In Another Land

Greetings from Salt Lake City, Utah, where I am visiting for a month. There is plenty of snow and coldness here, and I am suffering from airplane nose, which is a severe drying of the nasal mucous membranes brought on initially by the necessary oxygen flow during the flight out here and then exacerbated by the lack of humidity in this desert valley. I will probably get adjusted to the dryness just as I am about to leave for Baltimore, home of dampness and mold.

It is nice to be on vacation, especially here with so many familyfriends who care about my welfare and health. Our grandson and his significant other are here in the same house, and those two have been cooking and baking like there is no tomorrow. Every meal is like "eating out." The only difference is that these two youngsters use top-quality ingredients and lots of time and patience. A couple of days ago, we were treated to a pumpkin pie, for example, that was made from "scratch," including baking the actual pumpkin (not opening a can of pumpkin pie filling) and making a crust out of roasted pecans (ones that they roasted themselves). Last night, we had roasted stuffed red peppers, stuffed with organic vegetables and quinoa, topped with a singularly creative mustard-basil sauce. It was spectacular. Every meal here is a "hummer," meaning that there is a great deal of approval in the form of loud hums throughout the entire meal.

There is much reading, relaxing, and movie-going here. We last saw "Invictus," and even though some reviewers have called it overly emotionally manipulative, we enjoyed it. Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon did a good job in their respective roles, and I think Clint Eastwood did the right thing by concentrating primarily on the rugby team theme and not on the political situation during this trying time of transition. I felt it was touching and poignant.

Despite some pretty serious back pain from lumbar stenosis, I am still determined to get out and about and not miss very much of the continued newness of being all the way across the country and into a landscape that is so dissimilar from the Chesapeake Bay.

Merry Christmas to all, whatever your faith or lack of it.

Who is Leroy Robertson?

And why should you care? Curiosity, more than anything. And maybe a little gratitude for his work. Leroy J. Robertson was born on December 21, 1896, and died on July 25, 1971. He was an American composer and music educator. Born in Fountain Green, Utah, he studied violin, composition, and public school music at the New England Conservatory and in Europe. He received an MA degree from the University of Utah and a PhD from the University of Southern California. He was chairman of the music department at Brigham Young University from 1925 to 1948 and at the University of Utah from 1948 to 1962. He was instrumental in the promotion of the Utah Symphony and of classical music in Salt Lake City. For this reason alone, he should be remembered because the Utah Symphony is one of the finest in the country. One can attend the symphony at Abravanel Hall, sit in the upper reaches of the balcony (as I have done many times), and hear gorgeous music in an acoustically perfect building for $17 a ticket.

He is best known for his Oratorio from the Book of Mormon. This very long oratorio was composed by Robertson over many years and finally completed in 1953. The Lord's Prayer from that oratorio was recorded by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and released as a 45 rpm single on the flip side of the Battle Hymn of the Republic, and it hit the top 50 charts in the late 1950s.

A full-length 33 rpm vinyl album called THE LORD'S PRAYER was recorded on August 27, 1958, (released in 1959) with Dr. Richard P. Condie, director of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Eugene Ormandy, conductor of the Philadelphia Orchestra, and organists Alexander Schriener and Frank W. Asper. In October 1963, this record was RIAA certified as a "GOLD" record with sales over $1,000,000.

It was in 1963 that I first heard the Robertson composition of The Lord's Prayer. Before I fell asleep, I listened to a radio station that had a "talk show"on from 11 p.m. until midnight. Back in those days, radio stations went off the air at midnight (as did TV stations). This particular radio station played the Robertson version of The Lord's Prayer (by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and Philadelphia Orchestra, as cited above) before it went off the air. I was so taken with this composition that I made it a point to stay awake every night just to listen to it at midnight. Those were the days before I had enough money to buy my own record player, so I relied on the radio to hear this intriguing composition. I've never owned the recording until just this week, but I've carried that song in my head for the past 46 years. I've been looking for this recording for that long, and after 46 years, I finally found it. I hope it fascinates you as much as it has me for nearly half a century. You can listen to it by clicking on the Happy Thanksgiving blog (Smilebox) below.

This excessive admiration for Robertson is not meant to take anything away from Albert Hay Malotte (1895-1964), the American pianist, organist, composer, and educator who wrote probably the most popular and frequently heard version of The Lord's Prayer. His career as an organist began in Chicago where he played for silent pictures and later concertized throughout the US and Europe. During World War II, he held the rank of Captain in the Special Services for two years while he toured with the USO and entertained troops in New Guinea, Australia, and Europe. At one point, he sponsored his own troup of entertainers that included Dame Judith Anderson, Ann Triola, and Helen McClure Preister. Malotte was an amateur pilot, avid golfer, and even boxed with Jack Dempsey in Memphis, Tennessee. He spent most of his career as a composer in Hollywood.

Malotte composed a number of film scores, including mostly uncredited music for animations from the Disney studios. Although two movies for which he composed scores won best Short Subject Academy Awards (Ferdinand the Bull in 1939 and The Ugly Duckling in 1940), he is best remembered for a setting of the Lord's Prayer. Written in 1935, it was recorded by the baritone John Charles Thomas and remained highly popular for use as a solo in churches and at weddings in the US for some decades. He composed a number of other religious pieces including settings of the Beatitudes and of the Twenty-third Psalm which have also remained popular as solos. His secular songs such as "Ferdinand the bull" (from the Disney animated short of the same name), "For my mother" (a setting of a poem by 12-year-old Bobby Sutherland), and "I am proud to be an American" are less well remembered. Some of his works are collected in the library of the University of California Los Angeles and the Library of Congress. In addition, Malotte wrote uncredited stock music for many other films in the 1930s and early 1940s including twenty-two of the Disney Silly Symphonies and other shorts such Little Hiawatha as well as Ferdinand the Bull. He also composed cantatas, oratorios, musicals and ballets. Malotte owned Apple Valley Music.

He died of pneumonia and is buried in the Forest Lawn, Hollywood Hills Cemetery.

Happy Thanksgiving

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This Ship Has Sailed

In another life, a half-century ago, I was at the end of my teenage years when I met a small group of unconventional women who impaled me with endless confusion, contradiction, denial, confined independence, co-dependence, restrained nonconformity, realism, hurt, passion, shame, guilt, danger, anxiety, validation, thrill, and unfettered, raw experience. I was their willing apprentice for only a couple of years. Then I moved to another state and pretty much lost contact with them and their daily lives, adventures, and misadventures.

As is often seen in dysfunctional group dynamics, the leader of this closely knit cadre was an alcoholic: Cubby. Charismatic as hell. Strong. Independent. Chivalrous. Outspoken. Powerful. Wealthy. Influential. Intelligent. Daring. Well known, yet intensely private. She had much to hide and hide from. Her impression on me lasted well beyond her physical presence on this planet. She died just short of her 69th birthday in 1994. No one notified me. No one felt there was a reason to. I hadn't kept in touch with any of them for many years, and yet they were as big a part of me as though I lived next door. Youth is an impressionable time, and certain things become indelible and permanent.

Her significant other preceded her in death by many years. It was a tragic illness and an untimely end, the result of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. I watched from afar, disabled by my own sense of inadequacy to re-introduce myself into this tight circle of grieving friends. Her "best bud" Florine, at another, more professional and yet kindred, level of intimacy, died in 2002, having to endure life without Cubby for another 8 years before she succumbed. I know it was hard to live without Cubby. I only "knew" Cubby for a couple of years. Florine knew and worked with her for a lifetime.

Two other members of this tribe are unaccounted for by my reckoning. They might be dead or alive. I don't know, and there is no way for me to find out. I suspect at least one of them is gone---Doris, a massively obese, highly intelligent, extremely well read, wounded woman who I imagine could not have survived the biologic imperative of her corpulence.

The last renegade, Sis, passed over the golden bridge just last month on Hallowe'en, All Hallow's Eve. I prefer to think of this timing as some kind of practical joke perpetrated by Sis. She was nothing if not ironic.

Hallowe'en, a pagan tradition, was the biggest and most significant holiday of the Celtic year. The Celts believed that at the time of Samhain (Hallowe'en), more so than any other time of the year, the ghosts of the dead were able to mingle with the living because at Samhain the souls of those who had died during the year traveled into the otherworld. In some alternate universe that we can only guess at, there may have been many attempts by Cubby and Florine to induce Sis to come on over during the past decade or so, but Sis held out until All Hallow's Eve of 2009. She was stubborn that way and always had an outspoken mind of her own. In the earlier days, to which I was an actual witness, when the others of the cabal did not want to join Sis in something she had planned, she would say, "OK, then, I'll just get new friends." And she did. She was not going to be stifled in her social activities by these recalcitrant couch potatoes who preferred to sit around talking for hours in Cubby's living room, where all important things came to fruition and were made real. Sis always came back, however, despite disgustingly stomping out of the sanctum sanctorum on various occasions.

Sis is, as far as I can determine, the last to cross over from among the inner circle of this notorious group of unusual women. She left me with a couple of pithy shibboleths that were burned into my consciousness at age 19 and are to this day frequently repeated: "Anticipation is greater than realization" and "You can tell everything you need to know about a person by taking a trip with them." Even though I didn't heed the first of these mottos as much as I should have, I was always aware of its veracity as I reflected on dismaying circumstances in my life after they had broken my heart. As for the second motto, I have learned that I am able to travel comfortably with very few people. Taking a trip with someone does provide a valuable learning experience, most often a negative one, I've found. On both counts, Sis was right. Another thing she always said was this: "Never leave home without a jacket." This is such practical advice that it amazes me I wouldn't think of it on my own, but I often didn't and lived to regret it. Sis didn't say much, but what she said was believable. I should have listened more carefully. Now she's gone.

I learned of her death quite by accident yesterday. I had written to her every few years since 1964. In the early days of my departure from the Gopher State, I had even come back from the Wolverine State to visit with her, but there was an uneasiness to our visits. She never did quite forgive me for leaving. Despite her inexpression, she really was quite fond of me. In later years, I wrote to her every now and then, and sometimes she would answer and sometimes not. In the past 5 or so years, I began to wonder if she was still alive, so I would "google" her, and it would always come up with her address and phone number, so I tried calling her many times, but there was never an answer or an answering machine. Yesterday, I "googled" her again, just for the hell of it. I got back an obituary from her local newspaper. She had died at the end of last month. It was a shock to me. Now I know it's over. The group is gone. But, trust me, they live on and will do so until I am gone too.

Youth is an impressionable time, and certain things become indelible and permanent. Young love is one of these.

FRICKERS

In the current spirit of calling a spade a spade and putting away "political correctness" (as advocated by Glenn Beck on yesterday's show), I have created a new acronym: FRICKERS. If you are easily offended, you should stop reading right now. This is adult content, so reader caution is advised. FRICKERS stands for Far Right Ignorant Corporatist Kooky Evildoing Racist Sluts. There is no other way to say it. If Glenn Beck can freely express his political incorrectness on national television, then I guess that means I can freely express my political incorrectness on my own private blog (which has an audience of maybe 6). I am touting my "freedom of speech" the same way that Carrie Prejean is currently touting hers (incorrectly) on every national television show she can book. So here we go.

The bodies of the fallen dead and wounded at Fort Hood were not even cold when the FRICKERS began the race to score political points and inject hate speech into the national shock and grieving due to this godforsaken tragedy. The FRICKERS couldn’t call this an act of Islamic jihadist terrorism fast enough. Why? Because they are peeing their pants in the rush to claim that we have now had a terrorist attack on American soil under President Obama’s watch. It is their factless conclusion now that Obama can’t keep us safe, just as Cheney warned. Told you so!

The FRICKERS are highly incensed that Obama (and the White House) refuses to label this criminality as a terrorist act. Since FRICKERS specialize in fomenting IGNORANT RAGE among the ignorant masses for political gain, this worn-out tactic is not a surprise, but it is no less maddening and no less stupid.

There haven’t been enough consistent investigative results, or even time to sort through all the complexities, so that we can reliably conclude the Fort Hood massacre was the act of an Islamic jihadist instead of the act of a mentally ill man (of course, I personally think that anyone who kills another human being (or animal) without a morally good reason is mentally ill). But that doesn’t stop the FRICKERS from pumping up the volume on “terrorism” 24x7 since this incident in Texas. Since they hate Obama and all he stands for so much, any event will do to further their aim to depose him, deride him, disgrace him, and criticize him and the policies of this administration.

Blaming this murderous event on Obama is like blaming Richard Nixon for the Manson murders. He was President at the time, right? Or how about blaming the Lincoln assassination on Abraham Lincoln? After all, he was the President when he was shot to death. Using that logic, I guess we can finally rightly blame 9/11 on George W. Bush since he was President when that true act of terrorism occurred. However, you won’t hear the FRICKERS say anything about Bush in that regard. No, sir. Bush kept us SAFE for 7 years, but Obama has failed, just like Rush Limbaugh, AHIC, has wished and worked so hard for.

In addition, the FRICKERS are not done blaming the US Army for this either---that is, the US Army under Barack Obama. They don’t mention, of course, that the internal military, Homeland Security, and FBI investigations done on Major Hasan were instituted under the George W. Bush regime, and nothing discovered then was apparently considered the potential threat this turned out to be.

The claim is that “political correctness” kept the military (only the military under Obama, that is) from calling “a spade a spade” (another derogatory, racist phrase the FRICKERS are only too happy now to use on cable TV). If only we would, according to Glenn Beck, dispense with all this freakin’ political correctness, this tragedy and so many other adverse incidents could be prevented.

Because of freakin' political correctness, we are reluctant to label Muslims as Islamic terrorists or label anybody as fat-fatties, winos, homeless bums, whores, communists, radicals, Marxists, socialists, and so forth. You pick the hate target, and you get to call a spade a spade because now we are DONE with political correctness. You don’t like a black person, you can go ahead and call him or her the N-word. You don’t like a gay person, you can now call that person a queer or fag. You don’t like a homeless person, you can now call that person a bum, wino, or worthless piece of shit who just doesn’t want to work for a living and wants to live in a Nanny state. You don’t like an overweight person, you can now go ahead and call him or her a fat-fatty. Glenn Beck, the chief overthrower of political correctness and advocate of free speech, and his comrade FRICKERS keep pushing the hate envelope to see how much ignorant rage they can conjure up in this moment of grief, sorrow, and utter dismay.

If you took a survey of all the FRICKERS who appear on national cable “news” channels alone, I’ll bet nearly all of them would claim to be Christian as would all of their blind, dumb, factless, ignorant, hate-filled, racist, sexist followers and admirers.

Here’s another consideration: The Stupak-Pitts amendment to the House bill on healthcare reform (putting all kinds of new restrictions on women’s healthcare coverage for abortion services) is a kind of jihad of its own. Small-government advocates (i.e., far-right conservatives) constantly scream that they do not want the government restricting the rights and freedoms of the individual citizen, especially when it comes to healthcare, guns, and taxes, and that is why they oppose any kind of healthcare reform or gun control. They don’t want the government to come between them and their doctors (or between them and their guns). On the other hand, these FRICKERS don’t mind one bit having their favorite policies and laws restrict the right of a woman to choose her reproductive freedom (which is still legal in this country, according to Roe v. Wade). Is this terrorism or jihad (“holy war”) against women? It sure seems to be.

According to the dictionary, terrorism is "the calculated use of violence (or the threat of violence) against civilians in order to attain goals that are political or religious or ideological in nature; this is done through intimidation or coercion or instilling fear." I guess this makes the FRICKERS terrorists and jihadists, using the “logic” they have applied to the Fort Hood massacre and to the current healthcare reform “debate.”

All this makes about as much sense to me as the pro-lifers who hate abortion but support capital punishment, useless war, and the slaughtering of animals to put on their dinner plates every day. Acts of terror and death everywhere you look. Life is good in this country, ain’t it?

IBG and YBG

At this critical point in my lifetime, I know that I have already lived far longer than I can ever expect to live into the future. Death is inevitable now, and it's a lot closer than I would like it to be. As Woody Allen once observed, and I paraphrase, he understands about his own death and even respects it; he just doesn't want to be there when it happens. That pretty much sums it up for me too.

Many of the things that are going on in this effed-up world right now are not going to come to resolution in my lifetime, nor yours, I suspect, unless you are extremely young. I doubt the very young are reading this blog (it could happen, I suppose, but it's unlikely). Thus, IBG and YBG. I'll be gone and you'll be gone. When we are gone, nothing that is happening or evolving right now, for good or evil, will matter to us.

One of the things not resolved, if even resolvable, is the situation in Afghanistan. Critics of Obama claim he is "dithering" and putting our troops at risk while taking too long to make a decision about whether to send an additional 40,000 (or whatever number) troops to F'd-ghanistan. The hawks, the sleaze-bags that make their obscene fortunes in the military-industrial complex, want to perpetuate this futile war and reap more profit from nation-building or whatever other opportunities arise when military, civilian, and mercenary elements are called upon to occupy a foreign territory. War is good business. The stock market likes war as much as it likes unemployment. Billions of dollars are spent. We don't even have a clue how many trillions of dollars will have been wasted between Iraq, Afghanistan, and now Pakistan. In other times, in other hands, those billions and trillions could have set this country on a path of positivity, social justice, and meaningful, livable employment for all. But no. We have "national security" issues to protect. We have to root out al-Qaeda (if that were even possible). We have to defeat the Taliban (it will never happen).

For the many reasons that the warmongers and hawks wish to perpetuate this so-called war in Afghanistan (and Iraq), we now need to re-institute the draft. Our all-volunteer military has done more than its share. The only way to keep the supply of soldiers and other personnel going throughout what could end up to be another decade in the Middle East is to draft everybody into the military. Young, middle-aged, old...they all need to go there and "serve their country." Men, women, teenagers...they all need to take a turn. Politicians, their sons and daughters, CEOs, bankers, Wall Street financiers, George W. Bush, Barack Obama, Senators, Representatives, their children, their wives, their mothers...they all need to be drafted and spend a rotation in Iraq, Afghanistan, and (soon) Pakistan and Iran. Send everybody over there in the next 5-10 years. That includes Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Bill O'Reilly, Laura Ingraham, Ann Coulter, and the whole bunch of right-wing batshit-crazy lunatics on FOX. No deferrals, not even for Dick Cheney. Hell, I'll go. I'll go in a wheelchair. If it's so goddamned important that we send another 40,000 soldiers there to die in big numbers, let's all go. Not one death will have been worth it in the end. BRING BACK THE DRAFT SO WE ALL HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO SERVE IRRESPECTIVE OF WEALTH OR AGE OR ABILITY.

Are we so deluded that we think we will ever defeat the Taliban? Or al-Qaeda? And now, what's the difference between them? There used to be a discernible difference between them, but over the past 8 long years we've already been in F'd-ghanistan, the Taliban and al-Qaeda have chained themselves to each other in a death spiral. They are aligned. They don't care who dies. Innocent women and children, civilians, people just trying to live, as hard as that is over there (and increasingly here now)...they don't care. They are an enemy best sealed off and ignored. We can't do that while we are actively engaged in that part of the world unless we simply mathematically outnumber them. If we send the entire population of America to F'd-ghanistan, would it be enough to defeat them? Let's try it. Let's just shut down this country and go there. All of us. Last one out, turn off the lights. No sense having this country all lit up wasting energy while we are all gone.

Who wants to be the next on the plane? I don't see the warmongers in the "media" or elsewhere volunteering for duty. Are we going to turn our backs to the television when Obama sends 40,000 more? Or 20,000 more? Does it matter how many? Many more of these soldiers will be killed. For what? Do we know?

Here's another idea. Instead of the draft, let's just bring everybody home. Now. Let's just friggin' mind our own business for a change. We have plenty of "business" to mind at the moment. I am sick of the death panels in the Middle East and America. Instead of pulling the plug on Gramma, let's send her to Afghanistan where at least her death will have made the cable news.

Impression Management

It amazes me how much time and effort some people spend on impression management, the process through which people try to control or manage the impressions or perceptions that other people form of them. It is both a goal-directed conscious and perhaps an unconscious attempt to influence others, and it usually results in shameless self-aggrandizement or self-promotion, most often at the expense of truth and authenticity. Thus, it is a sad and somewhat pitiable pursuit.

There are those who always appear to be happy, successful, and materially well off, no matter what is actually going on in their lives. They try to display only their good qualities and achievements (and brag about their material possessions, who they know, or where they've been) because they think others will then like them and not see them as inadequate and imperfect human beings.

It doesn't take much analysis to figure out that this constantly displayed image of "happiness" and "success" and "materiality" is not authentic or even remotely true. Rather than risk being seen as ordinary humans with faults, foibles, and unwanted character and personality traits, mythic prevarications seem to be their preferred way to impress others, gain respect (and awe), demand attention, and even instigate jealousy, envy, or resentment. Look at me! I'm SOMEbody! I have things you don't have! I'm all that and a bag of chips! Don't you wish you were more like ME?

It has been said that people talk (or write) for two reasons: To communicate information or to gain sympathy. I think there is a third reason: To impress others.

As Lewis Black has said, "The political parties in this country are a bowl of shit looking in the mirror." The same can be said of impression managers. Anyone who is trying to impress you is already a liar.

Montana Musings - Granddaughter writes again

Dear Family and Friends:

There is swearing in my letter, so Parental Caution is advised.

I would explain what I am striving for, but I have learned that until things are set in stone, so to speak, it's best not to tell people because, for some reason, instead of being only an idea, people morph things into reality before it is. Then they get excited and dejected all at the same time when things start or end. So now to keep things simple, I keep my lips sealed. And no one, sometimes including myself, knows what I'm going to do.

As for the world of Zortman, Montana, let me set the scene. The Little Rockies Fire Station sits on a hill with a view of the mountains to the north and a view of open, endless desolation of prairie fields to the south. The openness of Montana is one reason I love it so much. When you look to the south, your heart expands as much as the land does. It's almost like looking at the ocean. It seems like you can see to the end of the world. Peace. The land is simple and uncomplicated.

As compared to Michigan or California, where claustrophobia and sensory overload occur from all the variety, Montana is quiet. Montana is a bottle of contentment, and I'm drunk.

One day, at the beginning of the season, the guys decided that they were going to shave their heads into all sorts of haphazard hairdos. There were mohawks, of course, and even a few brave souls sported steps. The ultimate, though, through sheer ingenious imagination, was the mulhawk. That is a mullet and a mohawk combined into a marriage of hilarious perfection. I'm not sure my words can do this creation justice, but I shall try.

Taking some quotes from the guys, the part is on top with the mohawk, while the serious business side is on the lower half of the head. Truly, there are no words. They thought they were so cool, and they loved their haircuts. Some form of bad-assism, I'm sure.

Well, then we had a surprise BBQ in Lewistown, our sister branch, where, as the guys say, the "hotties" are. They were beet red with embarrassment because all the hotties wanted to see them with their hats off. They were in sheer torture. It was perfect.

I did not spend the entire summer laughing at them, however. It was more the other way around. My theory about why I got laughed at so frequently is because everything was so new to me. So, of course, anytime I did something, it was like watching a bird fly for the first time. Slow, unsure, timid, awkward, and generally successful. Take, for instance, learning to drive manual. Past all the initial jokes of stalling and what not, learning how to drive manual in Wildland Firefighting vehicles is an adventure in and of itself.

First of all, the engine can only seat three---two comfortably. Since I had the smallest frame and smallest legs, I always sat in the middle. Sitting in between two smelly, sweaty, gassy guys really sucks, especially on a hot day. As a wildland firefighter, you must also always be in pants---our lovely green polyester pants. So not only are you trapped, literally, in a death cab, but the sweat from your ass could fill a bucket. That's when your engine captain stops the vehicle on the backroads, turns to you, and says "Want to drive?" Of course, I say yes. Little do I know how painful this transition will be. I move my body across the seats to the driver seat, but as I put my hand on the seat, all I can feel is saturated and soaked cloth from sweat. My hand glistens as I stare at its bacteria-thriving substrate. There is no time to complain or agonize. I must simply move into the festering cesspool of sweat without showing any signs of agony. It is cold, and my skin crawls.

Ah, but how sweet is revenge! Since my legs are so short, I must move the seat all the way forward. Now, six-foot-tall men must scrunch up into little masses pressed against the vehicle dashboard. Apparently it's painful. I'll just have to take their word for it. Smile.

After a few stalls, I get the gist of what I'm suppose to do. The drive is uneventful. I able to drive all the way to the main road with only a few hiccups. I stop the vehicle to switch drivers, and we all desperately tumble from the vehicle. I feel my pants and cringe at self-saturation and intermingled, shared saturation. The guys moan and complain of the newly acquired aches. We are all happy to be out of the vehicle. The seat is moved all the way back, and the guys are content. As for me, the suffering deepens when I have to sit in a new freshly formed pool of foulness. And the best part is that these pants will not be washed for at least another week.

Learning in this environment cracks me up. Not only do the guys get a good laugh, but sometimes I can't help but chuckle at my rookie-hood. William Blackcrow and I were fortunate enough to be chosen to patrol the Bear Paw Mountains one day. Our engines are literally falling apart. They are vehicles that get used and abused to the highest degree. While out on this drive, after about two hours and luckily in the middle of nowhere, our engine died. Let it be noted this is not new, nor was it a surprise. It's not a matter of if; it's a matter of when. We pop the hood and discover our serpentine belt is in shreds. Ah, easy fix. We have an extra one on hand and two people though I didn't think I would be much help since I had never changed a serpentine belt or even really knew what it was. We managed to get the belt on most of the way, with some struggle here and there, when I looked at the picture on the vehicle and noticed that one of the S-shaped figures around the pulleys was backward. I told Bill (William's other name---one of many) that I had some bad news. So we reconfigured the whole thing, and finally, with gratifying pride, had put the belt on. Bill also noticed that the engine coolant was low and asked me if we had any on the engine. I looked and didn't find any engine coolant. It wasn't past the low mark, so no problems. We decided it would be best to head back to Zortman, We got about 20 minutes away from Z-town before the engine died again. We popped the hood, and, sure enough, if it wasn't that damn serpentine belt in shreds again---with coolant bubbling and splashing all over the engine. We called the station, and they called a tow. While waiting for help to arrive, Bill off-handedly mentioned something about antifreeze. When I looked for coolant, I had noticed there was antifreeze. So I told him that we did have anti-freeze. He just started cracking up. "What's so funny?" I asked. He politely explained that antifreeze and coolant are the same thing. "Oh........oops." So as we stood next to the engine with the hood popped, unfazed and stress-less toward the vehicle troubles we had that day, we laughed wholeheartedly at my new knowledge about coolant and antifreeze.

These aren't even my favorite stories. I guess one just has to start somewhere. If you have the gumption and dare to survive another letter, then there is Drunken Golf Cart Day, Spelunking in the Azure Caves with Idiots, Learning to Drive the John Deere, and My First Experience at the Zortman Bar. My letters have the tendency to become quite lengthy, so only if you dare.

Jesus Christ by Woody Guthrie

Michael Moore’s latest film (Capitalism: A Love Story) features this notable Woody Guthrie song "Jesus Christ.” It is heard in its entirety while the final credits roll. The movie is a resounding condemnation of our economic system---one that values money more than human beings, one that is not one bit "democratic," and one that can be labeled as "legalized greed." Woody Guthrie wrote this song in 1940, so we haven't come very far, have we? Here are the timeless lyrics:

Jesus Christ was a man who traveled through the land
Hard working man and brave
He said to the rich "Give your goods to the poor"
So they laid Jesus Christ in his grave.

Jesus was a man, a carpenter by hand
His followers true and brave
One dirty little coward called Judas Iscariot
Has laid Jesus Christ in his grave.

He went to the sick, he went to the poor
And he went to the hungry and the lame
Said that the poor would one day win this world,
So they laid Jesus Christ in his grave.

He went to the preacher, he went to the sheriff
Told them all the same;
Sell all of your jewelry and give it to the poor
But they laid Jesus Christ in his grave.

When Jesus came to town, the working folks around
Believed what he did say
The bankers and the preachers they nailed him on a cross
And then they laid poor Jesus in his grave.

Poor working people, they followed him around
Sung and shouted gay
Cops and the soldiers, they nailed him in the air
And they laid Jesus Christ in his grave.

Well, the people held their breath when they heard about his death
And everybody wondered why
It was the landlord and the soldiers that he hired
That nailed Jesus Christ in the sky.

When the love of the poor shall one day turn to hate
When the patience of the workers gives away
Would be better for you rich if you never had been born
So they laid Jesus Christ in his grave.

This song was written in New York City
Of rich men, preachers and slaves
Yes, if Jesus was to preach like he preached in Galillee
They would lay Jesus Christ in his grave.

Amen.

Pessimism is Necessary

This is the autumn of my pessimism. I am grateful to be alive but feel simultaneously brain-dead and heart-wounded. I feel as though I am mentally and spiritually terminal. Politics and betrayal have finally put me on the ledge. I'm ready to jump. For one thing, I've overdosed on watching FOX News. I am compelled to do it because I want to see what the whack-jobs are up to. It's not calm-inducing, and, at my age, I should stay calm most of the time. I need psychotropic medication but can't afford it because of the Republican Drug Plan. We'll never get meaningful health-insurance reform in this country no matter how long we live. The country is run by the inmates, and they are mean and heartless. I am a total pessimist. We are aging by the minute. Where have our lives gone? We are staring at the Grim Reaper now. Tolle says there is only the "Now." The "Now" feels uncomfortable, like a tight girdle. I thought I was done with girdles. But no-o-o-o! Girdles give you gas. Gas is painful.

I am observing that jealousy and envy are stupid and unjustifiable emotions but present nonetheless.

A "friend" just dumped me unceremoniously after a 40-year close friendship because she didn't like my political postings on Facebook.

Nobody is so righteous that they are in a moral position to judge another human being, and yet most of what we do when awake is judge others and judge events.

I feel betrayed by my body and my emotions and by others' thoughtlessness and inconsideration.

In May 2009, my first Social Security check arrived. It was a shining milestone on the long road toward poverty and second-class citizenship. I wonder how old people with less Social Security money than I get can possibly survive. This is no country for old men.

As I write this, it feels like I am talking about some other person, an old person, certainly not me. My 66-year-old body still has a mind that thinks I am 35.

My house is for sale, but it couldn't be a worse housing market.

We are living in the day room of an insane asylum. I am considering buying a handgun because everyone else has one. I thought we were in the "end times" during the Bush regime, but, on reflection, that was a period when the right-wing nutcases were somewhat placated. Now that we have a biracial Marxist Communist Socialist (wish they'd make up their stupid minds) President, the old white boys' club and their gun-toting, Bible-thumping, "Christian" militia are really on a rampage. Canada looks so inviting, if only it weren't so damn cold. I don't know how much longer I can bear living in this uncivilized and ignorant country. We are pitiful as a nation. You have to admit it.

I feel I should go about my life wearing a tin-foil hat with a propeller just to deflect the incoming psycho-rhetoric. Instead, I am on Facebook, polluting the pages with political backlash. It's all just more insanity and distraction. Facebook is great for narcissists who like to broadcast to their friends every time they pick their noses or scratch their butts. Pay attention to ME! I am somebody! I have things that you don't have! That's the major narcissistic function of Facebook.

I like Facebook for the political fights it can instigate, but nobody wants to play with me.

I think I have diabetes now. You can fool Mother Nature for a while, but then it all comes into you like a physiologic tsunami.

Now that I am near the end of this puny existence, I wonder what it was all about and what I learned.

One thing I did learn is that you can truly count on only a very few people in a lifetime. People you thought were friends will drop you like a hot stone or drift away and pretend you never existed and never spent all that time together. They will pretend you were never the other half of being "in love." I am certainly cynical about the human race, a flawed species if ever there was one, but I religiously believe in the power of negativity as much as in the power of positivity. I think both are necessary to see the truth. We are shadow and light. There is no escaping it.

I wonder why I wasted so much of my life on being "in love" with others who only disappointed me in the end. And I wonder how deeply I disappointed them as well.

I console myself with my own attempts to be true to my passions. I never abandoned anybody. I am truly sorry for my sins. I have always maintained that evil is the unwillingness to look at one's own sins.

Forgiveness is a wonderful invention if used correctly, but I also think there are some things that you cannot forgive. Betrayal is one of those unforgiveable things and is very high on my list.

Everybody else seems so much more productive, sane, and happy than I am.

I think I should not expect that happiness or contentment will be a permanent condition. I used to decry that state of affairs, but now I think I am part of a cosmic balancing act. For every skinny person, there ought to be a fat person just as a reminder. For every pollyanna, there ought to be a melancholic as a warning. And so forth. I am fulfilling my destiny even if I don't know what it is.

I am a pessimist but am grateful for the few friends who are unsinkable rafts in this chaotic ocean---solid places on which I can briefly rest my oars. I think about them every day and hope they have moments of sheer sanguinity and blessedness.

A Granddaughter Coming of Age

Here is a 24-year-old journalist, adventurer, philosopher, observer, artist, sage, and poet in the making. I proudly post her latest missive. Her words should be immortalized. It is hard not to unabashedly live vicariously through her experiences.

Dear Friends and Family,

There are no excuses for not keeping in touch more consistently, if at all, though I will nonchalantly throw in that I have no readily available Internet or phone access (it's kind of a contributing factor). Currently, I am leeching off of a WiFi spot in downtown Zortman (Montana) at the motel. It is a Saturday night, which means Zortman, population 75, is alive with activity. It also doesn't help that I am 200 feet from the main attraction in Zortman, perhaps the only: The Bar. Here with my borrowed laptop, I am enjoying the brisk weather and hazy moon peeping out from the mountains.

My summer in Montana has reached its halfway point. I hear rumors that the remaining crew will be let go in the middle of October. So, it looks like I will be spending my 24th birthday in Montana, though I don't think there is anywhere else I would want to spend it. I am in love with Zortman. The mountains have seeped deep into my soul, and I feel like this is the first place that I have let it---the first place I want to take over my heart. Nowhere has ever felt like home until now. I'm still analyzing this new feeling but taking it with a grain of salt as well. Don't worry; I haven't grown any roots yet. I would say it's just the feeling.

I would begin from the beginning, but there is far too much. Simply put, it's too late in the evening to start writing a novel. I will tell you that all of the summers of Girl Scout Camp have not helped me prepare for this world: The "Man's World." Which I honestly mean in no sexist way. There are simply things throughout my life that I have never been exposed to, and the plain simple fact is that (a) I'm a girl, and (b) I didn't grow up on a farm.

It's almost like an unconscious form of protection by men, at least from what I have observed. My "boys" have been helpful and understanding and patient with my complete ineptitude in their world. They have calmly and courageously shown me how to use a chainsaw and have never expected me to push myself past my comfort zone. It's a heartening thing to think that I've been hired based on the fact that I will work hard, period. Not how fast I work or how much I can plug out but the plain fact that I will work hard. That's not to say they haven't been pushing me. Far from it. I have reached new physical limits, which are constantly changing. I keep pushing myself harder and harder, mostly out of curiosity. I wonder if limits exist anymore. For as one of my captains said, " You can train yourself to do anything."

Oh, how I ache with stories and adventures. I wish they were like water and everybody could drink from my well. I'm overflowing. Take them, enjoy them. Feel my fears, my joys, my triumphs, my failures, my life.

Even though it has been a slow fire season, that has not decreased the number of events. I love the irony. Everyone keeps saying, "Thank God it's been a slow season. Thank God it's been a slow season." Echos from the corners of the earth. Well, I hate to break it to you slow-season believers, but I actually encounter more dangers with this slow season. Because instead of a tool in my hand I now wield a chainsaw. Far more dangers than any job involving fire. In fact...some would say exponentially more dangerous. I now hope there will be prayers for fire.

Well, it is late, and my energy dwindles. Hopefully this short message will suffice on my happy existence. I am happy. I suppose that's really all people want to know. I love you all.
Erika

What Ted Kennedy Meant

Over the past several days, I have watched every minute of the televised events surrounding the death of Senator Edward M. Kennedy. I was electronically "there" for all of the memorial service held at the John F. Kennedy library, the entire Mass held at the Mission Church in Roxbury, Massachusetts, and the afternoon and evening that witnessed the transportation of his casket from Boston to Washington, DC, and his subsequent burial ceremony at Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia.

I listened carefully to every word that was spoken about Teddy in the many speeches that were given over the course of the past 3 days. I ruminated, cried, and laughed. I cried because death makes us sad and grief hurts. I laughed because there were many stories told by his colleagues and friends that were truly funny. But mostly I cried and felt a sense of despair, personal and global.

It's not just about Teddy Kennedy's death, the unbelievable tragedies he and his family have had to endure, the political and personal "mistakes" he has made, how he was not a perfect person with a flawless record, or the grief and pain his offspring are obviously suffering. As the emotions of each day ebbed into the background, I began to discover what the tears were really about: I cry because we have lost a liberal champion, a progressive thinker and do-er, and a real force in politics who already accomplished more than we could have hoped for. I cry because that loud voice (who didn't always get his way) is gone forever. When we felt the bitter disappointments handed to us by gutless other politicians for whom we had voted in good faith, I knew we had Ted Kennedy. His passing leaves a void that is hugely gaping and abysmal.

I cry too because I am touched by his own redemption. I am stirred in my soul with the knowing, finally, that imperfection doesn't mean defeat. Imperfection doesn't mean the baby has to be thrown asunder with the bath water. Imperfection doesn't condemn a whole life to invalidity or nothingness.

Imperfect people can redeem themselves and do good and excellent things while remaining imperfect. Not everything has to rise to the level of perfection to be considered valuable.

All of my life, I've leaned toward idealism---the way things "ought" to be---and when they weren't, that it what I mourned. Hearing, seeing, tasting, reading, or experiencing anything that implied or demonstrated perfection to me always brought (and brings) me to tears.

I will always be moved and stirred in my soul by perfection and idealism, but now, after Teddy Kennedy's death, I finally and concretely realize that there is a road to betterment that is not constructed with sinlessness. There is a path called "striving for excellence" that is not paved with pure gold, and it doesn't have to be. The path less traveled, the one full of brush and thorny overgrowth, sharp curves, side roads, weeds, rocks, logs, mud, the occasional flower, and dried, discarded leaves is a legitimate path that can be taken. In fact, such a path may be more intrinsically interesting, accessible, challenging, entertaining, productive, and inspiring than the smooth road that charts a straight line to that improbable destination called perfection.

Teddy Kennedy's life and death make me feel better about my own life. It seems like a selfish thing to say, but any good life lesson can come with the most unusual of events, emotions, or thoughts. For all the good he did for us in this country, and the world, I thank him. For the good he did for me in re-evaluating my own life of imperfection, I really thank him. May he rest in peace. And may the rest of his political colleagues take up the banner of his perseverance and do the right (even if not the perfect) thing.

Betrayal, Narcissism, Solipsism, and the Unknowable

A common language is vital to understanding another's point of view or perspective. Here are some working definitions:

Betrayal is the breaking or violation of a presumptive social contract, trust, or confidence. Betrayal produces moral and psychological conflict within a relationship between individuals.

Narcissism is behavior that involves infatuation and obsession with one's self, sometimes to the exclusion of others, and can consist of egotistic and ruthless pursuit of one's gratification, dominance, and ambition.

Solipsism is the notion that it is impossible ever to know another person, so there is no need to bother with understanding or empathizing. This often results in an egotistical refusal to acknowledge the needs or sometimes even the existence of others. Solipsism is often referred to as the belief that nothing real exists outside of one's own mind, thoughts, and ambitions.

The unknowable is that which cannot be known, despite one's best efforts; a thing beyond comprehension.

Recently, I experienced something that was, to me, unknowable and unpredictable. It was and is also seemingly beyond my comprehension. That thing was the unilateral dissolution of a 40-year friendship by a person (Alta) I had always considered truthful, straightforward, free of prejudice, loyal, spiritual, and loving. Alta still may be all of those things, but that's not my current way of perceiving Alta's qualities and character. After 40 years of friendship that manifested itself in being mutually supportive, I was shocked (stunned) to learn that Alta considers my characteristics to now include self-hatred, bitterness, unforgiveness, and psychoemotional illness. I had no idea Alta felt this way or that Alta could or would unilaterally end (I had no say in the matter) such a long friendship. It never came up in 40 years of intense, long, and soul-searching conversations. I feel betrayed and experience all of the moral and psychological conflict it is possible to feel in these unexpected circumstances.

I am not sure if narcissism and/or solipsism influenced Alta's decision, so I can't make that claim, but recent conversations with Alta lead me to believe that there is a preoccupation with self and self-expression such that no one else's point of view can penetrate Alta's desire to be spiritually "right" about how life should be experienced. No challenge to Alta's prevailing philosophies are allowed. This leads me to believe there is a degree of solipsism involved in the rather rigid mindset that seems to dominate Alta's behavior and intolerance of divergent opinions. Intellectually and emotionally, I don't think that is a sign of good mental health. I think it's a kind of mental arthritis that leads to diminution in function, flexibility, tolerance, and inclusivity. That is sad but reversible if only the will to reverse it were present. I fear the will to change is missing in this regretable circumstance.

The will to reverse or modify any chosen course is primary to any salubrious change. That is also seemingly what is lacking in our progressive politicians who are currently struggling with how to reconcile pending legislation on health-insurance reform. Even those with the power to change are impotent unless the will to change the current course is exerted.

Amazing Grace Is What We Need

Composed probably between 1760 and 1770 in Olney, "Amazing Grace" was possibly one of the hymns written by John Newton for a weekly service. Through the years, other writers have composed additional verses to the hymn which came to be known as “Amazing Grace.” In the Olney Hymns, it was not entitled as such. These six stanzas appeared in both the first edition in 1779 and the 1808 edition, the one nearest the date of Newton’s death. The origin of the melody is unknown. Most hymnals attribute it to an early American folk melody. The Bill Moyers special on “Amazing Grace” speculated that it may have originated as the tune of a song the slaves sang in slave ships as they were transported in chains, against their will, to God Knows What.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me;
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils, and snares
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon to ruin go,
The sun refuse to shine;
But God, who called me here below,
Will be forever mine.

I truly hope that all the despairing people on this earth, who will never see justice done to humankind because of greed, selfishness, violence, and evil, will have their reward in the next life. I truly hope that grace (love) leads us all home.

Boycott Whole Foods

John Mackey, CEO of Whole Foods, wrote an op-ed piece this week for the Wall Street Journal giving his "personal" opinion about health insurance reform. It comes right out of the conservative (Republican) playbook and calls Obama supporters "socialists" and the proposed reform an "entitlement." It looks like Mr. Mackey has forgotten that most of the people who shop at Whole Foods are liberal-minded yuppies, who now need to be aware of Mr. Mackey's personal agenda. He is a rich anti-union corporatist who got that way because we willingly pay for his overpriced food. No more! This is the same guy who, between 1999 and 2006, went on message boards championing his store and deriding his competitor Wild Oats (which Whole Foods took over in 2007). He was investigated by the SEC and his own corporate board for these posts. Now he's waged another campaign to defeat health insurance reform. I am going to boycott Whole Foods, and I urge others to do the same. Corporatists only understand profits. Let's decrease his. There are other places to shop.

A Hard Week

It's been a hard week. Mark Sanford, Sarah Palin, Michael Jackson, North Korean cyber attack, more deaths in Afghanistan, serial killer (shot and killed) in South Carolina, the usual sarcastic and whining/screaming BS on FOX News, and the continual lies from politicians and the media. It's hard to know what is the truth these days, and perhaps we never knew and will never know. Some think there is such a thing as "absolute truth," but prove it to me. Maybe truth, like beauty, is relative to whatever situation is before one's eyes. We all see things differently---there is no debate about that---and do so filtered through our individual history, personality, education, experience, temperament, spirituality, emotionality, and level of sanity.

I have just finished reading The Border Trilogy by Cormac McCarthy (author of No Country for Old Men, made into a recent movie). The three volumes are: All the Pretty Horses (1992), The Crossing (1994), and Cities of the Plain (1998). I am sharing one passage from each volume because these excerpts represent philosophies that are worth serious "think-time." They are compelling, profound, disturbing, and (ironically) comforting words.

From All The Pretty Horses: "He said that those who have endured some misfortune will always be set apart but that it is just that misfortune which is their gift and which is their strength and that they must make their way back into the common enterprise of man, for without they do so it cannot go forward and they themselves will wither in bitterness. I wanted very much to be a person of value, and I had to ask myself how this could be possible if there were not something like a soul or like a spirit that is in the life of a person and which could endure any misfortune or disfigurement and yet be no less for it. If one were to be a person of value, that value could not be a condition subject to the hazards of fortune. It had to be a quality that could not change. No matter what. Long before morning, I knew that what I was seeking to discover was a thing I'd always known. That all courage is a form of constancy. That it is always himself that the coward abandons first. After this, all other betrayals come easily. I knew that courage came with less struggle for some than for others, but I believed that anyone who desired it could have it. That the desire was the thing itself. The thing itself. I could think of nothing else of which that was true."

From The Crossing: "Things separate from their stories have no meaning. They are only shapes. Of a certain size and color. A certain weight. When their meaning has become lost to us, they no longer have even a name. The story, on the other hand, can never be lost from its place in the world, for it is that place. There is but one world, and everything that is imaginable is necessary to it. For this world also, which seems to us a thing of stone and flower and blood, is not a thing at all but is a tale. And all in it is a tale and each tale the sum of all lesser tales, and yet these also are the self-same tale and contain as well all else within them. So everything is necessary. Every least thing. This is the hard lesson. Nothing can be dispensed with. Nothing despised. Because the seams are hid from us, you see. The joinery. The way in which the world is made. We have no way to know what could be taken away. What omitted. We have no way to tell what might stand and what might fall. And those seams that are hid from us are, of course, in the tale itself, and the tale has no abode or place of being except in the telling only, and there it lives and makes it home, and therefore we can never be done with the telling. Of the telling, there is no end. And whether in Caborca or Huisiachepic or in whatever other place by whatever other name or by no name at all, I say again all tales are one. Rightly heard, all tales are one. "

From Cities of the Plain: "He was not a man given to illusions. He knew that those things we most desire to hold in our hearts are often taken from us while that which we would put away seems often by that very wish to become endowed with unsuspected powers of endurance. He knew how frail is the memory of loved ones. How we close our eyes and speak to them. How we long to hear their voices once again, and how those voices and those memories grow faint and faint until what was flesh and blood is no more than echo and shadow. In the end, perhaps not even that. He knew that our enemies by contrast seem always with us. The greater our hatred, the more persistent the memory of them so that a truly terrible enemy becomes deathless. So that the man who has done you great injury or injustice makes himself a guest in your house forever. Perhaps only forgiveness can dislodge him."

Don't Cry for Me, Argentina. Let me cry instead (on camera).

I can't take anymore (as they might say in Argentina, no mas!), but I know more is coming, so I'll just have to gird up my loins, something apparently others have been doing in "exotic" places like Buenos Aires. Anyone who doesn't know that Governor Mark Sanford of South Carolina made a tearful admission of unfaithfulness and multiple apologies yesterday at a press conference is so far under a rock that it's hopeless to try to explain this bizarre set of circumstances.

After the press conference, which was attended by some young ass-monkeys standing behind Sanford and, unfortunately, within constant camera shot so we could see their immature laughing, smirking, and generally stupid behavior, we were treated to an endless parade of cable "news" opinionators and bloviators who treated the matter in the usual mocking (liberal) or defensive (conservative) way.

To me, the most disturbing aspect of this commonplace romantic indiscretion is not that Sanford has a mistress. That's no surprise. He's a middle-age married man (not excusing middle-age married women). He's a politician and, therefore, must be somewhat hungry for power and simultaneously deluded in thinking that he, unlike others, won't be caught doing the nasty. What annoys me the most about this situation is that neither Sanford nor the opinionators mentioned one word about the breach of his fiduciary responsibility to the State of South Carolina. The fact that he was "out of pocket" for 5 or more days (a) without telling anyone the truth of his whereabouts, (b) unable to be reached, and (c) leaving the governor's office (and the state and the country, no less) without officially transferring administrative power to the Lt. Governor should be and probably is an impeachable offense. That he totally abdicated his responsibilities as Governor is not even being discussed. That should be the first concern of the legislature and voters in South Carolina.

The morality of his infidelity to his wife and family is really a secondary concern, but since it's more sexy than talking about fiduciary responsibilities, that's what gets all the attention. The prurience and touchy-feely "forgiveness" and "support" these hypocritical, ignorant Republicans in South Carolina are so willing to show him now that he's confessed his "sins" makes me want to puke on my shoes.

First, it is their duty to see that he's impeached or forced to resign immediately. Once he's out of the governor's mansion, they can forgive him all they want for his "moral" shortcomings, and Sanford himself will then have the time to seek the mental-health counseling he obviously needs to figure out why he's nucking futz.

Refusing the stimulus money and having an affair showed bad judgment but are not criminal or impeachable offenses, but walking off the job without a word (except for lies) is what people should be focusing on and punishing him for doing by impeaching his ass. Let's remember that Clinton was impeached (initiated by Republicans), but Clinton never had an unexcused absence from the White House.

Any politician who is elected to an office, takes an oath on the Bible, no less, and swears to uphold the Constitution of the United States of America or the State of South Carolina and faithfully execute his or her duties of the elected office has to be held accountable (impeached) when he or she fails to comply with fiduciary obligations. Period.

Volunteers

About 2 years ago, I noticed a "volunteer" tree growing in my back yard, near to the house. Because its ascension would not eventually impact on overhead telephone, cable, and electrical wires, I let it continue to volunteer. It started out as just a 2-foot shoot but rapidly grew to over 15 feet, reaching the second story of my house. It is right outside my office windows, so it's great entertainment for the cats who sit in the office windows and for me as I labor over the computer. Now this tree is a dominant presence, and it serves as a shelter, pit stop, and food source for many birds and some daring squirrels. It took until this spring for me to be able to identify it as a white mulberry (Morus alba). As the berries ripen, they turn deep purple. Before they've had a chance to ripen, however, they are voraciously eaten by birds of many different colors, species, and temperaments. In just the past couple of weeks, the cats and I have seen catbirds, cardinals, robins, grackles, and even mockingbirds vying for these berries, and sometimes this competition has led to noisy confrontations that are a source of amazement and amusement for the cats and me. This free-for-all starts early in the morning, about 6:30 a.m. Eastern time. In a few hours, everybody has gone on to other things, and things are quiet. Throughout the day, various kinds of birds will fly in and out of the tree, using it as a way station, but the early-morning hours are the most entertaining. The catbirds, especially, drive my cats crazy. I guess they aren't called "catbirds" for nothing. Between the bird battles, squirrel scoldings, and the cats' chattering and slobbering as they watch all this, I can hardly hear myself think.

Recognized as the last tree to bud in spring, gardeners use the mulberry as a sign that danger of frost is past. The plant's genus name, Morus, means "delay" in Latin. Small green cup-shaped flowers appear in March and are wind-pollinated. Fruits are similar in shape and size to blackberries and start as white, turn green, and eventually (if they aren't eaten first) the deep purple/black of any mulberry. Mulberry trees are propagated by seed, grafting, and hardwood, softwood, and root cuttings.

In 1621, the white mulberry was introduced to Virginia for the new silkworm industry expected to burgeon in the south. Colonists were required to care for the trees, whose leaves were the diet of the silkworm. For two centuries, the silkworm industry flourished in the United States, but by 1839 cheaper labor in foreign countries, severe cold in winter, and disease brought the industry to a close.

Wildlife is obviously attracted to the tree. If they miss getting the fruit on the tree, the ripe berries drop readily, covering the ground, where butterflies, fireflies, gray squirrels, wild turkeys, and songbirds congregate at a messy mulberry "pub room" floor.

Mulberry is one of seven important plant groups for bird habitat. They provide food during the nesting season along with shelter and nesting sites. Over 60 species of birds feed on mulberries including robins, bluebirds, cardinals, grey catbirds, mockingbirds, cedar waxwings, orioles, tanagers, and vireos.

People like mulberries almost as much as birds. Mulberries make a perfect snack. A cup of raw mulberries contains 60 calories and is high in dietary fiber, riboflavin, iron, magnesium, potassium, Vitamin C, Vitamin K, and very high in iron. The easiest way for humans to harvest large quantities for freezing or baking is to spread a plastic tarp under the tree and shake the branches. Ripe berries fall like rain. There is no chance for me to do this here since my mulberries are almost all gone in the white/green stage. There are simply too many birds competing for them at this time of year.

Berries vary in flavor from sweet to tart depending on the variety. They make delicious tarts, muffins, breads, pies, and fruit crisps. In Medieval England, mulberry puree was added to spiced meat or eaten as pudding. In Tibet, dried mulberries were ground into flour and mixed with dried almonds for a staple food in winter. Stories from England report that ladies would take afternoon tea, scones, and cream under the mulberry tree, letting the fruit drop down into the cream. I wonder what else dropped into the cream. Thanks, but no.

Mulberry leaf tea originated in the Orient and is used as a medicinal herbal tea. In the United States, fruit farmers often planted mulberry trees as decoys, keeping birds away from the more treasured and less abundant berries. The common practice of planting mulberry trees on farms near barns and homesteads served both domestic animals and the farm family. Mulberry trees bear an abundance of fruit and pleasure to humankind and wildlife over their lifetime. Red and white mulberries live up to 75 years, and black mulberries have been known to produce fruit for 300 years. My white mulberry tree, I'm pretty sure, was accidentally or deliberately shat out by a passing bird. I thank that bird, and I see now how altruistic such a shat was, for the fruit of this tree is feeding many other birds who, in their own time, will have shat as well, and perhaps white mulberry trees will volunteer all over Parkville and Baltimore in due course. Nature is its own reward.

I have another volunteer tree, and this one is now about 4 feet tall, the child of a huge American Sweetgum (Liquidambar styraciflua) at the rear of my back yard (see upper right picture). Because it will eventually grow to 100-120 feet in height, I also had to ensure it would not impinge on overhead wires. I wish we lived in a world where all "wiring" had to be underground (or we were altogether "wireless") so trees and other plants could freely grow without being subjected to our pruning and our whims.

If we humans would stop developing, paving, mowing, spraying, weeding, polluting, pruning, and otherwise disturbing the land and environment, it wouldn't take Mother long to re-establish Paradise. That's one of the hopes I hold in my heart. There are far too many people on this planet and not nearly enough vegetation or volunteers. "The breeze, the trees, the honey bees--all volunteers!" (Juliet Carinreap)

D-Day Remembrance, June 6, 2009

At age 85, he was still a tall, erect, slender man with large hands and big aviator glasses. His wife of 60 years stood beside him, cane in hand, arm linked to his. They had just finished their breakfast at Bob Evans. As they walked through the foyer of the restaurant, he lost his balance and fell backward, taking his wife with him. They both lay face up on the floor of the foyer, their bodies in the shape of a distorted "C." Both had clunked the back of their head against the glass door and were dazed and immobilized in this humiliating position. Several people came to assist them, and I was among those who helped pull them into a sitting position and then eventually onto the wooden bench in the foyer. I did a cursory examination, looking at and feeling the back of each gray head, to see if any laceration or other injury had occurred. I took their pulses and asked them pertinent first-aid questions about dizziness, weakness, respiratory distress, and so forth. I asked the manager to get an alcohol swab and band-aid so I could clean up the slightly bleeding wound the gentleman had sustained on his left palm. The manager and I stayed with the embarrassed couple for about 20 minutes, making sure they were well enough to drive themselves the few blocks home. When we walked them to their car, he bragged about his new Dodge Charger and said he'd only had the car a month. We helped them into their car, and I followed them home just to make sure they were safe. The manager asked me to return to the restaurant so he could buy me breakfast.

During the 20 minutes or so that we sat in the foyer during their recovery, the man's wife told me, "We've survived worse than this." I learned that the gentleman was 18 when he signed up with the army. After a short basic training, he was deployed to the Philippines where he took part in the famous Battle of Baatan.

On April 9, 1942, as the final stage of this battle, approximately 76,000 Filipino and American troops, commanded by Major General Edward King, Jr., were formally surrendered to a Japanese army of 54,000 men, the single largest surrender of a military force in American history. These prisoners of war were moved to Camp O'Donnell because the Japanese were inadequately prepared to handle such a large group of POWs. Thus began the infamous Baatan Death March.

The Bataan Death March took place in 1942 and was later determined to be a Japanese war crime. The 60-mile march involved the forcible transfer of 76,000 American and Filipino prisoners of war captured by the Japanese in the Philippines and was characterized by wide-ranging physical abuse and murder and resulted in very high fatalities inflicted upon the prisoners and civilians along the route. Beheadings, cut throats, and casual shootings were the more common and merciful actions, compared to bayonet stabbings, rapes, disembowelments, numerous rifle-butt beatings, and a deliberate refusal to allow the prisoners food or water while keeping them continually marching for nearly a week in tropical heat. Falling down or inability to continue moving was tantamount to a death sentence as was any degree of protest or expression of displeasure. Prisoners were attacked for assisting someone failing due to weakness or for no apparent reason whatsoever. Strings of Japanese trucks were known to drive over anyone who fell. Riders in vehicles would casually stick out a rifle bayonet and cut a string of throats in the lines of men marching alongside the road. Accounts of being forcibly marched for five to six days with no food and a single sip of water are documented in postwar archives, including filmed reports.

The ending point of the death march was Camp O'Donnell. In this camp approximately, 1,600 Americans died in the first 40 days that they were there. Almost 20,000 Filipinos died in their first 4 months of captivity in Camp O'Donnell. The healthier prisoners took turns burying their comrades into mass graves, just as they, themselves, would be buried, days or weeks later. The conditions of Camp O'Donnell were terrible because the camp did not have the sanitation infrastructure or a large enough water supply for the number of men that it held. Many men died from diseases because of these poor conditions. There was little medicine available to the prisoners that acquired these diseases. Inadequate diets of the men contributed to the high death rate. Diseases such as dysentery (from a lack of safe drinking water) and beri-beri from malnutrition were common to the POWs. Another cause of death was the mistreatment of the prisoners by the Japanese soldiers. Due to the high death rate in Camp O'Donnell, the Japanese transferred all Americans, excluding 500 that were left behind to bury the dead, to Cabanatuan, north of Camp O'Donnell, on June 6, 1942. The 500 Americans that were left at Camp O'Donnell were transferred to Cabanatuan on July 5, 1942. The Filipino prisoners were paroled, beginning in July 1942.

Cabanatuan was a temporary camp for most prisoners. From Cabanatuan, most prisoners were sent to other camps in the Philippines, China, Japan, and Korea, where they were used as slave labor. Some worked in mines, others in farms, others in factories, and others unloading ships in Port Areas for the remainder of the war. For the remaining 3 years of their captivity, the original prisoners of Camp O'Donnell were spread throughout the various slave labor camps in Japan, Korea, China, and the Philippines, until each camp was individually liberated in 1945. These prisoners endured the whims of their brutal captors and the uncertainty of when, if ever, their captivity would end.

The exact death count has been impossible to determine, but some historians have placed the minimum death toll between 6 and 11,000 men, whereas other postwar Allied reports have tabulated that only 54,000 of the 72,000 prisoners survived. The gentleman at Bob Evans today was one of these. As he said, "God knows how I survived. I don't."

The Japanese occupied the Philippines from 1942 to 1945. On January 9, 1945, U.S. forces led by General Douglas MacArthur forces invaded the Philippines by force, beginning the second battle of the Philippines. On February 4, 1945, U.S. forces entered Manila and completely recovered the city within 3 weeks. The second battle of the Philippines ended in April 1945, resulting in the liberation of the Philippines. On July 5 of that year, Washington announced the complete reconquest of the Philippines by the United States. After the surrender of Japan in 1945, an Allied commission convicted General Homma of war crimes, including the atrocities of the death march out of Bataan and the atrocities at Camp O'Donnell and Cabanatuan. The general, who had been absorbed in his efforts to capture Corregidor after the fall of Bataan, claimed in his defense that he remained ignorant of the high death toll of the death march until 2 months after the event. He was executed for war crimes on April 3, 1946, outside Manila. While D-Day remembrance was being held today in Normandy, France, at which President Barak Obama, British Prime Minister Gordon Brown, French President Nicolas Sarkozy, and Canadian Prime Minister Stephan Harper spoke eloquently about the ultimate sacrifice and the hope of peace, we had our own World War II memories at Bob Evans in Towson, Maryland, with a man who endured what we cannot even imagine in our worst nightmares.

Cairo hears Obama

CSPAN has posted the video (and transcript) of the entire 55-minute speech given by President Obama in Cairo at http://www.c-span.org/. The speech was co-sponsored by al-Azhar University, which has taught science and Quranic scripture for nearly a millennium, but the actual venue was the more modern and secular Cairo University.

The speech was reflective, thoughtful, sensitive, intelligent, appropriate, and hopeful. At the very end, Obama said this:

"There is also one rule that lies at the heart of every religion – that we do unto others as we would have them do unto us. This truth transcends nations and peoples – a belief that isn’t new; that isn’t black or white or brown; that isn’t Christian, or Muslim or Jew. It’s a belief that pulsed in the cradle of civilization and that still beats in the heart of billions. It’s a faith in other people, and it’s what brought me here today. We have the power to make the world we seek but only if we have the courage to make a new beginning, keeping in mind what has been written. The Holy Koran tells us, 'O mankind! We have created you male and a female; and we have made you into nations and tribes so that you may know one another.' The Talmud tells us: 'The whole of the Torah is for the purpose of promoting peace.' The Holy Bible tells us, 'Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.' The people of the world can live together in peace. We know that is God’s vision. Now, that must be our work here on Earth. Thank you, and may God’s peace be upon you."

If only all the people on this earth would live these words (as so many billions claim to believe in one of these "Great Books"), what a world it would be. Just simply that: To do unto others.

At the end of Obama's speech, it was somewhat surprising and majorly enheartening to hear the students chanting "Obama, Obama, Obama." Perhaps a change in man's inhumanity to man/woman does reside in the young people of today. We can only hope that is true. This world cannot continue to be about power, greed, lies, selfishness, and hate.

More Chances to Learn

There are three relatively new Web sites that provide free access to thousands of video lectures by university professors, other educators, and experts in all facets of business and academic pursuits.

1. www.ted.com
2. www.youtube.com/edu
3. www.academicearth.org

All of these are free and have something to appeal to everyone's level of interest and curiosity.

They don't lead to college credit, but still.................

Enjoy!

Trivializing Torture

In the old days, before political correctness grabbed our imaginations, we used to glibly refer to "the Chinese water torture," acting as though we somehow knew what that actually meant. We supposed it was something like the heartless dripping of a faucet, which is something we've all experienced. We also used to laugh heartily at the prospect of torture manifesting itself as imprisonment in a dark cage and being subjected to the unending, repetitive playing of "She wore an itsy-bitsy, teeney-weeney, yellow polka-dot bikini" over a tinny loudspeaker, thereby creating an earworm that would plague us long after the song itself had ceased. These tortures were, of course, more mental than physical. We would often pretend we were being tortured by our mere juxtaposition to a person or social situation we did not like. Ah, those days of torture; how elusive and implausible they were.

Now we are being asked to define torture for real---in our country, as a national security practice, as a community of diverse opinions and beliefs, and in our individual consciences. Torture asks the question: "What would shock the conscience?"

Torture is currently being animatedly discussed by everyone, but perhaps not yet very rationally or effectively, on three simultaneous levels:

1. Is it moral?

2. Is it legal?

3. Is it effective?

My opinion is that it is none of those things. What is your opinion?

Waterboarding seems to head the list of tortures being discussed and denied. It is a practice that was used to interrogate 9/11 detainees at Gitmo and prisoners in Iraq. Is waterboarding torture? Some say it is not because it doesn't cause any "lasting harm." How do we know that it doesn't cause any lasting harm? We don't.

Some say also that waterboarding is a technique that merely simulates drowning. Journalist Christopher Hitchens subjected himself to waterboarding to see what it was like. Even though his voluntary waterboarding was done under strictly supervised conditions and he had a panic button he could press when he reached a point of uncomfortability with the experience, his conclusion is that waterboarding "...is actual drowning that simulates death." That is quite a different point of view.

Sean Hannity, one of the conservative bloviators on FOX News, stated that he would happily undergo waterboarding just to prove to "the folks" that it was not torture. Thus far, there have been no reliable reports that he has made good on his boastful offer. Let's see if he ever does. He and others of his ilk continue to trivialize the seriousness of this discussion by referring to torture as "enhanced interrogation techniques."

For those who do not consider waterboarding to be torture, they should undergo it just for the hell of it to check it out.

Cotard Syndrome

Also known as Cotard delusion and nihilistic or negation delusion, Cotard syndrome is a rare neuropsychiatric disorder in which a person delusionally believes that he or she is dead or does not exist. It is named after Dr. Jules Cotard (1840-1889), a French neurologist who first described the syndrome of "negation delirium" at an 1880 lecture in Paris. It is associated with manic-depressive disorder, neurological disease, and derealization. The main character in Charlie Kaufman's movie Synecdoche, New York is named Caden Cotard (Philip Seymour Hoffman), and his wife is Adele Lack (Catherine Keener). This syndrome also consists of mental depression and suicidal tendencies, in which the patient believes s/he has lost everything from possessions to parts of or his/her entire body, often believing that s/he has died and is a walking corpse. Attempted suicide seems to provide a challenge to the patient to test the delusion of already being dead. Cotard syndrome is usually expanded to the degree that the patient might claim that he can smell his rotting flesh and feel worms crawling through his skin. Showers or baths don't seem to help. The latter phenomenon is a recurring experience of people chronically deprived of sleep or suffering amphetamine or cocaine psychosis. Paradoxically, being "dead" often gives the patient the notion of being immortal. Other megalomelancholic ideas may be present. Many patients complain bitterly to others of the enormous hardships of being dead. One can just imagine... The etiology of Cotard delusion is so far unknown. Because tricyclic and selective serotonin-reuptake inhibitor (SSRI) antidepressants are ineffective, the treatment most often used is electroconvulsive therapy.

Synecdoche, New York

Charlie Kaufman is most noted for his screenplays for the movies Adaptation (2002), Confessions of a Dangerous Mind (2002), Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004), for which he won an Oscar in 2005 for best original screenplay, and Synecdoche, New York (2008), on which he made his directorial debut. He was executive producer of Being John Malkovich (1999). If you are familiar with any, some, or all of these movies, you will understand that Charlie Kaufman brings a unique and sometimes confusing, but always challenging, perspective to cinema and literature. These movies are not for the faint of heart or the lame of brain. They require thinking and reflection. They are mindbending and not easily understood without some effort on the part of the viewer. And that is OK. Not everything should be so easy to understand that its audience could be third-graders.

Synecdoche, New York is certainly not easy to understand, but it's worth the effort to try to understand it. Some might say that this movie is inchoate, but I think it's a tapestry and delightfully surrealistic. It does impart incisive wisdom, and it's full of irony, puns, and neuroses. And the soundtrack is compelling, romantic, and nostalgic. Here is a YouTube link to the song that accompanies the closing credits of the film. Perhaps it will motivate you to see the movie and let your comments be known on this blog. Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vKQqxt7xd20

Spring 2009

This is what spring looks like in Baltimore.

Oneness and Earth Day

All things are one, but they are not the same. It is marvelous to revel in this unity while at the same time appreciating our differences.

We humans are all members of the same species, made of atoms, containing the same organs, and harboring the same basic needs and impulses, and yet our behavior and thoughts are highly individualized. Is this God manifesting in so many ways that the variety is unfathomable? If we saw ourselves as co-creators, perhaps we would (like ants and bees who operate with "one mind") be more kind to all living things.

Oneness is not sameness, but the belief in our oneness and divinity may bring us to acceptance of things as they are.

Happy Earth Day! We have another chance to practice the sacred today (and every day) because we are alive and alove.

Bullying

A respected colleague has written a timely essay on bullies and bullying, and I would like to give it space in my blog because I think it pertains not only to the work place but also to our national politics and the bullying that goes on there daily, especially on cable television "news" outlets. I invite you, as well, to share your thoughts, possible solutions, and stories about bullying and how it affects your personal psychology.

"As I was struggling to sleep, it came to me why I was so troubled by a colleague’s unprovoked outburst in a recent e-mail. It was because she represents the bully---the bully that I’ve met at every turn in my life. And, I thought, here we go again… and, frankly, I’m not in the mood. It started way back with the nuns, and thereafter in almost every job I’ve had, a bully has been part and parcel.

The bully is that person who doesn’t care what you think and won’t respect individual differences---that person who refuses to acknowledge that respectable diversity adds to the group dynamic. Instead, bullies chooses to crush everyone else into submission---submission to their ideas, their way of doing things, and their self-righteous perception of their supremacy.

With bullies, you can’t take, or explain, the high road because they don’t understand it. They interpret the high road as a sign of weakness. They can’t or won’t comprehend that they should be ashamed of themselves. Bullies are those overbearing persons that all of the nice people are forced to deal with---the ones whose bad behavior is continually excused because we feel sorry that they’re out of control. They wreck the party for the rest of us.

Think of a recipe that entails delectable spices and ingredients. If one spice is added too heavily, the dish is ruined. The bully is the person who doesn’t understand that it’s the blend of spices that makes the dish delicious and desirable. They are the heavy-handed spice that ruins the dish, that overpowers the gentle salt and black pepper that, although plainer, are necessary to have the recipe spring into a balanced creation.

I’ve always tried to take the high road, even with the bullies. But with the bullies, I’ve learned to regret it. Initially, they are conciliatory---and even in that, they are overpowering, pandering, disingenuous. It’s hard to swallow, but we do so because we are the nice people. Bullies are sometimes temporarily on good behavior because “someone” is watching, paying attention–and it isn’t God they’re playing to.

Their good behavior only lasts until the next time---and there’s always a next time. Before you know it, it’s a formula. They falter, we excuse, they falter, we excuse, and on and on ad nauseum. Eventually, their behavior is expected, anticipated, but always excused because, as we all know, that’s just how they are. Instead of forcing them to rise to our level, we each die a little by accepting their unacceptable behavior, ultimately rendering it accepted even though unwelcomed. It’s our failure, but we shoulder it by taking the high road."