QB and the center. If they lined up like we thought they would, the call was, 4-2nd man, a power play to the right. If the nose-man shifted to either side, then we snap the ball on the ‘Goose’ (as soon as QB’s hands go in) without a snap signal; and QB sneak in the gap they give us. Touchdown! We’re League Champs. Maybe the slickest coaching call I ever made. Forty years after the fact we were all leaning back in our chairs, hooting, little boys again. Nobody cared at all where I was from. 

Today I’m in a coffee shop in Grand Haven, Michigan. It’s as good a place to be from as I can manage. I think the, ‘WHERE YOU FROM - WHO’S YOUR MAMA” stuff is simply a Stone Age remnant. l think we do it without thinking, like dogs that circle before they lie down. We don’t need it any more but old habits are hard to break.

YOU CAN'T GO HOME AGAIN

Thomas Wolfe’s novel, “You Can’t Go Home Again” was written in 1940 and over time the line has become a catch phrase that translates, ‘There is no way to recapture the essence of a previous life and attempts to relive those fond memories will always fail.’ The best you can do is reflect. I went reflecting the other day, gone to a class reunion. Forty years ago I was a teacher and coach at Mendon High School, Mendon, Michigan. They invited me back for their 40-year reunion. 

From the formal dinner through the late night bonfire, Wolfe’s insight proved out. Life and times of 1976 were narrow and confining. Indulging in reflection is one thing and that was nice but with or without permission, life either carries you forward or leaves you behind. The football team that year was a good one and we talked about details from games long removed. There was lots of grandparent talk and everyone was very kind to me. After dark, the barrel began to fill up with beer bottles and man-talk turned from crazy days and foolish pranks to politics and observations about rural-conservative morality. 

I expected that would happen and my plan was to keep my mouth shut. There was absolutely no reason to push back against what they perceived as self evident, so normal, so correct. Still, you can reach a point where you have to be honest or walk away and these were friendly folk with a shared history. One man made an observation, “We’re all Republicans here but . . .” I had to butt in; “You can’t say that, you don’t know that.” I went on to say I avoid labels but I don’t vote for Republicans. I told him that the best Democrat is just as good as the best Republican but then, that wasn’t saying much. It softened the spell and everybody laughed. I realized they had never heard of Noam Chomsky so I didn’t take them there. It slowed the ranting down but still, government over-reach was too tempting for them to resist. 

I had already said too much, they were waiting to hear my 2-cents. But I thought about what I would have shared. Louisiana is the most conservative state in the nation. In Baton Rouge, all the talk is about government over-reach and the moral obligation to be responsible. If you think you need a helping hand, you must be guilty of poor decisions or you’re just lazy. That was until last week when Baton Rouge got over 2 feet of rain in two days. Over 60,000 homes were flooded in East Baton Rouge Parish alone. Now those good, conservative, high minded moralists are upset, wanting to know when the government is going to act. Only 12% of flooded residents had flood insurance; they were above the line where it was mandatory so they used the money to buy a fishing boat or remodel the kitchen. Poor decision? I’m no judge, not my call. They are industrious, courageous people, working as hard and as well as they can to recover but they can’t do it alone. Where is the government? What is Washington going to do, and when?  It would seem the morality of entitlement depends on the direction of cash flow. If you can manage, so should everyone else. Popular rhetoric scorns entitlement programs, they make lazy people dependent on government handouts. But fate is fickle. When it turns and it’s their tit in the wringer, they don’t call it entitlement, it becomes high minded and moral after all, they work hard and smart. It’s an act of God, not their fault. I agree they need and deserve the help but it’s hypocritical at best to think they can have it both ways. Entitlement bigots believe, if you have more than you need, it qualifies you to judge those who do not.  I didn’t take them there, like trying to explain mercy to a psychopath; piss in the wind. The talk turned to pontoon fishing boats and cheese cake. No, you can’t go home again but from my experience that little, rural, garden of Eden was never my ‘Home’.  When I think of home I prefer Carl Sagan’s “. . . mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam.”

OLD SETTLERS

One hundred twelve years ago, 1904; the Panama Canal was under construction, Teddy Roosevelt was President and the Wright Brothers kept their new and improved, Wright Flyer II aloft for over 5 minutes. It was the same year the good people in Sheldon, Missouri held a community picnic to recognize its ‘Old Settlers.’ They recently celebrated the 112th Annual Picnic. My dad grew up there, a hundred miles south of where we lived in Kansas City. The last year I went to the picnic was 1951; I had just turned 12, beginning to notice girls but without a clue as to how that would pan out. The carnival midway, crafts and agriculture exhibits, baseball games and dance band were precursors for the modern, County Fair. 

Sixty five years later, yesterday, I drove down for the celebration. It lasts four days now. Thursday and Friday nights are for kids, carnival, live music and exhibits. The weekend is full blown with pretty baby contest, sack races, tractor pulls, antique car shows, live music and a marathon, 16 team softball tournament. Sheldon’s prodigal children from every generation, scattered across the map come back for the weekend and touch old bases. To some extent, I was one of them. 

I found Charles Cole behind the exhibits building, supervising the horse shoes competition. He is generally recognized as the town historian. We are the same age and to my surprise, I learn that Samuel L. Cole wasn’t the only Cole in Sheldon before the turn of the century. If you count surrogate-foster parents as kin, then we were cousins, 5 generations removed. He was surprised I knew as much Cole history as I did and we swapped stories. He had not known about my Sam Cole or his children, my proxy grand parents. He wants any photographs and records of them and their stories. We had a great conversation and exchanged contact information. He sent me across town to talk to Darlene Sheridan, a 93 year-old, old settler. I knocked; she let me in and we talked for over an hour. She had gone away and returned to Sheldon several times. She published the town news paper until the 1970’s when she and her husband sold it to the paper in Lamar, The Democrat. She stayed in the business as a contributing correspondent until the present with a weekly column. Behind the house was a weedy barn yard with several barns. I asked if I could take photographs and she gave it her blessing.

There were two horses sheltering in the shade of the oldest barn. I made my way through dust covered, cobwebbed stalls. The back door was open and the sunlight pouring in against the deep shadows of the barn was surreal. As I turned toward the horses there was a burst of noise from above my shoulder. I had disturbed a barn owl, perched in the ladder that led to the hay loft. I’ve seen lots of owls, hooted my way into in owl conversations; but this was really close. It dropped almost to the ground before two or three deep wing beats pulled it back up, just clearing the door frame as it disappeared and I was left holding my breath. Later in the afternoon, checking out polished chrome and leather of restored, classic cars on Main Street I thought about the barn, the horses and the owl. I love the barn smell, straw and dry manure, old wood and live animals. I loved the 1940 Ford DeLuxe and the ’21 Model T but they’re easy to find and they stay put. The owl made my day. 

The parade was late getting started but aren’t they all? Kids not riding on a float lined the route, collecting thrown candy and trinkets. They all participated in one contest or another and had their little plaques and trophies to mark the day. Something to be said for small towns, that life style, that identity. But one man’s treasure can be another man’s curse. For some, a big splash in small water is its own reward. Others need bigger water to flourish. Some leave and never come back. It’s a big world and life is short. I can speak to that. 

BERTRAND RUSSELL - BR'ER RABBIT

Philosophy is as simple or complex as you make it. But you can’t dig very deep, simply. I struggle with it. The language is overwhelming and my attention span is inadequate. Sometimes I get lost in a single, run-on sentence. But I admire those who find their way in this puzzle, knowing where their are in the moment and how they got there. Right and wrong are slippery agents, often losing their way; just the unfolding of ideas and reason, wherever they lead. Philosophers may disagree and a small course correction in the beginning translates to a huge discrepancy in the end. So they argue and debate almost anything. It’s as much about process as it is outcome. 

Bertrand Russell (1872-1970) was a renowned, British philosopher, mathematician, historian and political activist. His brand of philosophy has been labeled, ‘Analytic Empiricism.’ There were two schools of ‘AE’, one that emphasized proper language and reason, the other leaned heavily on mathematics and the natural sciences. Russell was of the latter. His appeal to me lies in his clear, public position on religion. He was a doubter of the highest order. His critics frequently tried to trap him with divisive questions. “Are you an atheist or an agnostic?” both of which can be challenged. Russell’s typical response went something like, “That depends. Do you want an answer framed in theory or one premised on application?” He makes the case for unbelief as opposed to disbelief. If you can’t disprove the existence of God, then there is still a possibility. Lack of evidence doesn’t prove anything. But when it came to how you live your life, Russell identified with atheists. His critics got an answer but no ammunition to roast him. 

After a few pages of Russell, I bog down but his quotes are crystal clear.  “The good life is one inspired by love and guided by knowledge.” - “The world is full of magical things, waiting for our wit to grow sharper.” - “In all affairs it’s a good thing to hang a question mark on the things you have long taken for granted.” - “The degree of one’s emotions varies inversely with their knowledge of the facts.”  I follow the logic; if you’re not a great thinker, you can quote one. John Locke in the 1600’s and David Hume a century later get my attention. Locke, gets credit for ‘Empirical-Enlightenment.’ Hume used up a lot more words than I can dredge up so I paraphrase his kernel of truth: human nature in 4 words - Seek Pleasure, Avoid Pain. It drives everything. 

People who resist the philosophical maze tend to blow it off as intellectual knit-picking. We all philosophize, either with some knowledge of how it works or driven by feelings and the perception of control. Socrates, credited as the father of Western Philosophy (400 BC) simply asked questions. When one’s answers contradicted each other, he framed the next question to illuminate that flaw. In the long run, his proteges did the same to political leaders who gave Socrates an ultimatum to stop corrupting his students. He refused and was sentenced to either exile or death. He drank the hemlock rather than compromise his purpose in life. The fact that he was religious, believing in an afterlife may have had some influence on his choice but still, we remember it. His last words on the subject are the foundation of Western Thought. “An unexamined life is not worth living.” Unexamined would be, unexplored, unquestioned, unchallenged. We are still hearing it paraphrased, “It’s good to hang a question mark on things you have long taken for granted.” 

Here I’ve written a whole page about philosophy and I doubt anybody cares, one way or the other. But I prefer difficult questions to easy answers and I’m not going to change; neither will I drink the hemlock. Exile doesn’t sound so bad; sort of like Br’er Rabbit in the briar patch. ‘Please, please don’t send me to Canada or Argentina; oh please, any place but there.’

. . . TIS OF THEE

I love my country but I did not choose it, it chose me; no malice, just a fact. Then I try very hard, difficult at best to be objective. The line that separates patriotism from nationalism is a muddy, meandering boundary. One is a virtue, predicated on love. Then, the other’s only purpose is, America first, right or wrong and to that end, the end justifies the means. The logic suggests that we love being first more than we love our high minded ideals. Experts have know forever that we move on emotion long before we concede to knowledge. It is difficult enough to admit, “I was wrong in my action.” It’s almost impossible to confess, “I was wrong in my belief.” Finding balance there is out of the question. As a people, we like to think we can do that but it’s like pulling your own teeth. To be open and objective, you must accept being wrong, willing to give up whatever it was that kept you centered in your comfort zone." All I can bring to a conversation stems from my inherent gene pool and the meaning I make from my experience. If there is something else, please advise.

The fun house at the carnival has mirrors that distort your image. They are funny with pencil-thin body, huge feet and head or any number of distorted reflections. When we identify as Americans it’s like looking into one of those mirrors but we get to pick which one. Then we are brainwashed to believe the reflection is both clear and accurate (the eye of the beholder.) From righteous patriots to godless dissidents, we justify our own passion and condemn those who genuflect at a different mirror. What does it really mean to be an American? Ask a dozen people and get as many different answers. For every righteous, noble, American example, you can find unspeakable dirt swept under the rug. The dichotomy is startling. Nobody gets up in the morning intent on subverting our nation and its culture but it’s easy to believe that your neighbors or people in the next state do. 

I am neither a salesman nor a judge, no insults, no last chance to get right with whom ever. But for the record, I do lean naturally to the left. I don’t think we make that choice rather, we discover what we have become. That’s where the teeth pulling option comes into play. I’m not much for sound bites or familiar punch lines. I want nuance, back-story, something with dots (reliable sources) to connect, putting some of the responsibility on me. I think of, “We don’t need a permission slip,” - “You’re either with us or against us,” - “One man, one woman,” - “Make America Great again.” They stir a lot of emotion and solidify the way we have been programmed, one way or the other, but provoke little or no thought. 

After only 240 years, America is writing its own history. When you write your own history, we know from history, we get as much fiction as we get history. We could compare and contrast what we have done well and what we have not but as a nation we don’t consult mirrors that have not been tweaked. Americans want to see a handsome, righteous, heroic reflection so that is the mirror we gaze into, glossing over crimes against humanity and a greedy, narcissistic self obsession. Europeans have nearly two millennia of well documented history and they see us as 2 year-olds who haven’t learned to share or take turns. It doesn’t make them better than us, they still have problems and issues yet they see the world with different eyes. We perceive their attitude as condescending arrogance and maybe so, but no less than the way we dismiss them. Their history, filtered through thousands of years, is loaded with lessons they don’t have to repeat to profit by. We suffer from a case of arrested development, still at the stingy, 2 yr-old stage, ‘What’s mine is mine and if I want it, your stuff is mine too.’ Not that other nations, other cultures don’t do the same but I’m talking about us. We like to believe we are above that.

Something about rebellion and democratic principles, priority on freedom to push back against an oppressive government. After all; Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness! What could make more sense? Canadians look at our Life-Liberty-Pursuit fetish with a healthy skepticism. I have Canadian friends who think our obsession with ‘Liberty’ is a thin disguise for license; might makes right and winner take all. Canada negotiated its independence; no war, no battles, no anger. Their constitution, democratic in principle and practice, identifies Peace, Order and Good Government as the pillars of their culture. Out of our violent birth and inclination to war, an aggressive, fractious people has emerged. Immigrants are more often running from something rather than toward, and we all descend from immigrants. They had an axe to grind, writing into law the right to vent their anger. Is it any wonder we squabble and fight the way we do? The gap between human nature and American hubris may be thin but beyond our borders, it is how we are defined. Anger comes easily when winning is paramount, where everyone is trying to displace someone above them in the pecking order and where enough is never enough. We get angry with the ones pulling us down and with those who won’t give way. Democracy is slow, ugly and inefficient. In a true democracy everyone has a say, we would argue for years on every issue and the founders knew that. The Republican form with representative governance favors the wealthy and powerful, as if they needed it, but it works. Still it always pits the underclass, trying to get ahead, against an established, affluent status quo that by definition, likes things the way they are. (2 yr-olds aren’t ready to embrace, share and take turns.) Still, nobody wants to reinvent the USSR or go back to feudalism.

We are in campaign mode for a national election and I feel more embarrassment for the process than I have passion for a cause. All I see are knee-jerk reactions and self righteous hyperbole. I don’t need more motivation. I prefer fairness and change to authority and tradition but I understand that either one without the other is untenable. So we squabble over where to put our feet, more to the left or more to the right. Both presidential candidates are unpopular and it seems the driving concern at the moment is for the future of the Supreme Court. Long held tradition says those Jurists are able to put ideology aside and apply the rule of law. But that hallowed jury seems to rely on goofy mirrors too. I’m afraid the Supreme Court is occupied by partisan politicians in black robes, framing arguments to advance their own bias. 

Sometimes I think I should have been born Canadian; I’m not angry enough to be a ‘true’ American. My ethical, moral sensibility resonates more with Nova Scotia and Alberta. My parents could have moved to Halifax or Saskatoon before I was born and that would have been fine. But they didn’t; I am who I am and I’m O.K. with that. But it’s hard talking with people who don’t listen, who think conversation is a contest and winning is all that matters. They butt in with their sound bite-punchlines, loaded in the mouth like cannon shells in the breech and dialogue is sacrificed for a mouth full of bullets.