Morning Thoughts: September 30, 2017

Our perspectives on some things in life change as we age. Books and movies do for me. A friend started me thinking on this.

I had posted an ending of a movie I liked and said it was my favorite. He voted, instead, for the ending of the film that brought Dustin Hoffman into fame: The Graduate. It wasn’t a bad choice, but would not have been mine.

The director produced a well-crafted ending for a well-crafted film. It started me along this line of thought, though. That film represents one of what I call “age-perspective” works.

I’ll explain.

When I first saw that film, I had just returned from overseas duty in the United States Navy. Respect for others was not high on my list of worthwhile endeavors. I watched the film at the time, marveled at its “groovy” music, and said to myself, “Yes!”

Years passed. I watched it again not long ago, marveled at the timeless music, and said to myself, “That young woman just ran off with the biggest loser in the state of  California.”

That’s just me. But I wonder if other people have similar reactions to works of fiction as time goes by. Do you reckon?

A book that has that effect on me is Catcher In The Rye. After its publication in 1951, it became the icon for teenagers feeling alienated and disaffected. Of course, I fell in with the angst-ridden. As the years have progressed, I continue to respect the superb writing for its rhythm and style, unmatched, in my opinion, in American literature. Old Holden Caufield, however, has seemed a bit more insane each time I have read the book, which is maybe 20 times or more.

I do think Salinger left a lasting influence on American literature. It remains as a lasting axiom that almost any novel since “Catcher” is filled with angst-ridden characters bent on self-destruction. They aren’t teenagers, though, but adult characters that become tiresome two pages after they appear in a book. That’s why I read so few of them, modern novels, that is.

Ahh. The great ones don’t change. Tortilla Flat , The Brothers Karamazov, and Heart of Darkness still ring with the same epic themes as they did on first readings decades ago. The heart still floats on their clouds of majesty. (How’s that for gibberish)?

Speaking of great themes, though, certain aspects of novels only appeared following careful study, after my formal education. It was only after I undertook a protracted study of Eliot’s The Wasteland, for example, that I began more fully to see the “grail” imagery in The Great Gatsby. Without such study, I wouldn’t have picked up on the marvelous imagery of the actors driving past the local landfill on their way to their various searches.

Oh, well … enough babbling for one day. Think I’ll go start re-reading One Hundred Years of Solitude. Maybe I’ll make more sense out of it this time. Then maybe I’ll watch The Wild One, again. Boy, that Brando character was a lousy creep.

Or was he? I didn’t think so at one time.

Just thinking …

Morning Thoughts: September 29, 2107

Finished the series on the Vietnam War last evening. Watched each episode, some twice, some three times. At the risk of beating the horse, some thoughts.

My favorite line: from a veteran who said, “The veneer of civilization is very thin.” So true. The Vietnam war certainly validated the premise of Sir William Golding in his 1954 classic Lord of the Flies. His wasn’t, of course, the first warning. There were many, going back as far as the Old Testament account of the treatment of the Midianites by the victorious Jewish army (Numbers 31:15-18). The William Calleys of history have been consistently present, consistently vicious, and consistently adamant in their claim of “following higher orders.” Ofttimes, those orders originate, avowedly, at the deity level.

My favorite interviewee. the former South Vietnamese who spent over 17 years in a re-education camp (prison) after the war. His description of the mendacity, lack of character, and unwillingness to learn of Vice-President Nguyễn Cao Kỳ could be used in today’s newspapers in describing another world figure.

Most ironic sequence: the one in which the United States Marines, in "full-Chesty” mode, stormed ashore at Da Nang to be met my beautiful young girls in their best áo dais bearing wreaths. In a split-second framing, one could see Monkey Mountain in the background. That’s where I spent the last three months of my tour, guarding a communication base.

Most understated scene (for me): the sequence in which the victorious North Vietnamese army entered the Da Nang area. It featured a shot of the expensive home of a high-ranking South Vietnamese officer. I cannot be certain, but it certainly looked familiar to me. The United States had helped build it, or a similar home, on the highway between Tien Sha village and Da Nang, less than a mile from my home base. The owner was a “Number One Honcho” in the area, and one believed by most enlisted personnel to be a double dipper, politically. He “fell” from a truck full of GIs one day as they headed for a mission. No one mourned his death.

Most troubling segment: the account of the battle of Hue City. Most of the news coverage at the time centered on Saigon. Meanwhile, General Westmoreland and his subordinates, who believed the Tet Offensive was a ruse to draw American troops away from Khe Sanh, repeatedly ordered company-level troops to clear Hue of three enemy battalions, repeatedly denigrating the courage and fighting ability of those brave Marines who were being slaughtered.

Most needing of a bit more information: the iconic shot of the South Vietnamese general executing the VC could have benefited from additional information noting that the victim had, himself, just executed, I think, some 30 civilians in cold blood, including a family of eight, if I remember correctly. The veneer of civilization is, indeed, quite thin.

Most non-surprising surprise: that Richard Nixon was a noxious traitor who set the stage for future incidences in which presidential candidates would conspire with foreigners to gain political advantage in campaigns.

Most conspicuous omission: how Americans allowed the media to instill the image of the Vietnam Veteran as a half-crazed dope-fiend who couldn’t cope with the realities of coming home from the war. It was all bullshit. Those odious creatures who haunted ceremonies and street corners in filthy field jackets were seldom veterans at all and almost never Vietnam Veterans. Nonetheless, a feckless media and uncaring public loved them and allowed them to control the image of millions of loyal veterans. For the true story of this communal crime, read Stolen Valor: How the Vietnam Generation Was Robbed of Its Heroes and Its History by B. G. Burkett and Glenna Whitley.

In the meantime, watch the documentary again. It, the ordeal represented by the Vietnam War, could happen all over again. It won’t include me, but your children and grandchildren deserve better.

Never again, please, never again.

Morning Thoughts: September 28, 2016

What I know of Puerto Rico stems from the time our ship docked there for a few days back in the early 1970s. They range from despondency to awe.

I was coxswain of the Admiral’s barge so I didn’t have much to do at sea, and noncoms generally steered around me. I was free to wander up to the fo'c'sle when someone said land was in sight. Sure enough, one could see the dark outline of mountains rising on the horizon like a bank of clouds, and I thought of how the first Europeans must have felt upon experiencing that sight. Colors became pronounced as we steamed closer and the magnificent grandeur of the island showed itself like a young girl modeling her Easter finery.

The beauty faded as we docked alongside a greasy pier, watched all the while by a line of young boys sitting side by side with their feet dangling over the dock. Each had a paper bag which he would raise and pat from time to time, with the opening around his nose.

Sniffing glue, they were. That seemed to be a common pastime for many of the young boys. One of our more pompous officers yelled for them to leave. It only took one finger each for them to respond. Thus began our relationship with the locals.

My pals and I had liberty next day. There being no Bible-study outlets near, we opted for a tour of the famous El Yunque National Rainforest. A bus transported us there and we were able to see a great deal of the countryside on the way. What I remember was staring out the window at mile after mile of cardboard and barn-tin shacks interrupted from time to time by a long stretches of whitewashed masonry fences with brilliant green golf courses beyond. There didn’t seem to be much middle ground in the local society.

We were warned not to go into certain sections of the “Old Town” area. There were groups there, we were told, that didn’t care much for military personnel. This was nothing new to us, so many from or ship went anyway. There were no incidents with the locals, but a sailor from a German warship taught one of our guys a lesson about the myth of American invincibility. Boy, did he ever.

Our little group searched the historic district for museums, libraries, and monuments. I later recognized some of the locations when they appeared as substitutes for Havana in such films as I’ve Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me. The beauty was breathtaking, the landscaping lush and rich. Do bodies still lie tangled among it now while our mainland government dawdles? I don’t know.

Our stopover ended quickly. On the last day ashore, we walked down to the local beach and ogled the girls in bikinis. We had no religious literature to distribute, so we just sat and watched while enjoying beverages of choice. My last memory of the island was of a young girl who appeared to be enjoying herself with a group of friends. She was quite gorgeous and curvy, the very image of a young, wholesome, fresh-faced teenager engaged in harmless recreation with her friends.

She would have fit seamlessly in any park in America. This was only natural, for they were Americans, just as we were.  She looked at us and one of the group smiled and nodded. She took us in, symbols of truth, justice and the American way, in our starched white uniforms and service ribbons, protecting her freedoms as well as well as those of all peoples.

“I hope you drown in the sea,” she said in perfect English. She nodded, her pals giggled, and they all strode away. At that moment, we felt as though we were back home.

Local hero … not.

Sailing To Oblivium: September 27, 2017

Perhaps the unkindest cut for me as a Vietnam veteran came from my own beloved United States Navy. It still hurts.

Like many of my shipmates, I requested duty in the East coast navy following my tour “in-country.” I had no idea what a mistake I’d made.

When I checked on board the USS Hunley in Charleston, South Carolina, I was struck by something. There were lifers on the ship with years of active duty that maybe only sported a “Geedunk Ribbon,” (you got that for joining while there was a war going on) and maybe a Good Conduct Ribbon, (you got that for not getting caught at anything).

I checked aboard with another sailor just getting back from “Nam.” I had four ribbons, two reflecting Vietnam duty, the Gedunk, and a unit commendation. He had those plus a Purple Heart, evidenced by purple splotches up his arm from shrapnel taken while aboard a supply boat.

It’s hard to imagine what we expect, but it sure wasn’t what we got. While they were assigning reservists and Seaman Apprentices to meaningful jobs, they sent us to “mess-cooking,” the most demeaning job on the ship, sort of a permanent KP. The job was normally filled by men straight out of boot camp, or screw-ups.

I’ll never forget the first meal we worked serving food to the others. Steam was flowing around my shipmate’s bare arms, the scars growing more purple from the heat.

It didn’t bother me much at the time. I had long-since ceased to expect or offer respect. It had to bother him a bit, but he never protested. One of the other sailors who came aboard after Vietnam duty did make the mistake of complaining about being assigned to the crappiest duty on the ship after a year in a war zone. The personnel officer was happy to explain.

“You goddam guys from Vietnam come aboard thinking you are so high and mighty, we want to put you in your place.” It wouldn't be the last time we suffered aboard that ship for our past sins of duty.

Anchors aweigh.

Just remembering.

Growing Up Southern: September 26, 2017

The accounts of how Brenda and I met differ, according to whomever tells the story. I thought about this the other day. It made me smile.

Someone posted a photograph of a Burger Chef outlet on Facebook. The now defunct fast-food empire once had a franchise in the Riverdale area of Little Rock. That’s where I saw her for the second time in my life.

The first time was in the parking lot of a long-ago demolished apartment complex on the hill where Dillard’s corporate headquarters now stands.

Here’s where the tales diverge. I was working on an old clunker of a car I owned, having gone to work at an urban planning firm in Little Rock a year earlier. I seem to remember I was replacing a headlight.

Now, if you ain’t from the South, you won’t fully understand the next part. There’s a term we use: “sashay.” There may not be a precise definition. It’s just something you know when you see it. It is a term used in square dancing, but that isn’t the right context.

She just sashayed up to where I was working, that’s all. I say she was wearing this bouncy blue dress with a bow in front. She says she never owned such an article of clothing. Feel free to believe whomever.

We both agreed she had long red hair, gorgeous red hair that guided one’s attention to an asset that made a young man’s heart go “wickedy-wonk.” (My friend and mentor Sonny Rhodes advises professional and descriptive terminology, so I try).

She was headed to meet a date, I found out later.

I gawked, and here’s another of collective-memory disagreements. I remember that she stopped, stared, and said, “What the hell are you looking at?”

She denies it. In a rare instance of conciliation among Americans, we agreed many years ago that perhaps I had merely read her mind.

Before the staring contest escalated, a mutual friend walked up and introduced us. It was apparent that she, Brenda, was unimpressed. It must have been equally apparent that I was smitten. After she walked away, the friend said, “She’s a farmer’s daughter. She has her own tractor, been driving them since she was ten years old.”

I went back to my work. Over the next several days, I admit to falling prey to occasional fantasies, some involving hay barns. I found out she was a school teacher and roommate of our mutual friend. She had a boyfriend, hence the date. I was starting to forget about the whole affair.

Now comes the Burger Chef part. It was a Saturday, I think, and I had gone for a burger. This was long before the VA Fat Nazi had “forbidden” such things. I was chowing down, as they say in the Navy, when a well-dressed beauty with short gray hair came in. She strode over and I stopped eating. She waited for recognition and, seeing none, said, “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

The devil on my left shoulder suggested, "No, who the hell are you?”

The angel on the right said, “No, but it would be one of the great blessings of my life if you told me.”

I said, “You look kinda familiar.” I always was the snappy conversationalist.

She said, “It’s the hair, isn’t it?”

“I reckon. What about it?”

“It’s a wig. Are you a little slow coming out of the chute, or what?” Once again, we may be talking about mind-reading rather than precise reporting.

She told me who she was. I pretended to know it all the time and assured her that it would have come to me in few seconds more. She ignored me and said she had been to a funeral, hence the wig. She assured me that she hadn’t cut her hair and asked if I came to the Burger Chef often.

I said usually on weekends when I could afford it. She said that she only came there after funerals and, after that jolly bit of repartee, I invited her to sit. “No,” was all she said.

That was 45 years ago. She said, “Yes,” later, after confiding to me that the boyfriend was a basketball coach and that she would prefer to have a tooth drilled without Novocain than sit through a basketball game. I assured her that I would never ask her out to one on a date.

She said, “Maybe there is hope for you yet.”

I think that very hope still exists within her.

The two faces of love.

Morning Thoughts: September 25, 2017

When I first enrolled at the University of Arkansas, African-American students were segregated into one dormitory. I can’t remember its name for the life of me. I seem to remember it was a wood frame building that looked more like a barracks than a dorm.

They had done away with it by the time I left and had integrated the dorms, years after they had integrated the classrooms. Justice came slowly in those days, hardly like a mighty river, more like a sluggish bayou.

Over the years, I have witnessed more than a few incidents that demanded courage. I’ve witnessed some that produced courage. One in particular stands out in my memory. It demonstrated a bravery almost rapturous in its glory.

The U of A had some sort of beauty contest each year in the Greek amphitheater. All the sororities would send their top picks across the stage dressed in their finery, and every male heart in the crowd would spend an evening pining for the unattainable. It was quite a sight. Each fraternity had a favorite sorority and the contest could get raucous at times. The students had a good time.

Then one year, from out of nowhere, the African-American dorm announced that it was entering a contestant. That caused quite a stir and, if I remember, boosted that year’s attendance, more from curiosity and a chance to mock and demean than for any other reasons.

I suspect it was a last-minute decision, for when the contestant’s name was called she appeared in a modest white dress, more suitable for church than a beauty contest. She hurried across the stage without looking at the crowd, then disappeared into the annals of campus history.

The stage was small, as I remember, but that must have been the longest walk a human made that night. The catcalls were, I can only imagine, painful to the core. The laughter must have been worse. The bravery was, to a boy from the segregated South of Arkansas, galvanizing. There are many faces of courage. Rescuing a wounded comrade under fire is one. Making a short walk through an almost visible curtain of hatred is surely another.

There is no chance that this girl received even a scintilla of consideration as winner of the contest. Yet, she towered over all of us there like a colossus. I’ll never forget the ephemeral journey she made from one side of the stage to the other amidst the taunting and disbelief. I still like to believe that it changed my life for the better.

I’ve no idea who she was, or what may have happened to her. If she is still alive, she is at the age where she could have a grandson playing professional sports. As I read the news this morning, she came to mind, and I wondered what she might think of a loved one making a brave stand to bring attention to racism and to produce justice for his people.

Courage: pass it on.

Thinking About Things: Sepember 24, 2017

We are now embroiled in a great controversy about how much respect to pay our national anthem. It is fitting and proper that we do so. Let's think about it.

It doesn’t bother me. I served my country and will never apologize for the matter in which I do or don’t respect her. Those who are watching the Ken Burns/ Lynn Novick documentary on the Vietnam War are seeing evidence that my country sent me into one of the worst strategic blunders in its history. One is free to make up one’s mind as to whether the adventure was immoral or illegal. For me, both at the time and in retrospect, it was both.

But I served. And because of that, I’ll stand or not stand for a human-inspired musical rendition of my country’s worth. And I’ll allow others to do as they see fit as well. Their path to this moment has been different from mine, and that demands empathy.

For example, I can’t imagine what it must have been like to be a man of African-American descent, during my lifetime

A man of my age would have heard their father, a grown man working to provide for his family, called a “boy.”

That person would have attended a substandard school.

That person, having served his country as I did, would have been denied housing of his choice upon return from war.

That person would have seen a presidential aspirant, telecasting a “Southern-Strategy, announce his candidacy in the Mississippi city in which four civil rights were murdered for attempting to register people of his color to vote.

That person, upon entering the job market, would have been denied good jobs and promotions.

The list goes on and on. For women of color, it would have been worse.

With that as a background, the respect paid the national anthem recedes in importance as an issue. Yuval Noah Harari, in his book, Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind suggests that our species requires mythology at a certain point to maintain an expansion of our group development. If true, then the myths surrounding patriotic fervor are as much utilitarian as they are morality-based. Showing an almost worshipful respect for a national anthem for example can help a society expand its importance.

To me, it would depend upon the circumstance. At a memorial service for those who stormed the beaches at Normandy, I will stand tall and proud.

For a ceremony celebrating the passage of the Civil Rights Act, I would stand tall and proud, as I would for many other ceremonies celebrating the great moments of our nation’s history as I see them.

For celebrating those activities or individuals that demean or trivialize honor, respect, and duty, I might take a walk. For those celebrating anyone who would seek to destroy the institutions that have guided America through her greatest moments, I might even sit on my butt.

At this moment, we Americans will take sides once more. A percentage of them will choose to show respect for our symbols without restraint. A percentage will continue to protest. Neither change nor contemplation will change those minds. The important group, the group that includes me, will use this opportunity to reflect upon the challenge, and push ourselves to amend and improve our country.

That, it seems to me, would be a good and proper thing.

Just thinking …

Growing Up Southern: September 23, 2017

I’ve spent half my waking hours so far thinking of Robert Johnston and half looking for a quote by John Steinbeck. The quote, I felt, fits Robert. I'm still looking.

Found it. In Cannery Row, Doc is speaking:

“The things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second.”

As everyone knows by now, Robert died this week while jogging on the streets of a city he loved. I shan’t attempt to imply herein that he was a perfect man. He didn’t always suffer fools well. He could express a temper. He didn’t mince words when he felt his beliefs oershadowed someone’s feelings. He could intimidate purely by his size and bearing. We had some differences, he and I, over the years, but they healed.

But in recent years, when I saw him on the streets of our city, I sometimes imagined Ed Ricketts, Steinbeck's friend and model for Doc, walking the streets around Cannery Row, deep in thought about the state of our humanity, looking for all as if he dreaded to be recognized, his contemplative mind the only friend he needed.

At other times, I thought of people who strive to accomplish in order to enshrine each accomplishment on a great “aggrandizement board” for folks to see, and for personal or political gain.

That wasn’t Robert. Few among us have accomplished what he did. Some have tried, and some have accomplished much, but unlike my old friend, they make a constant effort to let you know about it. I knew of his accomplishments as I was a few years behind him at Pine Bluff High, where he became a legend, both academically and athletically.

Probably, many people only knew of his record because someone other than Robert told them. I remember working in his campaign when he ran for the state legislature. The calling instructions dwelt only with ideas and proposals aimed at helping all citizens, not with his achievements. They ended with the plea to go out and vote, even if the callee was going to vote against him.

I visited with him for the last time a few months ago when we both attended a documentary at the MacArthur Museum of Arkansas Military History. He looked well and attentive as always and we spoke briefly of old friends and neighbors. Had I any inkling it would be for the last time, I would have thanked him for the inspiration he provided. I’m sure that he would have changed the subject straight away.

He spent the last years of life living the lessons ordained by the Galilean in the 25^th Chapter of Matthew of the Christian New Testament. He did so in a time during which our country was dominated by powerful factions operating in direct opposition to the welfare of “least of those among us.” In short, he remained at odds with a majority of the political community and a large segment of the modern religious community. He was that way, you know.

He was a contrarian, as many great people are. Again, he wasn’t perfect, but close enough. Maybe he knew, deep inside, what our species enjoys doing to the best of those among us.

We'll always miss the good ones.

Growing Up Southern: September 22, 2017

I jokingly called the group “The Quapaw Quarter Old-Time Running Club.” We mostly lived in Little Rock’s Quapaw Quarter area, you see. We were part of a crazy group of oddballs who poured our energies, money, and time into black holes known as historic homes. It was back in the 1980s, a simpler time in many ways.

The group of joggers, except for one, lived within a few blocks of one another. Joe White, a PhD at UALR lived in what is known as the “Upper Heights.” I think he was educated up North somewhere. I seem to remember that he taught something associated with literature. When I became interested in mythology, he briefed me on some Scandinavian motifs, such as “the forbidden door.” Nice guy. He and I jogged about the same speed, really a fast waddle, so we spent some time together, talking while the others ran ahead.

Scott Stafford is a Harvard educated lawyer and former law school professor. He also served as group historian. One of the faster runners, he could set a blistering pace while reciting a detailed history of the Battle of Majuba Hill without missing a beat.

Cleve May has a PhD from, I think, North Carolina. He was the only one actually born in Little Rock and the only one who could keep up with Scott.

Robert Johnston was a marvel of a man. From my hometown of Pine Bluff, Arkansas, he played football at Rice University and could have gone pro had he not received a Rhodes Scholarship to study in England. With a PhD from Columbia, he returned to Arkansas, headed the Political Science Department at UALR, became a state representative, and later ran the state’s Public Service Commission. Somewhere along the way he became an Army Ranger.

Then, there I stood amongst them. Enough said.

We had fun in those days. We’d often meet at the University and use one of its locker rooms to prepare for our runs. The students probably called us “old farts” but we sure felt young and invincible. Oh, the stories we could tell.

Robert died yesterday, reportedly while jogging the streets of Little Rock. I just found out about it. I had seen him a couple of times in the past year, but we hadn’t stayed close in years. I expect his obit will be expansive, as he accomplished a lot, and people thought highly of him.

As far as I know, the rest of the group is still alive. Another occasional member, John Woodruff, died several years ago after a long battle with cancer. He had been a beat reporter for the old Arkansas Gazette, and loved to tell of getting his “piece” ready by deadline and relaxing while the building began to shake from the startup of the presses. As H.L. Mencken said, it was a hell of a life.

They were all good lives in that group, and I’m glad to have been a part of it. Personal relationships form lasting memories, much more than cell phones ever could.

Cleve, Joe, Scott, Robert, and the author.

Sailing To Oblivium: September 21, 2017

Someone asked what I think of the Ken Burns/Lynn Novick documentary on the Vietnam War. So far, I think it’s telling some much-needed truths. I have embarked on a journey, over the last year or so, to study that period of our country’s history. It is a tangled mess. Maybe the film can untangle it a bit.

It was what one might call a “political ass-covering war.” Of course, there was no real threat to our country or our way of life. There were threats to politicians. Political parties and individual politicians stood poised like demons of the night to swoop upon any opponent that showed the slightest inclination to question the myth of American invincibility. Gathering votes proved to be the dominant motivator, along with the chance to make money of course. Some things never change.

There was this shibboleth, you see, that Harry Truman had “lost” China, as if other countries were our property to own or not own, even countries with a population of 500M people. No current president was going to lose another country, or there would be political hell to pay.

It didn’t matter to them how many 18-year-olds died while they played their games.

The word that came to mind during last evening’s episode was “hubris.” In short, it refers to a sense of excessive pride or self-confidence. The Greeks broadened it to include excessive pride toward or defiance of the gods, leading to nemesis. I guess we could include the gods of war and finance.

Remember when the criminals at the Enron Corporation were instituting schemes that financial experts said would never work? They warned that others had tried them and all had failed. “Not to worry,” the whiz-kids said. “They never worked before because we weren’t the ones in charge.” Now, that corporation lies in the same smoldering trash heap of history as the former Republic of South Vietnam. Hubris is a cruel mistress.

The makers of the film might have lingered a bit longer on the Westmoreland strategy (if one stoops to call it that) of “We’re going to kill you until you quit fighting us.” That had worked with Germany, Italy, and Japan. It just had to work on this backward little nation with an army of half-starved peasants in black pajamas. It didn’t, though. Those little men and women were just the latest in a line of fanatical patriots who had been fighting foreign invaders for 300 years. We were simply next in line

Joe Galloway, the journalist-hero at the Ia Drang Valley did point out, in the documentary, that the emphasis on body counts made warriors into liars. Thomas Ricks, in his book The Generals, goes much further, talking about how officers would count scattered body parts each as a separate corpse, and how two commanders almost came to blows over the ownership of a severed arm.

And we wonder why our country is still where it started in Afghanistan 16 bloody years ago.

So, to answer the question about my view of the documentary, I find it accurate based on my experience and readings. Am I bitter, as a veteran? No, I never experienced the horrors of the band of brothers following Hal Moore or the Marines abandoned at Hue. Was I ever scared s**tless? Well yeah. But I’m also scared when I think that some of the people who post pure insanity on the internet are out there driving cars with pistols beside them on the seat.

No, I think I’m fascinated and intrigued. There are lots of dots to be connected. Go back and watch the scene in which the Vietnamese man describes Nguyễn Cao Kỳ. It’s pretty funny, actually, given our current predicament.

I’ll stick with “intrigued,” maybe with a dash of impending doom. Until March 20, 2003, I had always assumed—hoped maybe—that our country would never make a strategic blunder as great and tragic as the decision to go to war in Vietnam. Of course, we did, only to see that decision itself eclipsed on November 9, 2016.

As F. Scott Fitzgerald had a character observe, “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Maybe that wouldn’t be too bad. Right now, our past looks better than our future.

 

A young Arkansan who loved to fish and hunt
and always wanted to be a Marine.

Growing Up Southern: September 19, 2017

To paraphrase a saying attributed to Ulysses S. Grant, my father could whistle two songs, one was the hymn “Farther Along.” The other wasn’t.

Oh, he liked music. He just never pretended to be an active participant. He loved to close the grocery store a little early and bundle us off early to some live performance. Famous artist or unknown, it didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t above hauling the whole family down to a small venue in Rison, Arkansas to hear a young singer who had no arms, their molecules having obviously reassigned to his lungs. It was quite a show as it turned out, although I never heard of the artist again.

But, as I said, some of the artists we saw were well known. The group Johnnie and Jack played once at our high school auditorium, and they were famous. Perhaps their most popular song was “Poison Love.” Check it out, and note the fancy Latin-like rhythm guitar work by Johnnie Wright. This “Rhumba Beat” became associated with them on such classics as “Down South In NewOrleans.” That’s steel guitar legend Shot Jackson with them on the videos. I hope he was there with them in Pine Bluff. Heck, I don’t recall and I didn’t even know who he was then.

Johnnie was also famous for being married to music legend Kitty Wells for a few days short of 74 years. She wasn’t with them the night we saw them, though, as far as I can remember. She may have been busy recording “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels.”

Oh, and that music on the video? That was a genre called “Country and Western Music.” It became extinct somewhere around the early 1980s. Those of us who were privileged to hear it while we were growing up still miss it after all these years.

The biggest shocker, to me at least, about our musical pilgrimages came to me in the 1960s. When they made that awful, terrible, pathetic, laughable film about the life of Hank Williams, I was telling my mother that I had gone to see it. She looked at me and said, “Well you saw the real Hank Williams once.”

“I what?”

“He came to Robinson Auditorium and your daddy took us all to see him.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You weren’t but about three or four.”

From all accounts, he was sober for that performance. It was a Sunday I think. Daddy remembered Hank saying of the song “My Bucket’s Got A Hole In It” that it “ … has been buying a lot of beans for me and the boys lately.”

I wish I could say I remember it. I do remember seeing those giant (fake) columns at the front of the building, and if I allow my mind to run wild I can conjure up the image of a man with dark circles around his eyes singing away. That may be pure imagination. At any rate, I can say I actually saw the man. I suppose if he had been armless, I might have a stronger recollection of it.

Daddy bought us a Johnnie and Jack songbook at their concert. I think I still have it stashed away somewhere. I’m thankful for every musical outing he took us to. I guess I’m also thankful that they didn’t have cell phones in those days. Real life was a lot more fun.

A life much too short

Growing Up Southern: September 17, 2017

Sometimes I think back about things I’ve done in life and wonder, “how in the world did I do that?” Sometimes I wonder, “why?”

Take vacations, for example. As newlyweds, we thought it would be awfully nifty to take a vacation. (Nifty is a fine old word that can be used as a replacement for the tiresome “awesome.” Pray do).

Only problem was, we had very little money to spend on vacations. So, for the price of one night in a motel, we bought a tent from Sears and borrowed an ice chest from someone. We put some ice in the chest along with sandwich fixings and soft drinks, loaded them in the car, along with swimming attire and few clothes, and headed for the panhandle of Florida, now known as “the Redneck Riviera.”

As they say down South, we “was getting ready to do it in tall cotton.” One of the more pleasant memories of my life is watching my trophy wife bending over the front seat rest making us sandwiches from the ice chest in the back so we didn’t even have to stop for meals. Have I mentioned that she had this knockdown gorgeous figure? Well she did. It was sure worth watching. Still is.

 

See what I mean?

There was this national seashore at Pensacola that had a campground. It had the bay on one side and the Gulf of Mexico on the other. We arrived there without mishap and picked out a good spot. We pitched our tent under what passed as a shade tree, set up chairs, and commenced to vacation.

Have I mentioned that it was over a hundred degrees under what passed as a shade tree? Well it was. A can of beer, retrieved from under a blanket of ice, would reach ambient temperature during the journey from ice chest to chair. Sweat would roll down your body even if you didn’t move. Any metal left uncovered would quickly become too hot to touch. Food spoiled in the heat and clothes stayed sticky at all times.

But, you know what? We’ve stayed in some pretty fancy digs during our 44-year marriage, and the fact is, we’ve never been happier than we were in that sweltering Florida heat.

Did I mention that, one day, we purchased a whole chest full of shrimp, boiled them that evening, took them to the beach, and ate every damn one of them while we watched the sun go down? Well we did. It’s the only time in our long experience that I’ve seen Brenda eat all the shrimp she wanted.

I guess it wasn’t too bad, even given the heat and all. We came back year after year. There’s something to be said for being young and not knowing any better.

Camping Partner … after we could afford
a cookstove and bountiful eyeglasses.

Growing Up Southern: September 16, 2017

We turned as the bride-to-be started up the aisle, resplendent in her white gown. In the crowd, to her left, were two girls in tank tops and shorts. Oh dear. Has respect now left the upper world?

I was relating this story to a group of friends. I commented, “I wouldn’t be surprised to attend a funeral some day at which spectators wore shorts.”

“Ahem,” said one of the crowd. “Saw that last month.”

Last night’s Bill Maher show brought this to mind. Tim Gunn, star of a TV show called Project Runway was on the show. I have just seen bits and pieces of Gunn’s show, while my wife watched, but evidently it is quite popular.

Anyway, Mr. Gunn was bemoaning the current state of dress in America. I must note that he was wearing a blazer with checks over a striped shirt, but no matter. He seems to enjoy a reputation as an

Tim Gunn has a point.

arbiter of taste, so I will bow. He referred to “the slobivacation of America.” I’m still thinking about this, not sure I fully agree with his detective work. On the other hand, one trip to any Walmart store in our country will cause one to understand his concern.

As a child of the Not-Deep South, and a sucker for discards, I’ve wound up with box upon box of family photographs. A look through them reveals on solid fact about men who lived in the land of my roots during my early youth, men who had worked digging fenceposts for 50 cents a day, but were never so poor that they didn’t own one dress suit. It just wasn’t proper. My father bought his at the Henry Marx store in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, suits of a flexible design suitable both for church or for courting the precious young thing he won and married.

As you look at those old photographs, you wonder how long it took to save enough money for the suits, shirts, ties, and hats (oh yes, hats) those men wore. Appearance must have been important for them. It held true for women as well. A young couple may have had, as they say in these parts, “neither a pot nor window,” but the man had a suit and the woman had a “Sunday-dress.”

This was the generation, by the way, that they now call “The Greatest.” Some tended the country while others chased the fascists off the planet. Many didn't wear their Sunday clothes for a while.

Something happened afterward, though. We started, as Mr. Gunn suggests, to become increasingly unconcerned about how we appeared in public. I don’t know why or when. I suspect it began the first time we allowed a surly teenager to eat at the table wearing a baseball cap. It went downhill from there and led, eventually, to a scene witnessed recently wherein a moron wearing a broad-brimmed cowboy hat sat through a church funeral without once removing the monstrosity.

It’s worse in Texas. I hear they even let young women wear short dresses with cowboy boots, Barfola.

John Steinbeck noticed the association between dress and social status in a scene he used twice that I know of, one in a collection of short stories called Pastures of Heaven and again in East of Eden. A rich landowner tells a worker that they are going to town, only to have the worker say he must change clothes first. When the landowner comments that he doesn’t change clothes for that purpose, he is met with, “Yes, you have to be very rich to go to town dressed as you are.” (Quoted from memory. My Steinbeck books are currently packed).

Anyway, Mr. Gunn made an impression. I think I’ll start dressing better and see what impact that may have. It’ll scare the hell out of the Walmart cashiers, but it may speed up my transactions at the bank. Fortunately, I don’t have to worry about attracting a women. I already found me one.

An aunt and uncle dressed
up for Sunday visiting 

Growing Up Southern: September 15, 2017

They say the “Greatest Generation” gave up its present for our future. I think of that a lot. Fate has placed one of those great ones into our care, a saint who now requires constant supervision. If paying back a debt requires sacrifice, so be it.

"I've had a good life," she says.

Caregiving now requires of Brenda and me that one, or both of us, is with our ward at all times. We don't have the option of traveling anywhere together, just the two of us. We now know how our parents, one of whom is that ward now in our care, must have felt when we were helpless children. In each of our cases, our parents would have no more left us with a babysitter than they would have rented us out to a textile factory. Care was a constant obligation.

Life can be confining. People sometimes laud us for our sacrifice, but, to us, it is simply something you do. Just as you can’t refuse to take a breath, you can’t refuse responsibility. What you can do is live a life of pleasures gained from what some would call the mundane, unimaginative, or uninspiring.

Something like enjoying, together, the colors of a forest changing tones just before dusk.

Something like helping one another repair an old tractor that has given faithful service for over 50 years.

Something like making a reference to a mutually revered book or movie, such as, “Gee, people are driving just like the race scene from On The Beach. Remember that?” Or, one watching Rebecca for the 20^th time simply because the other loves it so much.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. We miss walking along the seashore together after having boiled a pot of shrimp and feasted “bigly.” We miss walking the streets of Washington, D.C. and feeling the flow of history coursing through us. Cannery Row, San Francisco, Gettysburg, Chichen Itza, Fallingwater, Chicago … we miss them all.

But one can’t always pick and choose in life. We believe that those are the happiest who can find beauty in a fallen leaf, joy in sharing a good book, or comfort in recalling old friends and family members that are no longer with us. Sometimes, that is all that life is willing to grant us.

Young and ready for life

Growing Up Southern: September 14, 2017

It's the only building I ever designed. The company I worked for couldn't find anyone else to do it. That was over 35 years ago. It's not an award-winner, but it's held up pretty well. 

Paid a visit to the small Southwest towns of Fulton and McNab Tuesday evening. It’s an interesting part of the state, if you look in the right places. The fire station/library/meeting hall sits in Fulton. That's one thing.

The two towns account, between the two of them, for a population of around 300 people. But they turned out a room full of folks who were determined not to let fortune pass their communities by, as it has so many small, rural towns in Arkansas.

Times are hard for such communities these days. The cost of providing public services has risen to the point where it is almost impossible to maintain the facilities and systems required for them. Young folks want to live where the action is. Old folks want to live near medical facilities. Folks in between want to live where it’s not too far to drive to work and their kids can go to “good schools,” whatever that means.

It is hard for the Fultons and McNabs to compete.

There occurred a major reason for hope a few years back. A company announced plans for a major coal-powered generating plant, now operating on a site about halfway between the two communities. The 600-megawatt facility employees over 100 people in what is a highly technical operation.

The plant hasn’t resulted in major growth for the two communities. The site is within fairly easy commuting distance from the State of Texas, just across the Red River from Fulton. That state has no income tax, so guess where local workers choose to live?

Speaking of Texas, Fulton was the site of a major supply and “jumping off” spot for those who eventually led the fight to remove what is now Texas from Mexico. Supposedly, Stephen F. Austin operated a supply store temporarily there. The towns are near Old Washington, the Confederate capital of the state and the site of some marvelous old homes. Troops marched and camped all around the area during the 1860s unpleasantness but no major battle ever took place. The two towns are only a few miles from the City of Hope, boyhood home of President William Jefferson Clinton. The area claims a spot in our state’s history.

We met in a first-rate community center in McNab, the result of efforts by energetic mayor. The communities plan to work toward more park and recreation facilities. I told them that was a good start toward making their cities more attractive to new residents. It’s going to be a “hard row to hoe” for those folks, but I left feeling optimistic. The land around is pleasant, green, and unspoiled. The towns are located practically on Interstate 30. People seem nice. The leaders have hope and energy.

And who knows? The next Walmart may decide to locate its headquarters there.

She has held up pretty well
for nearly 40 years.

Growing Up Southern: September 12, 2018

I’ve never been in a hurricane. Can’t imagine the horror. I experienced what they termed a “tropical storm” once. Close enough for me. I have no stomach for the real thing.

For someone from the rural hinterlands, the terrifying thing about winds connected with the sea is that they just don’t stop. On and on and on they go. We are used to a few minutes of violence, and then, like in a Beethoven symphony, the sun breaks through. None of this blowing for three days crap.

The storm I experienced originated in the South China Sea and poured over the little compound where I was stationed about three-quarters the way up Monkey Mountain outside Da Nang. We had two towers and an entry shack to guard. We were doing a fair job of it until the storm hit.

One tower stood across the road from us and some 50 feet above our compound. It provided a good view of the compound and the lands beyond the mountain. It was isolated and a bit scary around midnight, but provided a magnificent view during the day.

When the storm hit its peak, a man from Oklahoma we called “Preacher” Hargraves was on duty in the tower. Of course we couldn’t see it for the driving, sometimes horizontal, rain. The wind had blown some of the roof away on our barracks so we were huddled up anywhere we could find a dry spot. Someone said, “Look yonder.”

Oh, by the way, we called him “Preacher” because he spent every spare moment reading his Bible or delivering his testimony while he cut our hair or expounded upon our wicked ways. He tended to get on people’s nerves.

Anyway, we looked and saw Preacher Hargraves running full-tilt down the hill, his M-16 slung over his back and his Bible flapping in one hand, all getting soaked. We fully expected to see a full company of NVA regulars descend the hill behind him.

When he reached where we were, he stopped to catch his breath. Our leader, a First-Class Machinist Mate named Webb asked him why he left his post. “You’re supposed to be in Tower One.”

“The storm blew the damned roof off,” Preacher explained in a manner totally inconsistent with his normal comportment.

Tower One got off easy. Tower Two was up the road a piece. We manned it with an M-60 machinegun, but only at night, and not anymore. When we went up after the storm subsided, there was no more Tower Two. It was gone completely and we never found a scrap of it.

We lived on snacks and hoarded gifts from home for three days when downed trees prevented supply trucks from reaching us. I don’t remember how long we wore rain-soaked clothes and boots. Later, we found that the storm had moved the base supports of our rather large elevated water tank a couple of inches. I suppose they rebuilt the towers, but I don’t know. I left the country soon after that.

Since then, as I say, I never wanted any part of a real hurricane and my heart goes out to those who have seen the worst of them.

Here’s an uplifting bit from Ludwig Van. Starting a 22:40, it is a masterful bit of work where, in a few seconds, he takes us from dark and brooding to a magnificent outburst of hope. It’s for our friends in Texas and Florida.

Modern view from near where our compound stood

Sailing to Oblivium: September 11, 2017

Sad, but it takes a disaster, maybe even two or three, to make people proud of the people I’ve worked with for over 45 years. I’m talking about the people who work for the local, state, and federal governments. I don’t know if you have noticed, but they’ve been in the news lately. Oh, and they were in the news 16 years ago today when our most memorable national tragedy occurred. You may not have recognized them then, behind the dust and soot, but they were there.

These are the people who brave, daily, the antipathy of many Americans and talk-show hosts. They withstand the jokes, jibes, and slander hurled at them like bitter breaths of wind. These are the people about whom Ronald Reagan was talking when he said, “The nine most terrifying words in the English language are: I'm from the government and I'm here to help.”

Oh yes, these are the folks who stormed into the burning Twin Towers to rescue people. They were there to help, and it was terrifying.

They are the ones who, along with brave civilians, rescued victims of Hurricane Harvey from swirling floodwaters. They were there to help, and it was terrifying.

They are the ones who, albeit with more time to prepare, performed a marvelous job of forecasting, planning, and oversight in dealing with Hurricane Irma. They were there to help, and it was terrifying.

And on any given day, they perform less publicized heroics, from teaching our children, to making our neighborhoods and country safe. They don't live in gold-plated penthouses. They just keep those places safe before going home to mortgaged homes in modest neighborhoods.

It saddens me when I must endure the denigration of public servants by folks who scarcely go an hour without benefiting from their service. It’s terrible to say, but the only respite from the insults comes during, and for a short time after, a disaster. The so-called libertarians grow silent, conservatives admit how lucky we were that the forecasters and rescuers were there, and even Hate Radio takes a break … sometimes. Then they’re all at it again.

Rudyard Kipling noticed it in 1890 in the attitude the British had toward their soldiers, when he wrote, in his immortal poem Tommy: “For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute! But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;”

Since I work, and have worked, with these folks, I appreciate them every day and feel proud when I call them friends and colleagues. I don’t wait until the buildings are on fire, the waters are rising, or the winds are toppling buildings, to appreciate them.

The work they do is not the problem. The work they do is the solution. There should be a national day of appreciation for our public servants. Don’t count on it, though. The winds are already subsiding. Calm will come, and once again we’ll hear, “Chuck them out, the brutes.”

Lest we forget

Growing Up Southern: September 9, 2017

 A good man died this week, not a close friend, but a good one, and he liked my first book. Fussed about my taking so long on the second. That was when I saw him for the last time. I’ll not finish it in time for him. Too bad.

He was of the class “Southern Farmer.” He worked all his life and was still working until just before he took sick for the last time. Robert Cole was his name, and he was Brenda’s cousin. He leaves behind his childhood sweetheart, Betty, whom he married in 1957.

He and Betty lived down the road, Cole Road they named it later, a few houses from where Brenda and her parents lived. When we first married, there were maybe a dozen families living on that road. Now there may be three. Many were related and they all shared memories, sadness, joy, and at times, farming equipment.

Before crops were laid by, you couldn’t travel the road without seeing men out on their tractors working the fields. At days end, some would simply stop the tractors and walk home. There were even enough families to support a small Methodist church where the gravel roads intersected back in the day.

The roads are paved now, but the church disappeared decades ago. As I say, few people live in the community anymore. The fields are empty most of the time, worked sporadically by corporate crews who come en masse, work for day or two, then move to another field. You don’t see men driving around on Sunday afternoons, as my daddy used to, just to see how the crops are doing.

And these days,  nobody parks equipment in the fields of an evening. They don’t always steal the whole tractor, sometimes they just steal the most hard-to-find parts, which is worse in some ways. Times have changed, many for the worse.

They won’t make men like Robert Cole anymore, men who lived in a square plot carved from their fields so they often looked out on them while they ate breakfast. That sort of connection between the land that gives us food and the men and women who bring it forth doesn’t exist around here anymore. Farming is just another corporate enterprise.

Robert and Betty loved life and I’m glad for the good times they had together. The hard times they lived through justified them. They even took up snow-skiing later in life. They left a good lesson for us all: work hard, but, as Robert would have said, “Dadgummit, stop and play every once in a while.”

So, I think I'll just do that.

Just thinking.

Growing Up Southern: September 8, 2017

Know what keeps me sane? Music, playing it and listening to it. I'm no good at playing it, but it makes me smile.

Steve Martin says you can't frown and play the banjo at the same time. Some folks say you can tell when a banjo player is standing on a level stage if he is drooling equally from both sides of his mouth. And so it goes.

Anyway, I got my old banjo out the other day and hit a lick or two. I finally have a place where the sound doesn't produce threats of divorce or mayhem. I tried to frown while I played Fireball Mail. Couldn't. I tried to say something mean about someone I don't like while playing Earl's Breakdown. No dice. Coundn't think of a nasty thing to do to my little brother while taking a try at Sally Ann.

Hey, got to go. I'm going to open a Fund Me account for the purchase of banjos for the entire Trump administration, and his pals.

Growing Up Southern:September 7, 2017

Somethings about the past I don’t miss. Some I do. One thing I miss is the canned peaches my grandmother used to make. My goodness.

I don’t see how they did it, those women back then. We’re talking about a tin-roofed farmhouse before there was any knowledge of insulation. You looked up saw the rafters. An aunt of mine used to decorate them with circles of those corks you used to get in coke bottle tops sewn together in rings.

As I understand it, canning requires things to be put in sanitized jars that are then subjected to high heat. In Mama Rodgers’ (originally “Harris” but she remarried after her first husband died) day, that meant laboring over a wood cook stove during the heat of an Arkansas summer when 100-degree days were common.

Those far-off times created some real women.

But back to those peaches. I remember they had little black spheres of spice floating around in them and a sort of sharp, sweet taste. I’d sell all my wife’s dogs to the Gypsies for one jar of them now. They raised the peaches of course, she and Grandpa Rodgers. (That’s what we called him). They also raised everything else she canned. Along with vegetables, she relied on a smokehouse that stood next to the main house. I don’t know what it looked like inside because we weren’t allowed in there. We could have gone into the root cellar where the canned things were, but I suspected there was a particularly big rattlesnake waiting for me should I dare, so I never.

But back to those peaches. I remember having them for Sunday dinner (lunch to city slickers) when folks would gather at the house after church. The men and boys would eat. Then the women and girls. Then Mama Rodgers. All that would be left of the fried chicken by then would be the neckbone. That didn’t seem a fair deal for one who had worked so hard to feed everyone else. I don’t think women back then expected a fair deal. Survival was miracle enough.

I’ll talk about Mama Rodgers more later. She was a fine lady, unsullied by pride or arrogance. Widowed into abject poverty with three young children at home (our mother being one), she knew comfort in her last years, surrounded by family. She had this one old hat of which she was so proud. I guess you would call it old fashioned now, but she loved it.

But back to those peaches, I don’t think you can buy those at Walmart, and I don’t know anyone who cans them like that today. Too bad. 

No stilleto heels,
but she loved that hat.