Hubris

Let’s remember that on this day in 1950, units of the 1st Marine Division, the 7th Army Infantry Division, and the 3rd Infantry Division, along with units of the Korean Capital and 3rd divisions were fighting their way out of a trap sprung in temperatures of -30 degrees Fahrenheit near the Chosin Reservoir in North Korea. They were just below the Yalu River, the border between North Korea and Manchuria (China).

Despite significant warnings of a Communist Chinese buildup and infiltration, two American megalomaniacs, Douglas MacArthur and Edward Almond ordered the troops there for reasons of self-aggrandizement. (Almond wanted to urinate in the Yalu as Patton had done at the Rhine. MacArthur was in Tokyo publicizing an American victory for which he would take credit.)

Americans back home were recovering from their Thanksgiving feasts.  American soldiers were watching their comrades die.

The troops had traveled north on tortuous, frozen, paths through mountainous territory with inadequate communications. It would be the closest the world was to World War Three until the Cuban Missile Crisis.

An old friend of mine was an artillery officer (Redleg) in the battle. He wrote of American sentries who, if they stood watch without a fire, would freeze to death during the night. Those who built fires would die from enemy fire.

The discipline and honor of the individual troops and units resulted in the successful evacuation of thousands of allied troops, albeit with high casualties and bitter memories. During the retreat, they had to go back by the same narrow roads, with enemy troops stationed in the high ground above them. In our warm homes, we can’t imagine the carnage.

Let’s think. Do we want another megalomaniac, this one a non-serving draft-dodger, to decide the standards of discipline and honor for our brave men and women in uniform? Can’t we see what unbridled hubris can do to us? As for me, I’ll abide by the honor of those who fought at the Frozen Chosin. Facts matter.

Sources:

The Coldest Winter: America and the Korean War: David Halberstam

On Desperate Ground: The Marines at the Reservoir, the Korean War's Greatest Battle: Hampton Sides

American Heritage: Winter of the Yalu: James H. Dill

Fiction Friday

Sundown in Zion

Chapter Five

Our hero just finished visiting with a young friend and reading a note from an old friend. It's early and adventure awaits.

After Nelson had cleaned the dining table, he picked a book from a box and sat down to read. He examined the title of the book and the inside cover. Then he turned to the first chapter. As he read, he began to smile. In the narrative, a young child was talking about his parents’ tombstone.

            Nelson read, “The shape of the letters on my father's, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man with curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription, ‘Also Georgiana Wife of the Above,’ I drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly.”

            Nelson lowered the book to his lap. “Also Georgiana, wife of the above,” he said aloud. He closed his eyes drew a deep breath. “Also Georgiana,” he repeated. He put the book aside and stood. He went to the front door and walked onto his porch. The night offered one of those mid-March evenings of balmy weather with a freshening breeze from the north-northwest. Nelson sat for a while in a porch-lounger and watched the street where the truck had parked earlier. Then he checked his watch. It was still early in the evening so he rose and went back into the house. He grabbed light jacket from a rack and secured the house. After checking both ways, he turned north toward Ninth Street, his hands stuck deep in his pockets and his jacket zipped against the night breeze.

            A few blocks from his home, Nelson entered a neighborhood micro-brewery. Although it was early, the place had started to fill. Nelson purchased a house special and took a seat at the last empty table, a small two-seater located in a quiet corner. He sipped his beer and watched the young and lively crowd.

            Nelson appeared deep in thought when a strong feminine voice from beside him intruded.

            “Join you?” it said. Nelson looked around. A tall woman, probably in her early-thirties stared down at him. She had dark auburn hair that fell softly to her shoulders and then curled upward. He skin was flawless and her dark eyes danced for him. She wore a long-sleeved sweater-top of a muted color with crocheted ruffles around the neckline and down the front. It emphasized generous breasts that seemed both proud and comfortable. A dark gray knit skirt extended to mid-thighs of long shapely legs. A small pendant hung from a thin gold chain around her neck. She placed a hand on a hip and smiled.

            “Don’t mean to be forward,” she said. “I’ve just been on my feet all day and I’m bushed.” She looked at the empty chair. “Are you expecting someone?”

            “No,” Nelson said, and he motioned for her to take the chair. She sat her beer on the table and slid into the empty chair, extending a hand. “Tina Barrow,” she said. “No relation to Clyde.”

            He shook her hand. “Gideon Nelson,” he said. “No relation to Baby Face.”

            They both laughed. Tina wrapped both hands around her beer and leaned forward. “Haven’t seen you here before.” She said it as a fact but apparently intended it as a question. She waited for an answer.

            “Just a couple of times,” Nelson said. He took a short drink from his mug.

            Tina said, “Nice place. It’s what passes for a neighborhood bar in Little Rock.

            He nodded. She leaned back and observed the room. “Mostly the young crowd,” she said. “I like it though. I meet some of my students here from time to time.”

            “You’re a teacher?”

            “Sociology,” she said. “UALR.”

            “The University of Arkansas at Little Rock,” he said.

            “That’s the one. You new around here?”

            “Been in the area for a year and a half or so. Just moved to the city.”

            She leaned back toward him. “Now you know what I do. Want to tell me what you do?”

            He smiled. “I recuperate,” he said.

            She looked for a smile but saw none, started to speak but stopped, then nodded. “Don’t we all.”

            They both settled back and regarded the crowd for a few minutes. A young couple entered the bar and the man spotted Tina and waved. She returned it and the two walked to where she sat.

            The man said, “Hey Dr. Barrow. Out slumming?”

            She smiled. “Keeping tabs, Mr. Osterman,” she said, “caring for your sheep is a Biblical injunction don’t you know?”

            “It’s Friday night,” the man said. “Students are allowed to howl on Friday night or life ain’t worth living.” The girl with him giggled.

            “Granted,” Tina said, raising her mug in mock salute. She waved it toward Nelson. “Meet Gideon Nelson, a recovering American.”

            The three shook hands all around the couple wandered toward the bar. Tina leaned in close to Nelson, and laughed. “Making students nervous and curious makes it all seem worthwhile. My life’s dream is to catch one doing something truly untoward and cause them to wet their pants.”

            Nelson laughed. Tina raised her mug in salute and he touched it with his. He said, “Here’s hoping you achieve all your dreams.”

            “Now that I’ve shared one,” she said, “do you have any? Secret dreams that is?”

            Nelson thought. “To tell you the truth, I would like to have a college degree someday. Fact is, I’m looking into your university to maybe take a course or two.”

            “Not sociology, I hope.”

            “You don’t like older students?”

            “I love them,” she said. “They actually want to learn.” She took a sip of beer. “But sociology, I’m afraid, isn’t all that valuable in the marketplace. Someone once described it the study of it as ‘an elephant giving birth to ant’ and I find it increasingly difficult to dispute that description.”

            Nelson eyed her carefully. “But,” he said, “you chose it.”

            “I was idealistic. It was the 1990s and things in America were good, probably for the last time. The field wasn’t crowded and besides, my husband was going to make loads of money and I wouldn’t have to worry about supporting myself.”

            Nelson said, “What does he do, your husband?”

            She drank and sat down the mug. She looked at Nelson as if to say something but changed her mind. She looked away and then back at him. “He currently occupies a small patch of ground in a large cemetery on the east side of town.” She sighed. “It’s marked by one of thousands of little white tombstones.”

            “Military.” He said.

            “He owed the army a tour for putting him through med school,” she said. “We had almost finished it stateside when that little prick of a president we had decided to invade Iraq.” She pointed to the diamond pendant on her chest. “This is all I have left of him. It’s from our first anniversary.”

            Nelson drew a deep breath then exhaled. “I’m sorry,” he said.

            “Oh don’t be,” she said. “After all, I will get to march in the ‘Widows of Freedom Fighters’ Parade, if they ever decide to have one.”

            Nelson didn’t react. He waited for her to continue.

            She smiled. “It’s been awhile,” she said. “It comes and goes now—the bitterness.”

            He nodded in a show of understanding.

            “You ever serve in the military?” she said.

            Nelson thought for a few seconds. He seemed to be considering alternate replies. Finally, he looked into her eyes and said, “That’s what I’m recuperating from.”

            She dropped her chin onto her chest. “You men.” She raised her gaze to his. “They say he would still be alive if he had minded his own business.”

            “I imagine they could say that about a lot of folks,” Nelson said.

            She brightened, “Hey,” she said, “I didn’t intrude on your privacy to bring in a black cloud. To freedom fighters.” She raised her mug again and clanked it against his.

            Nelson eased the conversation to a starboard tack. “Are you from around here?”

            “A little postcard of a town a few hours away. Ever heard of Eureka Springs?”

            He thought. “The tourist town?”

            “That’s the one. Ever been there?”

            “It’s on my ‘thinking about things to think about doing list,’” he said. “I have a couple of friends who I think would like it, from what I’ve heard.”

            “Well gather them up some weekend and I’ll take you on the grand tour.”

            “They live in Austin, Texas,” he said. “Maybe next time they are here.”

            “Maybe so.” Now it was her time to change the tack. “Do you like it here? In Little Rock, I mean.”

            “I’m beginning to,” he said. She smiled. He smiled in return. “Let me ask you something,” he said.

            “Maybe a bit soon for my phone number,” she said, “how about my email address?”

            He laughed. “More of an information-seeking question,” he said. “Are you familiar with this place called Connorville?”

            “Connerville?” she said in surprise. “The town up north of here?”

            “That’s the one.”

            “Don’t be going up there,” she said.

            “Why?”

            “Bad actors,” she said. “Are you familiar with the Latin term ‘anus mundi’ by any chance?”

            He thought and the thought produced a smile. “I think so.”

            “That’s the place. It is a throwback to what folks in our state used to call a ‘sundown town’ and those who live there now couldn’t be prouder of the title.”

            “Sundown town,” he said. “What is that?”

            She looked at him closely. “You really don’t know?”

            “I don’t.”

            “Where are you from?”

            “The northwest.”

            She drained her mug and started to rise. “Can I buy you a beer?”

            “Let me buy you one,” he said. “Payment for information about to be received.”

            “Hey,” she said, handing him the mug, “a girl’s gotta live.”

            When he became obscured by the crowd at the bar. She reached for her purse, opened it, and withdrew a small compact. Opening it, she regarded herself in the mirror. She straightened a strand of hair, and smoothed the makeup under her eyes. The she pursed he lips twice and slid the upper one against the other. Leaning back, she regarded herself again before placing the compact back in the purse and lowering it to the floor. When he returned with fresh beers, she took hers and smiled at him with a kind expression. “Merci,” she said.

            “Now,” he said, “tell me what a ‘sundown town’ is.”

Memories of a walk

Thoughts on a quiet, thankful morning.

It has been a long time since I stood on the quarterdeck of the old USS Hunley, saluted The Flag, and requested to go ashore for the last time. I remember it well. I fully intended to head west, stop in my home town of Pine Bluff, Arkansas, and proceed to San Francisco, California where I lived when the Draft Board closed in on me. I was lived at 1016 Masonic Street, a half-block from Haight and two blocks from Ashbury. I thought it would be fun to go back.

It didn’t work out that way. My mother had a nephew. The nephew had a job with the city. At the job, he had a co-worker. The co-worker knew a couple of guys in Little Rock who had just started an urban planning firm. A 47-year marriage, a master’s degree, certification as an urban planner, and maybe 1,000 planning commission/city council meetings later I now look forward to completing my 50^th year in the profession.

Looking forward to it, I took a walk from my first lodging place at Fifth (Capitol) and State streets and recalled the city as I first found it.

In those days, I walked to my job in the Hall Building at Fifth and Louisiana streets. Looking that way, one could see two new high-rise buildings, named after two major banks, the Commercial, and Worthen. North of them was the Tower Building, one the first high-rises in the South. I developed from an urban renewal project wherein cities purchased sites in “blighted” areas and sold the land to private developers for redevelopment. It’s doubtful that such practices would go unnoticed these days.

Looking west, toward the State Capitol, one could see one of the last boarding houses in the state. It’s long been florist shop. There’s talk these days, though, that boarding-house type units, now called “Short-term rentals,” will re-emerge as a solution to the affordable housing crisis.

My colleagues at work struggled with the idea that I walked there each morning. They had never heard of such things. I found it both healthy and interesting. I particularly enjoyed walking past a local bakery and smelling the morning’s work. On the outside wall was a patch where a window once allowed view inside. There, legendary sportscaster Benny (“It doesn’t cost and extra cent to be a good sport.”) Craig would re-enact Traveler baseball games over the radio, using a tiny bat to make the sound of a hit, pop-up, or foul. We seem to need more extravagant entertainment these days.

I'll finish the walk later. Must go be more actively thankful now.

These days.

Honor

Off earning today. Here's a thought, though. Why, people ask, does the armed services have honor codes they live by? It's too complicated for me to answer but I might offer this. When all that we consider good and desirable in life is taken away: food, shelter, comfort, safety—the entire Maslovian Hierarchy in other words, life becomes precious. When all one has is the protection and support of the comrades nearby, it is honor that supplies the basic belief that that one will survive.

Everything that Donald Trump does or says is, and always has been, from a warm room on a full stomach as Alistair Cooke once said of H. L. Mencken. It is no wonder that honor is a foreign concept to the president of our United States. What is terrifying is that he is the commander-in-chief of our armed services, composed of brave and dedicated people he could never understand.

I love to kid my big sister. She’s a jewel, and we’ve become good friends in our golden years. She was, by far, the smartest one in our family. She once got a A+ on her report card because her teacher, a football coach and Navy Cross recipient, (not an easy man to please) said it was the highest grade he could give her.

This is a cute story and it goes way back to when girls took a class in “Home Economics,” not by choice if I remember correctly.

Anyway, she came home one day with this assignment to cook something or other. I don’t remember what, only that it involved hot water. Accordingly, she put a pan of water on the range, intending to return shortly. Something happened, maybe her friend Bobette Piper called. Anyway, our Sainted Mother found the pot later, the water having all evaporated, the pan dry.

It gave SM a great deal of pleasure for years to point out that she had raised a daughter that couldn’t even boil water.

Hey, I love kidding my sister. She’s actually a good cook now. She can make a tortilla soup that would make Rudy Giuliani tell the truth. She gave me a great recipe for chili. I had lots of fun with it, especially after I realized that it required almost all of the ingredients needed for a Bloody Mary. She also taught me how to make mashed potatoes like SM used to make, a secret that should be recorded ere the “instant” brigands take over the culinary world. My Sis is really one of the world’s great treasures.

Of course, there are no stories she could tell about “Perfect Child.”

It's harder than it looks.
You should see me try it.

Carefullness

Ready for a big tip in life? Okay, here goes, ready or not. Let’s say you board a foster puppy. Let’s say that it’s a rescue dog ready to go north for adoption after all the shots are in and all the, uh, medical procedures have been completed. (Ixnay on the aidspay.)

Now let’s say that it’s late autumn and the leaves cover the ground between trips to allow the rescue dog to attend the call of nature. BTW, I read where you are supposed to say, “Busy Busy” while said dog attends its business so it will learn how to know what it’s supposed to be doing. Ours told me that if I didn’t shut that silly crap up she would do it in the middle of the kitchen floor. Anyway … we’re back outside with the precious thing.

Now assume that vision is obscured and it’s not quite safe to put your feet down just anywhere. Then assume that having finished attending your puppy’s needs and you need to go back inside, but you’re not sure that you haven’t trod upon a previous expedition’s deposit.

Tip of the day: Find a nice pile of leaves. Plant each foot on it in succession.

Now look.

If leaves adhere to the sole of your shoe and extend out on either side, it’s a sure sign that you carry troubles and it is best not to walk on your best carpet ere you attend the matter.

Works every time and I keep indoors free of unwanted material that way. I have a checklist by my front door so I can record my testing before I enter. I color-code my mishaps by day of week for clarity. That prevents any mishaps.

My question: would this be appropriate to send as a “Hint to Heloise”?

Confusion

 Perhaps great literature, The Sermon on the Mount included, takes on a different meaning to each reader. If it actually occurred as Matthew reported, The Sermon leaves room for interpretation. A modern liberal person might interpret it as mandating that righteousness requires that we minister to those who are poor in spirit or in mourning while simultaneously emulating the peacemakers. That is hardly an interpretation “devoutly wished” by modern fundamentalists.

On the other hand, another reader might say that is a higher order model of the perfect Christian life, one not to be reached but to be aspired to in our earthly journey. It has been said that a person must fail to reach the teachings of The Sermon in a capitalistic society. Even some of the scribes and Pharisees so beloved by many of the fundamentalists of today teach that by ignoring the Beatitudes we can gain both prosperity on Earth and a seat in Heaven.

That’s the difficulty with famous writings containing higher-order thoughts. They can at one time support both social justice and social injustice. No less a beloved (by some) figure as Robert E. Lee could, in one mind, profess both an abiding religion and a belief that his African-American brothers and sisters were lesser breeds of the same species and their subjugation warranted wholesale murder of his fellow Americans.

He read the same Bible as Martin Luther King Jr. What passages prompted such cognitive confusion?

One passage, as we’ve observed before, has merited a great deal of attention throughout modern history. That one is: “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven.” (5-1:17-19 RSV)

Writers and thinkers divide their opinions along four major lines as they pertain to this pronouncement by the Galilean.

1. He meant exactly what he said.

2. He was just joking

3. He was adding onto “The Law,” taking away nothing but adding much.

4. He was changing things but didn’t want everyone to figure that out right away.

The decision rests far above the ability of our meager minds to make. Taking them in order, though, we might observe the following.

Option One can create some awfully confused and troubled people.

Option Two seems to be the favorite of the conservative political party and its fundamentalist base.

Option Three may have influenced the Pauline movement more than any other.

Option Four implies a delicious subtlety most fitting my personal view of the Galilean.

Please feel free to choose your own.

Still Serving

Headed out to some affair at the MacArthur Museum of Arkansas Military History. I'm on the commission there so I feel obligated. Our military is suffering through some bad stuff from on high lately and it needs all the support it can get.

According to the morning news. the president of the United States of America, who never served a moment in uniform is performing the most odious of actions.

- He and his party are demeaning a man in uniform who wears both the Purple Heart and the Combat Infantry Badge.

- He and his party are deporting our brothers and sisters who have served America in its armed services.

- He and his party are refusing to allow our armed services to preserve honor and justice within their ranks as they see fit.

Politicize honor? Only one who never served could do that.

So, I'll do my part to honor our military today. You see, I have served and there wasn't an expiration date on the oath I took.

Fiction Friday

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER FOR

(Our hero, Gideon Nelson entertains a young friend who is upset over the murder of a friend and classmate. Last week, Nelson suggested that young Martin tell him the whole story.)

While Martin collected his thoughts, Nelson rose from the table and walked to a kitchen counter where he grabbed a sack of chips. He opened it and laid the bag in front of Martin. “Take your time,” he said.

            Martin reached and took chip but didn’t eat it. He looked at it and then at Nelson. He placed the chip on the table and looked at his drink. Finally, he said, “Her name is, … was, Abbey Stubblefield and she was special.”

            Nelson nodded but said nothing.

            “She was probably the smartest person in our class. I have a higher grade-point because she liked to argue a little too much for some of the teachers.” He toyed with the chip. “But she was smarter. She was smarter than anyone.” He stopped talking looked at the ceiling.

            “Go on,” Nelson said.

            “She … her family that is, lived in Jacksonville, then moved to Little Rock so could attend Central High. That’s the best school in the state next to the Math and Sciences School.”

            Nelson said, “Jacksonville …where the Air Force Base is?”

            “Yessir, her father is retired military. He was originally from the backwoods of Alabama somewhere but they stayed in Arkansas after his retirement.” Martin stopped again and thought. “He doesn’t talk much about his life before the Air Force.”

            “Brothers and sisters?”

            “She was an only child.” This time Martin took longer to regain his composure. “Mr. Nelson, I can’t begin to tell you how much she meant to that man and his wife.”

            This time it was Nelson who had difficulty talking. “I can only imagine,” he said.

            Martin continued, suddenly seeming to be in a hurry. “She was a little adventurous,” he said. “Like I say, she would argue about anything, but she wasn’t arrogant. It was cute ..” he stopped. “I can’t use that word for her. It was …,” he thought, “disarming.”

            He took a sip from his drink and continued. “She just liked to explore things to their fullest. Do you know what I mean?’

            “I think I do,” said Nelson. “Go on.”

            “Well she had started studying religion,” he said. “If you ask me, it was from a scientific angle, not a spiritual one.”

            “How do you mean?”

            “She would go to these different churches,” Martin said. “She told me she was trying to figure out why there were so many different doctrines.” He smiled, “She would laugh and say she wanted to find out which one of them was right, so she could choose wisely.”

            “Was she a believer?”

            “She was a scientist,” Mr. Nelson. “And she would have been one of the greatest.”

            “So what happened?”

            “She went to this church over at Connerville,” Martin said. “and that’s when it started.”

            “What started?”

            “We all told her not to go,” Martin said, ignoring Nelson. “They don’t like black folk over there one bit. We said she was crazy to even think about it.”

            “What did she say?”

            “She said, ‘Hell man, it’s a damn church. They got to love everybody, even little black girls.’”

            “She say anything else?”

            “She said, ‘I’ll win them over with my smile.’”

            “Did she?”

            Martin looked at him and squinted. “Not hardly.”

            “What happened.?”

            “Well,” said Martin, drinking from his glass, “the first time she went they just ignored her. She said she thought she had turned invisible or something. The preacher did shake her hand when she left.” He stopped.

            “But?”

            “But he sure as hell didn’t ask her back.”

            “So?”

            “She went back anyway. She usually only went to a particular church once. But this time she went back.”

            “Why?”

            “Mr, Nelson, if I knew I would tell you. She was just that way. Her daddy says she always has been.” He smiled at a thought. “He told me one funny story on her.”

            “What was that?”

            “They were stationed in South Carolina when she was in the seventh grade and she entered the science fair. She built this series of interconnected fish tanks and bred male fish with different sized tail fins. She could open gates between the tanks and demonstrate how females of the species would select males with the largest fins. Her parents said it was really something.”

            “And?”

            “First prize went to a white boy who grew plants watered with different liquids—pure water, water mixed with blood, milk, and other things.”

            “He won for that?”

            “It was South Carolina, Mr. Nelson.”

            “I see. So what did she do?’

            “She showed up at the awards ceremony in a white lab code, carrying a clipboard, and wearing a friend’s old graduation cap. Marched up on the stage just before the ceremony started and began asking the judges questions about the standards they employed in their decisions. She was taking notes like she was some serious academic.”

            “And?”

            “She got expelled.”

“Expelled?”

“Expelled. Only reason it didn’t stay on her permanent record was her dad’s base commander liked her and had sort of taken her under his wing. He got involved.”

            “Hard-headed, then?”

            “She could be."

            Nelson sipped his whiskey and freshened it. “So she went back to the church?”

            “The very next Sunday.”

            “How were they this time?”

            “She said this time they weren’t warm and friendly like before.”

            Nelson looked surprised.

            “She was being sarcastic, Mr. Nelson.”

            “Tell you what, Martin, why don’t you try ‘Gideon’ on for size. I’m already feeling old and missing your point makes it worse.”

            Martin laughed. “Okay Mr… Gideon. Anyway, she said the second time she got there before the crowd and took a seat in an empty aisle. Before she knew it, two large boys moved in from her left, two from her right, and two more sat right behind her.”

            “What then?”

            “They began to squeeze her from either side until she felt, as she put it, ‘like her butt was getting a mammogram,’ whatever that means.”

            Nelson laughed. “She sounds witty.”

            “She is …,” Martin said. “Was.”

            “So did they do anything else?”

            “The one in back would lean forward and cough on the back of her neck. A nasty sort of cough if you know what I mean.”

            “Afraid so. Did anyone witness this?”

            “They must have,” Martin said. “But nobody intervened.”

            “So she didn’t go back?”

            “She was going to,” Martin said. “She said she flashed her Number One Point-Five smile at the preacher when she left and said ‘I’ll see you next Sunday’ but he didn’t look too happy about it.”

            “Why didn’t she go back?”

            “We had a project due at school and we all stayed there for the next weekend. Anyway, someone found out who she was and,” he reached for his backpack, “these started showing up on her e-mail.”

            He fumbled with a stack of papers and Nelson said, “How did they find her, do you reckon?”

            “Somebody must have recognized her. Connerville isn’t that far away and Abbey was pretty well known in the area for her academics and sports.”

            “Sports?”

            “She was a world-class swimmer.” He laid some papers on the table and pointed to them. “These came on her e-mail and she forwarded them to me. I made copies for you.”

            Nelson pulled the papers toward him but before he read them, he looked at Martin. “But she didn’t go back?”

            “She got killed the next Saturday. So, no, she never went back.”

            Nelson nodded in understanding and read the first copy.

            An email from “hisworker” read, “We think you would be happier at a nigger church, bitch. Don’t come back to ours.” Nelson turned it over and laid it aside.

            Another one, this one from “hisgreaterglory” read, “if u come back to our church u want be welcome and it will be a denger to u.”

            The third was more menacing still, “hisharvestworker” wrote, “The only nigger we want in our church is a dead one so we can teach our dogs what to hunt.”

            Nelson stopped at this point. “Are the rest the same?”

            “Pretty much so,” Martin said. “There is one that asks if she want to meet him for sex so she can say she achieved her dream of doing with a real man before she died.”

            “I’ll take your word for it,” Nelson said. “Seems like a nice bunch of folks. Tell me about this church.”

            “It’s a big one,” Martin said. “one of the biggest in this area … ‘Connorville Baptist Tabernacle,’ they call it.”

            “Odd name for it,” Nelson said.

            Martin nodded. “You may have heard of it,” he said. “They get in trouble every time there’s an election.”

            “An election?”

            “For telling their folks who to vote for,” Martin said. “and it isn’t the candidate who likes black folks the most.”

            Nelson nodded. “Let’s get back to Abbey. Do they have any idea who murdered her?”

            “That’s what the problem is,” said Martin. “they, the police in Connerville,  don’t seem to care who murdered her.”

            Nelson said, “What do you mean, they don’t care?”

            “They say it isn’t their problem. The Chief of Police says he is through with it.”

            Nelson leaned back in his chair and thought. Then he said, “Someone is found murdered in their city and they say it isn’t their problem.”

            “They set her up in their report like she was a gangbanger and said she was likely murdered in Little Rock and just dumped in Connorville.” He began to tremble slightly and stopped to compose himself. “They say she is Little Rock’s problem if she is anybody’s.” His voice trembled.

            Nelson waited and sipped his whiskey.

            Martin said, “They act like she was some abandoned car the found on the side of the road.”

            “What did they think about the e-mails?”

            “They don’t know about the e-mails.”

            “Didn’t you report them?”

            “I tried.”

            “What happened?”

            “I called the police department and told them I had some information to report. The Chief called me back and said to call the Little Rock Police Department.”

            “I tried, but they said it wasn’t their case. So I called Connorville back.”

            “And?”

            “The Chief told me that I would have a much brighter career if I were to mind my own goddam business.”

            Nelson said, “Did you try make them public. Go to the newspaper? The FBI? Any other law enforcement folks?”

            “Not yet. I talked to Dad and he said something about a Negro Rule and that I could talk to you.”

            “Don’t get involved in white folks business,” Nelson said. “Rule Number Two.”

            “That’s the one,” Martin said. “So here I am. Mr. … Gideon, they had her strapped to a sheet of plywood, face down with her arms spread out like Jesus on the cross.”

            “Shot?”

            “Once in the head.” He began to tremble again.

            “Take it easy,” Nelson said. Let that image fade out of your mind and replace it with a better one. Pain is just a thought process. That’s all it is.”

            Martin looked away and breathed in an out. His muscles relaxed and he looked at Nelson. “It worked,” he said. “Where did you learn that?”

            “Have a chip,” Nelson said, pushing the bag closer to him. “I’ll get us some fresh ice.”

            Martin took some chips and began eating while Nelson took another glass from a cabinet and filled it with ice. He returned to the table and poured cubes into each of their drinks. He sat.

            “Why do you think I could help?”

            “You’re the man,” Martin said, smiling. “Everyone knows that.”

            Nelson smiled. “I’m flattered,” he said. “But I’m also just a common old veteran on disability with no training in law enforcement.” He stopped. “The legal type anyway.”

            “You’re not that old,” said Martin. “Dad says maybe 30 or so?”

            “Close,” Nelson said. “But I don’t see what I can do?”

            “You got Bobby Johnson out of the pen when he was sent up for something he didn’t do. You must know something.”

            Nelson said, “I stumbled onto that one. I probably wouldn’t be lucky again.”

            “Gideon,” Martin said. “Somebody’s got to make this right. We can’t let Abbey go down in history as a gangbanger that just got sassy with the wrong person.”

            “I have no authority in this type situation whatsoever,” Nelson said. “I don’t know a soul in the city you mention and I probably know a half-dozen in Little Rock,” he paused. “And of course I didn’t know Abbey all.”

            “At least go talk to her mom and dad,” Martin said. “They’ll tell you all you need to know about her.” He stopped suddenly and looked away. When he looked back, his face showed a new control. “And it would mean a lot to them to know that some white person around here was interested.”

            Nelson shook his head. “I don’t know, Martin.”

            “There is always Negro Rule Three,” Martin said.

            “I didn’t know you knew that one.”

            “I do,” Martin said. “And it is true: white folks’ shit gotta stop someday.”

            They talked on but Nelson never committed beyond asking around if anyone he knew had suggestions. If Martin was disappointed, he didn’t show it. Instead, he showed the steady optimism that is so typical of his race. He never allowed Nelson to close the door entirely on this new adventure.  Finally, he said he had best get on the road to Armistead.

            Nelson showed Martin to the door and closed it quietly behind him. He turned back into the room and smiled. He waited until he heard Martin’s car start before he moved. Then, a tingle shot up the back of his neck. He heard a muffled voice from outside.

            He turned and stepped quickly to the door and opened it. Outside, Martin had backed his car onto the street and was turning north. Across the street was a dark pickup truck facing the same direction with the driver’s window open toward Nelson’s house. The driver leaned out and Nelson heard the word “Asshole.” Making out the dark outline of a semi-automatic pistol, he bolted through door.

            As he did, the driver, who wearing a ski mask and baseball cap, saw him and the night exploded with the sound of screeching tires and a screaming engine as the truck shot away. It disappeared quickly. Nelson ran to check on Martin, who immediately rolled down his window.

            “What the …?” Martin said.

            Nelson said, “Did you know him?”

            “I didn’t see him,” Martin said. “I just heard him yell ‘hey asshole’ a couple of times.”

            Nelson stared into the night. “Maybe just some local thug having fun,” he said. “Probably nothing.”

            “Maybe,” Martin said. “Scared the shit out of me, though.”

            “You head straight home,” Nelson said.

            “You think I’m gonna, like, chase him down?” Martin said.

            “Straight home,” Nelson said. “And you watch out for yourself.”

            “Thanks for being here for me,” Martin said. “And please think about doing justice for Abbey.” Before Nelson could respond, Martin rolled up his window and eased away into the city night.

            Nelson watched until he was out of sight before he walked back to his porch. He looked both ways, and went inside. Once in, he walked the table and poured two fingers of whiskey into his glass. He sat and drank. He turned over one of the sheets of paper Martin had left and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. He closed his eyes and thought.

            He wrote down the license number of the truck.

Honor

One morning about 0300, at the gate of a lonely outpost on Monkey Mountain near Da Nang, the radio crackled where I stood watch. It was transmitting among contacts from the main base below. A roving watch was stopped at the base of a tower where I had stood watch many times since I had been in-country, some at this very time morning. The patrol was receiving no response from the guard in the tower.

I listened to the exchange between the patrol and headquarters as a sailor carefully climbed the tower, expecting to find, no doubt, that the guard was asleep.

He was … forever. A knife still protruded from him as he sprawled against the very seat where I had sat so many times. I stood, chilled and shaking, thinking how it could be me there with my eyes staring, unseeing, at a starry sky.

The victim, a well-liked young sailor with only a few weeks left in country, would go home in a body bag like nearly 60,000 young American men. What was different about him? He would return home, NCIS determined, a victim of a fellow shipmate operating under an evil impulse.

The reasons for the murder have faded with time. Let’s just say the motive was evil, gross, and a blight upon the proud United States Navy. My point is this: not all those who serve or have served, in the military gain respect. The overwhelming majority do, a far greater percentage than the non-serving cohort.

But there are psychopaths and sociopaths who make their way into uniform. There are those who, when handed a firearm, turn toward dark impulses. I’ve seen men change, as Hemingway described them, gaining erections from the slap of pistol holster leather against their thigh. They’ve always been there. Soldiers returning from POW camps during and after WWII found their back pay stolen by paymasters. American veterans would tell of comrades picking off enemy combatants who were clearly marked as medics. When Robert E. Lee’s army marched into the north, he allowed his men to seize free African-Americans and send them south into slavery. General Pershing refused to stop fighting, as did all the other armies, on August 11, 1918, hours before the armistice, sending young men to kill and be killed for no reason other than bloodlust. General Almond, a MacArthur favorite, sent an entire Marine Division to destruction in Korea for personal aggrandizement.

Then there was Mai Lai.

My point? The military is like any great organization, or the human genome itself. There are mutations. Some benefit us, like those that produced an Audie Murphy. Some denigrate us and produce those who murder the innocent due to their personal demons.

What makes the military cohort produce such a low number of miscreants is a simple concept: honor. It produces greatness. It also allows the organization to self-police. Finding the aberrations and bringing them to justice completes the code of honor. It’s honor that sets them apart from ordinary people.

Until, that is, a president seeking to politicize the service and feed a base, many of whom have no concept of honor, intercedes for political gain.

Thus, is honor debased. The mighty infected by a common worm. 

Problems

We took the demon dog (our latest rescue foster) to the farm yesterday to let her run off some energy. 

That part worked. She frolicked, ran, barked, and played. Tired her out real good.

What didn’t work was the riding part. Made her ill fore and aft.

Seems like every time in life you find one solution, it breeds a another problem. It's like when a city solves the problem of traffic congestion Downtown only to find that there are worse things than traffic congestion Downtown.

Anyway, later we felt so badly for our sick, tired little puppy that we let her come in and watch TV.

Her eyes turned bright red and she immediately went into “destruct mode.”

Even, “Depart Satan. I command you to leave this child,” didn’t work. It was back to solitary confinement with oaths and threats to call PETA. 

Oh well. Today is another day.

The Persona

Okay, my Monday tirade. I'm not asking for a bacteria count on the "milk of human kindness," but something been eating at me for years. At the risk of offending some dear people, here goes.

I want to see actual data on "homeless veterans." I've known a lot of veterans, probably more than most people. I have never seen a homeless veteran. Further, I’ve never seen definite proof of one.

Before I receive bushel baskets of claims, let me repeat: I’ve never seen verifiable proof of one and will readily admit that some exist. I’d just like to know how many.

The last time I asked a "homeless advocate" who claimed to help homeless individuals who are also veterans, how she determines such status, she looked at me like I was crazy. “Determine? They tell us.”

"Do you check their DD 214?" I said.

"What is a DD 214?" she said.

She actually asked me what a DD 214 is.

I cannot relate what I said to her as I try to keep this site more or less family-oriented. When she had recovered, she did offer, “Well there are some who may “assume the persona.”

Assume the persona? You mean lie?

Let me just say this. If there is one homeless veteran in the United States of America, not one cent should be spent on any aspect of the military until that person receives help.

I simply want to know that the term “homeless veteran” isn’t being thrown about in an effort to broaden support for someone’s favored mission. When some ultra-rich star donates money to build homeless shelters, it is proper and fitting that they do so. I am aware, though, that the publicity takes on a higher aura when the news reports say that they are building homeless veteran shelters.

Who could not laud the efforts of anyone who provides help to “the least of those among us?” I simply want to know that America isn’t, once again, being duped by impostors. They have performed one of the most evil deeds ever exacted on military veterans in America. Pretending to have served in, and been damaged by, a military they never entered—or entered and didn't remain—they garnered a horrendous amount of the publicity that should have gone to real veterans of my era. B. G. Burkett and Glenna Whitley documented this in their 1988 work Stolen Valor: How the Vietnam Generation Was Robbed of Its Heroes and Its History. Please read it.

I’m not a cynic or a cruel person. I simply don’t like to see my brothers and sisters who served our country, some of us un-thanked and un-appreciated, demeaned by stereotyping and false assumptions.

Veterans I know, almost without exception, left the service, came home, went to work, raised families, and never looked back except to learn from the experience. They aren’t neurotic. They aren’t dope fiends. They aren’t sociopaths. I’ve never known one to stand on a street corner and beg for money because they served their country. Nor are they homeless, as far as I know.

If any are, let us document them, help them, and send the impostors who “assume the persona” into the shame they deserve.

Excuses

If nothing else, the Sermon on the Mount offers us some practice in what one might call “selective adherence.” That act represents possibly the most common practice of fundamentalists who call themselves Christians today. It happens when we pick and choose, sometimes quite carefully, just which of the Galilean’s instructions we wish to observe.

It stands as a first cousin to the practice of “corrective contextualism.” This one simply posits that: whatever the Galilean said, he didn’t really mean it. Take for example the quite explicit cautions against worshiping riches. This one is a favorite of the “out of context crowd.” In fact, it has evolved in modern times to the point where the spiritual advisor to the president of the United States of America preaches a bizarre concept—at least by Christian standards—called simply “the prosperity gospel.” This one says, “send money to the preacher and you will get rich.”

Back to our main to today’s main topic of selective adherence, nothing seems to perplex modern fundamentalists as much as the Galilean’s stricture regarding un-fornication-based divorce. That one must confuse a same sex couple refused a marriage-license by a county clerk who has been married four times to three husbands. In fact, research indicates that 27 percent of born-again Christians have had at least one divorce. Compare this with 29 percent of Baptists, and 21 percent of atheists. (Source)

Oddly, the president referred to before, in fact, is currently enjoying his third wife while basking in the adoration of conservative evangelicals who call him “our savior.”

Remember what the Galilean said in our Sermon? I think it was: “Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or the prophets: I am not come to destroy, but to fulfil.” (KJV) Wait one. Taking this into account, wouldn’t we have also to place social and political approbation upon our brothers and sisters who have tattoos or who eat shellfish? No doubt about it.

Who has heard of a baker refusing to bake a cake for a person who has word clothing of different kinds of material? (Leviticus 19:19). Who refuses a marriage license for someone who has mistreated an immigrant? (Leviticus 19:33)

Where are the corrective-contextualists when we need them? Probably out making excuses for the ultra-rich.

Believers have argued, over the years, that the Sermon on the Mount is the Galilean’s recipe for righteousness. If it is, aren’t so many modern “christians” (and I use the lower-case not out of any disrespect for the Galilea or his recorded teaching, but rather for the demeaning purposes of a few) howling like wolves into the wind?”

The man himself, later in Matthew’s narrative, (7:1-5) warns us not to judge, so we won’t. A careful reading of the Sermon on the Mount surely tempts us though, doesn’t it?

 

A marriage license and
a wedding cake. Hmm.

Return To Decency

Yesterday made me remember a certain time. It was April 5, 1968. You’ll remember, of course, that as the day after assassin James Earl Ray murdered Martin Luther King, Jr. in Memphis, Tennessee. I wasn’t in the United States at the time. That didn’t leave me unaffected. The whole I-Corps area was about to explode. We forgot about the regular enemy and worked on protecting ourselves from ourselves.

On that day, the head of Naval Security at our base sent a “Brother” shipmate and me to the back gate of our base with orders to prevent anyone from entering, or exiting, the compound. We did, but it was scary. A steady line of sailors sought to leave to join, what we found later, was a planned mass demonstration. With each person, or group turned back, we took a long breath. Only those of us in the security force were supposed to have weapons, but what a joke. Down on the roads leading from our base to Da Nang, you could buy anything from an AK-47 to a 357 Magnum.

It was a bad day for us, and for America. I was scared for myself and for my country. I never thought I’d see anything like it ever again.

Until yesterday.

I’m more afraid for my country now than I was in 1968. When the president of the United States of America uses social media to intimidate a federal worker who is testifying as a witness before a congressional committee, we have reached a fork in the Road of History from which there may be no point of return.

Before yesterday, I feared America was being led as a professional wrestling extravaganza. Now I think it operates more like a mafia family.

I don’t carry an M16 these days, but I do have a voice, and I think I need to use it. I think every American who longs to see a return to decency in this country needs to do so. It’s important.

America said it needed us in 1968 so I went where they sent me. I know it needs me now so I’m going where I must. It will be a long and rocky road back to decency, but I believe that Americans can do it.