Resolutions

I resolve to moderate my language and cease southern slang next year, and all you sorry outfits that don't like it can just sweep around your own door first cause, to begin with, you make my ass want a dip of snuff. There. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Irony

There’s a delicious irony surrounding the Sermon on The Mount. On the one hand, many humanists and some non-religion-based writers praise it for its sheer beauty of expression and the soaring simplicity of its message. One other hand, evangelical Christians, by and large, ignore this passage from Matthew as they pound upon the strict and cruel dictates of their Old Testament god. The whole sermon seems to embarrass them. In fact, some 46.1% of the voters in the last presidential election, many of them avowed proponents of state-supported religion (theirs), voted for a man whose life could be used as a contra-comparison to the entirety of The Sermon. Go figure.

What is it about The Sermon that universalizes it so? It’s difficult to tell. Purportedly, from the writer of the Book of Matthew, the words came from the mouth of a man who called himself, “The Son of God.” Some believe that without question.

Others think perhaps there was a man who lived and preached, but the words writers attribute to him may have suffered the dimming ravages of time. Think about the task of writing a speech delivered in 1945, documented not by recording devices but only with the aged memories of those present, or more realistically, the second or third-hand accounts of some who claimed to have heard the words.

Some will say that it didn’t matter who heard or didn’t hear the sermon in person, a holy mandate caused the words to appear, in Matthew’s writings, exactly as the Galilean spoke them.

Then there are those who aren’t sure the sermon ever happened, but flowed instead from the creative mind of a later follower.

No matter what, careful reading and thought can create difficulties. Matthew reportedly wrote the account of The Sermon in Greek, but there is no hint of who translated the original Aramaic for his use or how many times it had been translated. Of particular difficulty for modern Americans, some who are neither well-educated nor particularly bright, is the commonly accepted translation of the word we know as “blessed” into “happy.”

That one has created some doozies among the “out of context crowd.” There are those who say, “Yes, we should be happy because we mourn. It will make us appreciate Heaven with greater rapture.” One translator, an expert in Aramaic, even translates into freedom from judgmental thought, i.e. improper spirits. Other, more modern pundits point out that money, more money, and more money, will chase away any blues creating a poverty of spirit. Send Joel Osteen money and be blessed accordingly.

That’s not what the Galilean said. If that is what we believe, perhaps it’s time to remove the plank from our own eye and think about what the Galilean did say. That’s the assignment for next week.

Truth

We all have our obsessions. At least most of us do. An obsession-free life must certainly be a boring one. One of mine is verisimilitude in film making. Yeah, I know you’re probably tired of it by now. But just think.

How many times have you seen an actor empty a semi-automatic pistol only to have it go “click, click” after the clip is empty? It doesn’t do that. The slide just stays back, that’s all. No, it’s not dramatic from a photographic viewpoint. But that’s what it does.

We won’t get into World War Two scenes where every member of a rifle squad carries a Thompson sub-machine gun.

Oh, and guess now many bursts of full-automatic rifle fire you get with an M-16, or whatever they call them these days? Hint … it ain’t 15 or 20 like the movies would have you believe. Free historical fact: When the Russians designed the AK-47, they purposely made it cumbersome to shift to “full-automatic” so the untrained wouldn’t fire bursts, but would stick to single rounds. Oh, and despite what the producers would have you believe, the NVA regulars were excellent shots, much better, apparently, than the Empire Storm Troopers.

Watched the John Wayne classic, The Searchers the other day for maybe the millionth time. Great flick. Unarguably his best. The opening scene may form one of the best brief shots in cinematic history. But, you know what a fool I am for accuracy. I’ve never gotten over the image of a working cattle ranch in Monument Valley. Free historical fact two: The reason those cattle ranges in Texas are so huge is not the result of manly bravado. They developed from the fact that it takes a hundred acres of land to support a cow and calf in Texas.

While I’m at it, did anyone ever tell the screenwriters in the western genre how long a horse could carry a grown man before it required a meal?

Ever notice how most of the fathers in the golden era of studio movies averaged, maybe, 65 years of age? Couple that image with all of the pre-teen children and you get some additional respect for the “Greatest Generation.”

Stay tuned. Someday I’ll post my choices for bad casting choices. Hint, David Carradine as Woody Guthrie stands above them all like Mount Everest over a field of ant hills. Be thinking about your candidates.

They're gonna have pills
some day that do what?

Fiction Friday: Gideon Nelson goes to school.

Sundown in zion

CHAPTER NINE

Nelson rose early on Monday. Rain had moved in during the night and had turned into a light dusting of snow by morning. He completed his run before daylight and by ten he was motoring west on Interstate 630, headed for the University of Arkansas at Little Rock. Traffic was moving well in his direction although commuter traffic had stopped moving into the downtown area due to a traffic accident. He glanced at an open notebook and slowed as he neared the exit for Fair Park Boulevard.

Soon he was traveling south through a pleasant neighborhood of small houses and old-growth vegetation. The size and unique character of the homes hearkened to an era of varied taste but common aspirations. Most of the homes demonstrated care and love but some had taken on that look of indifference and neglect unique to long-rented properties. Nelson slowed to the stated speed limit as an anxious student crowded him in the belief he could cause Nelson to drive faster. He ignored the youth and enjoyed his drive.

He glanced at the notepad again before turning right then left, then right again into a parking deck on the edge of the campus. Easing upward, he entered the first available space and exited his truck, carrying the notepad with him. He glanced at a crude map he had drawn on the facing page, descended the stairs and entered the campus proper.

It was late morning by now and students scurried between the student union, library, and multi-story classroom buildings. Most talked or texted on cell phones. Had Nelson been dressed in a white robe with a halo shimmering above his head, he would have attracted little attention.

His map led him to a pleasant building of six stories. He took an elevator to the fifth floor, exited, and took a long hallway to a door entering a group of offices. Before he reached the entrance, Tina Barrow walked from an office behind a clearly agitated student. When the student turned to talk Tina interrupted her with, “I’m totally unconcerned what your excuse is and how badly you need to graduate this semester. So scoot.” The student glared at Nelson as she walked by and out of his vision.

Tina said, “Hello sailor. Can’t say I’m stalking you now since you drove all the way out here to see me.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” Nelson said. “Am I early?”

“Right on time,” Tina said, “that’s ten minutes before our appointed moment.” She smiled. “Did you have a nice Saturday after our breakfast?” She was ushering him into her office as she spoke.

“I read all afternoon,” he said. “Guess you could say I had an attack of inertia.”

“Inertia is good for the digestion,” Tina said, motioning him toward a chair. “That’s why so many of the students here are overweight.”

Her office had its own door but was hardly more than a cubicle. Bookshelves lined with scholarly appearing volumes covered the entire wall behind her. A large laptop computer sat opened on her desk. She checked the screen and then closed it. “Sorry you had to see my bad side.”

“I guess students all have good excuses, right?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I never listen to them.” She retrieved her purse from a desk drawer. “You ready to go see Dr. Bartholomew?”

Nelson cocked his head to one side in thought, then returned his attention to Tina. “Ready,” he said.

They left her building and started across the campus. Tina turned to him. “You didn’t go to the pub Saturday night.”

“No,” Nelson said. “as I said, I read. But you must have.”

 “Just for one beer.” She turned to him and smiled. “I wanted to see if I might catch you hitting on some sleazy woman.”

This time Nelson smiled. “So you are stalking me.”

“Can’t say yet,” she said. “Here we go.” She pointed to a gray, stark building dominating the center of the campus. The exterior of the building was exposed concrete, unfinished with the marks of plywood forms still visible. It would have looked more appropriate on a prison, rather than a college, campus. “Please pardon our greatest architectural shame,” she said. “Too ugly to stand, but too remarkable in its grandeur to tear down.” She led him into an elevator. “I’m sure it was designed to make a statement. I’m just not sure what the statement was.”

“At least you are person who has opinions,” Nelson said.

“Yes,” she said. “And be mindful of the fact that I may be forming one of you.”

Before he could respond, they reached their floor. The elevator door opened and she let Nelson up a ramp to the north side building and along an exterior walk. Reaching a door, she looked through its glass panel and tapped loudly. A student peered from an open door and Tina motioned for him to let them in. He hastened to them and obeyed.

They entered and proceeded along the corridor until they reached an office marked “Jackson Bartholomew,” PhD. Tina knocked. They heard a shuffling from inside and the door was opened by a tall African-American man wearing fitted white shirt, tie, dark trousers and off-white shoes. “Tina,” he said.

“Jackson, this is the prospective student I told you about.” She half-turned to Nelson. “Meet Gideon Nelson, naval hero.”

The man laughed and extended his hand. “Jackson Bartholomew,” he said. They shook. “Come in,” and he motioned the two of them into his office.

“Not me,” Tina said. ”I have errands. But,” she said, looking at Nelson, “I expect you to meet me in front of the Cooper Fountain at noon, sharp.”

“Noon sharp, aye,” Nelson said, making a mock salute.

“Good to see you Jackson,” she said. “Have anyone who needs an elective, you know where to send them.”

Bartholomew laughed, “The last one I sent wound up in ‘the hood’ taking a survey of housing occupancies.”

“He lived through it,” she said. “Remember what Nietzsche said.”

“I am sure the child feels all the stronger for it,” Bartholomew said. “Now begone with you ere you frighten this prospect away.”

“Somehow I don’t think he frightens easily,” she said. “But give it your best shot.” With that, she was gone.

Bartholomew moved behind his desk and motioned for Nelson to sit opposite him. “Tina tells me you are interested in attending our university.”

“Very much so.”

“Surely not English as a major.”

“Afraid so.”

Bartholomew took a deep breath. “So they are still being born, although not every minute as in the late Mr. Barnum’s time.”

“I suppose so,” Nelson said.

“Have you attended college before?”

“Some,” Nelson said. “I took some basic courses in English and literature at night at San Diego State while I was stationed at Coronado Island for a couple of years.”

“So why? Why English?”

Nelson shrugged. “I like to read,” he said. “Besides, I have nothing better to do.”

“Ah,” Bartholomew said. “You have passed the first test of entry.”

Nelson laughed. “Is there a second test?”

“Favorite author?”

“Probably Charles Dickens. I’m working my through his entire body of work.”

“Oh dear,” Bartholomew said, “I’m afraid you just passed the second test. Poetry?”

Nelson frowned. “I’m afraid I have a deaf ear mostly, except for a few poets like Dylan Thomas, T.S. Eliot, and … oh yes, Tennyson.”

Bartholomew nodded. “We can work with you on that. Congratulations, you have passed and gained provisional entry. Tina says you were a sailor of some sort—real ‘hush-hush’ type—according to her, so you are probably what I call a ‘romantic realist.’” He laughed.

Nelson said. “Why do you say that?”

“I heard of a fellow over in Armistead, a friend of my uncle, who was in the Navy. That’s how I describe him. He tends to dream, but keeps to realistic ones.”

Nelson leaned forward. “Wait,” he said. “You have an uncle in Armistead?”

“Uncle Millard,” Jackson Bartholomew said. “the family weirdo.”

“I know him,” Nelson said. “I spent some time in Armistead a year or so ago.”

This time it was Bartholomew who leaned forward. “Wait just a second,” he said. He looked Nelson over slowly. “You’re not that strange sailor from out of nowhere that unraveled the little murder thing for the locals, are you? Elvis Barker’s buddy?”

“I’m a friend of Elvis Barker’s,” Nelson said. “And I know your Uncle Millard. How is he?”

“Never better,” Bartholomew said. “He and the Judge are on a cruise now. The Caribbean will never be the same. In fact, I search the papers daily for a report of some major scandal.”

“He is still working for the Judge?”

“Oh no,” he said. “He’s a substitute teacher and the Judge’s adopted son, more or less. Claims he is writing a book, but I haven’t seen it.”

“Well gunnels awash,” Nelson said, almost to himself as he looked out the window.”

“What?”

Nelson snapped his head back to face Bartholomew. “Oh,” he said. “It’s a navy saying. I forgot where I was for a second.”

Bartholomew laughed. “So do you hear anything from Armistead County these days?”

“Matter of fact, I do. You know Elvis’ son Martin, I suppose?”

“The genius? I do.”

“Seems he has had a personal tragedy. A friend of his was murdered, a girl he refuses to call his girlfriend.”

“Abbey Stubblefield,” Bartholomew said.

“You know about her?’

Bartholomew looked toward the door and lowered his voice. “The entire African-American community of Arkansas knows about her. I actually met her once a year or so ago when Martin brought her to Armistead. A beautiful young woman. She would have broken more than one heart had she lived.”

Nelson nodded and said, “What do you know about the town of Connorville?”

“I know you don’t want to have anything to do with those folks.”

“That’s what I hear,” Nelson said. “I don’t suppose you’ve spent a lot of time there.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No,” Nelson said. “I’ve heard it has become, what do you call it … a sundown city?”

Bartholomew laughed. “Whatchew mean ‘has become?’”

“You mean it’s been that way?”

“Used to a joke of a place,” Bartholomew said. “At tops it was 1,500 population or so. That’s before folks realized that the schools were all white.”

“And then?”

“Whoosh,” Bartholomew said, making a gesture suggesting an eruption. “Know what my granddaddy told me once?”

“No, what?”

“His brother Fred had a mule he wanted to sell. ‘Old Slick’ was his name. A white man from Connorville came and bought him. Tied him behind a wagon and took him to Connorville.”

“And”

“Old Slick was back at Uncle Fred’s place before dark.”

“Really?”

“They always said that even colored mules wouldn’t stay in that town after the sun went down.” He laughed. Nelson joined him.

Then Bartholomew became serious. “More recently though,” he said. “They showed their asses big time.”

“How was that?”

“Remember when President Obama made the nationally televised address to the all the public schools in the country? The one that was piped into the classrooms?”

“I seem to remember that.”

“Guess what school system was the only one in the state, maybe the country for all I know, that refused to allow it shown?”

“I’m guessing Connorville’s.”

“You’re pretty sharp,” Bartholomew said. “I think you will do fine as a student.”

“Do you know anything else?” Nelson said.

“About Connorville? Or literature?”

“About Abbey Stubblefield and how she got killed.”

“Everything you have probably heard is bullshit,” Bartholomew said. “What do you want to know?”

Resolutions

Doesn’t seem like the day after Christmas. Seems more like a week before New Year’s. Isn’t New Year’s when were supposed to promise to do better? Isn’t making it through the year enough? Must we really give something up? Isn’t that what Lent is for? Let me get back to you on giving things up for Lent.

I remember my days at the gym at the old YMCA in downtown Little Rock. Come the 2nd of Jan., the place was packed. Seems everyone wore new exercise togs, except the old crowd with their faded shorts and their “I’m With Stupid,” tee-shirts. They all formed a dandy crowd. On Jan. 5, it was a crowd minus half-a-dozen. A week later, we saw a crowd minus 20 and by the 30^th, it was the same old hollow-eyed OCD crew as before.

Still, I sense I must give up something or take up something. Let’s see.

Oh, I’ll give up watching the Super Bowl since they’re going to feature the dog murderer. No, don’t think that will work. I’ve only watched one of them in my life. That was when Joe Namath and crew defeated the Baltimore Colts. It was a few years ago, I think and was only because I had weekend duty aboard the USS Hunley and it was either watch the game or make “Macnamara Lace” on the fantail. Tough choice.

I could take up baking bread as a hobby. Somehow I don’t think that meets the spirit and intent of the act of “resolutionizing.”

I could redouble my efforts at the local gym. Do more walking while I dream of a Trump-free world. Yeah, that’s it. I can feel my blood pressure rising already.

Memories

I know I do this every year, but it's one of my favorite memories of being far away from anyone who loves you. I think it fits today very well.

THE QUIET WOMAN

A True Story of the Vietnam Era

By Jimmie von Tungeln

            If the old woman hadn’t come on after the stripper, things might have started a little smoother. After all, who would want to follow a tall, dark Eurasian woman who took off nearly everything she had on in front of a thousand horny service men? And I do mean all she had on, except for a tiny strip of gauze across her bosom and a triangular patch covering her “Forbidden Garden.” Tony Grant would claim the next day, “I swear I could almost see nipples from where I was sitting.” The USO waltzed out some weird acts back in those days, some deliberately designed, it seemed, to drive men crazy. The generals allowed it and then wondered why men were so hard to control out in the jungle.

            Anyway, the stripper was through and she wasn’t coming back out. It would have been dangerous, too much heat and too much beer. This was an enlisted men’s club in the I-Corp and not a gentleman’s joint in Manhattan. The next act better damn sure be a good one though. Feelings were running high. A half-decent rock and roll band would have been nice, anyone who could do a passable version of the Vietnam Vets’ National Anthem: “We’ve Got To Get Out of This Place.”

            But no. Out walks this tiny woman of indeterminate age, at least fifty, in a long sequined black dress that fell from her tiny shoulders almost to the floor. Her hair was clipped short and showed some signs of gray. Cheap-looking ear rings hung nearly to her shoulders. Her makeup looked as if it had been applied by a first-week beauty school student. Christ almighty!

Tiny and aged as she was, though, she showed spunk. She walked up to the mike like she was at Carnegie Hall and waited for her piano player to get seated. The place was quiet for a moment, from sheer disbelief I suspect.

            Then the rumbling started and you could here someone yelling for the stripper to come back out. I heard a grunt scream, “Get that old bag out of here.”

            The shouts of disapproval were so loud that only those in the first couple of rows could hear her when she said, “I know I can’t compete with that last act. I only know a few old songs, some Irish and some not. Maybe you’ll enjoy one or two of them.”

            With that, the piano hit a strong, commanding chord, and from that frail tiny body soared a sound so linear and pure that one could imagine it piercing the back wall of the club and flying straight into the jungle and beyond.”

“Over in Killarney
Many years ago,
My Mother sang a song to me
In tones so sweet and low.”

The sounds emerging from that ancient (to us at least, young fools that we were) face were so strange and haunting that those nearest the stage hushed immediately and this allowed the full force of her voice to carry further.

“Just a simple little ditty,
In her good old Irish way,
And l'd give the world if she could sing
That song to me this day.”

A wave of silence undulated across the room as the voice filled it with an assurance formed, no doubt, by many years of knocking about places with forgettable names and long-forgotten faces.

"Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don't you cry!
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, that's an Irish lullaby."

            By this time her voice was challenged only by the soft movement of hands moving cans of beer and heads turning to watch. She finished the song and, in perfect timing, the piano player led her into “My Wild Irish Rose.” A few in the crowd began to move with the music. Some even hummed along with the song. She finished it and looked at the crowd and smiled. It was sort of an impish smile if you can imagine. Then she dropped a shoulder, thrust a bony hip toward us and pointed a blue-veined foot directly at those in the front row.

“I hate to see, that evening sun go down.”

            The piano player supported her with a sweeping blues chord and she was off. Somehow she didn’t seem as old as she had when she started. The crowd just watched in disbelieving approval. She finished this number and than stopped and looked us over as if to say, “What do you think now, boys?”

Now these weren’t college boys or Irish rovers. Twenty-four hours earlier some of them had been killing Viet Cong, unsuspecting villagers, or water buffaloes, anything that got in their way. But their minds sure weren’t on killing now. The applause started in the front and moved over us like a rolling artillery barrage. The building shook like it might fall at any moment. She just kept singing.

            Who can remember what all she performed that night? It seemed over before it started. Each time she finished a song, the room erupted and hundreds of beer cans pounded on tables. As she came out for her third encore, she thanked us and we knew we would never hear her sing again. Those USO shows moved around quickly and we were only there for “365 and a wake-up.”

            “I’ll leave you with this, for that special one back home,” she said and looked at the floor as if it had some secret message written on it. Raising her head, she looked at each one of us and smiled.

            “I’ll be seeing you,” she sang.

            “In all those old familiar places.”

            You didn’t dare look around at a goddam soul for you knew you were about to start bawling and then they would too. We couldn’t cry, though. Hell, we were supposed to be killers. And tomorrow we might be. Not tonight, though. Tonight we were just a bunch of homesick boys enjoying a moment of peace in a world that seemed to have forgotten about us.

“In that small cafe …that park across the way…”

Life does have its moments, and I’ve never forgotten that one.

Blessings

Sometimes when I think of Christmas back when I was a youth, I think of the first Beatitude: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” It could be a cruel season when I was young, never worse than the day we each had to stand and tell our classmates in grade school what “Santa” brought us for Christmas.

There were lots of bikes. Some kids claimed roller skates, some electric trains. One kid got a new deer rifle.

There was a catch, though. I attended a school on the south of town where a bunch of rich kids lived. They also bussed kids there from out in the country. They didn’t get bicycles or deer rifles for Christmas.

The luckier one got clothes. Not fancy sweaters and such, but new blue jeans or socks.

Move down and notch they would start to mention fruit and nuts.

Then candy.

Once a kid just sat on his hands and cried.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

I’d like to believe that is true. It’s not, or so the modern TV evangelists say. They preach that you are rich because you are blessed and chosen. They include those who earned their riches by having the doctor slap them on their butt. In fact, they don't put many limitations on how the riches got there. I think the Galilean may have been talking about the child in the Arkansas Delta sitting on a cold, filthy floor with a bloated stomach and dirty diapers. Franklin Graham, from a warm room on a full stomach, is talking about the Trump kids.

Sometimes a person just doesn’t know whom to believe.

Nah. Just kidding. Merry Christmas.

Paths of Righteousness

Preparing for my weekly thoughts on the Sermon on The Mount, I spent some time reviewing all the TV evangelists I could find. I was interested to see what these folks would say about what many consider the most marvelous passage in western literature, and others consider the most significant example of Christian teachings.

What I saw surprised me.

Actually, what I didn’t see surprised me. Not a word. Not an utterance. I did hear a couple of references to the Beatitudes on a televised Methodist service. That was a progressive service, though—one espousing the sort of love and grace the Galilean favored—and not a “preach for pay” spectacle.

Not trusting a small data sample, I lengthened the analysis to an excruciating four days.

Nope. Not even a strained syllable. Not even an awkward analogy. Not one mangled metaphor.

Shifting into the analysis phase, I developed two questions. I think the reader may find them interesting.

First. What on Earth do the “broadcast pundits” talk about if they never mention the Galilean’s most memorable speech?

Conclusions: I find it a bit difficult to say. It’s like each has a secret pathway to a righteous life that rest primarily on distancing the broadcaster’s group from any other’s broadcaster’s group unless a spiritual, negotiated, contract exists with the head pundits of the other groups. In this case, the philosophies of the aggregated group are as mystifying as the individual ones.

They seem to believe that jabbering in a made-up language is of more importance than the quite clear language used by the Galilean.

They don’t care for government much unless it relieves them of some of the burdens of spreading their influence.

They use their influence, to a large degree, on the moving of money from their listeners to themselves. Their brand of religion seems to favor fine homes and expensive aircraft. (Those are for the pundits, not for the "poor in spirit.") They all have expensive clothes and hair, or supplementary hairpieces. They all seem angry.

They particularly despise, it appears from their messages, any individual, sect, cult, political party, or congregation, that, in any action, seeks to abide by the teachings of the Sermon on the Mount. They seem to disavow them, those teachings so much.

Second: Why do they find the Galilean’s teachings so abhorrent?

I find it hard to say. Some argue that the high ethical strictures of the Sermon simply show us the impossibility of being righteous. To turn away from them only represents an understandable response, a more modern reaction. This suggests turning to a more up-to-date sermon. Greed, fear of knowledge, despising the different, and single-source universally based state-mandated religion form the basis of this more relevant path.

I think I just heard the Galilean moan. More on all of this next week.

Decency

I’m not sure what it is about conservatives and veterans. In recent memory, one political party has demeaned the service of a pair of Navy veterans who did two of the most dangerous jobs during the Vietnam war. One commanded a river boat and one flew missions from an aircraft carrier. The latter spent six years in a prison after the North Vietnamese shot down his plane. The first saw his Purple Hearts ridiculed at the Republican national convention.

 

Then the party insulted the family of an American soldier killed while serving his country in the Middle East wars. Don’t know why, just to get votes I suppose.

 

A highly decorated officer received his crass treatment recently while in the full, ribbon-bedecked uniform of his country. The insignias include the Combat Infantry Badge and the Purple Heart. The vast majority of American have no idea, nor do they seem to care, what a CIB is. It’s the blue image with the wreath and rifle on top. It means that foreign enemies of our country have tried to kill you physically. You don’t get one for having internal enemies of our country hurl insults and stereotyped accusations at you. If you did, I guess most of us would warrant one. Maybe if it were the president of the United States making the insults, the badge would come with a star attached.

 

You’d think it couldn’t get any worse. It did. The party then made sure that a World War Two veteran, now deceased as almost all of them are, received his treatment. Many of them have called his kind “The Greatest Generation.” This party suggested the veteran was burning in Hell. (That’s a fiery pit of eternal fire where evangelical “Christians,” (and those who would exploit them) mentally send people who don’t believe exactly as they do—the ultimate act of judgement by their loving god.)

I don’t understand it. Is it their religion that makes them so mean-spirited? It’s not Christianity itself. I watch a Methodist service each week and it is founded on love and grace. I always feel better toward the human race after I watch it. What is it on the outer fringes of that same faith that makes faces turn red and veins bulge with hate and anger?

Like I say. I don’t know, but it sure would make me happy if they would leave the veterans out of it all. Haven’t they suffered enough?

My father-in-law wore a Combat Infantry Badge and a Purple Heart home from World War Two. He told me once, “You’d think: just let me live one more second … just one more second.”

When I think that some draft-dodging asshole would have the gall to dishonor men like that, it makes me very sad for America. It may not bother some of you, but it does me.

Sorry for the tirade. Sometimes it pours out and I fail to stop it.

Fiction Friday

When we left our hero last week, he had irritated the owners of a diner in the "sundown city" of Connorville, and was facing a man with a baseball bat who promised to “ … give you a lesson in minding your own business.”

SUNDOWN IN ZION
CHAPTER EIGHT

            Nelson was getting his ass whipped.

For the first two minutes he had held his own but things were seriously falling apart. When a fist darted toward his right ear, he veered slightly to avoid it and another fist caught him from the left. The moves were coming too fast for him to register, much less to respond. He tried to retreat, but this placed him in range of even more dangerous blows. Then a foot glided from above and passed a mere inch from his face, an axe-kick that would, in all likelihood, have resulted in instead death.

            “Kalyeo,” his opponent yelled, then “bah ro.” The whirring movement in front of him stopped and Nelson dropped his own hands to his side. It was over.

            The two bowed and Nelson said, “Kamsa Hammae Da,” in a tone of respect.

            “No, it is I who thank you,” the other said, “for meeting me on Sunday.”

            “It was my honor, Master,” said Nelson.

            “Tomorrow I go home for the first visit in five years,” the Master said. “Thank you for moving our session.”

She was a sparse woman, perhaps an inch shorter that Nelson. Her thick black hair glistened above a smooth face that betrayed no sense of emotion behind dark eyes the seemed to fold into themselves and then dart behind secrets. She gave a slight nod and, her uniform crackling with each movement, walked from the sparring mat and picked up two towels. She tossed on to Nelson and began wiping her face with the other. “I can teach you,” Mr. Nelson,” she said. “You are well advanced.” Then she added. “But you have much to learn.”

            They stood in a large dojo with mirrors covering opposite walls. Outside, the Sunday afternoon traffic eased by, oblivious of the two. Nelson said, “It would be my honor, Master.”

            “Today, however,” the Master said, “you lost your focus. You failed to concentrate as before. Does your wound bother you?”

            “No Master,” Nelson said. “The medications have helped. I lack focus because I have failed the tenants of Tae Kwon Do.”

            The Master nodded. “Ah,” she said and waited.

            “I have allowed anger to control me.”

            “To lose Gu Ki is to make a gift to your enemy,” the Master said. She looked at Nelson intently. “How did it happen?”

            “I was attacked.”

            “Ah,” the Master said. “How many?”

            “Just one,” Nelson said, “and he carried a bat.”

            “So, your response?”

            “I lured him into range and delivered a kick that removed his weapon and another that stunned him.”

            “And then?”

            “Then I stopped and asked him a question as he regained his senses.”

            “A question?”

            “I sought directions.”

            “And he provided them?”

            “No, he gave me …, he insulted me with an improper gesture and resumed his aggression.”

            “And?”

            “I used an immobilization technique that I learned from a former Sensei and disabled him.”

            “That was it? He then gave you what you wanted?”

            “Yes Master.”

            “And you released him?”

            “No. I broke the finger he used to make the gesture and told him it would serve as a message thereafter to treat strangers with respect.”

            The Master turned her back to Nelson and remained motionless for a moment. When she turned around, her face was somber.

            “My friend,” she said, choosing her words slowly. “If one can picture anger as a demon that seeps from below the earth to disturb our center of judgment, then one can spread a blanket of harmony over the demon that will not let him rise. We must never let anger corrupt our spirit of Tae Kwon Do.”

            “Yes Master,” said Nelson.

            “Now, away with you. I must pack for the trip to my homeland.” She waived Nelson toward the dressing room.

            Arriving home, Nelson parked his truck in its usual place, but instead of going into his house, he walked to MacArthur Park, a large park a few blocks away. It was filled with families and others enjoying the mild weather. The south edge of the park contained a pond that was lined with people fishing. As he walked parallel to it, he met a walker sporting a “Vietnam Veteran” hat who smiled and gave him a two-finger salute. Nelson returned it. He took a seat on a bench near the pond and sat for almost an hour, watching people and thinking. When his cell phone rang, he took it from a pocket and answered.

            “Mr. Nelson, uh, Gideon, it’s Martin. Martin Barker.”

            “Yes Martin.”

            “I’m getting ready to head back to school. Are you home?”

            Nelson said. “I will be by the time you get here. Come on by.”

            “See you in about an hour,” Martin said before disconnecting.

            As Nelson was returning the phone to his pocket, a voice from behind him said, “Hey sailor. You want good time? Short time, long time, all time same same.”

            He turned to see Charlie, the homeless Marine. “You likee good time?” Charlie walked around the bench and took a seat alongside Nelson. His odor arrived seconds later.

            “Nelson said, “What the hell are you doing here and why the hell are you talking like that?”

            “In order of your inquiry,” Charlie said. “Taking my exercise. I can still walk long distances when I have to. Second, that’s the way my uncle used to talk. He was Navy. Vietnam man. He delighted in teaching me ‘whore talk’ when my parents weren’t around. I thought it might make you homesick.”

            “I must have served in a different Navy,” Nelson said. “How are you doing?”

            “I’m doing,” Charlie said. “Sometimes you can bum a buck or two here on Sunday afternoons. How are you?”

            “Good,” Nelson said. “I drove over to Connorville this morning.”

            “I thought I ordered you not to, sailor.”

            Nelson laughed. “I didn’t hear an order. Just a suggestion.”

            “Did a welcoming committee greet you?”

            “Sort of.”

            “Did I over-undersell it?”

            “Nope, you were right on target.”

            “I assume, it being Sunday and all, that you attended services there.”

            “No,” Nelson said, “but it wasn’t because there wasn’t ample opportunity.”  He waved at a jogger who, along with her companion, had smiled and waved as they ran by them. “I never saw so many churches in one place in my life.”

            “They do love their Jesus there,” Charlie said, “as long as he has silky brown hair and blue eyes.” He reached into the pocket of his windbreaker and retrieved a half-smoked cigarette and lighter. “Mind?”

            “It’s your lungs,” Nelson said.

            “My lungs are just fine,” Charlie said. “Want to hear me sing?”

            “Uh. No.”

            “Anyway,” Charlie said, taking his first drag, “did you see the really big church there?”

            “The big church?”

            “They have one of those mega-facilities there,” Charlie said. “One of those where they have two services—one for the old farts where they sing hymns and one for the young crowd where they sing ‘Jesus is my boyfriend’ music.”

            Nelson shook his head. “Guess I missed that one.”

            “Pity,” Charlie said. “My buddy says if you go in there, they will flash photos up showing you what politicians to vote for.”

            “Are they allowed to do that?”

            “No,” Charlie said. “The First Amendment to the United States Constitution and their covenant with the Internal Revue Service forbid it.” He took another drag. “But they do it anyway.”

            Nelson showed a sudden interest. “What’s the name of this church?”

            Charlie thought. “Connorville Baptist something or other.” He turned to Nelson and assumed a menacing face. “Why you want to know?”

            “Just curious.”

            “Stay away from that bunch too,” Charlie said. “I’ve heard that they hate Yankees about as much as they hate colored folks.”

            Charlie extinguished his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe, rose, and walked to a nearby trash can and tossed in the butt. While his back was turned, Nelson reached into his pocket and took out a small wad of folded money. He pulled out two twenty-dollar bills and returned the rest. When Charlie returned and took his seat, Nelson handed him the two bills. “Here,” he said. “Get yourself some food and clean clothes.”

            Instead of taking the bills right away, Charlie stared Nelson in the eyes. “What are you doing?” he said.

            “My part,” said Nelson.

            Charlie looked at the money, then back into Nelson’s eyes. “How do you know I won’t spend it on drink?”

            “It’s not my job to decide what you do,” he said. “It’s my job to decide what I do.” He thrust the money into Charlie’s hand and rose. “See you around, Jarhead,” he said as he started toward his home. Charlie watched him walk away and sniffed the air. He stuffed the bills into a pocket.

            Martin arrived at Nelson’s house on schedule and knocked on the front door. Nelson let him in and motioned for him to sit on the couch. “Want something to eat or drink?” he said.

            “Momma fed me right before I left,” Martin said. “I’m fine.” He paused and looked at Nelson, how had taken a chair opposite him. When Nelson didn’t speak, Martin squirmed where he sat and took a deep breath. He gathered his thoughts and, after an uncomfortable pause, spoke. “Did you think about what I told you?”

            Martin nodded. “Let me ask you something Martin. This Abbey … your friend … was she a good girl?”

            Martin leaned back and frowned. “Why do you ask me that?”

            “Just trying to get a clear picture. Did she have a life other than that of a scholar and athlete?”

            Martin looked as if he were about to say something but stopped. He looked up and then pursed his lips. “Are you asking me if she might have gotten in with a bad crowd?”

            “Just asking if she could have had secrets.”

            “She didn’t have time to have secrets, Mr. … Gideon. That’s not some vacation Bible school we attend in Hot Springs.” He stopped. “Does that answer your question?”

            “Yes,” Nelson said.

            Martin relaxed. “So are you going to try to help me?”

            Nelson closed his eyes and took a breath. When he opened them, he said, “Tell you what I’ll do Martin.” Martin leaned forward and Nelson continued. “I’ll ask around and check into it. I made some friends during that little scrape over in Armistead County. Maybe I can find out a thing or two.”

            “Gideon,” Martin said. “You have just made me the happiest man in Arkansas.” He shot up. “Wait here,” he said. Then he darted out the front door.

            Nelson laughed to himself. He said aloud, “Wait here?” He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Edith,” he said into the empty room. “I’m about to tie some more knots.”

            Martin exploded through the front door carrying a black satchel and a grocery bag. “I got some stuff for you,” he said with excitement.

            “Stuff for me?”

            “Two things,” Martin said. He placed the black bag on a coffee table. “This is a laptop computer. I won a new one in a science project contest and I cleaned my old one up for you. It’s still state-of-the-art by most people’s standards. I thought you might like to learn to use it.”

            Nelson laughed. “Martin,” he said. “I know you think I’m a dinosaur, but I know how to use a computer.”

            Martin looked crestfallen. “So you already have one?”

            “No,” Nelson said. “I don’t have one.

            “Great,” Martin said, beaming. He reached into the grocery sack. “This is a little device I’ve been working on and I modified it for you this weekend.” He pulled out an attractive and highly polished belt buckle with a United State Navy insignia featuring a large gold anchor across the front. “Dad gave me the buckle. He was in the Navy too, you know.”

            “I know,” Nelson said, continuing to laugh. “You called it a device, though. Looks a like a plain Navy belt buckle to me.”

            “Aha,” Martin said. “That’s what folks are supposed to think. Notice that it’s got some extra depth to it?” He held it closer t to Nelson, who inspected it and nodded.

            “I modified it with some spare parts. See these tiny grills on the corners?” Nelson nodded again. “Speakers.” Martin flipped it over. “See the little screw covers here?” Nelson continued to nod and smile. “They secure powerful flat batteries,” he said. “Now watch.” He pressed the anchor on the front of the buckle and it emitted a slight humming sound. Martin held it in front of him and walked toward the wall. The sound immediately rose to a higher pitch and louder volume. He turned toward a farther wall and the pitch changed again. “Is that neat or what?” he said with undisguised excitement.

            “Neat as can be,” Nelson said, “but what exactly is it?”

            “A portable individual sonar sensor,” Martin said. “I call it my PISS Buckle and it protects you if you get lost when it is pitch black dark.” He punched the anchor again and the sound stopped. He looked at the device as if it were the Hope Diamond.

            Nelson stared at him, speechless.

            “See, suppose you get lost in woods,” Martin said, “and it is so dark you can’t see.” He punched the anchor again and the hum started. He held the anchor at his waist and walked toward a chair. The sound immediately rose. He turned to his right and the sound dropped. He then walked toward a wall and the sound rose in intensity as he neared it. He turned again and the sound fell. He held it with the back visible. “Here is the volume control.” he said, turning a small cylinder. When he punched the anchor again, the sound was painful and he quickly quieted the device, holding it proudly. “With this,” he said. “You’ll never walk into a tree in the dark again.” He nodded his head in a quick and final demonstration of pride.

            “Well isn’t that something?” Nelson said.

            “And you are the first to have one,” Martin said.

            “I’m speechless,” Nelson said. “Why did you wait to present me with gifts until I agreed to help you?”

            “I didn’t want you think they were bribes,” Martin said. “I would have given them to you in any case.” He looked at his watch. “Hey, I’ve got to go,” he said. “Thanks again.” He shook Nelson’s hand and started toward the door.

            “One question,” Nelson said. Martin stopped and turned toward him. “What was the name of that church you said Abbey attended right before she was killed?”

            Martin considered the question with pursed lips and squinted eyes. A few seconds later, he answered. “Connorville Baptist Tabernacle, I think.”