Sunday, September 15, 2024

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 CITIES

Not everyone is as fortunate as I to have worked with our state’s cities for over a half century. I have loved the hum and vibrance of a city since I can remember. I've lived in cities as famous as San Franscisco, as diverse as Little Rock, and small as our current location that serves as "the front porch of the Arkansas Delta."

I've never lost the wonder at the hard work it takes to make a city function as a place for its residents. A place where we can turn a faucet and receive clean water. A place where we can turn a handle to remove wastewater. A place where we can punch a button and receive police or fire protection. A place where we can move effortlessly from location to location. A place where the best of people work to make this all happen. I'm proud of every moment I've spent trying to help.

 It has been a rollercoaster of a ride. I’ve seen highs such as the opening of a new plant that will provide sanitary drinking water to a community. I’ve felt heartbreak when a governing body had to choose between cutting funds for the police, fire, or animal control. But through it all I’ve seen the finest of those among us strive, without rest, to create miracles of operations that allow us to rest “with a full stomach in a warm room.”

That is why I find a political party’s vicious attack on the city and citizens of Springfield, Ohio so unconscionably vulgar and un-American. This is not politics. It is the planting of the seeds of genocide. Those supporting it may someday have to stand in a line being forced to view the eventual results. Let us all hope it never comes that.

Germans Forced To Visit Camps

c

Friday, September 13, 2024

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 POLITICAL CHOICES

Yesterday Donald J. Trump, on video, desecrated the flag of the United States of America. He took a large pen and appeared to have signed his name to our flag.

According to section 8 of the U.S Flag Code, "The flag should never have placed upon it, nor on any part of it, nor attached to it any mark, insignia, letter, word, figure, design, picture, or drawing of any nature." While there are no penalties or violations for breaking the U.S. Flag Code, its terms detail that "it is important to respect the guidelines as a sign of patriotism and respect for the country."

His act bothers me, especially in light of the fact that a professional athlete’s career perished in flames when he knelt while someone was singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” an act presumably protected by the First Amendment to the United States Constitution.

This is the latest in a long series of acts dishonoring our country and its vets performed by Donald J. Trump. The intent seems to be simply proving that he can do it and maintain the support of his base.

Which brings me to the question of his base and its composition. This base of supporters goes far beyond the normal image one has of rednecks in pickups whose only dream is to own a 50-Caliber machine gun for “deer hunting.” The base goes far beyond people who disapprove of abortions but don’t accept the fact that sex education, freedom from poverty, male responsibility, and contraception might be more humane and effective methodologies than imposing the death penalty on women and physicians who seek legitimate treatment for a woman’s health.

No, a heartbreaking fact is that his supporters include many people whom I once considered friends, some close, some very close. These are friends with whom I shared dreams, discussed the greatness and challenges of America, and whom I would have trusted with my most cherished possessions.

These are people who taught our children. People who cared for our infirm. People who provided succor for the “least of those among us.” One even preached, from a pulpit, the gospel of Jesus of Nazareth.

Now they proudly claim they will vote for a man who publicly ridiculed the disabled among us.

Now they proudly claim they will vote for a man who dishonored John McCain, who spent six years in a tortuous prisoner of war camp for our country.

Now they proudly claim they will vote for a man who teaches them to despise veterans who have served our country, calling those who died doing so, “losers and suckers.”

Now they proudly claim they will vote for a man who incited a rabid crowd to attack our nation’s Capitol wherein they harmed police officers and defecated on the hallowed floors and walls of our country's most cherished building.

In short, they proudly claim they will vote for him no matter what.

Where I come from, they call that, “Selling your soul to the Devil.”



Sunday, September 8, 2024

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 IMMUNITY

There was a fellow on our Navy ship, a two-year seaman apprentice which meant that he didn’t meet some standard for full enlistment. This shipmate was, as they say in LA, “a bit limited.” It may have been autism for, at any moment, in any situation, in any context, he would say whatever the voices in his head suggested.

Bigotry determined most of his utterances, whether alone, in the presence of white shipmates, a mixed crowd, or a crowd of African American shipmates, known as “brothers” in those days. Odd thing was: he never suffered for his utterances. No matter what bigotry emerged from him, shipmates ignored him. It was like he lived in a separate universe, one free of ordinary judgement.

For nearly two years, he lived free from serious punishment that would have resulted in severe repercussions if done by any other person. These were tense times, racially, in the military following the murder of Martin Luther King Jr. Racial epithets did not enjoy a great deal of tolerance.

But with this shipmate, even his supervisors would say, "It's only [him]."

The closest person I have seen to him since is Donald Trump.

That is why I predict he will emerge as “the victor” in the upcoming debate.


Saturday, September 7, 2024

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

TALES OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC

 Finished a re-reading of James A. Michener’s “Tales of the South Pacific” last evening. Had chosen the read for a refreshment of the descriptions of the remnants of Norfolk Island, the romance of Nellie Forbush, and the conversations about what we call “the Paradise Syndrome.” That pertains to the tendencies of societies that live in an apparent paradise, without apparent danger or care, to effect brutal and complex religions.

This time I was struck by the final chapter in which the narrator visits a military cemetery on a deserted South Pacific Island, victims of the invasion of a nearby island. Two African American soldiers tend the cemetery full-time, ostensibly as punishment by a bigoted commanding officer.

Two thoughts came to mind.

To the modern reader, the attempt by Michener to phrase the dialogue in southern black dialogue would seem condescending and an affront by a white author. I’m sure the overused term “racists” would emerge. But in 1947, the chapter did, I’m sure, generate equal offense among southern readers offended by the fact that the two caretakers emerge, with a careful reading, as patriotic, dependable, honest, and eloquent defenders of the brave soldiers buried under their care.

I won’t attempt to judge.

The other thought: how timely that I read this during a time when America’s most cherished military cemetery recently suffered invasion and dishonor. Sadly, the act was performed by a political candidate devoid of any respect for people who have worn the uniform of our country, including those who have died wearing it.

I think Michener’s cemetery caretakers would stand up well in comparison with that modern politician.



Friday, September 6, 2024

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 PATRIOTISM

The naval Battle of Somar was a defining event of the overall Battle of Leyte Gulf. The fleet supporting the liberation of the Philippines became unguarded save for some light aircraft carriers and a squad of destroyer and destroyer escorts. The American fleet supposedly guarding the north disappeared when American Admiral “Bull” Halsey fell for a ruse and departed the scene, chasing a decoy fleet. Another Japanese fleet of battleships, heavy cruisers, destroyers had only to break through weak resistance in order to perhaps destroy the invasion and the American will to continue the war in such a faraway place.

Obviously, the destroyers and destroyer escorts chose to “didi mau” and fight another day?

Nope.

They charged the Japanese.

Perhaps the most famous quote emerging from this battle (save the infamous “Where is Halsey? The world wonders.”) was given by the Captain of the U.S.S. Samuel B. Roberts, Commander Robert W. Copeland, to his crew:

“This will be a fight against overwhelming odds from which survival cannot be expected. We will do what damage we can.”

The first ship to charge was the U.S.S. Johnston captained by Commander Ernest E. Evans. This undoubtedly motivated the others.

Captain Evans (commanders of Navy ships are always "captains") received the Congressional Medal of Honor, posthumously. Survivors saw him last steering his battered ship with his remaining hand. Still charging, he waved.

The “gnats against elephants" charge initiated enough confusion and damage to save the day for America and the Philippines.

The U.S.S. Samuel B. Roberts and the U.S.S. Johnston now lie some 20,000 feet below the surface of the Pacific Ocean. The heroics of their crews fly high above us with their heavenly battle flags.

Incidentally, Vice Admiral John S. McCain commanded one of the carrier groups involved in the battle. He was the father of the John McCain who flew planes from a carrier and was shot down over Hanoi and spent six years in the notorious “Hanoi Hilton” prisoner of war facility. Yes, that is the John McCain who was offered early release because he was an admiral’s son but refused unless all his fellow prisoners were released as well. Yes, that is the John McCain whom Donald J. Trump dishonored because, "He was captured."

Lest us think about such Americans when those among us disparage veterans and the awards the receive for their bravery, not to mention the places where their dead are buried.

The U.S.S. Johnston


Thursday, September 5, 2024

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 GUNS

Once again, we must face our feelings toward guns. Here are mine. They are mine alone. I'm not asking anyone to agree. I just feel compelled.

I don't think gun control is THE answer. Oh, I don't think any reasonable person would agree that a troubled teenager or, for that matter, anyone not employed full-time by one of the armed forces branches, should not have access to an assault rifle. But those are common sense precautions, not solutions.

No, I don't think control is the answer. I think shame would prove more effective. As a youth, I suffered punishment, often severe punishment, from a father who inherited a Teutonic and evangelistic belief in beating children to instill compliance to arbitrary standards of conduct. It was only partially effective for I tended to repeat the assault-driven transgressions again and again. A therapist friend once suggested that it was part of the "toughening-up process" of tribal admittance.

Anyway, it proved only partially effective, sometimes.

On the other side of the marriage aisle, the fear of shame-control utilized by my Sainted Mother was effective and everlasting.

"To what degree?" you ask.

Well, once, after a long morning of contemplation sitting at the edge of the Great Tide Pool near Monterey, California, I made the decision to participate in an unholy and unjustified war, putting my life for risk not for love of country but for fear of the shame that would wash over me like the waves washing over the rocks before me.

Shame is a powerful force, so …

If you think the Second Amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America is there simply to help you obtain an erection, shame on you.

Everlasting shame on you.



Wednesday, September 4, 2024

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 CRIME

A short recounting of the time I almost went to prison, or thought so. To may friends in my home town, this happened at the old Lion Oil Station at Fifth and Pine and is true best I remember.

My father decided, the year I turned fifteen, that a summer job would provide just the catalyst through which to redirect me from a life of idle languor to one of resolute achievement. He was, he assured me, there to help. Little did he know that his efforts would nearly veer me into a life of crime.

It happened this way. Daddy procured for me a job at a “filling station” in downtown Pine Bluff, Arkansas. It was during the late 1950s and life was slow and predictable, particularly in the summer months. The station employed two full-time attendants plus me and a college student, the son of a multi-millionaire cotton farmer, a father who also saw work as curative. The college kid arrived at work each morning in a brand new Corvette Stingray that probably cost more than the annual salary of one of the regular workers. My sister dropped me off on her way to work at a bank in the family car, an old purple Pontiac my classmates dubbed “The Purple People-eater.” Life can be sorrowful for a high school kid with a color-blind father.

Social disparity aside, we were a happy crew. When we weren’t serving customers, we washed cars, the college kid and I. When there were no cars to wash, we greased vehicles that were hoisted on racks like kings on their thrones. When there were no cars to grease, we learned things that would, the older guys assured us, stand us in good stead in later life—like shooting craps, doing card tricks, and learning how to spot girls who lived “on the spicy side of life.” What, one might ask, could go wrong?

It had to do with the FBI.

Two Special Agents, both bachelors (I think maybe all the agents were then) roomed in a boarding house two blocks from the station. It was our privilege to maintain their vehicle, a powerful Ford, in peak condition from which to fight crime, ferret out the Communists lurking in Pine Bluff, and keep the region safe.

The agents left that car in one of our vehicle bays at night and that is where the trouble started.

During the day, the car sat on the street, ready for action in the event of a Communist uprising or a chase after known criminals. It came to pass that it was my lot one hot summer afternoon to move the vehicle from the daytime spot to the vehicle bay. Like a good scout, I drove the car into the bay, left the key in the ignition as I had been taught to do and, having been told not to forget to close the bay door, followed that instruction. Then I was careful to lock the bay from the inside.

By exhibiting such a high level of professionalism, I could already visualize being accepted as a Special Agent myself, with all the glory that such a life promised. Certainly I would achieve a grander post than a sleepy Southern town, maybe New York. Just wait.

What no one had told me was that, due to a lack of criminal activity and the sleepy nature of our city, the station owner had agreed that the vehicle bay door wouldn’t be locked at night, just closed. This presupposed that nobody would be stupid enough to prowl around where an FBI vehicle was parked.

Wouldn’t you know it? That night, the only bank robbery that I remember occurring during my entire time of growing up occurred. It was in a little farming town with a branch bank some thirty or so miles away.

I knew nothing about this until I slammed the door on “Old Purple” next morning, ending some argument with my sister, and walked into the station.

Somber can’t describe it. All three of my comrades were leaning against a counter looking at me as if I were carrying a violin case and a copy of Das Kapital. I nodded but not a single one of them nodded back. They just stared. Finally the one we called Boss spoke.

“Where were you last night?”

“Me? At home.”

“Can anyone prove that?”

I knitted my brow. What business was that of his? “Sure, the family. Why?”

“What time did they go to bed?”

He knew what time my parents went to bed. “With the chickens,” as they say down South.

“Your sister there?”

“No, she was on a date.”

“Hmm,” he said. “You better get your story straight.”

“My story?”

“Your story.”

“What,” I said, “on earth are you talking about?”

“Somebody robbed the bank at Sherrill last night, just as they were closing.”

“Really?”

“Really. Guess what else happened?”

“What?”

“Somebody locked the FBI car in the bay here and the FBI guys had to walk all the way back home and get the key or they might have gotten over there in time to catch the robbers.”

The weight of the world began to lower on me like one of our fully loaded vehicle hoists. I said nothing.

“Don’t leave,” Boss said.

“What do you mean, don’t leave?”

“The agents want to take you in for questioning when they get back.”

“Questioning? Why?”

He looked at me as if I had just asked where sunlight originated. “Because you are the one who locked the FBI car in the bay.”

I couldn’t speak. I tried but my vocal chords just made a little squeaking sound like a screen door being opened on a hot summer day.

“They are pretty sure,” Boss said, “that you were in on it.”

Robinson Crusoe, on first reaching shore, could not have felt more abandoned and alone than I did at that moment.

“Don’t worry,” the college kid said. “We won’t get to listen to them.”

I finally found my voice. “Listen to them what?” I said, a half tone below “High-C.”

“Interrogate you,” he said in a grave voice honed by years of hazing fraternity pledges. “They are going to take you to the Police Station. That way they can just go ahead and lock you up if they decide to.”

“Lock me up for what?”

Boss said, “Aiding in a bank job is a pretty serious offense.” He told me that he had assured the agents that all his employees knew not to lock the bay at night. Mine was clearly a renegade action. With that, they all found something to do that didn’t include me. I moseyed around, bumping into things, until I finally found a quiet place to sit and await my doom.

Maybe prison wasn’t so bad, I thought. Maybe I could learn to sing there. Elvis did in some movie. Or maybe I could escape. As the minutes evaporated, so did my options, until only dark despair remained. Then I heard the sound.

It was the dark rumble of the FBI car’s powerful engine. The car came into view, lumbered alongside a gas pump, and stopped. It didn’t occur to me to attend it until I looked around and saw nobody else in sight. I was alone. The agent driving honked and it evoked the sound of a large creaking door closing on my life. I wandered out.

The driver rolled down the window and smiled. “Hey sport,” he said. “We drove this old gal a piece today so fill her up.”

“Fill her up?”

“Fill her up, and check the oil.”

“Yes sir,” I said. “Anything else?” I would get this thing over with, once and for all.

“Windshield’s dusty,” he said. “Oh…” Here it came. I froze. “They forgot to tell you but you don’t lock that bay door at night. Saves us some time and trouble.” With that, he turned to the other agent and began to compare notes. I moved to the gas pump.

As the pump hummed to life, my life hummed afresh. I even whistled. Then I saw three heads peer from the back of the station, laughing like they might never have another chance. I squeezed the pump handle like it was the hand of a lover, took in the smell of gasoline as if were the scent of roses, smiled at the three guys, and nodded. That was a good one, all right.