The Envelope Please

My other uncle was a New Yorker.  Born and bred.  He was a world traveler because of his job.  As a reporter for King Features Syndicate, he covered all kinds of news stories from a Miss Universe Pageant to political news.  If I'm not mistaken he may even have covered the major events of WWII.  He revealed himself to me through the U.S. Postal Service.  That's because he'd meander into the darkroom at work and pick up 8x10 glossy black and white photos that hit the cutting room floor and send them to me.  90% of what he sent were baseball action shots or famous baseball players posing for news stories.  He knew I was a Giants fan, thus many photos were of the classic Giants teams of the 1950s.  

His manilla envelopes were easy to spot.  My name was boldly scrawled in his almost illegible handwriting. One cardboard stay and the words "Do not Bend" accompanied these coveted gifts.

Uncle Murray had one daughter.  When he assumed other duties as a purchasing agent, other gifts followed.  But the best one of all was a batch of ticket books to Disneyland which was brand new back then. With a letter of introduction, my family was able to enjoy the Magic Kingdom early on.  That was definitely something we couldn't afford.  I took my Brownie camera and went crazy in Jungleland, mapping pictures of attacking hippos and elephants, giraffes, and other automated wildlife.

I met Uncle Murray once.  He'd come to California to cover the Miss Universe Pageant in Long Beach.  He appeared in our neighborhood in a taxi and whisked my parents off to a night on the town.  He was a most generous person.  

When I was about 14, a most uncharacteristic gift came from Uncle Murray.  It was a 22 rifle that he thought a teenage boy in the wilds of the San Fernando Valley might covet.  My mom thought no.  I struck a deal with my folks that I could have the rifle when I was 16.  

Some of the older kids in my neighborhood used to go out to the Mojave desert to target shoot and stalk an occasional jackrabbit.  Of course, I wanted to go too.  That eventually did happen, but after a few trips, I lost the desire to kill rabbits.  By age 18 I began to examine violence in my life and my world.  

The rifle leaned against a back wall in my closet for  about 5 years.

Ridin' On the Freeway

 I had two uncles.  One was on the East Coast and the other on the West Coast.  But geography was far from the differences they shared.  My East Coast uncle was a newspaperman, world traveler, and the husband of my mother's sister.  The Californian had married my father's sister during WWII and post-war they settled, along with my family, in the San Fernando Valley.  

At that time the Valley was full of all manner of migrants, clean air, mountain vistas, and affordable homes.  Uncle Cleary, and Aunt Dorothy lived about 10 miles from my family home. We did Christmas, they did Easter, for the first 16 years of my life.  We saw them, occasionally, too on special trips like Sunday afternoon drives, Disneyland, and perhaps a neighborhood birthday or anniversary party.  

My Uncle Cleary was always a bit of a mystery to me.  He looked, dressed, and talked unlike my parents or other relatives.  That's because his roots were in Montana and his livelihood came from carpentry and woodworking skills unknown in my family.  His real name was Clerman, but I never heard anyone use it except his mother or my aunt.  Aunt Dorothy had to be either a little tipsy or very angry to use his full name.  

Uncle Cleary wore suede jackets, smoked a pipe that always smelled good to me, and always drove a Cadillac.  As my childhood consumed the 1950s, my uncle's cars usually had fins.  About 1:30 pm every Christmas day that Caddie would swing into our driveway.  After gifts were exchanged and the afternoon meal consumed, I wander outside to see neighborhood friends.

"Can you find the gas tank on my uncle's caddie, " I'd question?  Often, they knew it was inside the tail light.  But if they didn't, I'd press the round knob on the red tail light that stood at the end of each fin, and it would pop open.  Surprise and delight all around.  

I clearly remember riding in the back seat of those Cadillacs at night,  Falling in and out of sleep leaning against my mom's arm, watching the LA skylights at night.  Smooth ride, comforting sleep.

Uncle Cleary had a dark side I'd soon discover.  He worked at a number of bowling alleys refinishing lanes. In the 1950s bowling was huge in Southern California and the alleys were big entertainment with a nightlife, lounge, restaurant, and very competitive bowling leagues.  Professional bowlers could make a good living, not unlike golfers.  It was regularly televised and the best of the best were household names, unlike today.  

One day Uncle Cleary appeared in the morning on a weekday.  He parked his Caddie in our driveway and proceeded to open the cavernous trunk.  Inside were 4 boxes loaded with used bowling pins. He'd told my parents that the splintered, aging pins made excellent firewood.  All that winter we burned them in our fireplace.  But not before my sister and I pulled 10 of the pins in the best condition.  All the kids in the neighborhood congregated in our backyard that summer as we  played "bowling alley." We set up the pins in the opened garage and kids would take turns using my basketball to roll it down the driveway into the pins.  As it was summer, and warm outside we set up a"bar" and drank our fill of water all afternoon.  My uncle was not particularly fond of kids but I wonder if he ever knew how happy he made the neighborhood bunch in my hometown.

At one of the last Thanksgivings, I spent at my Aunt and Uncle's place I was returning from the bathroom and chanced to pass the den in their house.  I looked inside the room and noticed that the piano usually in there had been replaced by a large Hammond organ.  Uncle Cleary occasionally played the piano and my sister and I once sat at the dinner table on his piano bench.  I was older on this day and just beginning to learn and listen to traditional blues and jazz music.  On the bench were a number of sheet music pages.  I found songs and compositions by Fats Waller and Duke Ellington, among others.  I regret I never got the opportunity to discuss his musical tastes with him. 

I knew that my uncle was very different than most of my family.  He ran with a rougher crowd that frequented bars and values conspicuous consumption.  He and my Aunt's marriage was more like the "Bickersons" than Ozzie and Harriet.  As he aged and his job skills were no longer in demand and his self-esteem declined.  There is something particularly tragic about an aging man in his aging Cadillac.  

One afternoon from the 23-year-old days of my life I returned to the Valley to visit my dad.  That's when I learned of the passing of my uncle.  Apparently, beset by personal problems and depression, my uncle went for one last ride in his Cadillac. This time he parked out by a remote lake and attached a hose to the exhaust pipe.  It was his last ride.

Slow Moving Coup

     It's called a slow-moving coup.  The term seems to have now entered the political lexicon.  TV comedian and political commentator Bill Mahr seems to have been the one who coined the term,  but it has now entered the discussions over network and cable news stations. Of course, this new phenomenon refers to the handiwork of one Donald J. Trump in his one-man mission to dismantle the U.S. Constitution and regain the White House.  Slow-moving because it trudges alone here in 2021 and will gain momentum until the next presidential election in 2024.  By that time the coup will have in place all the necessaries to question the results, sue the appropriate public servants, deny the vote to as many non-followers as possible, and gin up the troops for another go at storming the Capital.

    It would be laughable if it weren't so right on the money.  This is really happening to us...in real-time.  The trouble is, that most folks in this pandemic-ridden, consumer culture don't care.  Instead of marching in the street and hollering, "this is what democracy looks like" we're confronted with "this is how democracy looked.  Past tense.  Finis.  

    And if I survive to a hundred and five, as the song goes it thing most notable will be how the leadership in the Republican party caved in.  How not only were they complacent, but they continue to display a complete lack of ethics.  Power not only corrupts, but it also intoxicates. 

    Our Congress has become the perfect example of an institution that perpetuates itself.  It perpetuates its ineffectiveness with leadership (and I use the term loosely) structure that is both feckless and paralyzed. 

So the coup plods on.  The Nazi-like rallies continue and the Republican party continues to drool over their self-appointed leader.  They have lifted the art of hypocrisy to new heights. 

To be fair, the Democratic party has its own leadership gap to overcome as well.  As one pundit recently observed, "Democrats don't know what to do when they have power; they don't know how to handle power when they have it."  

    Here's what we know for sure: in order to stop the slow-moving coup, the Biden Administration has to get a few things done.  Bills passed, lives impacted, actual legislation on the books.  Given how and where most folks in this country get their news...their version of the news, the coup has a reasonable chance of engulfing this democracy and replacing it with a true American dictator.  Dictatorships, I would remind you, accomplish things quickly because they destroy all opposition.  They move quickly.