Ultimately Alone

The only journey is the one within
                          Ranier Maria Rilke

Alone

To be alone...

To be able to be alone

One of the more popular television shows in the genre of "survival" is simply called "Alone."  10 skilled survivalists are dropped off miles apart in a remote region of the world.  From Canada to Patagonia, they must survive using only their skills and a few personal items.  They have clothing appropriate to the climate and sometimes a few simple items like fish hooks or a knife.  One participant actually brought down a moose with a bow and arrow.  Not a high-tech weapon, just a simple, self-made bow, and arrow.  These folks have real skills.  One of the women on the show once made herself a sauna.  She lined a shelter with found materials, built a fireplace with rocks and heated water for steam.  There was even a mossy path to the sauna that she built.  Real skills.  Sometimes contestants have made their own instruments, like an animal gut string banjo or a flute whittled from a tree branch.  Music goes with being alone so well.

The person who can stay alone the longest wins a cash prize ($250,000 or more) so that is the motivation.  These folks are mostly young, but occasionally there is a person over 50.  In the end, barring a serious injury, what gets people to tap out and end their attempt is the isolation.  

More proof positive that the ability to be alone is difficult, yet important.

Socrates said that humans were "by nature a political animal."  A strict interpretation would mean that we choose to live in governments for self-protection.  Politics, right?  But I submit it also means we choose to live in and among other people.  The implication here is that alone, we are or may be less.

There is much to savor in living alone.  A rare few choose to do so.  Most others find themselves alone and either tolerate it or spend time and energy trying to remedy that situation.

Like Rilke, the Austrian poet suggests, the task of inner solitude is a desirable goal.

In my view, a solitary living experience is not only worthwhile, but it might also even be necessary for self-knowledge.  To the young, it seems unnatural.  I recall asking a class of mine one time if anyone ever went to a movie alone.  Very few.  At the time, I did it regularly.  To them going to a movie alone meant having to go alone.  That meant there were reasons, very bad reasons probably, that they had to go alone.  The unevolved fear being alone.

     Being in nature is a great antidote to feeling alone while being alone.  You don't have to model yourself after Thoreau to experience the joy of solidarity.  Just a few hours near a river, lake, or ocean will do.  Hike up a mountain, walk an outdoor path, or, in my case go fishing.

In the end, we are all ultimately alone.  This knowledge has helped me enjoy my time with other people even more.

Shady Edge

Two things that happened yesterday converged in my mind.  I learned that there were at least 3,000 homeless people in my hometown, and I began reading the most interesting and unusual book called The Stranger in the Woods.  

The book is the story of a man who willingly pulls himself off the grid and lives hermit-like for 27 years.  Before he was discovered and subsequently arrested for burglary (he stole food and supplies from cabins and institutional camps) he had no contact with any other humans.
These two lifestyles have much in common, but their differences are what resonates even more loudly.  They both live in the margins...on the edges...until discovered.  The homeless in my area seem to be always on the move, while the hermit in the woods of Maine is able to stay put for decades.  Both are dependent on the world around them for basic necessities.
I suspect the emotional conscience of the homeless is more complex because they are visible.  They are also inhibited by their addiction to drugs, alcohol, or other substances, leaving their mental competency in doubt.
Choosing to move into a heavily wooded area and survive on raids that yield food, basic supplies, and anything else that might make tent camping more comfortable takes the ability to function without hearing another human voice.  It doesn't mean losing all contact with all things human if you can score a radio and some batteries.
Imagine keeping up with the news, but not being able to discuss any of it with anyone.  What is lost and what is gained? What does that say about human nature?

Sometimes I think that all of us imagine "living rough" at one time or another.  We might even think about where we would go if we had to spend a night out on the streets.  Which doorways, or trees, or tiny non-visible spaces seem most inviting?  Where are their heat sources or potential meals?
I actually think this is a good exercise to pursue.  I recall that some of the training for being a Vista Volunteer that I experienced years ago involved what they called "dropoff" experiences.  People would be taken to bus stations at late hours and asked to observe while spending the night there.
It certainly heightens the senses.
If it's true that most of us are only a paycheck or two from homelessness, then we'd do well to keep our eyes open.  Ironically, being on your own in the hostile environs of a major city just might lead one to the desire to be completely alone.  Certainty is at a premium in that state; choices can be simple.  Images of those living in the shadows tend to be romanticized and heavily male.  Neither are valid, I' sure.

No Weatherman Needed

Various theories of representation with regard to congressional members exist.  They essentially say that an elected representative, either Congress or Senate votes with either his/her conscience, party, or constituency.   That's logical, but in today's political climate, there seems little place for the conscience if the representative has any hope of re-election.
As the current impeachment debate slogs along, more and more members of Congress are struggling with which theory best serves them.
My bias is that an act of conscience is the preferred choice.  To me, it's much higher on the moral reasoning spectrum.  That skill seems most desireable for a lawmaker in my book.
Not so with so many in Congress today and their districts.  The country is awash with divided political opinion and most shocking is that so many are having a difficult time deciphering just what it is that they think

                     How will I know what I think until I see what I write

My advice is t do a little writing if this is such a difficult choice.  But then we have competing narratives detailing just exactly what this vote is all about.  I concede that both sides have some (albeit very few) valid points but when indisputable facts fail to create an agreement, then you know we're in trouble.  So to paraphrase a useful phrase rooted in the lore of impeachment, "what did the President do and when did he do it."

It seems like all these folks who wear the Congressional pin ought to be able to agree on what was done when.  It hasn't happened yet, I'm afraid.

Today the news cycle was sporting a new tale.  A Democrat, who was having trouble agreeing with his constituency over his aye or nay vote on impeachment has decided to become a Republican.  He fears losing re-election.  I hope the people he represents make him pay for that choice.  Not because he wants to change party, but because he refuses to grapple with his conscience.  Does this guy know what he believes and values?  How could he, fear got in the way.  Hard choices take real leadership.  The kind of leadership that a feather in the wind political seems oblivious to.

When the Trucks Roll

                 They say everything can be replaced
                 Yet every distance is not near
                 So I remember every face
                 Of every man who put me here
                                                -Bob Dylan
                                                I Shall Be Released


I'm watching much of the Impeachment hearings.  My attention wanes on occasion.  It's tedious. But then we knew that.  This time around, the division is palpable.  It is wearily all-consuming.  Both sides see the same set of facts differently.  They dispute the rules; they insult one another's intelligence, they profess outrage.  They know what they know.
But what do we see when we see them?  What gets triggered when they exercise their sense of their own power.  I see the trucks.
In carefully answering an interviewer's question about trust, with regard to one you might fear, Nobel laureate Toni Morrison once said, "when the trucks roll, I still think they will put me on the truck."
This chilling view is probably more common than we might think.  In an atmosphere of fear, we can convince ourselves that being too careful is not an option.
Those who seem to be able to rationalize many of the actions of the current President of the United States are the faces.  Some look like mild-mannered folks, some like caring mothers and wives.  Their appearance belies their intention.  We've seen this before and sadly, it is upon us again.
I see something else too.  I see the accused sitting in a courtroom, life on trial, knowing full well the verdict has been decided.  Knowing that nothing said or demonstrated in that courtroom will have any impact on the outcome of their fate.  Those scenes were repeated in our collective history time and again.  Instead of trucks rolling, lynch mobs boiled up from the red dirt of our countryside.  Forced confessions flourished.  Scars continuously ignored, the victims of injustice had no recourse but to accept the fate conjured up by the imbalance of power.

I see a child riding on a railcar.  The ground is snow-covered, The guard outside the car speaks his language.  He may even know the family.  They do not speak on this day.  What goes through their minds? What awaits at the end of this crucial day?   led both to position themselves accordingly that morning?  Wheels turn.
The railcar yields to a truck that is waiting to take one of them to their future.  They will never speak again.

Past Due

              It's OK to look back at the past, just don't stare.
                                                                  -Benjamin Dover


I've always been fascinated with the past.  From pointed questions about who my ancestors might be to regarding my history book as one of my most prized possessions, I enjoy looking and thinking about things that have happened...people who came before me.
By high school, all I ever aspired to was becoming a history teacher.  That almost happened.  The reality of public education tacked on English and Psychology to the 11 or 12 other history courses I taught in a 30 plus year career.
I read historical novels and easily as much or more non-fiction and autobiography/biography than other genres.  I am a student of the past and how it is written and recorded.
No apology needed, right?  Absolutely, but this trait has its limitations and problems.
Recently I've been fascinated by how this interest in the past has manifested itself in my life in various ways. Last month I saw an ad for a company that manufactures and sells vintage sports uniforms and shirts and caps with their logos.  So what's happening there?  I think it has to do with seeing and experiencing something that was previously thought to be gone...forever.  The realization that maybe something thought to be lost can reappear.  There is a warmth, a recognition of,  a celebration in wearing the jersey of a team that no longer exists.

 I wonder if this works the same way with people.  The old song "Have I stayed Too Long at the Fair?" raises this question.  In that tune, a woman wonders if perhaps she let the bright lights, attractions, and the attractive people get to her too much.  Then, when it's time to go home, she's left wanting more.  She's left alone with the wilting balloons and faded colors.
Relationships can be like that.  I certainly wish I'd left some alone.  But since we tend to remember the best parts rather than the tough times, there is often a temptation to mess with fate and try to repeat what can't be repeated.  Even just a friendly hello, what's new with you, how are things?  can be way too much and leave us wondering what were we thinking.

Making A Reader

I've been volunteering at my neighborhood elementary school.  There is a program called SMART, an acronym for Start Making a Reader Today.  I read with and to kindergarten kids for an hour.  I have three charges, all girls, and I spend 20 minutes with each, one day a week.  It goes quickly, most of the time.  These kids can't read yet, but they are learning to love books.  We read together whatever they choose from among hundreds of titles distributed around the small classroom.  Most of the books are clever little titles that can be read in about 5-7 minutes.  I did read one last week that was 48 pages long.  It took almost the entire 20-minute segment.
My three "Smarties," as they are called, couldn't be more different.  The first little girl is very quiet and shy.  But she smiles freely and responds to my occasional questions with bright, alert, answers.  I've learned her favorite foods, animals, and colors.  The third child I see each week is more of an extrovert, but equally as bright and alert.  With her two front teeth missing, she smiles freely and seems to be able to read a bit.  I'll find out more as the weeks go by.  She also tells me how she likes to read with her daddy, so I know there are books at home there.

The middle child is the most challenging because she's most often distracted.  I could call her hyperactive because she often needs to move around when we are reading a book.  She is antsy, likes to move around the room and visit others during the 20-minute session, and sometimes gets easily off task.  She's also very tactile.  She likes to touch my arms, and will spontaneously give me a hug.
We're not supposed to touch the kids in any way and do not play the role of teacher as far as discipline or classroom environment goes.  I thought that might be difficult for me since I', a grizzled veteran of the high school classroom, but no, I just try to reel in the distracted moments and keep the focus going.  Nevertheless, I'm wondering about the differences in the behavior of these three kids.  Maybe someday I'll be able to talk to their teacher who might provide some insight; maybe not. What kind of readers will they actually become? So many ways to read today, what will come from these early attempts to make readers?   For now, I'll do my best to help make these kids readers, whatever that may be in the changing literary landscape.  I recall a colleague of mine used to have a poster in her classroom that read: "Unless we read, we will have but one tiny life."  I wish all readers very big lives.

Glovely

I used to explore the theme of childhood with my Junior English classes.  In literature, it's very popular...also a winner.  Everybody has one.  Everybody loses one.  The stories are important and valuable.  Usually, when teaching the novel The Catcher in the Rye, I'd ask my students to bring in an object that represents their childhood.  I'd do the same.  This exercise came early on in the year and would work as an ice-breaker and help us all get to know one another better.  Of course, there was all manner of Barbie dolls, and model cars, airplanes, rocket ships, and superhero toys.  Some kids would bring books and others went conceptual, like the student who poured a container of water through the air into a container and said that water represented his childhood because he almost drowned.  One of the most memorable was the student who brought in some clothing from her native Iran and proceded to tell a story about how she and her mother escaped a repressive regime there and when they landed in a U.S. airport they changed their clothing and tossed the more traditional garb into the first trash can they saw.  Powerful stuff.  Lots of laughs and lots of tears all around.  But then, that's childhood.

I'd usually bring in my Little League baseball glove and tell the story of how I grew up a Giants fan in L.A. and wanted a Willie Mays glove.  My father took me to the biggest sporting goods stores in the city and we found one!  I'm convinced that glove helped me make a few plays just like my idol.
I was thinking about that glove the other day when I recalled the story of another glove.  Like my signature model, it was made by the MacGregor company.  Only this other glove, which belonged to a neighbor kid  I regularly played baseball with, was even more special.

My friend's glove was solid black and came to him suddenly and accidentally.  He was riding along with his father in Hollywood, Ca one afternoon.  His dad worked at Technicolor and he often went in with him on Saturdays to gather scraps of film left on the cutting room floor.  He'd bring home small rolls of discarded film with scenes from such classic movies as "The Robe" and "Sparticus."  Bigg stuff for 10-year-olds.  Anyway, as they were riding along they noticed a large bus in front of them.  Just about the time they noticed the logo of the Hollywood Stars baseball team on the bus, a glove fell from an open window!  A beautiful, all black, MacGreggor glove.  Stopping the car, my neighbor fetched up the glove, but the team bus was long gone.  I think they made an attempt to re-unite the glove with its owner, but that never happened.  That glove played its remaining days in my neighborhood and at our local Little League field.  We all knew it was special.  Even though the Stars were a minor league team (Part of the Pacific Coast League) they were a farm team of the Pittsburg Pirates.  That glove belonged to a real baseball player.  We all took turns wearing that glove when its new owner allowed.  It'll never replace the feeling and pride of my Willie Mays glove but as neighborhood legends go, the black MacGreggor is one of the better ones.

Uniform

I'm seen as an old man
named after an uncle I never met,
If promise was a flood, and fire was frost
Twilight would be more than life-like dreams
 that bubble over the ledges of time

Give me the uniform of a minor league team
that exists only in the mind,
Just one more look to hold dear,
with colors that make this life half as hard.

As a young man, my lovers came mostly
from ancient cultures but others from those busy being born,
Most were restless within own their own boundaries,
If I never wandered through dark woods the most beautiful
would never have appeared.

 Eventually, I moved on and away as they pushed years along like
a noisy shopping cart.

Old photos bring new smiles.

Impermanent Dreams

There comes a time when downsizing becomes more than just a good cleanout.  Some items that we seem to have clung too for a lifetime need new homes.  They are the objects with which we have emotional attachments.  They are the things we never could quite have let go of without an emotional toll.
Yesterday I moved one such piece on to a new life.  It was a painting my father bought when a young man in New York City.  The piece was a signed oil by a rather unknown Austrian artist whose father was a bit more famous and thus more successful.  Nevertheless, because the painting is almost 100 years old, despite its condition issues, there is always a chance that it could accrue in value.
I ended up selling the painting for a store...literally.  Well, not literally because I also got about half the asking price, which was fairly modest, to begin with.  The story is that a man bought the painting for his brother, who is beginning to show an interest in collecting art.

Now, we've all heard those Antiques Roadshow stories where a person pays $25. for a piece at an estate sale and it turns out to be worth $25k.  Not the case here.  However, a little TLC and a good cleaning will definitely be advisable for the new owner.  That will raise the value fivefold and make for a desirable and aesthetically pleasing work of art.
What seems to stick with me every time I sell something with childhood recollections is that I tend to react emotionally.  The aforementioned painting hung over the fireplace in my family home.  It was part and parcel of my folks' conception and portion of postwar promise.  It was more than a work of art, it was home and hearth.  No matter how many times we tell ourselves that nothing lasts forever, and even when we have finally come to believe it for keeps, it still manages to pluck the heartstrings with a final tune.
The answer, my friends, isn't blowing in the wind, but it is doable.  I like to make a new narrative and go with that.  For example, some person, who will no doubt outlive me and my entire family will soon be very pleased with his new acquisition.  He might even give it the care and energy it deserves.  It may even be connected to yet another version of all things possible in the American that we know exists.  New life for an old-timer.  Yeah, that works.

After You Go There

Aside from all the other scandals and tales of corruption and greed, we're currently being exposed to these days, don't forget that this will go down as the year of the college admissions scandal.
Today, the top of the news featured the headline that the 10th person (i.e. parent) was sentenced to jail time today.
There is something particularly conniving and evil about the parents who would cat and buy their way into prestigious schools.  They have the money and the inclination to apply their sense of entitlement and privilege to the fullest.  Their kids will have the best...that's all their is to it.  But no, that is not all there is to it.  In fact,  I'd go further and say that is not all there is.  Getting into what you might consider a "good" school is highly overrated.
Some of the kids whose parents got busted could care less about where they go to school.  In fact, a few were vocal that they didn't even want to go to college.  So what makes a parent go so far as offering hundreds of thousands of dollars to either fix test scores or fake athletic ability and go for elite athlete scholarships?

I submit that they know little of a college education, it's purpose and worth and have fallen victim to flawed conventional wisdom.
I spent over half my life with juniors and seniors anxious about applying to college. I'd make a point of discussing it with their parents too at evey open house and Back to School night. The college admissions process was something we discussed every year.  The best message I could offer to students and their parents is one simple line.  I don't know who deserves the credit for this gem but "It's not where you go, it's what you do after you go there that counts" continues to be genius.
I recall one poor student who told me that his parents made him take the SAT test 7 times.  As if the more times taken would yield better results.  Poor kid would never be good enough.  Good enough for what? As if there were any connection between SAT scores and college success.
I welcome all the schools that are now no longer asking for ACT or SAT scores.  They get it.  It's going to take a huge shift in thinking and a lessening in valuing prestige, but I'm hopeful we'll get there.  That involves opening up college for everyone who welcomes the challenge and ending the vice grip of Educational testing.
Things are headed that way.

Ownership

I recommend doing this.  Take a minute and search on Google maps or a similar website the home address of a residence where you once lived.  The older you are the better.  That way you can look back at how a neighborhood or specific street has changed over the years.
It's been 50 years since I left the home I grew up in.  My folks were California transplants shortly after the end of World War II.  That makes me the classic Baby Boomer.
Since they were older when they first had kids, their version of the American Dream didn't begin until they were in their late 30s and early 40s.
The little home they purchased was finally paid for after both were gone.  What sold for about $15,000 then would probably go for $515,000, today.  That's a conservative estimate.
Something sent me back to that old neighborhood yesterday and through the magic of the internet, I was able to walk up and down my old neighborhood streets.
Back then, in the early 1950s, there were many young families on my street.  Lots of kids to play with, and even though it was mostly white, there was a certain diversity with Latino, Asian, and many religious beliefs represented.  African American and southeast Asians would come later as well as many migrants from Central and Latin America.
I knew all the houses by their appearance.  The Pit family and the Wise family had 5 and 6 kids respectively.  Their front lawns were always in flux and littered with toys and bikes.  The Weinert's and the Paul's were older couples whose children were grown and on their own.  Their front porches and lawns were immaculate.  Erich High was an older German man whose wife was about 20 years younger.  He was a gardener who drove an old blue truck with tools and hoses neatly hung in the back.   His lawn was like a golf course with an enormous elm tree dead center.  It was one of the coolest places to be on a Southern California afternoon in August.

When I punched in my old address 7727...the picture that emerged was of a house that barely resembled the one I knew.  The front lawn was now concrete. Gone was the big Silver Maple tree that shed leaves for months. All those trips with the push lawn mower my dad made...all the time spent edging the lawn just right.  Nothing green now to trim.  No leaves falling anywhere. The home was painted a deep tan with no sign of the redwood panels on the front of the house.  The front porch was now gone and the area looked like the living room had been extended.  I couldn't find the driveway, but when I saw the chimney, I smiled, because it looked familiar.
I'm sure the inside of the house now would be just as unrecognizable.  I don't need to go there.
I have no interest in knowing who lives there now, though I must admit, were I to ever walk that street in person and see someone there, I'd definitely stop.
I feel no deep sadness, even though it's the place where both my parents died, and where I felt most secure.  The home I knew will always exist in my memory.  After all, those recollections are really the only things we ever own.

Speed, Stamina, or Both?

I found an old Peanuts cartoon panel I'd saved the other day.  Lucy is sitting on a rocking horse wearing a football helmet.  Charlie Brown says, "Football is the number one spectator sport in the country, horse racing is number two."  Lucy responds, "I can go either way."
There was a time when horse racing was number one.  The old film clips show the grandstands jammed with thousands.  They once huddled around their radios to listen to the big races.  Telephones used to be banned from all racetracks.  Things have changed.
As the sport struggles to right the sinking ship, there are a number of things that can be done and a number of things that already have been done.

The track surface seems to be the narrative of the recent deaths at Santa Anita.  It's only one variable, and the abnormal amount of absorbed rain in Southern California last year is often cited.  Possibly.  But the strength and stamina of the breed factors in here.  In this country, the emphasis is on speed.  In Europe, it is on stamina.  Given the anatomy and bone structure of a thoroughbred's legs, it makes sense to emphasize endurance over speed.  Just imagine 12-1400 pounds being supported by a leg the size of your wrist.
In Europe and other areas like South Africa, and Asia, the emphasis is on turf racing.  Grass.  Green grass is kinder on the legs.
Because of opportunities that offer inflated purses, in America, we race 2-year-olds.  That needs to change.  Some say they are too young and it weakens the legs.  Others say the older a horse, the less sound the horse.  Let's eliminate 2-year-old racing and see what happens.
And then there is the whip.  This reform is already being instituted.  Jockeys use the whip in many ways.  "As a reminder" some would say, but there are many horses who simply won't run on when being hit by a whip.  A new design has emerged, sort of a "Nerf-whip" if you will, this allows for encouragement without the sting.
Stand by the rail on the turn for home at any racetrack and listen.  Down the stretch is when jockeys produce and use the whip.  Just listen to the sound from a distance of about 20 yards and then decide.
On November 1st, all eyes will be on the Breeder's Cup Championship races at Santa Anita.  If any horse goes down on that two-day event, you'll hear the collective gasp in surround sound.
One horse racing fan I know has pointed out a very interesting little point of information.  While politicians and animal rights activists are railing against deaths of 36 horses, the Bureau of Land Management has recently voted to destroy thousands of wild horses that still roam what's left of the western range.  Where is the outrage there?

Call To The Post

I hear the calls.  I feel the anger and frustration.  The storm clouds rain down for a good while and then lift.  But back come the calls, the patience wears thin.  We may not be able to wait this one out.  This time the opposition is fierce.

People have had enough of horse racing.  Too many deaths in the last year.  Almost 40 at Santa Anita alone.  "The Great Race Place" is fast becoming the great wasteland.
I'm unabashed.  I love horse racing.  Like horses, themselves, it has been an important part of my life an experience.  The recent rash of break-downs and controversial decisions are all part of the sport.  They always have been.  Somehow the media attention that currently swirls around the coverage of the sport has become a vicious vulture with talons ready to sink deeply.
I'm worried for the industry, but mostly because the image portrayed is not always fair and impartial.  Having been a correspondent for a national thoroughbred magazine...having had access to the backstretch (barn area) and having met, interviewed and become friends with some of the major players, I know there is another side.
I know what I know.

Yes, the recent spate of training and racing injuries and deaths is disturbing.  Yes, there are reasons and reforms that can and are being put in place.  most importantly, the industry itself must take up the banner and educate the public because there is not only too much to lose, there is no other way that the half-truths, stereotypes, and incorrect assumptions will be squared away with the reality.
If we look at the injury and fatality rates connected with other sports like football, boxing, and even skiing, we'll see that those connected with racing are not near the amount.  Yet no calls for banning pro football or skiing.  That will never happen.  People like to insinuate that horses are ill cared for and that racing surfaces are mostly unsafe.  It's an easy target because the popularity of the sport has waned and the public relies on short, hard-hitting summaries of the latest news.
Horsemen, most of them, really care about the equine athletes under their care.  Many of the folks in the barn area at any track were born into the sport.  There are, of course, exceptions, but a love of horses usually accompanies a person who begins the day at 4:30 or 5:00am and puts in long hours managing a stable.  It's the kind of profession that you have to love or you won't last long.
The horse racing industry employs thousands and any rash judgment about ending the sport would put so many people out of work at a time when the economic future of this country is so volatile.
In a country that is so diverse and so polarized, horse racing has the possibility of uniting disparate factions.  Much like the campaign of Seabiscuit in the Depression era, the country can and loves to come together to root on a Triple Crown champ or an exceptional athlete that has grabbed their attention.
Now, there is a downside that needs to be addressed too.  Next Post.

Sixteen Nineteen

I am watching the response to the New York Times 1619 Project carefully.  This project is centered around a supplement magazine being widely distributed around the country right now.  In some circles, it is regarded as a keepsake, a valuable possession, an heirloom.
As this country grapples with the issue of reparations for African Americans,  it has become abundantly clear that many of us know very little about our own history.  There is some vague sense that slavery was wrong and that it had consequences being felt today, but in the area of specifics, as a nation, we are deficient.

I knew I wanted to be a history early on.  It was secure employment, something not always counted on in the house in which I grew up.  My father was a casualty of the Great Depression, having to drop out of college and support his new wife in the early 1930s.  I loved many of my teachers, especially my history teachers, so it was natural for me to pursue the goal of teaching.
What I couldn't see coming was an incredible era of Afro-centrist culture coming in the late 60s.  That era featured the advent of ethnic studies classes in many colleges and universities.
At UCLA, they were called "Negro History" and taught by Ron Takaki, a Japanese American professor that was Harvard educated.  Takaki's classes were extremely popular and I was extremely fortunate to be in these first ethnic studies courses.
It wasn't long before I learned how deficient my own high school history textbooks had been.  The reason for that is another topic altogether, but these courses and some others on Racial Attitudes and Black Literature were watershed experiences.
In my first 10 years of teaching, I inherited an ethnic studies program from my "Master teacher" and had the singular experience of teaching history courses that were predominately African American.  I was able to convince my students that my qualifications were earned by my college background.  Letting them know that NBA great Kareem Abdul Jabbar was also on my classes didn't hurt either.
A beautiful atmosphere of mutual respect followed.  Of course, there were tough days but mostly my students know that this was something special and there was much to learn.
Those classes ran their course and eventually, the need for ethnic studies classes was deemed no longer important.  Perhaps that is why we find ourselves where we are.  Ignorant, for the most part, of our own history.

Rescue Me

Last week we marked the passing of Cokie Roberts, one of the "founding mothers" of National Public Radio.  Cokie was a living metaphor for honesty and integrity in political journalism and it's no wonder the tributes have been pouring in all week.  Of course this is all set in vivid relief by the current state of affairs and the relationship of the current occupant of the White House with the press corps.  In many ways we seem to be marking the passing of civility along with integrity.
Cokie Roberts interpreted the the news in a way that was free of bias and represented the product of hard work, good contacts, and a lifelong commitment to accuracy.  No wonder so many followed her stories and came to depend on her for their political news.

At the risk of being called a name dropper, I have a story to tell  the day I crossed paths with Cokie and her well-known news partner Linda Wertheimer.
A colleague of mine once served as the Director of the National Council for the Social Studies.  When their national conference was held in San Francisco some years ago, my friend was in charge of the whole shebang.  I volunteered to assist.  He promised to get back to me.  A few days before the event was to start he called.  "I've got the best job reserved for you," he said.  "Only thing is, you might have to share it with someone."
"No problem," I said.  "What do you want me to do?"
The task in question was to ride in a limo t the SF airport to meet the Keynote speakers for the conference and accompany them back to the hotel which was the conference site.  Easy enough, I thought.  Who are the speakers?
"Cokie Roberts and Linda Wertheimer from NPR."
No wonder this was such a coveted job.
On the appointed day, I met my fellow council member and together we found the limo driver and headed to the airport.  We knew who we were looking for, but when they emerged from the skyway they were almost unrecognizable because of the Levis and cowboy boots they wore.
After we settled in the limo and began to work our way to the conference site, Cokie took out a newspaper and ever the news reporter, asked, So what's new in San Francisco?"
Glancing at the front page of the Chronicle she had on her lap I related the story that seemed to capture the attention of everyone that morning.  And, a bizarre story it was.  A very San Francisco story.
It seems that in one of the topless clubs on Broadway in North Beach there had been a rescue.  Apparently a couple did an act on top of a piano that rose up and down during their performance.  Unfortunately, the piano got stuck and one of the occupant/"dancers"  was pinned against the ceiling.  The SF Fire Department came to the rescue and freed the couple much t the delight of the patrons and the club owner.  The SF Chronicle writers had a good time with the story, and it made the front page of the Chronicle that day.  I'd heard a description on the morning news so was able to explain the strange occurrence a bit more in detail.  Cokie and Linda enjoyed a good laugh and threw out a clever line or two that now escape me.  All nervousness vanished for everybody.
As promised, I met them at their room and escorted them to their speaking engagement. By that time they'd changed into professional clothing and looked smashing.  They enjoyed a standing ovation and were on a plane back to Washington DC before sundown. 
I was able t exchange business cards with Cokie who seemed genuinely interested in my budding radio career producing documentaries.  I don't think I've ridden in a limo since that day.

A Good Rise

"...I am interested in making a good case for distortion, as I am coming to believe it is the only way to make people see..."
                                 Flannery O'Connor

The above quote is mostly attributed to Flannery O'Connor, one of our culture's most influential and outstanding writers.  The diminutive Southern woman was a devout Catholic and suffered the pain that comes with Lupis, the difficult disease.  No wonder, many say, that her short stories are laced with all manner of violent and insufferable scenes and people.
Distortion, especially in this day and age, attracts attention.  To manipulate that attraction in the interest of advancing positive and humane ideas is possibly pure genius.  "First," as the old joke about the farmer who struck his mule goes, "you get his attention."
It was with this idea in mind that I watched the first episode of a new fantasy series called "Carnival Row."

I must admit in the first few minutes I reacted the way I typically do to many productions that rely on fantasy.  I'm into historical detail and a serious message.  The responsibility of the storyteller is to say something.  Something worthwhile in my book.  When a young pixie looking woman was running from some unknown army firing at her she suddenly sprung wings and flew away.  I almost gave up right then, but there was something about the look and feel of this new series that kept me watching.  A few minutes later I got it.  I realized what was going on.  This fantasy world was a symbolic representation of the divided, racist, phobic world we currently occupy.  Only the names have been changed but the discriminated and the discriminators are all there.  The show has something to say about immigration, islamophobia, and intolerance.  The distortion is where the fantasy intersects with the goal of making people see.
In one scene, one of the wing-endowed pixie women, who works as a prostitute to survive, is shown with one of her "clients."   In the middle of a passionate embrace, she deploys her wings creating a most unique climax to this scene.  It certainly gives new meaning to the term "flying fu..k."
It will be fascinating to see where this series goes and where the parallels lead.

Always Elvis

When he died 42 years ago this month, Elvis Presley was hardly himself.  He wasn't even beside himself.  It was more like he became a parody of himself.  That he was only 42, seems to escape us now.  Especially as we watch 75-year-olds like Mick Jagger and Bob Dylan muster the strength and endurance to keep going and doing so as good as ever.
Elvis was plagued by everything from bad diet to high blood pressure, liver disease and lots of gastro-intestinal issues.  No wonder he was found dead ingloriously on the toilet.  But for many of his legion of fans, there is no young or old Elvis, no fat or thin Elvis, there is only one Elvis, the undisputed King of Rock and Roll.
Elvis, you might remember was the kid from Tupelo, Mississippi who could "move like a black man," in the words of Sam Phillips, ergo "a million dollars."  In reality, many millions of dollars.
I saw Elvis in concert once, under interesting circumstances, and it proved to be more complicated and memorable than I could have imagined.  It was 1971 and I was working at a group home for emotionally disturbed kids in the Bay Area.  One of the kids placed there had been particularly good at improving his behavior as was thus rewarded with any concert he wanted.  Not the Grateful Dead or the Jefferson Airplane, it was Elvis he wanted. As a counselor at the home, I was asked to accompany the lucky kid.  The show was at the Oakland, Coliseum arena and just walking from the parking lot to our seats, the people watching was outstanding. I remember all ages, lots of cowboy hats, and a wondrous pair of alligator skin boots worn by a rather stout fan.
Flash bulbs clicked and fired continuously.  Elvis would have scarfs placed around his neck by assistants throughout the evening because at a whim, he'd pull them off and fling them at fans constantly trying to get near the stage.
The audience that night in Oakland was definitely multi-cultural.  Elvis had many African-American fans.  He always had the requisite black back-up singers and, of course his background was steeped in the blues.  Elvis liked Cadillacs too.  He gave them as presents.
I saw Elvis about 6 years before his death, so he was in the throes of his elder statesman stage.  There were times during the concert when he played that parody role.  Missing song lyrics, laughing sheepishly at his mistakes, and of course, sweating profusely.  But his voice was strong and he definitely delivered the goods.

I was sitting in a small East Bay cafe when I heard the news of his death.  Nobody seemed surprised, just disappointed.  A few days later, while grocery shopping, I happened upon a commemorative bottle of "Always Elvis" wine.  What intrigued me was the poem on the back label, a mawkish piece by none other than the Colonel himself.  The wine remained corked in the bottle for over 20 years when finally it had to be removed as the cork seal deteriorated.  I put the bottle online for sale a few times, but no takers.  Somewhere out there is someone who might want this artifact for their collection.  As the name of the wine suggests, Always Elvis.

The Best Part

     Guess I'm bound to have this condition for the duration. It never seems to go away. The strength never dissipates either.  I shouldn't be surprised.  It is part of my identity I can't seem to shake.
     So what is this cosmic force? The pull to go back to school which is always preceded by going to a stationery store for new supplies.  It's been 13 years this September since I opened a school year and readied a classroom, yet the pull remains.  I think it has something to do with the emotions connected to one of the best parts of a teaching career.  The phenomena of beginning again is at play here.  It's all the "this year I'm going to..." stuff, .and the realization that last year's classes do not exist as entities in the universe any longer. It really is a fascinating condition and so short-lived that it's best to be experienced in full.
True career professionals in education find pure joy in opening a school year.  It's filled with promise and the pristine. Take the time to experiment with new seating configurations. View your classroom from various sides and angles. In the day before everything was computerized I used to show a new class my blank grade book.  Separate from my roll book, the grade book was only for assignments and completely blank it drove home the idea that nobody has any grades, any missing assignments, anything to be concerned about---yet.

In recent years, teacher work days give the opportunity to get the first couple of weeks planned in full complete with copies run off and an adequate number of seats for those classes that will surly average more than 32.  But dangers lurk.  Dangers that can be avoided with experience.  Next week, all over the country beginning teachers will make the mistake of thinking they can go to a copy room and find paper and a workable machine.  Nothing can be taken for granted.  Lesson plans should include emergency or contingency plans as well.  Assume nothing.
If, by chance you are an educator, and you find yourself happily anticipating meeting your new students on the first day of the semester, I have one more piece of advice.  Avoid meetings.  They are buzz-kills.  Oh I know you can't miss that group morale builder,  and perhaps a department meeting, but if you are lucky most everything else can be postponed until after Labor Day.  Speaking of that first school holiday, here's another thing to be aware of if you teach Seniors, and your school year begins before Labor Day  Most Seniors won't put in an appearance until after Labor Day.  It's just what they do.  So save that motivational speech and the class norms and everything you need them to hear until they are all there.

Stay

Life in a divided country today is remarkably different than it was during the last era of division.  Computers, and specifically social media, account for that. Fifty years ago, as this nation fought an unpopular war, it wasn’t as easy as it is today to determine the politics of your friends, family, and neighbors. People didn’t post daily. They didn’t discuss their political leanings as readily, and they certainly didn’t articulate their differences the way they do today.
They did show up (or not) to political demonstrations during a time that the role of the media was quite different. Historians and social scientists of all stripes agree that the images broadcast during some of those demonstrations had a powerful impact on helping to bridge the divide(s) that encompassed the anti-war movement as well as the civil rights movement. Who could easily forget fire hoses turned on people who wanted nothing more than the right to vote and the guarantees of liberty and justice for all.  The same things exists today, but in my view, with far less impact.  After all, we have our hands full with the emotions and politics necessary for dealing with mass shootings.
The Vietnam war drove a wedge into families, friendships and political parties. Day by day the nation seemed to heal itself. The current use of the phrase “love it or leave it,” only serves to show how old attitudes can survive and that it is as difficult as ever to disagree with your beloved country’s foreign policy without having your patriotism questioned.  It's almost amusing how the "red scare" "Commie-pinko" language seems to have endured as well.  One need only look at the critics of FDR to hear what's being hurled at Bernie Sanders today.

One thing those of us who questioned our government's integrity and resultant duplicity learned from those divided times is that we don’t have to give up the flag or patriotic music, or even our expression of love of country.
This country has always demanded tough love.  It is still trying to come to grips with it’s original sin.
I’m hopeful that this period of division we are grappling with right now will shift and ultimately change with the possibility of new, strong, intelligent, and mentally healthy leadership. I trust my country to recognize it when the time comes to mark a ballot. Then we can all love and forget about the leaving.

Dealing a Hit Song

"Old Town Road," the popular country/rap crossover is a
fascinating phenomena.  Guess it was bound to happen that a gay Black man sitting on a horse rappin" about riding that horse down the old town road would hit the pop charts.  Music in America has always been a place of cultural blending and, as such, it is something this culture can be righteously proud of.  Like food, dance, and a few other select things, music has been the vehicle to showcase our best multi-cultural efforts.
Still, the genres, despite their bleeding and bending have remained fairly stable.  Blues is blues, rock is rock, and country is country.

Each style has its own characteristics.  The roots remain intact even though the base has often provided the foundation for all sorts of collaborations.
Speaking of country music, the great U Utah Phillips (the golden voice of the great southwest) used to say that there was a way that anyone could write a country song.  Phillips was for many years a performer in the folk tradition, as well as a damn good labor historian.  He wrote songs throughout his lifetime about the people who rode the rails, the broken people scattered across American skid rows from coast to coast.  He was also very funny too.  Just listen to his recording of "Moose Turd Pie" to see what I mean.
In the late 70s and throughout the 1980s I often saw him perform.  I was privileged to interview him on various occasions for projects I was doing.  One of his routines was a monologue about writing a successful country song.  "All you need is a deck of cards." he'd say.  He went on to say that one need only write one word on each of the 52 cards in the deck.  You need words that often appear in country songs.  What comes to your mind first?  Most folks would say things like honky tonk, pick-up truck, boots, guitar and, of course Mama.  I set out to do this little task the other day and composed a list with words like darlin,' train,Texas, juke box and of course  (insert adjective) truck.
Once the cards have received their word(s) your simply shuffle them and in Utah Phillips words, "deal yourself out a few country songs.

Of course it requires a little more work to combine the words into sentences that make sense and drive some sort of narrative.  But that's where the rules of successful songs and their writers comes in.  Country songs love adjectives, lots of them.  They survive on vivid imagery and well chosen adjectives can paint simple but vivid pictures.  The songs tell stories about the things that happen to all of us.  But a warning...before you start dealing out all sorts of new material, I would remind you what some recent research shows about country music.  The most important thing is the melody.  You have to have a melody or you have nothing.  Maybe that's why many successful songs were written by teams of two.

Tickets Please

There is something particularly haunting about an empty racetrack.  A horse racing oval is what I'm talking about here.  You can find them in the off season or sometimes late in the afternoon.  In the morning they are alive with horses working out or people meeting, negotiating, dreaming and hoping.
What makes an empty track such a striking place is that when un-occupied they look dead.  They are shrines for noise...for the electric...they are emotional places reminiscent of a circus or carnival.  In recent years the probability of finding an empty track has increased dramatically.  Many have closed as the impact of technology has intersected with waning interest in the sport.  Historically, efforts to promote the sport have failed miserably and for some reasons, success has only come in shooting oneself in the foot.  When national interest peaks, some unfortunate accident, or unexplainable tragedy occurs to hasten the public's tolerance of all things horse racing.
In my town, Portland Meadows, the local circuit is closing.  The process has taken about 10 years, having been mostly threats for years.  This time it's for real.  The owner, the same guy who owns Golden Gate Fields and Santa Anita is really under the gun because of a spate of recent injuries and deaths to equine athletes.  The smaller tracks, the B side, if you will, the cheap racing is usually the first to go.  Aside from impacting the horse industry in the state, a track closure means job loss as well as a needed source of revenue for struggling state economies.

Yesterday, I drove over to Portland Meadows to cash a ticket I purchased on Kentucky Derby day.  I'd gone there the day before the Derby to see if I could score a Racing Form and left a bet on the final two races of the day.  A modest $18.00 ticket awaited for the last two months in my wallet.  The track had a few stragglers watching an wagering on races from all over the country.  Dozens of TV monitors displayed races emanating from New York, Chicago, Kentucky, Florida, California, and  Oklahoma.

The place was dead.  A friendly middle aged woman cashed my ticket and informed me that it was no longer possible to bet via cash or voucher now.  Now people have accounts and bet with what closely resembles and functions like a debit card.  Figures...that was coming.  But I can't help but think of what's been lost.
"Oh you no longer have to worry about lost or mutilated tickets," the clerk said.  "It's easier and a lot safer," she said. It also sacrifices your privacy, I thought.  Everything we do these days generates data.  That data leads to all manner of unwanted things as well. 
I'm destined to spend the rest of my life longing for things that no longer exist.  Those old betting tickets were works of art: colorful, full of folkloristic symbols, and coded letters.
At Portland Meadows there is still a neon sign of a running horse.  It'll make a nice addition to someone's collection of antiques.  In the daylight it's rather lacker-luster, but at night it comes alive with red-orange movement.  I took a brief shot of the neon horse.  A last look at a fading icon.

Fishing Date

A visiting relative gave me a little present when I was about 6 or 7 years old.  It was a bookmark with the head of an owl drawn on the long leather strip.  The owl was there to impart some wisdom.  "Books like friends should be few and well chosen," was written on the front of the bookmark.
I've kept this little gift for over 60 years now.  It's been a good reminder.  Just as I have tried to choose my friends wisely, so too have I acquired the collection of books I now have.

Now, however, change is on the horizon.
Slowly, I've been passing many of my books on to people I think can benefit from them or to re-sell for credit to buy the books I am currently reading.  When I made a major move from the Bay Area to Oregon 12 years ago, I thinned out my books considerably.  It's now time to move that downsizing to the next level.
As for the friends part of this equation, with my move came the loss of some lifelong friends.  Oh, we still keep in touch, but many are essentially no longer a viable part of my life and vice-versa.
I have tried to find some new friends, with some success, but that quest has its drawbacks as well.
So it was with no surprise that I read of a new study equating finding new friends with dating.  Yes, that's right, the two have many similarities.  That's not too surprising because both involve expectations as well as images we have in our minds about the kind of people worthy of our company.

Still, to fulfill the desire to meet people that make our lives fuller, we must take risks.  Social scientists tell us that those who have rich friendships with others are happy, healthy, and much more well adjusted.  No surprise there, but again, it's risky.
Case in point:  For the past few years I've been looking for a fishing partner.  I live in a fly fishing paradise with numerous lakes and streams a mere two hours away.  I fly fish about 3-4 times a month, when weather permits.  It's really more enjoyable to share the experience.  I have on occasion.  But in recent years, that has become less and less.
Like dating, I've thought of using the internet to find a partner.  Yet, the thought of meeting someone who becomes more of a burden than an ally is frightening.  It's a slippery slope.  What I want is a clone.  Realistic...hardly, but someone who likes to fish lakes with a float tube, is close to my age, and is willing to share driving would be nice.  Someone with some experience would be nice too.  I don't really want to teach someone to fly fish, but if compatible, that isn't entirely out of the question.
Now it seems as if I shouldn't have too difficult a time finding a new friend about my age and ability level.  I see them all the time on lakes.  Yet the conversations I have, albeit brief, never lead to anything, because most of these folks live far away.
I don't mind being a loner, in fact it has its advantages most of the time.  As the old expression goes, "he who walks alone walks faster."  But every once in a while I'll see a car pull up to a boat ramp and two guys  from my generation get out and gear up and launch their tubes.  Joking and smiling and loving their friendship, they depart. I stop and stare and think about what might be possible.

Impermanent

Things disappear.  Your favorite things included.  Ever walk into your favorite grocery store to pick up a box of or a package of or a few of something you often buy only to discover it isn't being made anymore?  Sure, haven't we all.  But it does seem to me that lately this is a more common occurrence.
I've lost my favorite brands of mayonnaise, energy bar, crackers, and frozen yogurt.  And that's only the tip of the iceberg that seems to be melting ever faster.
It's not just food.  I'm finding that brands of clothing, restaurants, and even soap have come up missing.
I know this happens all the time, but something else is going on here, I fear.  In fact, I once wrote to the manufacturer of a popular hair shampoo because, without notice, it disappeared only to be replaced by a different looking and smelling product under the same name.  All in vain, of course.  I did receive a response, but it only reassured me that they knew what they were doing based on some sort of product research and user poll.  I doubt it.
After seeing a news story the other day about the capability of the Chinese government to track and identify their millions with face recognition technology. I'm suddenly thankful not to have lost my privacy...entirely.

If that's what the future holds for all of us, and rest assured it is, I've found another reason to be thankful that I won't be around for the next century.  That is, of course, if the planet survives the sea level and movement of entire populations to higher ground.
This last week we saw the last of another icon from the automobile world: the Volkswagen Bug.  It was announced that the last one has rolled off the assembly line in Mexico.  Even with the modifications made over the years, the ever-popular Bug looked like it just might stand the test of time.  But no.  We must be content to be left with our stories and memories of the car that could run all week on a dollar's worth of gas.  I, of course can add to my recollections of my first car, a black 1959 VW bug, that it didn't even have a gas gauge.  That's right, you had to keep a ruler in the trunk...a trunk that was in the front under the hood because the engine was in the rear.  I distinctly remember measuring the fuel level by inches.  You had to be careful not to drop the ruler in the tank too!  Time to sing another round of "All these impermanent things." Hope we can still find the lyrics.

An Orca named Lolita

It's another example of the myth of the eternal return.  Another form of the circle of life.  Yes, another example of what comes around goes around.  As such, it fits neatly into the mythology of the tribe trying valiantly return an orca to it's original home...it's indigenous waters.
Have you heard about an orca named Lolita?  She was taken from Washington to Florida over 50 years ago.  In a round-up of orcas in 1970, Lolita ended up at the Miami Seaquarium, where she has performed for decades to the delight of children of all ages on the other side of the country. 
The Lummi tribe of the Pacific Northwest see the orca as a spiritual entity.  The name translates to "people who live under the water." They want this "person" back. 
This is a heartfelt belief that seems almost impossible, but the move is gaining strength and financial support.  Of course to transport this elderly animal back across the country would be very risky.  Nevertheless, the Lummi elders agree that it can be done and is definitely worth any risk.
And what a powerful story it would be.  In this current era of climate deniers and the trashing of much tradition, what a welcome relief.
Above all the move would give much needed credibility to the power of Indian mythology.  Now far from where I live, on the Columbia River, there is a spot called Sililo Falls.  It was a Native American fishing spot where for generations, salmon were taken from the river for the needs of the people living there.  When the Columbia was dammed for hydroelectric power back in the 1930s, the falls was lost.  According to engineers and river-keepers, the spot is still there.  So underneath the water the rock formations that formed the falls lie in tact on the bottom of the river.  Perhaps I should say the lake that used to be the river. 
If all goes according to the plans of some, the Columbia's may lose many of it's dams.  As we look at other sustainable forms of energy, this likelihood becomes ever more possible.  Probably not in my lifetime, but to see Lolita swimming by the falls where the relatives of the original inhabitants are again fishing for salmon would be more entertaining than watching a trained whale show in Florida.

Small Town World

It's a small Northern California town.  Charming, still in many ays, but like many towns this size, it has changed and is changing rapidly in this increasingly technological society.  Some would place it square in the heart of wine country.  Easy to do since one passes miles of grape vines on the path that leads here.  But no, it's really not in Napa county.  Not in Mendocino county either.  That leaves Sonoma county and that would be accurate.

I used to come here with regularity 30 years ago.  The glimpse of what it was then with its little downtown area of banks, curio shops and restaurants is still possible.  The tavern I played music in with some friends is long gone.  The little market has been replaces with a Whole Foods, and a couple of coffeehouses and a decent bookstore struggle along.
I could live here.  It's far enough away from deep urban problems, but it lack the diversity I'd crave.  It's close enough to major amenities and a hospital that true old age is possible here and definitely preferable than overcrowded suburbs.
People really do know each other by name and I'm told the parking restrictions are rarely enforced.  Today, we'll find out if that is true because I plan to be here more than an hour.
I have questions:  Is there a live music scene?  How is walkability?  A good mechanic?  And the most important question of all.  Can I get a decent cup of coffee and a proper bagel here?  Those things matter to me.
I've made my way to a coffee house where internet service works and the Americano I'm drinking passes muster.  I always order an Americano if the house coffee's strength is in doubt.  So far, so good. I like the size of this place.  Small tables and a large welcoming common table in the center. 
The barista noticed and complimented my tattoo.  That's a start.
But could I survive here?  Probably.  A local newspaper would be telling, but so far nothing of the sort has appeared.  I'll look again on my way back t the car.
In this currently reality we have to consider every quality of the weather.  Fire smoke might become a factor.  Drought and flooding not far behind.
It's not outside the realm of possibility that I know or know of someone who lives here.  Someone like me who has put in their time and now works on the identity crisis that comes with retirement.  In a few minutes, I'll walk some more and try to answer a few of the most crucial questions.  I've go time.  Time today and hopefully time to make any long term decisions.  And then there is the entire issue of politics.  How will these folks vote? Will they vote?  They'd better if they want the pleasure of my company.  It is a small Northern California town, but is it like others of it's ilk?  Or is ther something more?

Your's Mine, and Our Story

I hear it all the time.  Depends on the holiday or the anniversary.  Well meaning, intelligent people say that our kids don't know history.  They tell their interviewers that students today don't know anything about the Civil War, World War II, or even the Holocaust.
That's hard to believe.  I say this not because as a former history teacher, I've taught these topics, or because I know firsthand that every one of them featured prominently in the curriculum that my department developed and used.  I say this because I'm dumbfounded how any student with a U.S. or World History course could avoid such huge content areas.
So, maybe the subjects came up in some classrooms but there was no retention of knowledge.  That's still hard to believe, given this culture's fascination with war, action films, and historical dramas.
In my Forty plus years in and out of classrooms I've seen many lessons focused on the history of the Holocaust.  The graphic novel Maus, by Art Spigelman, is extremely popular and quite engaging for many students disenchanted with reading textbooks.  Yet, the narrative persists, "Kids no nothing of major historical themes and events."
Not true.  But then I get that it's easy to generalize about a generation when one has witnessed or heard an adolescent who is unclear about something most people are familiar with.  Because there are people who know very little about their own history.  So what's behind that?
My guess is that they've been betrayed about the truth by a narrative designed to blurr and downplay certain realities and conditions.
One effect of that might be an inability to understand or carve out an opinion on some crucial subjects.  Take reparations, for example.  The subject of compensating African-Americans for the evils of slavery has long been discussed.  Nothing has ever come to fruition.  Some suggest that until a formalized form of reconciliation takes place, this country will never progress in the area of racial and social justice.  The U.S. is sadly deficient.  Just look at the example that Bishop Tutu's  reconciliation work post apartheid provides  Now a case can be made about distributing money to the descendants of those held in bondage.  But reparations needn't be monetary.  In fact, admission and tuition for higher education would go a long way to help.  Since ex-slaves never had a chance at land ownership, it figures that any meaningful part of a solution should include assistance in property ownership.
So, who would argue against this? I submit that only those who know very little about "the peculiar institution" would try.

There are various ways that the evils and cruelty of American slavery has been downplayed.  One history text even goes so far as to label plantation slaves as "workers."  Only a trip to a museum might convince some that the term "worker" is dubious, at best.
The artifacts and scarce photos from the enslavement of African Americans will tell a story that can be seen today.  Look at the chains and bizarre devices used to shackle the "workers."  See the pictures of people with their limbs hacked off so that they can't run.  If that's too much maybe just listen to the music produced from these realities.  It's no accident that the blues  was planted in this rich earth.

Neither House nor Home

People survive.  Though it may be a much more complex concept than we think, survival happens.  It happens in a myriad of nuanced ways. Needy people find food, clothing, and shelter in random ways.  Take a walk through an area you normally drive through and see what shows up.  If your survival depended upon it, the fear or stigma of bending down to pick up something discarded fades away.  We see the consequences of survival all around us.  Walk  foe a mile and then make a list.  Tell me what you see.  Put what you find on that list.
I succinctly recall one of my college professors lectures on Social Darwinism.  His thesis was that the concept was bogus because with human beings the Darwinian notion of "survival of the fittest" doesn't apply.  It's not just the fittest who survive, some people who are far from the upper echelon of the fittest, will survive.  "They are not the fittest," he said.  "But nevertheless they survive.  They are fit enough to survive.  Maybe barely...but they survive.
We see these folks everyday. They are in your town...the dystopic version of your town. One of the common crises we all face in this culture is that the army of homeless in both urban and rural areas is advancing.  It's advancing because it seems to be growing. The growth is not only in size but also in visibility.
In my home town, Portland, Oregon, the bloom is off the "Rose City."  Like many urban centers one has only to find their way to the closest freeway, look under or around the overpasses or on/off ramps to find tents that spring up like mushrooms.  The larger population centers have the larger tent camps.  In my town they spring up along public walking and hiking paths that wind their way from the river that bisects the city all the way to the base of the national forest and mountain range that looks down on the changing metropolis below.

My specific community is currently debating the creation of a homeless village that would see about 15-20 folks living in small houses, the tiny ones currently so popular, clustered on a patch of green that has been provided by a  Christian church that owns the property.  Community meetings have been boisterous, if not contentious.  The proposed village is half a block from a daycare and two blocks from an elementary school.  That fact, along with all the other common notions and stereotypes that people have about the homeless is enough to set opinions flying.  Nothing has been decided thus far, but transparency seems to be lacking because some people think a decision has been made while others are working to bring a lawsuit.
One of the things I've noticed from these community meetings is that the advocates for the homeless village don't especially like the term homeless.  They prefer "houseless."  I get it.  There is a affordable housing crisis in Portland, and the terms used make a difference.  But I've been thinking about these terms.  In the Great Depression of the 1930s, Woody Guthrie, the great folk interpreter sang:
               I ain't got no home I'm just a ramblin' round,
               Just a wanderin" worker, and I go from town to town,
              The po-lice make it hard, wherever I may go,
              And I ain't got no home in this world any more.

If you replace the word home with house, you miss the point of the song.  Home is more than a house.  So, is it possible to have no house but have a home?