Let It Snow!
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
I have your measure taken, have seen worse
And sit calm within the the warmth of home
Awaiting your outer rage with ten beers
And wine a-plenty against your puny
Blasts. So blow and bluster fierce outside
And rip the sky in your white fury long
Into the tortured night. Moan and bombard.
Everything is safe within. Winds and blows,
Outages and failures, whatever strength
Your salvos seem to have will not avail.
I've two large bags of chips against your hails.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
A Dream? Reconciliation II
In bed, still, I lay after sleep had fled.
In midnight's blank silence long before dawn
Memories began their stately parade
Rounding the corner of my consciousness
Into pillow cushioned space behind closed eyes
Whole regiments passing in review,
Tight ordered ranks in disciplined salute,
Bold banners wild in the wind of time.
I saw them, obstinate, these comrades mine
From yesterday, held close so long ago.
Yes, I knew them well, as they passed me by;
Such postured arrogance,ugliness of form
From nations unvisited for so long.
They grinned up at me. And I? to them raised
My eyes, and remembering met their gaze;
They from the days of heresies
Blasphemies, bold indecencies
As stretched like a highway to distant hills
Filling the wide avenue inside my head.
As horror into distance tramping went
A silence of simple weight took place
And I dared not watch. I hid my face
Waiting until sure all had gone as I
Yearned for shadow before God's blazing eye.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
A Hero, That's All
I wrote this story almost ten years ago when I lived not too far away from the fellow it is all about. He would be nearly 85 now, and may not be alive. But that doesn't mean we ought to forget him, or forget his younger brothers and sisters in very dangerous places far away...or looking for a place to come in out of the cold back "home" here. I apologize for the way it looks. I ain't smart enough to figure out how to make it look like something other than bad poetry.
A Hero, That's All
Burt Beardsley, 74, lives in Philo. He's a Village Trustee. He likes
to putter around with cars and a few friends of mine think a lot of
him. They say things like, "He's a nice man. Good. Gentle. Honest."
They also say, "He's a hero."
I was curious, and met him a few days ago. Here's what a hero looks
like. Small, slim, almost bald, a bit shy and very modest, a plain and
simple fellow. A hero's house is a small cottage on a quiet street
with a little porch where chimes hang, a tidy yard with a cement pig in
the grass and a backyard where Burt the American Hero works on his
friend's cars.
Burt got to be a hero 50 years ago along with another few tens of
thousands of men and women who moved to Korea to practice heroism.
All of them left jobs and families back here, and many of them left this
life, while doing hero stuff over there. You probably have a few heroes
right in your office, or on your street, or in your Church.
Burt told me about some of his experiences, how he was trained here
in the States, how he almost drowned during a typhoon in the Pacific on
the way over and how he spent 15 months straight in combat. He showed
me a few pictures and one or two poems he's written..simple verses
straight from the heart.
Burt grew up around here and was twenty-four years old, working in a
steel mill in Pennsylvania, when he was drafted and twelve or so weeks
later, in December, 1951, he and 2,000 other young heroes-in-waiting
shipped out from Seattle for Korea on an old troop transport whose
name he can't remember. She didn't last long, it seems, because she got
caught in a mid-Pacific typhoon for six days, took on thirteen feet
of water, and Burt and all his buddies had to be transferred to another
ship. Only one man was lost though, swept overboard in the wind and
waves. Considering what was to come in Korea, he might have been the
lucky one.
When they arrived in Korea they were immediately trucked to the front
lines, and there Burt spent the next fifteen months going up and down
the peninsula being a hero - a work which consisted mainly of being
scared, tired, hungry, wet, cold and scared; except for a bunch of
fellows who also got to be wounded or dead.
Burt remembers one time when they were going up a hill with some
fellows he worked at hero stuff with. 247 men started out with him; a full
company. When they got to the top of the hill eighteen hours later
only 17 of them were left. The rest didn't get tired. They got shot
and died along the way. Burt earned a Bronze Star, one of the four
he got over there, climbing that hill with no name. One of the
reasons so many fellows didn't finish the climb was because
there was a machine gun nest in front of them.
It's the same old story, the fellows in the machine gun nest didn't
want
Burt and his friends on top of the hill, and so they killed as many
as
they could. Burt stood up and fired a rifle grenade directly into
the
machine gun nest. That stopped his friends from dying so fast. He
laughed when he was telling me this story because you aren't
supposed to
fire a rifle grenade from your shoulder while standing. The proper
way
is to plant the butt of the rifle firmly on the ground and fire,
sending
the grenade in a high arch onto the target. He says the recoil spun
him
completely around and knocked him down.
Sometimes a hero's got to break a rule or two.
On another occasion, Burt and his unit were surrounded. They had
been
cut off for a week and had had nothing to eat. He was with a bunch
of
fellows from New York and New Jersey. They were nice guys, he told
me,
but they were city fellows. They were starving. Burt noticed some
trees still standing, burned on only one side. With his bayonet he
stripped the bark from the trees and took off the first, white,
layer of
new growth just inside the bark. Handing this to the others he told
them to chew it to extract the nutrients and water, and spit out the
rest. It kept them alive until they were able to break through to
their
own lines. He smiled telling me about this incident, and made a
comment
about the benefits of country living, in Korea.
He and his unit fought all the way up to the Yalu River bordering
Korea
and China. It was then that China entered the war. Burt remembers
the
horror of seeing tens of thousands of men attacking his position,
all of
them screaming. Fifty years later he still cannot understand how
they
could do it. Most of them were unarmed, or armed only with sticks and
clubs. He can recall seeing Chinese soldiers attacking American
tanks
with those clubs.
Navy jets were truly a Godsend during these attacks. Burt told me
that
he can't be grateful enough for their skill and help. "They got so
close to the ground you could see their faces." On one occasion, he
saw
a Chinese soldier on top of a hill stand up and throw a rock at a
strafing jet. "That jet was so low, the rock got stuck in his wing."
During those "human wave" attacks by unarmed men in rags the US
forces
would have to pour water over the barrels of their machine guns to
keep
them from melting. I was a boy of only 9 when all this was happening
and can still recall the fear that merely reading the stories
produced
in me. Burt says that fear was about all one could feel. At one
point
they were in combat for 101 days with no let up. "I think I got
about
eight hours sleep," he said. I asked him if he meant eight hours a
night. "No," he replied. "That was eight hours total. I learned
how
to sleep while I was marching."
He showed me a picture of several GI's in various states of
exhaustion
near a jeep, one of them asleep standing up leaning on the jeep.
There
were other pictures, too, graphic pictures of war and war's effect on
people and places. In a reference to current events Burt showed me
one
snapshot. "This is what a bombed city looks like," he said. "In ten
minutes it was knocked flat!" Only a few chimneys still stood. In
the
foreground two small Korean children smiled for the photographer.
"Did you ever see anybody lose it?" I asked. "Oh, yeah, there was
lots
of them, lots," he replied. I asked him what kept him going all
those
fifteen months of combat. Burt said it was his faith. "I'm not like
other folks, I guess. I always believed that my Guardian Angel was
working overtime for me," he began, " and since I was a little boy I
always thanked Jesus every morning for getting me through the night
and
waking me up. I was scared, but I knew I was being looked after."
He
told me that on several occasions his clothes were shot up by bullets
and shrapnel but he was never harmed. "Maybe they did pass through
me,
and I was healed. Who knows?" Indeed.
The last picture he showed me was of three smiling GI's , Burt in the
middle of his two best friends. They all made it through and are
still
in touch.
After his fifteen months were up, Burt was shipped back home.
Despite
having one transport sink under him he chose to sail home and not
fly.
That was because he had had two planes shot out from under him. As
he
told the officer asking how he wished to be shipped back, "I can
swim a
bit. I can't fly a lick." Heroes are practical.
Burt remembers well the fifteen months in combat with the 25th
Division,
27th regiment, the Wolfhounds, but like most fellows who've been
through
things like this he doesn't say much about it. "I'm telling you
things
I never told anyone, not even my wife," he said, looking at me and
shaking his head, surprised and wondering why, I guess. "We were
loved
while we were over there. When we got back it was like you were an
old
dog." It could make a person keep their counsel.
I sort of wish they would say more, though, you know? It might do
two
things. It might help us to understand and honor better these men
and
women who do so much for us in far away places. It might also help
us
work a bit harder at never having to send any one into "harm's way"
again.
I mentioned that Burt writes poems. He said that some nights when he
can't get to sleep he writes them down. These lines from one he calls
"Looking Up" catch, for me, the spirit of the man, the simple hero,
that's all:
"Stay looking to Jesus
And do your best.
He will seek you out
And do the rest."
Words to live by, in Korea, anywhere.
The End
A Hero, That's All
Burt Beardsley, 74, lives in Philo. He's a Village Trustee. He likes
to putter around with cars and a few friends of mine think a lot of
him. They say things like, "He's a nice man. Good. Gentle. Honest."
They also say, "He's a hero."
I was curious, and met him a few days ago. Here's what a hero looks
like. Small, slim, almost bald, a bit shy and very modest, a plain and
simple fellow. A hero's house is a small cottage on a quiet street
with a little porch where chimes hang, a tidy yard with a cement pig in
the grass and a backyard where Burt the American Hero works on his
friend's cars.
Burt got to be a hero 50 years ago along with another few tens of
thousands of men and women who moved to Korea to practice heroism.
All of them left jobs and families back here, and many of them left this
life, while doing hero stuff over there. You probably have a few heroes
right in your office, or on your street, or in your Church.
Burt told me about some of his experiences, how he was trained here
in the States, how he almost drowned during a typhoon in the Pacific on
the way over and how he spent 15 months straight in combat. He showed
me a few pictures and one or two poems he's written..simple verses
straight from the heart.
Burt grew up around here and was twenty-four years old, working in a
steel mill in Pennsylvania, when he was drafted and twelve or so weeks
later, in December, 1951, he and 2,000 other young heroes-in-waiting
shipped out from Seattle for Korea on an old troop transport whose
name he can't remember. She didn't last long, it seems, because she got
caught in a mid-Pacific typhoon for six days, took on thirteen feet
of water, and Burt and all his buddies had to be transferred to another
ship. Only one man was lost though, swept overboard in the wind and
waves. Considering what was to come in Korea, he might have been the
lucky one.
When they arrived in Korea they were immediately trucked to the front
lines, and there Burt spent the next fifteen months going up and down
the peninsula being a hero - a work which consisted mainly of being
scared, tired, hungry, wet, cold and scared; except for a bunch of
fellows who also got to be wounded or dead.
Burt remembers one time when they were going up a hill with some
fellows he worked at hero stuff with. 247 men started out with him; a full
company. When they got to the top of the hill eighteen hours later
only 17 of them were left. The rest didn't get tired. They got shot
and died along the way. Burt earned a Bronze Star, one of the four
he got over there, climbing that hill with no name. One of the
reasons so many fellows didn't finish the climb was because
there was a machine gun nest in front of them.
It's the same old story, the fellows in the machine gun nest didn't
want
Burt and his friends on top of the hill, and so they killed as many
as
they could. Burt stood up and fired a rifle grenade directly into
the
machine gun nest. That stopped his friends from dying so fast. He
laughed when he was telling me this story because you aren't
supposed to
fire a rifle grenade from your shoulder while standing. The proper
way
is to plant the butt of the rifle firmly on the ground and fire,
sending
the grenade in a high arch onto the target. He says the recoil spun
him
completely around and knocked him down.
Sometimes a hero's got to break a rule or two.
On another occasion, Burt and his unit were surrounded. They had
been
cut off for a week and had had nothing to eat. He was with a bunch
of
fellows from New York and New Jersey. They were nice guys, he told
me,
but they were city fellows. They were starving. Burt noticed some
trees still standing, burned on only one side. With his bayonet he
stripped the bark from the trees and took off the first, white,
layer of
new growth just inside the bark. Handing this to the others he told
them to chew it to extract the nutrients and water, and spit out the
rest. It kept them alive until they were able to break through to
their
own lines. He smiled telling me about this incident, and made a
comment
about the benefits of country living, in Korea.
He and his unit fought all the way up to the Yalu River bordering
Korea
and China. It was then that China entered the war. Burt remembers
the
horror of seeing tens of thousands of men attacking his position,
all of
them screaming. Fifty years later he still cannot understand how
they
could do it. Most of them were unarmed, or armed only with sticks and
clubs. He can recall seeing Chinese soldiers attacking American
tanks
with those clubs.
Navy jets were truly a Godsend during these attacks. Burt told me
that
he can't be grateful enough for their skill and help. "They got so
close to the ground you could see their faces." On one occasion, he
saw
a Chinese soldier on top of a hill stand up and throw a rock at a
strafing jet. "That jet was so low, the rock got stuck in his wing."
During those "human wave" attacks by unarmed men in rags the US
forces
would have to pour water over the barrels of their machine guns to
keep
them from melting. I was a boy of only 9 when all this was happening
and can still recall the fear that merely reading the stories
produced
in me. Burt says that fear was about all one could feel. At one
point
they were in combat for 101 days with no let up. "I think I got
about
eight hours sleep," he said. I asked him if he meant eight hours a
night. "No," he replied. "That was eight hours total. I learned
how
to sleep while I was marching."
He showed me a picture of several GI's in various states of
exhaustion
near a jeep, one of them asleep standing up leaning on the jeep.
There
were other pictures, too, graphic pictures of war and war's effect on
people and places. In a reference to current events Burt showed me
one
snapshot. "This is what a bombed city looks like," he said. "In ten
minutes it was knocked flat!" Only a few chimneys still stood. In
the
foreground two small Korean children smiled for the photographer.
"Did you ever see anybody lose it?" I asked. "Oh, yeah, there was
lots
of them, lots," he replied. I asked him what kept him going all
those
fifteen months of combat. Burt said it was his faith. "I'm not like
other folks, I guess. I always believed that my Guardian Angel was
working overtime for me," he began, " and since I was a little boy I
always thanked Jesus every morning for getting me through the night
and
waking me up. I was scared, but I knew I was being looked after."
He
told me that on several occasions his clothes were shot up by bullets
and shrapnel but he was never harmed. "Maybe they did pass through
me,
and I was healed. Who knows?" Indeed.
The last picture he showed me was of three smiling GI's , Burt in the
middle of his two best friends. They all made it through and are
still
in touch.
After his fifteen months were up, Burt was shipped back home.
Despite
having one transport sink under him he chose to sail home and not
fly.
That was because he had had two planes shot out from under him. As
he
told the officer asking how he wished to be shipped back, "I can
swim a
bit. I can't fly a lick." Heroes are practical.
Burt remembers well the fifteen months in combat with the 25th
Division,
27th regiment, the Wolfhounds, but like most fellows who've been
through
things like this he doesn't say much about it. "I'm telling you
things
I never told anyone, not even my wife," he said, looking at me and
shaking his head, surprised and wondering why, I guess. "We were
loved
while we were over there. When we got back it was like you were an
old
dog." It could make a person keep their counsel.
I sort of wish they would say more, though, you know? It might do
two
things. It might help us to understand and honor better these men
and
women who do so much for us in far away places. It might also help
us
work a bit harder at never having to send any one into "harm's way"
again.
I mentioned that Burt writes poems. He said that some nights when he
can't get to sleep he writes them down. These lines from one he calls
"Looking Up" catch, for me, the spirit of the man, the simple hero,
that's all:
"Stay looking to Jesus
And do your best.
He will seek you out
And do the rest."
Words to live by, in Korea, anywhere.
The End
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
A Dream? Reconciliation.
Long after midnight, long before dawn.
Memories began their stately parade
Swinging round the corner of my consciousness.
Into pillow cushioned space behind closed eyes.
They marched along, passing in review, saluting
Stepping high, banners waving in the wind of time.
I saw them all yesterday and knew them well.
Some had come from heaven to march today.
Others from just as far away, unvisited for so long
Yet well, so very well, known, recognized
Instantly in their proud and native dress.
They smiled parading by. And I? I raised
My eyes and met their gaze remembering
Them from the days of heresies
Blasphemies, such indecencies
As stretched like a highway to distant hills
Filling the wide avenue inside my head.
Had the sun risen yet?
Could I get out of bed?
As these into distance went
Memories from heaven, sent
Out from some other assembling place
Began their showing long delayed.
A silence of simple weight took place
And I did not watch. I hid my face
And waited until all had left then I
Felt God's cool shadow passing by.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Occasionally something comes along, an idea, a word, a notion, that folows you areound. I had this idea of a little town, and morning before the sun was up. Over the course of several days i played with it, turned it over and over, took it apart and put it back together. Here it is...still not finished:
A Quiet Morning
A quiet morning, quiet little town,
A time just before first faint light of dawn.
Nothing stirs as nightlong sleep prepares
To take its leave behind her still shut eyes.
Suddenly now light swells within the room
Fills every corner, banishes all gloom.
No graceful day here hints in sweet shades of
Rose and blue. This is heaven's hint of Love.
Awake now, sitting mantled in the light,
Paused on a fragile point between pure fright
And ecstasy she holds herself; contains
The flood of fear and joy so much like pain
And waits suspended in eternity.
Light bows profound before this peasant child
Softening from bright majesty to mild
Address of graceful hue and shifting swirl
She hears as words and feels deep in her soul.
"The Lord is with you, child of grace," she hears,
Yet while light continues she doesn't fear
The message, hope of all, this light imparts.
Love and childlike trust dwell within her heart.
"I am the Lord's handmaid. Let it be so."
Her quiet words releasing it, light goes.
And on the simple answer she gives rests
Creation's pivot and the end of death.
A quiet morning, quiet little town,
A time just before first faint light of dawn.
Nothing stirs as nightlong sleep prepares
To take its leave behind her still shut eyes.
Suddenly now light swells within the room
Fills every corner, banishes all gloom.
No graceful day here hints in sweet shades of
Rose and blue. This is heaven's hint of Love.
Awake now, sitting mantled in the light,
Paused on a fragile point between pure fright
And ecstasy she holds herself; contains
The flood of fear and joy so much like pain
And waits suspended in eternity.
Light bows profound before this peasant child
Softening from bright majesty to mild
Address of graceful hue and shifting swirl
She hears as words and feels deep in her soul.
"The Lord is with you, child of grace," she hears,
Yet while light continues she doesn't fear
The message, hope of all, this light imparts.
Love and childlike trust dwell within her heart.
"I am the Lord's handmaid. Let it be so."
Her quiet words releasing it, light goes.
And on the simple answer she gives rests
Creation's pivot and the end of death.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Vote For Who?
Only a couple of days ago an old school chum wrote to say that with the recent election of a number of republicans to office national legislative paralysis will continue. Another fellow replied that this was the best thing that could happen. “The less they meddle in out lives, the better off we will be,” he said. I happen to agree with him, and have thought that way for quite a long, long time. Government on every level has become increasingly meddlesome and obtrusive, especially so since we seem to have growing in our midst a “type” of person, the career/professional politician/officeholder who begins to function somewhat as an heriditary nobility may have functioned in past ages. On, no? Can you say Cuomo?
Couple that with career/professional military personnel and one may have a volatile dangerous mix. Tell me whether or not it’s a sure thing that some fine day we will find Senator Col. Bismuth’s Regiment of Armored Cavalry happily ensconced in Fort Bismuth which was founded by his grandfather the first Senator, God rest his soul. Their offices as yet in not hereditary, as a Roman senator’s, or Consul’s, but it depends increasingly on a kind of “bread and circuses” way of life, legislating more and more of the stuff we never thought we needed but cannot live without. But let us leave that for another day to grow warts over.
I was instantly attracted to the line which reads, “That government governs best which governs least.” But even THAT type of government has to have the authority to tell/guide/cajole/ inform…you pick the word…the citizens of the space it governs what they may/ought to do from time to time, or all the time, among themselves, and to order them to gather in places where things need to be done to keep the place up, or keep out folks who happen to like the place and want bits of it for themselves, or all of it. And the smarter citizens, I happen to think, see the need for that to happen and agree among themselves that it is not only good for it to happen but better to keep it happening that way.
I think I have just summarized the Preamble to the Constitution of These Untied States
I happened yesterday to be walking across the schoolyard while it was filled with about a hundred little kids. There were balls of all kinds flying through the air, and little boys of various sizes running all over the place kicking them and each other in pursuit of the balls…or each other. There were girls there, too. Some of them walked quietly about in twos and threes; probably talking about dolls, or who they would trap into being husbands in several years. Other girls gathered and screamed, and a few ran around with or after the boys.
As I passed through a knot of eight years old boys I heard one tell another, “You’re not the boss of me!” This group of boys seemed to be engaged in a kind of game which resembled soccer in the same way that the formless soup of coalescing matter in the first nano-seconds after the big bang resembles the universe today.
There was among them nothing agreed upon, no rules, no positions, no referees, no boundaries, and no one, it seemed who thought it might be better for everyone if some kind of order was imposed, if someone, or some group said to them, “OK, boys, from now on the stoop is out of bounds, only one guy at a time kicks the ball, and no punching each other in the face. Five of us get at this end and the other five get at that end and try to move the ball past each other from our own end to the other guys’ end. Every ten minutes we take a blow, and if someone goes down, no stepping on him. Everyone gets to say if we want to play the game different and most hands changes the rules. No yelling. Sound good?”
I think I have just summarized the Constitution of these Untied States.
So, we have only ourselves to blame if the referees and rule makers shorten the field, allow too many players on one side and not enough on another or do away with the boundaries and say, “Hey, everyone, come over and play with our ball. No rules. No practice. Just fun. Plus, we give you lunch.” I think I know where you are thinking I will go with this. Well, I am not on my way there. This ain’t Arizona.
But, I think I have just summarized much of what has been happening in most every state and local government, and down in the SOG, for the better part of a century.
It’s all about sales, you know. Consider what happens when you invite someone into your home after reading about a deal too good to pass up, and think that well, a new set of windows might just be the thing before winter sets in. So, they come, those guys who advertise new storm windows that will keep out the cold in the winter and the heat in the summer, and we never ask, “How DO the glass know?”. We sold ourselves a deal based on a dream. Wallowed these guys who promise us everything to start tearing out the windows, for one easy price. Soon, we’d see we need a new paint job, a new furnace…and go for the deal each time; finding ourselves as a result in debt up to our necks in a few years and with some bank in a place we never heard of that hold our mortgage foreclosing.
I think I have just described “progress”. I think I have also just described the current financial mess we are in, most of which happened because there was too much patty fingers between big deal rich guys and big deal pols who’d been in office for about a geologic age apiece, and knew all they needed to know.
Like Pogo might have said, we did it to us. Or, perhaps more accurately, we stood by and let them do it; after we had let them sell us the windows, and after we had let them talk us into believing (a) our old windows didn’t look nice, (b) everyone else has new windows on the next block so why not us at a price that may not/will not last and (c) they’re self-cleaning (a lie).
I think I have just described about every political campaign for the last seventy years. The point of all of these mixed metaphors, windows, ball games and little kids is this: Little kids do need some rules or games are not games at all. Comes a time when “plays well with others” becomes important for living. That means accepting the being a grown up, but also accepting a lot of other things, too. But, there’s a long space between that and becoming used to the idea that “allows others to play for him” is a goal. When we allow ourselves to be convinced that is the best for ourselves and everyone else we give up being a grown up. We don’t go back to the school yard. We go back to the crib.
And, about windows and all that? Well, that’s just a big serving of gluttony, greed, envy and sloth; with a little bit of lust, anger and pride mixed in and sauced over the top.. That’s the bargain we made in the garden long time ago. In that crib we won’t have blankies, bottles and regular diaper changes. Nah, it’ll be loans, and free this and thats and euthanasia some day.
I think I just described having our cake and eating it.
But you gotta have rules about that, recipes for making the cake batter, an oven and temperature directions for baking it, cake pans and what alls, dishes, knives a forks, tables, plates and napkins, and manners. And Mom to do the baking, and kids to do the cleaning up. And Dad to bring home the bacon to buy the flour, milk, sugar and shortening.
I think I have just described a society.
Without which we get either one of two things, what we are starting to grow in the backyard of every City Hall, State House and White House and Congress, here; or what we need, and what this place started with, just enough rules to make the game enjoyable and allow us to get the ball to the goal to the best of our ability.
I happened yesterday to be walking across the schoolyard while it was filled with about a hundred little kids. There were balls of all kinds flying through the air, and little boys of various sizes running all over the place kicking them and each other in pursuit of the balls…or each other. There were girls there, too. Some of them walked quietly about in twos and threes; probably talking about dolls, or who they would trap into being husbands in several years. Other girls gathered and screamed, and a few ran around with or after the boys.
As I passed through a knot of eight years old boys I heard one tell another, “You’re not the boss of me!” This group of boys seemed to be engaged in a kind of game which resembled soccer in the same way that the formless soup of coalescing matter in the first nano-seconds after the big bang resembles the universe today.
There was among them nothing agreed upon, no rules, no positions, no referees, no boundaries, and no one, it seemed who thought it might be better for everyone if some kind of order was imposed, if someone, or some group said to them, “OK, boys, from now on the stoop is out of bounds, only one guy at a time kicks the ball, and no punching each other in the face. Five of us get at this end and the other five get at that end and try to move the ball past each other from our own end to the other guys’ end. Every ten minutes we take a blow, and if someone goes down, no stepping on him. Everyone gets to say if we want to play the game different and most hands changes the rules. No yelling. Sound good?”
I think I have just summarized the Constitution of these Untied States.
So, we have only ourselves to blame if the referees and rule makers shorten the field, allow too many players on one side and not enough on another or do away with the boundaries and say, “Hey, everyone, come over and play with our ball. No rules. No practice. Just fun. Plus, we give you lunch.” I think I know where you are thinking I will go with this. Well, I am not on my way there. This ain’t Arizona.
But, I think I have just summarized much of what has been happening in most every state and local government, and down in the SOG, for the better part of a century.
It’s all about sales, you know. Consider what happens when you invite someone into your home after reading about a deal too good to pass up, and think that well, a new set of windows might just be the thing before winter sets in. So, they come, those guys who advertise new storm windows that will keep out the cold in the winter and the heat in the summer, and we never ask, “How DO the glass know?”. We sold ourselves a deal based on a dream. Wallowed these guys who promise us everything to start tearing out the windows, for one easy price. Soon, we’d see we need a new paint job, a new furnace…and go for the deal each time; finding ourselves as a result in debt up to our necks in a few years and with some bank in a place we never heard of that hold our mortgage foreclosing.
I think I have just described “progress”. I think I have also just described the current financial mess we are in, most of which happened because there was too much patty fingers between big deal rich guys and big deal pols who’d been in office for about a geologic age apiece, and knew all they needed to know.
Like Pogo might have said, we did it to us. Or, perhaps more accurately, we stood by and let them do it; after we had let them sell us the windows, and after we had let them talk us into believing (a) our old windows didn’t look nice, (b) everyone else has new windows on the next block so why not us at a price that may not/will not last and (c) they’re self-cleaning (a lie).
I think I have just described about every political campaign for the last seventy years. The point of all of these mixed metaphors, windows, ball games and little kids is this: Little kids do need some rules or games are not games at all. Comes a time when “plays well with others” becomes important for living. That means accepting the being a grown up, but also accepting a lot of other things, too. But, there’s a long space between that and becoming used to the idea that “allows others to play for him” is a goal. When we allow ourselves to be convinced that is the best for ourselves and everyone else we give up being a grown up. We don’t go back to the school yard. We go back to the crib.
And, about windows and all that? Well, that’s just a big serving of gluttony, greed, envy and sloth; with a little bit of lust, anger and pride mixed in and sauced over the top.. That’s the bargain we made in the garden long time ago. In that crib we won’t have blankies, bottles and regular diaper changes. Nah, it’ll be loans, and free this and thats and euthanasia some day.
I think I just described having our cake and eating it.
But you gotta have rules about that, recipes for making the cake batter, an oven and temperature directions for baking it, cake pans and what alls, dishes, knives a forks, tables, plates and napkins, and manners. And Mom to do the baking, and kids to do the cleaning up. And Dad to bring home the bacon to buy the flour, milk, sugar and shortening.
I think I have just described a society.
Without which we get either one of two things, what we are starting to grow in the backyard of every City Hall, State House and White House and Congress, here; or what we need, and what this place started with, just enough rules to make the game enjoyable and allow us to get the ball to the goal to the best of our ability.
We cannot elect to office the guys who had the grace to start this place going, and the good sense to stand aside when they had done what needed doing. They’re dead. The ones we seem to be electing today have none of the latter quality, and participating in darn little of the former, I think; believing that they are their own answer to all of the questions, and that’s insane. Hospitals are full of those folks.
But, you know, short of bring them all out into the Public Square and making the place really messy, I think there may be another way. Call it a modest proposal. Better yet call it a Mad Tea Party, a crazy solution to an insane problem.
In the election for senator up here in Cow Hampshire there were a total of 10,00 some odd votes cast in my home town. Just about ten percent were cast for folks, people, maybe your pet turtle, whose name did not appear on the ballot. In most cases less than thirty percent of folks care enough to switch off Oprah and slog over to the polling station.
We talk all the time about “‘sending messages”, one of which is, “You stink, and so does everything you’re doing.” Well, whoever “You” is doesn’t really care, and who else is there to replace him? So seventy percent of folks afflict themselves with “apathy”.
Next time you get a chance, next time the salesmen come to the door, appear in the paper and offer you “such a deal”, smile to yourself and go back inside. feel lucky you have the opportunity to do what I suggest now. Vote for “None of the Above”. Vote for Michael Mouse, Dr. E Fudd, Uncle D. Duck. Vote the “Straight Dope” ticket.
Soon, the day will come when this little act of civil disobedience will have an effect, when shame will cover the ermine clad shoulders of the eternal office holder and the hoots of the rest of us at their hollow victory will rob them of all legitimacy, and their office and duties of any standing, finally.
With our help so far they are destroying the structure forged in strife years ago by wise men and strong. Turn your backs on them and walk away laughing at their pride and vainglory. Let the Mouse be your Man next time!
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