One of my first attempts at fiction years ago as you can tell ... "flashback city." I like it for the fact that it is loosely based on stories Brenda's dad. Julius Cole, told around the supper table.

Return From Glory

  

           "I can't help noticin' you're wearin' the Big Red One, Sweetie. You get that Purple Heart at Normandy?" She had eased into the seat next to him after the last of the passengers returned to the train and they were alone in the waiting room.

           "No Ma'am, I wasn't actually with the First Division until the war was over."

           "Oh really? What unit was you with?"

           "I was with the Seventy-Ninth Infantry Division," he said.

           "Don't think I ever heard of that one. Yall see much action?"

           "Yes Ma'am, enough to last awhile, I reckon."

           "I'll bet you did," she said. "I know most of the units by now - at least the famous ones. I been hangin ' around this station since the war started. Say, you ever know any of them airborne guys? They're cute and crazy put together if I ever saw it."

           "No Ma'am, they pretty much keep to theirselves."

           "Shame. I always liked them paratroopers." Then she looked around the room and seemed to notice that it was empty for the first time. She looked into the ticket office and made sure the night agent was busy; then she spoke softly. "You waitin' around town for a bus, or somebody to take you home?"

           "No Ma'am, I'm home now."

           "I swear. You from around here?"

           "Outside town a ways."

           "Don't say. Then why you sittin' around this dusty old train station?"

           "Just thought I'd sit here a minute before I walked out to the house."

           "Ain't that something - come home from the war. Say, where 'bouts you say you got wounded?"

           "In the Ruhr Valley."

           "Never heard of that. It up by Normandy? I used to correspond with a boy got killed at Normandy."

           "No Ma'am. It's in Germany."

           "I'll swan," she said. "Old boy from Armistead, Arkansas gits hisself shot, over to Germany. Bet it made your Mamma and Daddy proud."

           "I guess they was just glad I didn't get killed," he said.           

           'Well I reckon." She eyed the ticket office again. "Say hon', you want a little company before you go?"

           "Ma'am?"

           "You know, one last skirmish before you get back to the farm? I got a room over cross the street at the Railroad Hotel." She looked at him and smiled.

           The man flushed the way she had seen hundreds do. She had always thought it a little funny about men, the way that they got embarrassed so easily. With other men they would say and do anything, but you let them get around a woman who wasn't afraid to talk about things and they would freeze up at the drop of a hat. "Whatcha' say Hon? I got an “end of the war special” on for boys like you. Say, what's your name anyway?"

           "It's Timmie, Ma'am. Timmie Hinson." He seemed glad to redirect the conversation.

           "Well Timmie Hinson, I'm Carla June. Carla cause my Daddy's name was Carl, and June cause guess when I was born?"

           "June, I reckon."

           "Ain't you the smart one! Say, you sure you wasn't a paratrooper?"

           "No ma'am, I was just in a rifle company."

           "Hey, somebody had to come in behind the airborne, didn't they? Whatda ya say, Tim Hinson. You feel like a little fun?"

           "No Ma'am. I got to be leavin'. It's five miles to the house and I'd like to get there before the sun comes up." He started to rise but stopped and looked at her. "I wish you the best of luck, though."

           "Hon, the luck's done run out for me. I guess the war's over for me just like it is for you. I don't know about you, but I know it's gonna be the best four years of my life."

           "Guess things have gotten a little bit slow around here."

           "You don't know the half of it; but I'll make it all right. I got a girlfriend wants me to come out to Monterey California. She says they's gonna keep Fort Ord open and we can make a good livin' on Alvarado Steet. Say," she looked at him again. "You sure?"

           "Yes Ma'am, I'm sure."

           "Well," she rose and shook his hand, "Mr. Timmie Hinson, if you ever get to California, you come see me and it's free, one Arkie to another."

           "Yes Ma'am I will," he said and watched her as she walked out of the waiting room, across the dimly lighted street, and into the hotel.

           He took his bag to the ticket office where the night agent had just started to doze.

           "Mr. McMillan?"

           "Hello Timmie. I thought that was you come in while ago. You done soldierin'?"

           "Yessir, I reckon."

           "Corporal, I don't think you realize what we're offering you. Do you have any idea how many enlisted men are trying to get a spot in the regular Army?"

           "Yessir, Captain, but I reckon they need me back home."

           "Hinson, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but what's one hillbilly more or less where you come from?"

           "I ain't really from the hills Sir. I come from down in farmin' country."

           "Son, that ain't the damn point. You've been a good soldier and I'm offering you a permanent spot in this unit."

           "I'm obliged, Sir. But I think they'll need all the help they can get. Farmin's a hard business where I come from."

           "Well, you go bust clods the rest of your life, but do me a favor."

           "What's that Sir?"

           "Every once in awhile you think about these three squares a day that you're missing."

           "Yessir, Captain. Thank you Sir."

           He laid his bag on the floor by the agent's desk and looked at the clock. "Reckon I could leave this here until I get back to town again? Nothin' but Army clothes and I don't want to walk all the way home with it."

           "Sure thing. Got any souvineers in it? Always wanted me one of those Jap swords, myself."

           "No Sir, I was in Europe and they didn't let us keep much."

           "Too bad, you could have sold one of them swords."

           "I reckon. But it's just Army clothes. I should be back in a day or two."

           "No hurry. I'll tell the day man. Why you so long gettin' home?

           "I didn't have enough points to go home in the first bunch so they transferred me over to the First Division for awhile. You working nights now?'

           "Oh I'm really retired. Just helping out during the war. Won't be many trains through here before long. By the way, did you hear about Sheila?"

           "No Sir, I ain't heard from nobody for awhile."

           "Done got herself married."

           "You don't say."

           "I sure do. They say she calmed down some after Robert died. Married that Maleson boy. I reckon you remember him don't you?"

           "Yeah, I remember him."

           "I bet he remembers you."

           "I reckon."

           "Whatcha doin' Mr. McMillan?"

           "Just sittin' here thinkin' Timmie."

           "Bout what Mr. McMillan?"

           "Bout how this town needs a hero, Timmie."

           "A hero? What for?"

           "Well, you see old Loonie Hoggard, the shoeshine boy?"

           "Yes Sir."

           "Well, you watch him. Every day that Maleson boy comes out from his Daddy's store and kicks his shine kit out in the street. And then kicks him out in the street."

           "Yes Sir."

           "Well a boy that would break him of that habit would be a real hero, I reckon. Don't you?"

           The agent smiled at the old memory like it was the forgotten taste of some fine meal. He reached over and pulled the bag behind the desk. He was glad this boy came back even when there were so many that didn't. This country was going to need boys like this and he was glad for the boy and for the country.

           "I'll take good care of it. You go on out and see your folks."

           "I will."

           "I see you didn't take Carla June up on her offer."

           "No Sir. She said she was goin' to California, though, and that I should look here up if I ever get out there."

           "She ain't goin' to California. She might go over to Little Rock and hook up with a cab driver. But she ain't got enough damn sense to get to California."

           "No Sir, I reckon not," he said and started for the door.

           "Timmie?"

           "Yes Sir?"

           "He never kicked old Looney again after that."

           "I'm glad."

           "I never saw anyone hit someone as hard as you hit him. Don't reckon he'll ever kick over anybody else's shoeshine kit."

           "I'll be seein' you, Mr. McMillan," he said and stepped out into the night air. He felt cold, but knew that he would be warm before he had walked far. The streets were deserted and most lights had been extinguished, a habit formed during war time rationing. Still he could see that few changes had been made and he thought that by mid morning the street would be full of familiar faces. They would be older, perhaps, and changed by the war as he was, but familiar and as lasting as the Delta itself.

           "Hey Hinson, who was that back there?"

           "A new guy. He came in while I was in the hospital. Name was Rose, I think."

           "Oh yeah. He was from Newark, New Jersey. What happened."

           "Stray shell. Piece of shrapnel took his whole head off."

           "Don't say. Anybody else get hit?"

           "Don't think so. They pushed us on through the gate when it happened. He was just standing there waiting in line when it hit."

           "Goes to show, don't it?"

           "Yep. He was the shortest guy in the squad too."

           "I thought the war was over. Why they still shelling way down here?"

           "Just for something to do, I reckon. Maybe they just want to get rid of all their ammunition before they surrender."

           "You keep your ears open. This here would be a damn poor day to get killed."

           "I reckon."

           He hit an easy stride before he passed the last light of the town and before long the familiar smells and vague sights began to envelope him the way the cheap perfume so highly prized by the German women would encircle one and fill a room. He was glad for the full moon, not so much to light the way, for he would have known the way without light, but more for the fact that he had always thought this country looked best by moonlight. And tonight's moon seemed to flatter more than ever. He was glad he had decided to walk.

           "Johnson?"

           "What?"

           "You ever think about the stars?"

           "What about them?"

           "That they're the same."

           "The same what?"

           "The same back home as they are here."

           ""Gee, I never thought about it, but you're right. Wonder if my girl's watching them same stars right now?"

           "Naw. I think it's daytime back there."

           "That German there that dug this hole - he ain't gonna see no more stars, is he?"

           "No. I don't reckon he will."

           "Wonder which one of us got him?"

           "I think it was you."

           "No, I think it was you."

           "Maybe he just died of old age."

           "Yeah, maybe."

           He was well out of town now and could feel, more than see, and sense, more than smell, the cotton fields on either side. "They've started picking by now. He was thinking. Despite the darkness, he could see the white balls like thousands of pieces of ripe fruit hanging among the dead, curled leaves. When he stopped, he could here the leaves rattle against the shriveled stalks. Funny that something hanging from a dead plant could affect so many people. He felt a chill in the night like there might be a storm soon. He thrust his hands into his pockets and walked on.

           "You all right, private?"

           "Yes Sir Sarge, I'll be okay."

           "That your first one?"

           "It's the first one I ever saw up close."

           "Well, that makes a difference, don't it? You want to swap places with him?"

           "No, I don't reckon."

           "That's what I figured. Son, you take a good look at him. That's what you're here for, and that's the only thing that's gonna get you home."

           "I know, Sarge, I'll be all right. I just thought they was older, that's all."

           "He's as old as he's ever gonna get, Hinson. Now you get on up with the squad."

           "I'm coming, Sarge."

           Before he could see the bayou, he knew it was ahead. He knew that it's coffee colored water was rising from the fall rains. Without looking he could see its surface roiled with eddies and dotted with the debris of another delta fall. Therein, no doubt, also flowed the dreams and adventures of a season of children, as his own had flowed years before. He stopped on the bridge for a moment and contemplated the hours spent there along the stream's dark and vine encrusted bank where Indians had camped so many years back and where animal and children tracks would still, on a summer day, mesh into one in the fecund earth. "It's a long way from the Ruhr River," he thought.

           "Private, what in the hell do you think you're doing?"

           "I'm layin' here like they told us Sir."

           "Like who told you?"

           "Sergeant did Sir. Somebody started shootin' at us and he told us to hit the dirt."

           "So you did?"

           "Yes Sir, I sure did."

           "How long ago was that?"

           "I don't rightly know sir."

           "Well, your squad moved out ten minutes ago. You think maybe you might better go with them?"

           "Yes Sir, I guess so. I just done what he told me to."

           "I know private. You just joined us didn't you?"

           "Yes Sir, last week."

           "It's a little different when they shoot back, isn't it?"

           "Yes Sir, it is."

           "Well, you ain't huntin' squirrels any more. Your squad's up by that farmhouse yonder. You get your ass up there with them."

           "Yes Sir, Lieutenant. Thank you Sir.

           He was halfway there now. The bayou separated the families who "lived just outside of town" from those who farmed in earnest on the rich, bottom land, farms. The road narrowed now and there would be no more houses until he came to his own road. Cotton fields bordered either side of the road and he felt as if he were in a sea of white that stretched for miles, as far as those who tended them had been able to clear the thick forest and replace it with the ordered rows of cotton stalks. Each year, as a boy, he watched the forest retreat and that order expand like it was some organism slowly eating its way across the land. No doubt it had slowed during the war due to the lack of manpower, but he knew it was waiting like some leashed animal to resume its march. This time, he would be its instrument.

           The thought of the effort involved in clearing and tilling so much land surrounded him like the fields themselves and he slipped into an ordered reverie that let him cover the next mile easily. Ahead of him, he saw a void in the starry night and he knew that it was the oak tree that stood where his road met the main one. He was almost home. I'll get there right at sun up he thought, and then he thought how funny it was that a boy who had never stayed up past midnight, hardly, could become such an expert on when the sun would come up. Guess the Army taught him something after all.

           "Private, what are you doing still up?"

           "Standing guard Sir."

           "I'm a sergeant son. Mind telling me why you're still standing guard? What's wrong with Johnson? He dead?"

           "No Sir, Sergeant, we was just doin' like you told him. I'm standin' guard tonight and he'll do it tomorrow night."

           "Son, the man pulled one over on you ‘cause it's your first day. You was supposed to stand two hours on and two hours off with him tonight. Hell, he may not even be here tomorrow."

           "You want me to wake him up?"

           "You can do what you want but I'd kick his ass if I was you. Now you two be on the lookout. They say there's some German's out there."

           "Yes Sir. Sergeant?"

           "What?"

           "What should I do if I hear them coming?"

           "Well Son, there again, you can do what you want. But if it was me, I'd shoot the sons of bitches. You do know how to shoot that rifle, don't you."

           "Yes Sir."

           When he was within a few hundred feet of the side road, he saw the headlights. Then the heard the car racing toward him and the motor straining as the driver shifted through the gears. He stopped and waited near the intersection. It took longer for the car to reach the corner than he had anticipated, no doubt because the sound traveled so far at night. When it did reach where he was, he stepped onto road bed and waved into the headlights, a move which obviously startled the driver who brought the car to a sudden stop.

           "Hey soldier, you tryin' to get yourself hit?" the driver yelled when the car had come to a complete stop on the other side of the road. "I just got this car last week and I ain't takin' the ditch for no dogface."

           "Not even for you own brother?"

           "What!"

           "It's me, Roland. Where you goin' in such a hurry? And where'd you get that car?"

           "Timmie?"

           "Corporal Hinson, to you."

           "Timmie, I swear!" the other yelled and tumbled out of the car and across the road. "Is that really you?"

           "It's me all right."

           The two brothers stood in the road facing one another. Neither spoke for a moment and there was no other sound except the idling of the car and the chorusing of the night insects. Finally the younger one spoke.

           "This is sure somethin'. We didn't expect you for another month."

           "Didn't Daddy get my telegram?"

           "If'n he did, he ain't mentioned it. Boy, you sure look good."

           "Thanks. I feel good. Everybody doin' all right?"

           "Everybody's fine. They's sure gonna be glad to see you. You kill many Germans?"

           "I shot at a few, I reckon. Where'd the car come from?"

           "We bought that with some of the money you sent home so's I could get to work."

           "Get to work?" he asked.

           "Got me a job in a fillin' station," Roland said. "They let me open up in the morning. That's where I'm headin' now."

           "They gonna let you off to pick cotton?"

           "Daddy said you and him could handle it when you got home. I figure I can help some on the weekends."

           He studied his brother. It was remarkable what the last three years had done. It seemed that the difference in their ages had disappeared, somehow, and he was talking to a stranger. Roland looked at his feet, and then up at the other.

           "Guess I better get to town. I see you this evenin'."

           "Yeah, I'll see you then," he said and watched as his brother climbed back in the car. Before he closed the door, he paused.

           "You ain't heard about Sheila, have you?"

           "I heard she got married."

           "Married Ricky Maleson. He's workin' down by Dupree Bayou on his brother's place."

           "Sounds like she done all right."

           "She don't have too much to do with the old bunch now. I heard she told somebody that you was the reason Robert died."

           "I'll see you later Roland."

           "I'll be seein' you," he answered as he slammed the door and started into town."

           After the lights of the car had died away, it seemed to him that the night was darker than ever. For the first time that night, he felt alone. Maybe it was seeing Roland, or maybe his Mother was right in that the darkest part of night was just before dawn. Whatever it was, he knew that he ought to feel better than he did. He tried walking faster and then began to count cadence to himself.

           "Hup two three four.

           "Hup two three four."

           "You don't tire very easily, do you recruit?"

           "No, Sir, I don't guess so."

           "Where you from, boy?"

           "Arkansas, Sir."

           "Why hell! That's the reason. You just think you're behind a mule doin' a normal day's work. Ain't that right?"

           "Yes Sir, I guess so."

           "You don't like it here much do you, Hinson?"

           "Yes Sir, it's all right."

           "You don't like me much, do you?"

           "I don't know. I mean yes Sir, I guess so."

           "How far could you march before you got tired?"

           "I don't know Sir."

           "I think I'm gonna make you a bazooka man. You knock out a tank and I'll make you a Corporal. How'd you like that?"

           "No Sir, I'd just as soon not be no Corporal."

           "You just shut up and keep marching, Recruit."

           "Yes Sir."

           He was walking due east now, and he suddenly realized that the sky was lighter and that the sun was rising. With it, his spirits rose, for in the east he could see the outline of a grouping of trees that he knew was home. He felt a stinging, then a wetness, in his eye. He blinked, and a single tear slid down his cheek. He felt it, hot at first and then growing cold as it traveled the length of his face. Memories locked away for four years stirred within him like the awakenings of an animal and for a moment he felt too tired to continue. 

           The sun rose higher and framed the plain farmhouse in a yellow-red circle which seemed to pull him toward its glow. Then he caught a certain smell in the breeze for the first time. It was only a hint of familiarity that lingered briefly like the first breeze of a summer storm. Then he caught the full strength of it and knew it was the smell that had been missing from a thousand lonely mornings Now the tears flowed full and strong and unimpeded. It still didn't seem real, but he was home. As he walked on, he felt safe again and knew that soon he would be warm.

           "You boys get in here. What's happened to you Timmie?"

           "He fell in the bayou, Miz Hinson. He's all right. Just wet, that's all."

           "Timmie, how in the world did you come to fall in the bayou?"

           "Robert pulled me out Mamma. Sheila made me do it but Robert jumped in with me and saved my life."

           "Shore he did son. Now you stop cryin'. You boys get over here by the fire and git them wet clothes off. Robert you ought not to be gitten' wet sick as you's been."

           "Yessum, I reckon."

           In the house, the woman was frying eggs in a black skillet. A plate lay next to the stove and two thick pieces of ham were steaming in the still cold room. A kerosene lamp burned on the table, a quick black swirl of smoke rising from its chimney. She was wearing a full-length nightgown and her hair lay in grey pigtails across her back. She lifted the skillet and turned to the table as the man walked through the kitchen door. He placed a bucket of milk on the counter and began unbuttoning a worn jacket.

           "They's all right?" she asked.

           "She still ain't had that calf," he answered. "I figured it would be there this mornin' but it ain't."

           "It'll come when its ready," she said. "They always do."

           "I just hope she don't start havin' trouble while I'm over crosst the field," he said as he pulled back one of the wooden chairs and sat.

           "I'll check in on it after I get dinner on to cook," she said. Then she turned and saw the figure standing in the other doorway. "Son," she said, startled, and then "Poppa looky here. It's Timmie."

           "Hello, Mamma," he said and, then, to the man who had turned suddenly in his seat. "Daddy, I've come home."

           "My God, hit's Timmie," said his father, standing up suddenly and knocking over his chair.

           "Son, you like to scared me to death," said his mother. "Is that you, sure enough?"

           "It's me all right Mamma. Got in on the last train from Memphis, a little after midnight."

           "How'd you get here?" she asked.

           "Walked."

           "Well I'll be. You just missed Roland."

           "No, I seen him up at the state road."

           "Lord, Son, it's good to see you. We's just fixin' to eat breakfast. You sit down here and have Daddy's. I'll fix some more."

           "All right Mamma. It's good to see yall too."

           He sat at the table and she busied herself with the food. He just looked at them for a minute. It seemed to him that they had aged but he couldn't tell exactly how. Finally, his father spoke.

           "Was you hurt bad?"

           "Not bad; I got knocked out of a window by a sniper but it wasn't too bad."

           "Reckon you can still drive a team of mules?"

           "I reckon. I thought maybe I had sent enough money that we could buy us a tractor. I see Roland spent some of it on a car."

           "We let him take a job in town," his mother said from the stove. "We thought it might be good for him to have a regular job for awhile."

           "Hit ought to still be enough for a tractor though. How'd you send so much money home?"

           "I sold my cigarettes and had the other boys to send the money here by money order. Course I sent all of mine. We couldn't send home more than we made, ourselves."

           "Hit shore came in handy," his father replied. They ate in silence for awhile and his mother observed his appetite with pride.

           "Ain't they been afeedin' you?"

           "Not like this, Mamma. You know that."

           "You know that Tucker place back 'air behind ours?" his father asked.

           "Yes Sir," he said.

           "Well we can get that if'n we want to clear it. I figure me and you could get it ready to plant in a couple of years."

           "You think we need more land?"

           "Why shore," his father answered. "One of these days, this place gonna have to support three families."

           "Three?"

           "Why son," his mother said. "You and Roland be startin' your own families afore long."

           "Son, Sheila got marrit," his father said.

           "Mr. McMillan up at the train station told me," he said. "Then Roland mentioned it." He continued eating.

           "Air's plenty of women, Son," his mother said.

           "Sure, Mamma."

           "You ready to go to work?" his father asked him.

           "I reckon so," he said. They had finished their breakfast and the room was getting warmer now. He stood, and took off his jacket.

           "What's them patches mean, Son?"

           "That's a unit patch, Mamma. That there's the First Division patch.

           "I heard somebody up town talk about them, I think. Wasn't they in on D-Day?"

           "Yes, Ma'am. So was the unit I was with. The First Division was in the first wave. They was just about everywhere in Europe."

           "When did you get in that bunch?"

           "Well, I wasn't in that unit until the war ended. They sent my unit home but I didn't have enough points so they transferred me to the First Division. They call that the Big Red One. They was in World War One too. We were training to go into Japan when it all ended."

           "Well I'll be. You go ahead son and take them clothes off. Your clothes is in there right where you left them. I'll hang these up where there won't nothin' happen to them." She started into the next room with the jacket but stopped in the doorway. "You know what, Son?"

           "What, Mamma?"

           "That First Division. That sounds kinda nice. I think I'll just leave this here patch sewed on it if'n its all right with you."

           "Well shore hit's all right with him. Ain't it Son?"

           "Yeah, Daddy. I guess it is."

           "My boy come home from the war," the woman said. "I shore am proud Son."

           "Hit's gittin' late Son," the man said. "You better git yore clothes on."

           "I'm comin' Daddy," he said, as he started to take off the rest of his uniform.

           "We're gonna be a family again, just like that war never happened, ain't we son?" his Mother asked.

           "I don't know Mamma. I reckon so."

High Thoughts and High-rises

We sat on the balcony of our East Little Rock condo Tuesday for a late chat, cigar (me), martinis (bofus), and a state of pure joy (Brenda). Our magnificent downtown skyline showed itself itself grandly that night. I suppose it wanted to impress the crowd that had just filled Verizon Arena to see U.S. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

Brenda was still “walking on air” as they say. I think the experience of seeing a powerful woman speaking to so many other women and young girls, along with the outpouring of love our city had shown, gave her hope, at least for a while, that we might be nearing a state of “Hate Fatigue.” At least it seemed so on that warm, sparkling night.

Me, I looked south toward the high-rise apartment building on Broadway, near to where we had spent ten years of our life restoring a Victorian cottage. I remembered talking by phone to an aged woman in Ohio, born there in 1898. She told me how her father’s boss, a Mr. Gans, had thrown a fit when he learned they were building a house “out in the country” instead of “in town.” They were busy building our city then and still are.

My thoughts shifted to the words of John Ruskin: “When we build, let us think that we build forever. Let it not be for present delight, nor for present use alone; let it be such work as our descendants will thank us for, and let us think, as we lay stone on stone, that a time is to come when those stones will be held sacred because our hands have touched them, and that men will say as they look upon the labor and wrought substance of them, See! this our fathers did for us."

Any thinking person, one who sat where we did that evening, would have to marvel at the miracle that is a modern city. Just to wonder at the fact that so many families rested out there safe in their homes with so many conveniences of our modern world at hand. I thought of the myriad maze of pipes and wires, both above and below ground, that allow those miracles. I thought about the armies of dedicated public and private servants that maintain that world of safety and convenience.

Oh, I know there are cynics who will point out the lapses of safety and convenience. Tell that to the tribes that once lived on the savanna with the mammoths, vipers, and saber-tooted tigers. It’s not the cynics that bemuse me. We’ve always had them. They may even serve an evolutionary need. I read somewhere that there is a genetic mechanism within us that goes off when we begin to feel too safe, warning us that danger still exists. It goes back to that savanna wherein the most relaxed and unstressed was likely to be the next eaten.

No, I don’t begrudge the cynics. It’s the misguided who call themselves “libertarians” that amaze and trouble me. They stand in the majesty of a great city or great nation and, somehow, delude themselves into thinking that all this could exist if each individual were simply free to behave exactly as she or he felt, at any given moment. They seem to believe that things would work for the best if each of us did this without regard for

- accomplishments that, by their scope and size require the efforts of the entire village;

- systems, services, and structures for which individual costs can’t be assigned;

- the needs of “the least of those among us;

- a public good that transcends politics;

- brilliant accomplishments by scientists that can’t be effectuated without cooperation and assistance from the polis; or

- the unalterable cost of civilization.

They are not stupid or evil beings, these folks. They are our brothers and sisters with whom we would agree on most things American. It is we who have let them down by halting their education at the sophomore level. It is we who have allowed education to become demonized by those who are stupid and evil. It is we who elect politicians who promote nihilism. It is we who only pontificate from a warm room on a full stomach and by words instead of actions and examples. It is we who would cast a vote for The Dark One himself if he only supported the one single issue upon which we are fixated.

Is it any wonder that the Galilean is so often depicted as weeping? 

New Dawnings

Let's see. Been a busy week so far. Off earning yesterday. It's nice to stay busy with good folks. Dropped Trophy Wife off to see Ruth Bader Ginsberg last night. Thought I would reach the venue by taking a one-way street north. Its traffic lights are synced to allow them to turn green as you head north.

Simple, right?

Well not exactly. What that means is that when they turn green for you, the lights up ahead are red. After 45 minutes in place, with my future increasingly in jeopardy, we turned to a side street (at her command) and wove our way, getting her not "to the church" on time but to the event on time. Whew!

Oh, and why didn't I go? The event was originally scheduled for a small venue and I assured Mrs. Know-it-All that there was no use ordering tickets. She said, "I'll get on a waiting list." I said, "Suit yourself." She did.

This morning, I arose and headed for the River Market, my old stomping grounds. There, I had early coffee with Brigadier (soon to be Major) General Troy Galloway. Troy was Community Development Director in Bentonville, AR (yes, where Walmart is headquartered) for years and we developed a professional, then personal, relationship over time. Had a nice visit. Our country is safe in the hands of troopers like Troy.

My bride is still excited. In fact, I haven't seen her this excited since Barack Obama was elected President the first time, or when she first heard that the Eagles had gotten back together. What struck her most was the number of parents at the Ginsberg event who brought their daughters. What a thrill it must have been for the youngsters to see what a dedicated woman can accomplish.

By the way. the event filled the arena. They say that there were enough on a waiting list to fill it over again. Perhaps we, as a nation, are on the verge of "Hate Fatigue" and maybe headed toward what I like to call "The Age of the Beatitudes.

Maybe. Just maybe.

Oh wow. Like … oh wow.

Worthy Labors

Random thoughts on a lazy Labor Day:

Unlike the other adults of the 327 million Americans, I have no “bright-line” solution to the mass shootings that plague the United States at present. I am, though, struck by the coincidence of these latest rampages and my reading of Spying on the South: An Odyssey Across the American Divide by Tony Horwitz.

Horwitz follows the travels of Fredrick Law Olmsted who, before coming America’s most renown landscape architect, was a journalist who made a couple of trips through the pre-Civil War South and transmitted his observations for publication in the fledging New York Times.

May I surprise the reader by saying that Horwitz’s book amazes in two ways. The first is in the difference between the American South of the 1850s and the American South of today. The second raison d'étonnement is the similarity between the American South of the 1850s and the American South of today.

What concerns me most today is Horwitz’s impression of modern Texas. Let’s just say he isn’t kind in many ways. The most apparent observation is the hard-headed belief among so many Texans that paradise lies in a rather unique world. That world stays free from any moral strictures other than selected (very carefully selected) passages from the Bible, especially selected parts written by Bronze-Age nomads. If, only: everyone wore guns, the earth needed no protection from us, the “least of those among us” deserved no help from us, greed borne aloft by self-reliance was the only worthwhile catalyst worthy of rule-making, and the only governmental needs were local and national armed forces necessary to see that no one took our well-deserved wealth from us, the world would be pleasant. Yes, it would be pleasant indeed.

In other words, as James Madison posited, "If men were angels, no government would be necessary."

Or, as Texans and most other Southerners seem to believe, “If we each carried a Glock strapped around our fat asses, there would be no gun deaths in America.”

Of course, the old South thrived, as Olmsted observed, on the use of slave labor as the primary foundation for that self-reliance. What must unnerve thinking people is the number of modern Americans, many with vast amounts of wealth and power such as the late David Koch, who still support slave, or near-slave labor for individual enrichment.

That brings me to another thought on this day on which we honor the simple and highly-lauded act of honest labor. And, I won’t forbear noting that the time to contemplate these thoughts is not provided today by self-reliant capitalists. It is provided by the blood of organized laborers.

Now, a couple of New Testament parables have always bothered me. The first is that of The Prodigal Son. I’ll attend it in a moment. The biggie, though, is the sad story of paying the laborers. You remember the story, as told in The Gospel of Matthew 20:1-16. As summarized by Matthew L. Skinner, Professor of New Testament, Luther Seminary, Saint Paul, Minnesota:

“The story goes like this: Early in the morning, a landowner (who seems to represent God in this parable) hires people to work in his vineyard for the standard daily wage. He hires additional people at 9 a.m., noon, 3 p.m. and again at 5 p.m., telling each of these groups that he will give them “whatever is right.” When the hot workday ends, he first pays the folks who labored only a single hour the standard daily wage, the same amount he pledged to those who worked nearly sunup to sundown. When the members of that full-day crew get to the front of the line, they receive the same amount, exactly what they were promised.”

Now ain’t that something? Try that with the crew at the donut shop. But, as Professor Skinner points out, the Galilean’s parables “ …often include absurd behavior to deliver their message.”

But what in tarnation is the message?

Allow me dive off the high board. I think, see, based on a fairly close study of the Scriptures, that some parables weren’t designed by the authors to teach precise moral lessons. Rather, they were written to ward off disquietude among the early Christian cult members.

In my view. The Galilean is voiced to assure early converts that any "laborer" who accepts the invitation to the work in the vineyard, i.e. the Kingdom of Heaven, no matter how late in the day, will receive an equal reward with those who have been faithful the longest. Case closed.

Of course, the parable of the prodigal son not only confused me, as the oldest son in our family. It really pissed me off, for reasons obvious to anyone who knew my family. "Work? We don’t need no stinkin’ work. Go have fun, they’ll take you back."

Then one day I realized that the parable wasn’t about children at all. It was about apostates. Should the early church groups re-admit those who had strayed from the righteous path but who wished to “return to the fold” and escape the horrors of a greedy and self-reliant secular world? Muslims can kill them. Christians must take them back into the fold.

I think the Amish practice of Rumspringa is somewhat mythically viewed as a time for adolescents to experiment with sex, drugs, and other worldly pleasures. At any rate, a period of absence from religious constraint may simply represent a socio-religious rite of passage. It makes more sense than coddling wastrels.

That’s all my head-spinning for today. I think I’ll go listen to some Bach, and offer thanks for having been a member of a family with a long tradition of being workers that needed not be ashamed of their labors.

A whip or a good Glock will keep her
from taking what is rightfully mine.

Theology Time

We are, as Americans, a dependent society. A study of the Sermon on the Mount should address that. One of the things it does is to teach us who and what to depend upon as we struggle through the “many dangers, toils, and snares” of this tedious life.

Dependent we are. I’m amazed each day at the number of people who now admit openly to employing marijuana to relax them from the cares of the world when everyone knows that alcohol does it just as well, or a Mozart piano concerto, or a Chapter of Proust, whittling, playing an instrument, or, truth be known, the Book of Psalms.

The Galilean gave us some other options on that famous spot on the southern slopes of the Korazim Plateau. From the beginning, in my beloved Beatitudes, he teaches dependency on patience and remaining stoic in the face of adversity, ending with, “Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.” (5:12 KJV)

Yes, that’s about as far from the modern “Prosperity Gospel” as we can get. Yes, you could chase Franklin Graham with a copy of “The Sermon.” He represents another case of dependency in our modern world, that of dependency on politics to achieve our religious aims. I’ve nothing against democracies, but the political arena might not be the best place in the world to look for moral or ethical salvation. It’s obvious that the Galilean thought along these lines.

For example, farther down a few verses in the Gospel of Matthew, in 5:16, he exhorts us to, “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” Are we then to depend upon our reflected light to glorify the Father? It would appear so. Oh my.

He even commands us to depend upon accomplishing the impossible. I mean, turning the other cheek? Don’t think impure thoughts on those bikini ads? Don’t divorce your wife for a younger woman? Twice? “Swear not at all? Love your enemies? Bless them that curse you? Do good to them that hate you? Pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you?

Give me a break. Facebook would dry up. Much of modern American Christianity would crumble like foundations made of sand. He must be joking.

No, in fact, going further, he commands, in verse 48, perfection: “Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.” Now ain’t that a fine howdy-do?

We could go on and on. May we find it sufficient to say that the Galilean, before that diverse crowd of individuals, outlined a different dependency paradigm? May we also point out that nowhere did he say, “Depend on me and send money?” Nor did he recommend dependency upon chants, incantations, or slavish attention to rituals. He didn’t mention that we should run after every false prophet we saw. He didn’t even mention his need for a new, expensive, state-of-the-art boat with which to spread the Gospel. Perhaps he was telling us that if we want to depend upon something, we’d best make it high, holy, and housed within our hearts.

He sure as hell didn’t tell us to depend on politicians.