Extra Extra

 They're dying a slow death.  In fact, many people are unaware they still exist.  But others, like me, refuse to let go.  I'm talking about newspapers.  In a world where it was common for a city to have as many as 7 daily newspapers, you'd be hard-pressed to find more than one.  And that lone survivor is either struggling or soon to experience its demise.

I recall one teacher I briefly worked with back in the 1980s who built his entire curriculum around the San Francisco Chronicle.  In various programs that were available at the time, a class set of 35 papers would be sitting on the steps leading to his portable classroom every morning.  Many of his peers were skeptical at first, but talking to his students, and observing his class on occasion, I could see how the newspaper offered material for just about every subject you could think of.  He dis lessons on economics and math using the stock exchange.  He used photographs to develop visual literacy.  The opinion pages served as composition models, where his students could see that there were real people who made their living writing essays.  Of course, opinions could be debated and critical thinking skills developed by separating fact from opinion. There was a method to his seeming madness.  I noticed how quiet his students were after the tardy bell rang and the class began.  With a newspaper on their desk, they immediately picked it up and went to the Sports page or the Local news, the advice columns, or other favorite parts of the daily paper.  In retrospect, a very strong case could be made for the learning that went on in that classroom.  

Of course, in my 34-year career,  I've used newspapers both as models of writing and as an art project for students studying history or government.  Students loved to make antique-looking replicas of newspapers that corresponded to the time period being studied.  I recall one particular project on the Dust Bowl that came to me complete with dust!

I also recall having a class speaker employed by the S.F. Chronicle that gave a presentation on how to read a newspaper.  She was very thorough and even showed students how papers were printed with columns so that commuters could fold a newspaper vertically and easily be able to read it on a jostling bus or commuter train.  

Today, as the price of newspapers has increased, the content has decreased.  It seems that one or two quarters were enough to purchase a daily paper not too long ago.  Then a dollar,  then two, and now three for my daily Oregonian, in Portland.  So too have the vending machines for papers disappeared.  Technology and social media have wrought revolutionary changes in our lives and with all that we've gained, so too have we lost.

The other day I chanced to see some photographs of old newspapers.  People have always collected headlines, but if you look beyond the obvious, you'll get a glimpse of life half a century ago that doesn't exist today.   What always amazes me is the fact that many newspapers included the latest racing results and the horses entered for the next day.  Believe it or not, that's why some people bought the paper.  You could always the latest edition or the FINAL edition exiting a race track.  Some of those vendors had the voice of a carnival barker.  Another loss of the human touch. never to return

If Only

 More proof that we don't know what many people carry within themselves surfaced when the popular TV and dance personality "Twitch" took his own life last week.  The popular DJ from the Ellen show seemed to have everything going for him, including a beautiful wife and three children.  

In a series of somber, if not rambling videos he posted on Instagram, Steven Boss, his real name seemed puzzled and mystified about everything from white supremacy to the state of current affairs.  Who isn't?  Well, I know the answer to that question. Nevertheless, his fans and friends were left asking themselves, Why didn't I see the depth of his despair?" What might I have done?  

I'm sure, most of us have a friend or two who took their own life much to our dismay and astonishment.  I know I do.  

A few years ago I heard from a former student of mine who was contemplating a trip to Portland and wanted to meet up for coffee and a catch-up on the last 10 years or so.  I often have done this.  It's always fun to see where these young adults are now in their lives, what their college experience turned out to be, and what their future holds.  
So, shortly before I was to meet with this person, I received an email that her trip to Portland was off.  No major emergency, just a full schedule that made traveling from the Bay Area to Oregon at this time impossible.  No problem, I thought.  Maybe next year.

When the next year came I was shocked to learn that in the interim, she had taken her own life.  Certainly, her friends and family were baffled.  Wasn't this the always-smiling, salsa-dancing, well-adjusted person that had everything going for her?  Apparently now.  It's a familiar tale, I'm afraid.  One that catches yourself asking, who knew?  Of course, I always wondered if she had made that trip to Portland, and we had a chance to catch up, maybe I'd have heard or noticed something?  

Probably not.  But I still wonder.  

Most Expensive

 “What’s the most expensive coffee in the world?”  The question came at the close of a lively discussion in my International Problems class. This lively group of high school seniors included many recent coffee drinkers. In studying the relationship of poor countries to cash crops, they were eager to learn about the economics and politics of coffee.

“ I guess it would be Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee,” I responded.

“What makes it so expensive?” “How much does it cost. Have you ever tasted it?”  The questions kept coming.  I told my class the price is about $40-$50 a pound because it’s usually a very small crop. I tasted once when my local Peet’s coffee shop brewed some and offered small cup tastes one afternoon. It was gone in about an hour.

Taking note of the enthusiasm and interest in this topic, I made my class an offer. 

“Maybe we can taste it here in class.” 

Quickly polling the class, I saw that most were interested. I then took up a collection of quarters, one per person, and promised to make up the difference needed myself.

Shortly before the last day before Winter Break, I stopped by the coffee shop to purchase a pound of Jamaica Blue Mountain. No dice. Apparently Japanese coffee buyers had bought the entire crop.None was available. So I settled  for the second most expensive, which happened to be the most expensive available. That turned out to be Arabian Mocha Java. 

Next day there was some disappointment, big with a shortened class period and coffee tasting the only thing required of them, the disappointment quickly vanished.

My class began their vacation with a belly full of “the worlds most expensive coffee.

10 years later. On the last day before Winter Break, a figure appears in the doorway of my classroom right before the end of the last class.

Im vaguely recognize the person. It’s Sofia, a former student from what? Six years ago, eight...? 

She hands me a paper plate of impressive Christmas cookies saying she must rush off and can’t stay to chat. I thank her and put the plate on my desk. A few minutes later, while gathering up my things before the break, I decide to sample the cookies. It’s then that I notice the plate is resting on a small attached parcel. I separate the parcel from the paper plate. Opening it I find that in my hands I’m holding one pound of Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee.

My Hood

 I take my walk at about the same time every day. Early afternoon is usually enough to see if the sun will appear or if rain will accompany me. It’s 2 blocks to the main drag.  I turn right and walk past the clothing store with high-quality merchandise that few in this town can afford. They buy anyway. Literally, anyway they can. Two doors down is the music store that formerly was a boutique. COVID had its way with about half the businesses in my town. Only the 3 dive bars in the next block survived and Slims, the most favored of the trio even underwent a makeover of sorts. The facade was crumbling so the entire front entrance was closed for months. The loyal clientele easily found their way to the back entrance, so even the grizzled day drinkers who usually sip and smoke at the small sidewalk tables up front never missed a beat.

There is a daycare and martial arts gym next. The kids in the daycare always prompt a glance from me. It’s a bit like looking at puppies in a pet store window.  In the next block, I see book racks out on the sidewalk. They are in front of the small radical bookstore that always has timely window displays. This was once the location of a small neighborhood barber shop where one man, Wayne, cut hair for decades. The transformation from a mid-century barber shop to a business that specializes in hard-to-find political books, vinyl records, poetry, and posters is breathtaking. Fortunately, it has the look, feel, and sound of a shop where a little bell rings when you enter. 

Today there is something new on the sidewalk. A young man who looks to be 19 or 20 is sitting at a small table with a typewriter in front of him.  For a modest fee he will type out a poem for you. The aesthetic of a typewritten page is the lure. His typewriter is an old portable but looks solid and works fluidly. I stop and look. 

“I went through college with a typewriter,” I say. He smiles and makes a face that suggests that would be a challenge. We talk briefly about paper quality and erasures. I walk on.

I glance across the street and see the facade of another neighborhood restaurant bar.  The Wishing Well is ready for a movie scene.  Aside from the classic Chinese and American Foodpainted on the sign.  There is the faint neon outline of a wishing well. Not all the letters light up these days, but their following remains strong.  People in my hood don't need or demand fresh paint.  Tsay that Willy Nelson played at the Wishing Well sometime around 1953 when he was a DJ  in Vancouver, Wa.  I doubt he will be returning.

I continue walking. Past another coffee shop, another pizzeria, and what was once an old bank is now a kid-friendly coffee shop (yes another coffee shop) called Wonder World or something like it. The owner is a talented cartoonist and there is a joyful, if not chaotic vibe about the place because his life-size signs and characters decorate the area. Caffeine definitely thrives here.

I turn around and double back. Passing all I have previously traversed I step up onto the southbound block. Another changing of the guard as what was once a Starbucks and then two other restaurants is being formed into a Korean fusion eatery now. Next comes the Rockabilly Cafe. Someone’s dream comes to fruition. This small pop music-themed diner is just getting off the ground. I’ve yet to try it but soon will because I think it might be just the place I can donate my collectible “Always Elvis” wine bottle. It would look good on a shelf, especially if the poem by Col. Tom Parker is visible.

Mid-block is the shell of what was once The Man's shop. This was a real old-fashioned men's haberdashery run by a pair of brothers.  It had been in operation since the 1950s and had a big following as we;; as a great seamstress who could make anything fit right and look good.  Today the windows still have some Christmas boxes and wrappings scattered around and the entire store is filled with motor scooters.  It is soon to be a Vespa dealership.  No more will the younger of the two Man Shop brothers tell you everything you ever wanted and did not want to know about the Levi Strauss company and its iconic jeans.

I turn the corner and head up the block.  Soon I pass the Northside Barbershop.  It's my hipster Barbershop, where I can sip whiskey while I wait for either Cash or Dash to cut my hair.  It looks like something out of the 1890s, all wood and whiskey bottles.  They often play great music, too.  This is not my father's barbershop.  No Sports Illustrated or Argosy, or True magazines in sight.

I end near Beto's food truck.  Authentic Mexican cuisine is only a block away. He does a good business and I worry that this little gem will be a victim of the rampant crime that hits the little guy trying to make a living.

Whole Lotta Shakin’

 When I first heard the news, one image emerged in my mind. I saw my neighbors house and then the back bedroom that my neighborhood friend shared with his older brother. There, on top of Ricky’s dresser was what I was most excited to see. It was a 45 copy of Jerry Lee Lewis’ mega hit Great Balls of Fire. We had to wait for Ricky to return before we could beg and plead with him to play it for us.

I lived the records label The gold and brown colors on those original Sun records really popped. Jerry Lee was something we’d never seen before. Like Elvis, he was colorful, mercurial and completely unpredictable. It was like a guilty pleasure. This was no Pat Boone. If Jerry Lee appeared on TV, all hell broke loose. Something was happening to the post war culture of this country and as teenagers, we were right in the middle of it.

It didn’t take long for Jerry Lee to establish himself as a rock and roll bad boy. Marrying his 13 year old cousin sealed the deal. But with his fellow musicians on the Sun roster, American music would never be the same. It’s hard to believe that Sam Phillips stable at Sun contained Elvis, Jerry Lee, Johnny Cash, and the likes of Howlin’Wolf and Charlie Rich.

Eldridge Cleaver once said that Elvis taught white America how to shake its ass. Jerry Lee did too.

As the world remembers and celebrates the life of Jerry Lee Lewis, there is one thing that will largely go unnoticed. Ironically, it is something that both Jerry Lee and Elvis share. Quite simply, both these rock icons owe their success to blues performers who recorded versions of the songs that brought them fame earlier than they did. Elvis got “That’s Alright Mama”from Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup who first recorded it in the late 1940s. And, Big Maybelle put out “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On” a full two years before Jerry Lee’s version. As you might imagine, both blues performers never got the royalties or the recognition they deserved. 

High Prices

 Woody Guthrie once told an audience:

     "High prices! You talk about high prices, I went into my store to buy some eggs and the man charged me 59cents for a dozen.  I went in a week later and the price was 63 cents.  So I went in there today, and he charged me 79cents for a dozen.  I  went in there  today, and  he was there, but this time he had his money up on the shelf and his eggs was in the cash register!"

Funny, but not too funny today as we seem to be experiencing the same kind of encroaching price rises with everything from a gallon of gas, to a quart of milk.  Don't even think about the cost of a college education.  

In my lifetime, I recall what some prices were as a kid and then a teenager, and then growing into an adult.  I'm almost embarrassed to say what I paid for my college education from one of the finest universities in the country.  Usually, I only say that I paid for it myself by working summers and then part-time while a student.  That would be impossible today.  

Do you remember your mother or caregiver sending you to the local store to get a quart of milk?  That required only one or two quarters when I was a kid.  How about a haircut? 75cents to $1.25 for years, then maybe two dollars by the time I reached high school.  That pair of Levis 501"s I recently bought on sale for $60.sold for $5. when I wore them in high school.  

I recall how brilliant the advertisements for the Volkswagon Bug were in the late 60s and early 70s. One, in particular, was just a picture of the bug with the price listed in bold numerals at the bottom of the page: $1695.

I recently bought a harmonica for $89 dollars. Not this was a real instrument, not a child's toy.  The Marine Band variety by Hohner sold for about $10 when I first started playing blues on one in the late 60s.  Today, they run about $60.  I recall a music store going out of business when I was a college senior.  All Marine Bands were just a dollar each.  I bought every key.

We can't play the record albums we bought for $3.95 back then unless we retained our turntables.\, receivers, and speakers.  How quickly many of us jumped into CDs and gave up our tape cassettes in favor of digital music.  

One of these days I'm going to buy one of those all-in-one turntables, speaker, CD, record player things and dig out two big boxes of vinyl I still have and have a party enjoying many sides I haven't heard in years.  I could care less about the sound quality, which I expect will be fairly good.  I'll sit in my $75 dollar Levis and drink a $5. beer and have a ball.

Peace Eagle

c2022 B.L.Greene   

  I see the two words and delete the email instantly.  It's come to that.  I don't want to be bothered with false narratives or dubious statistics.  What do they want anyway? Funny how something once so benign can evoke such a response.  But the news is out, and the scandal is documented.  The American Dream has taken another direct hit.  The Boy Scouts of America have become tarnished.

    Like the Catholic church, the workplace, the military, and the teacher's lounge, Scouting is the latest victim to succumb to charges of sexual abuse.  Over 80,000 documented cases in a class-action lawsuit have resulted in bankruptcy. Reality has a way of catching up.  Those uniforms, kerchiefs, merit badge sashes, and even the insignia seem forever tainted.

    I see the email vanish abruptly and that image dissolves into a multi-image collage in my mind.  A red coffee can, a ten-dollar bill, a kid's Zebco fishing pole with a built-in reel, and Boy's Life magazine. My disgust momentarily yields to memories...pleasant memories.

    Back in the late 1950s as a 12-year-old, I became an Eagle Scout.  That's why the emails keep coming.  They want me to have my name included in some vanity publication that lists those with this prestigious distinction.  I'll have none of it.  I hardly want to be associated with the organization now.  

    Yet, I  recall only good things from that time in my life.  My experience as a Boy Scout was anything but traumatic; it was, in fact, atypical.  Troop 201 and its Scout leaders were fiercely independent.  Our Scoutmaster wanted a different experience for the little rag-tag group that met weekly in the auditorium of Camelia Avenue School.  It was not uncommon to see an LAPD  black and white outside the auditorium. Don E. was an LA cop with the patience of a saint and a love of the outdoors.  He elicited respect just by smiling and he was revered by the Beaver Patrol, of which I was a member.  

    Don had secured the donation of an old Telephone Company stake truck that was our primary means of transportation.  No "Official Boy Scout" camps for us, we spent our summers camping in Kings Canyon or at Bass Lake.  There were shorter weekend trips to places with names like Cottonwood Flats or _____. On camping trip days, all the gear was piled in first, with room left for the little window that enabled those in the cab to see into the back of the truck.  What they saw was a dozen 10-12 year-olds sitting against the stakes, trying to stay in one spot, especially on mountain roads.  There were plastic bags for car sickness and a smattering of food scraps, mostly chips and candy wrappers.  One or two of us had small pillows. We began singing songs like  "100 bottles of beer on the wall," and an off-color ditty that began with the line, "Three Irishmen, three Irishmen, were digging in a ditch...one called the other a dirty..."That lasted all of 30 minutes and then most of us tried to sleep or sightsee without getting nauseous. Those were long, often dismal rides, but the reward came with the arrival in a National Forest and visions of hiking, fishing, and on occasion, kayaking.  

    The summer trips were an entire week long, but It took hours dragging my Radio Flyer wagon through the nearby neighborhoods before anybody pitched a tent. Piled high with boxes of Martino"s do-nuts at 65 cents a dozen, we'd plead our case. "Want to send a Boy Scout to camp?"  We often sold out. Each camper was allowed some spending money as well.   For a pre-teen in 1960. $10.00 was a fortune.  With soft drinks at a quarter, nickel candy bars, and kayak rental for a dollar an hour, we were living large.

    Troop 201 rivaled any Our Gang cast in personalities.  There was Tommy D, one of the oldest and biggest. Tommy was a ruddy-faced, heavy-set kid that made the thickest pancakes I ever saw.  He was gentle with the younger guys and willing to share and teach his considerable skill-set.  Jeffery was nick-named the "Pardon Me, Kid." That moniker came one day when we were all scampering down a slippery mountainside.  When Jeffery accidentally bumped into another kid he immediately responded, "pardon me."  Jimmy was quick to respond, "who says pardon me when you are careening down a mountain?" Jeffery simply reflected his upbringing with an English father and an American mother.  The name stuck.  Dale and Dean were not-so-identical twins whose father, Buck, was an Assistant Scoutmaster. Dean was mentally challenged and though Dale was close, he couldn't always be around to meet Dean's needs.  The entire troop was aware of Dean's disabilities and often served to fill in when any sort of intervention was required.  Dean, like his brother Dale, was dauntless, never shying from any opportunity to explore, take a risk, or simply enjoy being outdoors.  He could always be found in the truck or in his tent with an old red Hills Brothers coffee can.  His mom always baked a chocolate cake for him in that can when he went camping.  Dean held that coffee can close like an emotional support animal.  A bent silver spoon fit neatly over the rim of the can ready to help him enjoy this special treat.

    I think again about the deleted email and wonder how many vulnerable young boys could be impacted.  Am I missing something?  Could there have been an untold history in my own Boy Scout universe?  Nothing ever surfaced. I conclude that my experience was as I recall.  Troop 201 was scouting as it should be. There was never any pressure for anyone to do anything they were unsure of or to work up the ranks from Tenderfoot to Eagle.  Once in a while, we would attend sanctioned events that saw competition between various Troops from all over the state.  Usually, the completion was skill-based and involved knot-tying, or bridge building, or various camping skills like fire-building, and food storage.  Patrols were awarded either a blue, red, or white bead depending on how well they performed.  The blue beads were coveted and took real expertise.  My patrol usually sported a string of white beads, with a red one here and there.  But there was always one blue bead we prominently displayed on top.  That bead was awarded to us for the one event we knew we could do well: cooking.  The task was to build a fire and then cook one perfect pancake.  We worked as one to get the perfect cooking fire and then pour the batter into an old iron frying pan.  The decisive moment came when deciding when to turn the pancake.  We knew all about the 32 bubble rule, but that was often misleading depending on the size of the pancake.  This was our one chance for a blue bead and we all had to agree on when to turn the bubbling pancake.  When all had nodded, the deed was done, revealing an enormous golden brown pancake that Martha Stewart would envy.

    The image of that turned pancake being revealed makes me laugh all these years later.  My anger and frustration seem to have melted away, for the moment with these pleasant memories.  Hopefully, there are many more former Bay Scouts who identify with my experience than with those unfortunate victims of sexual abuse.  Still, the organization may not recover.  Maybe that's a good thing. I see where troops today contain girls and women......

    By the time I reached middle school, my time in the Bay Scouts ended.  My neighborhood friend Randy and I had reached Eagle just before he moved away.  I could not have accomplished earning those 24 merit badges without him.  His mom deserves the credit too, chauffeuring us to merit badge counselors and all the weekly meetings.  With high school came new challenges and new friends.  Getting a driver's license soon replaced any interest in merit badges.  

It occurred to me that even after I achieved the rank of Eagle, I never had the opportunity to wear the sash with all the merit badges displayed.  While I did receive the sterling silver Eagle medal, I never wore it anywhere.  By the late 1960s , U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War forces me to rethink all things red, white, and blue.  After a close high school friend was killed in Vietnam, I took that medal and replaced the eagle with a peace symbol one day.  It remained in my top drawer for decades that way, until I restored it to it's original appearance some 60 years later.  

Shortly before I retired from full-time teaching, one of my students had achieved the rank of Eagle and invited me to his Court of Honor ceremony.  I was advised I could wear my medal and would sit in an area reserved for Eagle Scouts.  When I mentioned that to one of my last classes, another student, Saku, mentioned that he was soon to achieve the distinction of Eagle Scout.  He stayed after class that day as he was curious about my scouting experience.  We exchanged a few stories and I mentioned that there was one thing I felt I'd left unfinished.  I told him that I first learned how to fish in the scouts and that as an adult, years later when I took up the sport of fly fishing, I often recalled my first attempts at learning the sport.  "I never earned a fishing merit badge, I told him.  I'm sure I must have completed all the requirements many times over, as I learned to tie flys, and have caught five or six species of fish over the years.  

A week later, on graduation evening, as I was giving out hugs and handshakes, Sake approached me.  I held out my hand to shake his and in it he deposited a small, soft object: one fishing merit badge.

Alone

 My class and I were once discussing movies.  When I mentioned that I'd recently seen a film under discussion, someone asked, "Who'd you see it with."  When I said that I'd gone by myself, they were incredulous.  "What," I said, "You've never gone to a movie by yourself?"  They hadn't.

But then I realized that it just might be a matter of age.  What they saw as abnormal, if not a complete oddity, becomes less so as one ages.  In fact, I'd wager that all these years later, most of them have had the experience.  

Going somewhere by yourself became the topic the other day as I chatted with a small circle of friends.  One shared that she seems more reluctant to go somewhere by herself since the pandemic and resultant lockdown.  "I got halfway there and then almost turned back," said another friend when explaining a trip to a specialty grocery store she recently made.  We all seemed to agree that a slight case of agoraphobia seems to be more common than one might think.  

Later, I thought over the times I've traveled alone and realized a couple of things.  What became apparent is that sometimes if you really want to do something or see something, or go somewhere, you really have no choice.  I thought back to the time I flew from LA to Houston to begin my time as a VISTA Volunteer as a recent college graduate back in 1969. Certainly, I was a bit nervous, never having flown before, but my anxiety was focused more on who would be there for me when I landed.  I had no frame of reference on which to draw.  I was relieved when I saw some people holding signs with names on them as I walked through the airport.  Soon, there was a sign for VISTA trainees and I was soon ushered to a bus and a ride to my destination.

A few weeks ago, I set off alone to a part of the country I'd never seen.  High in the Cascade mountains of Washington state I found my lodging and spent a few days at a lake where I was mostly alone.  On my return home, I stopped in a small farming town for breakfast and ended up sitting at the counter of one of the only restaurants in town.  Among the bustling waitresses, the old men in suspenders, and the young families, I was virtually invisible.  

At my age now, it's easy to be invisible.  I look like any older male on Social Security.  Back in the 60s and 70s, I'd have had to deal with stares and muttering because of the generation gap.  What was once a threatening long-haired kid has morphed into an old country boy.  Funny how it all washes out.

*Footnote: The popularity of The History Channel's show called ALONE is a strong testimony to how fascinated we seem to be with our ability to function without other people around us constantly.  The participants are all skilled survivalists who can make their own shelters, procure food from the environment, and endure long, cold hours by themselves.  In the end, it is most often the desire to be with others that tests their ability to function alone the most.

Want My Job?

 This is when I feel the "pull." Every August, when the Back to School commercials begin, I get the urge to go to stationery stores.  Not only do the teacher dreams continue, but so too does the desire to get school supplies.  

Refreshing all the paper, the clips, the pens, and the pencils are one of the genuinely pleasurable things about teaching.  Setting up a new roll book, a grade book, whether digital or traditional, gives one a sense of order that we know will quickly deteriorate. Nevertheless, it is a pleasurable experience.  

As a young teacher, I used to go clothes shopping for the new year as well.  A chance to get a few new shirts and perhaps a winter pair of pants was always part of the process.  As teacher dress standards became less strict, that seemed to become a thing of the past.  

Today, when I see all the TV commercials for school supply drives, I always become puzzled.  To an outsider, it would seem that we live in a country where the majority of children cannot afford to come to school with all that is necessary to succeed.  That may be the case, and if it is, what does it say about how we, in this country, value education?  To most, it would seem a good, charitable thing.  And it is.  But it always strikes me as odd that so many kids in public school would go without if not for these community-led drives.  Are we collectively poor as a nation?  Certainly, in our current economy, we certainly are.

I recall a time about 20 years ago when each teacher in my school was given $300. gift certificate to a local stationery store.  It was a store I frequented for years for file folders, labels, paper, and all manner of writing implements, so I was delighted.  The school year was going to get off to a great start with all that I could supply my classroom with for $300.  I even had money to buy a large supply of colorful Post-it notes for a special project I wanted to do with my American Lit classes.  

The way those gift cards were spent by my colleagues was certainly fascinating.  Most teachers used the money for basic needs from paper products to computer disks, to even Kleenex and bottled water for their classrooms.  But others had a different take on the situation.  A few added their own money to get a printer and ink cartridges, spending the lump sum on only one or two things.  One teacher even purchases a rostrum so he could address his charges like a professor!  There were no restrictions on how the money was to be spent.  I guarantee it was all spent in one form or another.  But that was just one year.  The other 33 years saw me spend my own money.

I know things have changed since the pandemic.  I'm very fortunate I did not have to deal with those lost years.  Today, I saw a Twitter post from a teacher that seemed to accurately sum up the current state of affairs.  It said, "Go ahead, wear the jeans, nobody wants your job."

Above the Law

 "No one is above the law..." So say the politicos and the Attorney General, and all but a handful of Republican sycophants.  Of course, the defeated ex-President continues to act in such a way that he is much higher above the law.   Famous for his diatribe on why people plead the 5th Amendment so as not to self-incriminate, he then turns right around and uses it himself.  His hypocrisy is consistent.  

He's hiding his guilt and raising millions in the process.  This is a crossroads for American democracy.  I'd add a few other things like the two-party system as well.  

We are fastening our seat belts for the sure-to-come bumpy ride that will play out all the way until the next presidential election.  While Trump maneuvers state legislatures and state secretaries, he's on a collision course with the Department of Justice.  Only when the orange man is reclining in a brand new orange jumpsuit will we know for sure that he has been accountable for any of his misdeeds.  

History is being written before our eyes.  Unfortunately, the majority of Americans refuse or are unable to see it.  His supporters have an agenda and they care little for any ethical or moral issues that get in the way.  What mystifies some is very clear to others.  I'll try to explain.

What would make reasonable intelligent people fall for this con-man, grifter, pathological liar?  It's his views on certain issues that have taken priority over any sense of personal ethics.  His stance on immigration, racial issues, foreign policy, and how to run an economy has trumped any sense of morality and decency.  His people are afraid.  Motivated by this fear of the unknown, the loss of status, and the changing demographics will explain their allegiance.  Not that you didn't already know this.  All these issues underlie everything else and explain, in part, why they never talk much in specifics.  

When people remember these days, years from now, what will no doubt stand out is not the outrageous actions of the man who would be a president but...dictator.   It will be the inaction of most members of his own party.  That party may cease to exist in the near future.  It seems to be purging all members who have a moral compass and when it counted most stood up for the truth.  What then remains?  

Political parties have long invented and re-invented themselves.  Perhaps we'll see that happen.  But the opposition, the Democratic Party, must continue to evolve if anything positive is to come from all this upheaval.  History shows us that Democrats win when they have a movement going.  Easy examples are Obama, Clinton, Carter, and of course FDR.  Where's the movement now?  I'm waiting.

Trailed

 Seems as if I just checked one off my bucket list.  Last week, my brother-in-law and I hiked a portion of the Pacific Crest Trail.  All told, we did about 8 miles going from White Pass, Washington up to Deer Lake, then on to Sand Lake, and back again.

This was part of our annual fishing adventure, which happened to be at another lake near the PC Trail. With perfect weather and the wind not too bad, we set out over the well-marked and maintained trail taking time to take in all the wildflowers, the beautiful overstory of Pine and Fir trees, and mindful of others going and coming on the famous path.

The gradual incline wasn't too bad, but just in case a break was required, there were some makeshift wooden benches for a brief rest along the way.  This part of the trail features a couple of forks in the road, but responsible hikers had made arrow signs with sticks indicating which way to go.  Some parts of the trail are fairly easy to walk, but others have gnarly tree roots to step over, tree stumps, large rocks, and potholes.  There are occasionally steps reinforced with railroad ties that help make the going easier.

Deer Lake was about two hours away and offered a shady spot to sit and spend time in the quiet of an alpine lake.  An occasional fish jump or gust of wind is all that interrupts the prolific silence.

We saw hikers of all ages in our time on the trail.  At 75, we were naturally among the oldest, but there were a few folks that may have had a year or two on us.  Of course, we saw many young people as well.  The sun-tanned backpacked, muscular types were very much in evidence as well.  My brother-in-law, John, and I were careful to give them a wide berth as they often came sneaking up on us from behind at a pace I may never have been able to maintain even 30 years ago.  Lots of folks use hiking staffs or ski poles to maintain their speed and balance. Everyone we met was friendly.  Everyone.

Signs of Our Times

 It's no accident that we often hear our current times described as dystopic.  Just look around.  On a daily basis, we see tent cities near most freeway exits, overpasses, and on-ramps.  The number of mental health crises on display as we go through our everyday routines seems to be increasing.  Gun violence is setting new records and fear permeates everyday decisions like going out at night or driving somewhere new.  

In my neighborhood, a slew of businesses have gone out of business.  Consequently, the look of a ghost town prevails.  Depression best describes the nature of the economy as well as the population.  

Still, there are reasons to feel better.  In times of social change and upheaval, some people respond with their best.  While the decline in democratic values has mesmerized the country, and progressive ideas continue to be repealed by the Supreme  Court, the resistance grows and people find ways to be optimistic about the future.  We have to.  The alternative offers nothing.  

This morning, while on my walk I noticed a sign in the window of a barbershop.  While at first amusing, I realized it represented a form of progress as well.  The amusement came when I found myself wondering if racism was tolerated at a reasonable distance, just now within ten feet.  Of course,
I'm being silly here, but the way the message presented itself, it gave one pause.

Cool Like That

 I like films and TV series that are period pieces.  I'm especially fond of the attention to detail that usually accompanies these shows.  It's fascinating to see the breakfast cereals of the 1950s or hear expressions that were popular in the 1930s or even as far back as the 1830s.

I remember a film professor once saying that period pieces are as much about the present day as they are about the period in which they are set.  In ancient Greece or Rome is the setting, it's fascinating to see the hairstyles or the clothing and determine if anything of current value has slipped through the creators or the art designers of the film.  

So it was while watching the PBS series Hotel Portofino, something recently came to attention.  This is a wonderful series set in Italy in the late 1920s and early 1930s about a beautiful hotel run by and largely for British folks.  Of course in this post-WWI period, the rise of Mussolini is paramount as well as the general zeitgeist of the era.  

In one scene I recently saw, a gentleman is asked how he manages to keep calm throughout a recent tumultuous episode. He responds using the phrase. "I keep my cool."  Immediately, red lights started blinking in my head.  Would that expression have been used in that time period?  Now I know that very few people care about this but I was determined to find out.  

My research traced the expression to the 1950s, where I would have guessed it belonged.  That's because it was the era of 'cool" jazz, so it figures the term might have entered the popular vernacular. But there was mention of expressions like losing one's "cool reserve" or "cool head" that were in use earlier.  Apparently, the term was shortened to just losing one's cool a couple of decades later.  OK, what, if anything does this mean?  Probably nothing, but I'm curious if they don't have people who give a critical reading of scripts for period pieces so they can pick up these inconsistencies.  If not, I might just have created a new job for myself.  

Ode To A Tacoma

 I wanted to write an ode for my truck,

   The truck I sold after 20 years,

Can you do that?

   Do Tacoma’s even know they are loved.

I was going to thank the forest green Prerunner for

Being there on solo fishing trips where forest roads

are rough and feared.

For starting while frozen and attempting the snow,

The truck that shared my smiles at landing the first

Brown trout or 15-inch rainbow.

The truck that moved me out of my classroom, and

The new to another state. Records, books, fly rods all

Safely stored. 

I hope your next owner will appreciate your beauty and

Integrity. Long may you run.

Pity The Nation

 

We celebrated the nation’s birthday with a mass shooting this year. How fitting. A young man decided to fire on a 4th of July parade.  The Ferlinghetti poem that follows seems to fog the occasion better than a concert of military marches or a star-spangled troupe of entertainers. Certainly, given the circumstances, fireworks would be inappropriate. 

June U Ary

 Last week I drove high into the Washington Cascades to fly fish a small lake I’d only seen in short video clips. Had I waited one week more, the weather would have been ideal. Life doesn’t work that way so I made the best of the cold wind and rain. 

My destination was primarily a ski resort area, but being very close to the Pacific Crest Trail it is equally popular with hikers and sightseers I never the warmer months. The trouble is the warmer months have been late in arriving this year. In the Northwest, we call this situation June u ary  

Despite battling cold, constant winds, I managed a few fish. All released to fight another day, one, the best one, of course, released a little quicker than I would have liked. Thus, no pictures of the beautiful markings on brook trout.  The brook trout shown here was not from this trip but looked similar in size and coloration.  By early Fall, the spawning colors will be very much in evidence and the greens will be offset with deep orange and reds.

I learned a few crucial things in this little venture. First that I can spend time alone successfully. I learned much about the geography of the area and the lake I fished from a float tube. 

I hope to go back before the summer that finally came is over. Possibly in August. If the timing is right, the sun will be out, the water calm, and hopefully, the mosquitos are mostly gone.

Do Something

 The President has become a pleading father figure.  Some of his offspring detest him, while others cow down as with all fathers.  His complaints are predictable.  Why can't you just behave?  But he is not talking about appropriate peer group behavior.  He speaks of carnage and compassion fatigue.  He is the leader of the nation that cannot seem to ban assault rifles.  So, we set records.  

We go from one mass shooting to another.  3 this week alone.  

I've yet to see how anyone needs an assault rifle for anything, in any circumstances.  The public school is being sacrificed on the alter of the 2nd amendment.  As one politico recently labeled #2, the greatest hoax in American political history.  Some of us see a marked difference between a well-regulated militia and an 18-year-old misfit with an AR-15.  

The President tells his story.  How the people appear before him with one request.  "Do something" they urge.  He is paralyzed by a Congress enmeshed in gridlock.  He speaks only of compromise.  

Is changing the age of AR-15 possession from 18 to 21 enough?  Is it anything at all?  

The Republicans can't see what is before their eyes.  Getting re-elected is the only priority they have.  That means not rocking the boat.  The boat is full of cash for their next campaign.  

They pivot.  It's about mental illness.  That's the culprit.  No matter the red flag provisions might help, no matter that not one reason has been provided to explain why anyone needs an automatic assault rifle.  How do we make those who obfuscate see the illogic of their thinking?  Some suggest the Emmit Till effect.  

When the 15-year-old Till was brutally beaten and then drowned by a racist mob, his mother decided to let people see his wounds in an open casket.  The media responded and people were shocked into reality.  It might give those who aren't quite there yet something to think about if they saw the damage that an AR-15 does to a 10-year-old in an elementary school.  It's brutal, but it seems to be necessary.  After all, we live in an image-oriented culture, where appearance is everything.  

So we wait.  We wait for something.  

Once Upon a Summer

 I recently received a youtube video link in an email from a friend.  It was a rare video of a 1952 telecast of the final game of the 1952 World Series.  Along with a small group of others on the receiving end of this clip, I began to share comments and realizations about this 70-plus-year-old game.  

It reminded me of a graduate course in media and history that I took some years ago.  In that's we spent a fair amount of time looking at old film footage, most of it rare stuff that had been recently uncovered.  I recall one clip that followed a trolly car on its route in downtown San Francisco shortly after the 1906 earthquake.  Aside from evidence of the quake, we paid particular attention to the transportation facilities, the clothing, worn, and any other glimpse of a social mores or behavior that might be present.  Most notable that day was how people dashed in and out of horsedrawn vehicles without a care in the world.

Watching this old World Series game was similar.  Game 7 in 1952 took place in Ebbets Field in Brooklyn.  The Yankees were going for their 4th consecutive title and all they had to do was beat the Dodgers this last time.  Ebbets Field had those wonderful ads on the outfield wall and an intimacy that is seldom found in the big baseball palaces today.  The telecast was sponsored by the Gillette Razor Company (who else) and featured the legendary broadcasters Red Barber and Mel Allen.  

I'm not sure how many Americans had a TV set in 1952, but I do know that it was definitely a minority of the baseball enthusiasts in the country.  They would have to wait until the newsreel hit their local movie theater one or two weeks later to actually see the game.  Radios were on that day all over the country.

So what did this little gem of a video yield?  Here are the highlights.  In 1952 people dressed up to go to the ballpark.  At least to the World Series.  In pan shots of the crowd, the men wore suits and ties.  They and the women in the crowd smoked...constantly.  There was no instant reply so if you missed some of the action, you had to wait until the film was developed to see a dramatic play like the catch Billy Martin made.

You saw Yogi Berra, Jackie Robinson, Duke Snider, Billy Martin, and of course the antics of HoF manager Casey Stengel.  In one inning both Jackie Robinson and Roy Campanella beat out bunt singles.  Jackie yes, but Campanella...who knew?  

These players were working-class guys, I was reminded by another observer.  The strength of Johnny Mize or Gil Hodges was the kind developed from lifting heavy boxes or doing the work of tradesmen.  No steroid sculpted bodies in 1952.  The uniforms were baggy, if not drab.  Baseball was mostly in black and white back then.  Most kids never saw the color of their favorite team's uniforms until they got a baseball card or a Sports Illustrated magazine.  

The telecast like most everything else then was primitive.  But the pace of the game was much faster.  The pitchers threw a pitch, caught the ball from the catcher, and threw another pitch.  Rarely did they remove their cap, wipe their forehead, or walk around the mound for a while.

There is one other thing that was visible in that telecast that would probably be just as notable today.  The intensity with which Jackie Robinson played the game is very much on display.  He was a threat to steal on any base.  Any base...especially third base.

My Own Andy Griffith

 They moved into one of the best-known houses on the block.  The one with the strange, albeit homemade TV antenna on the roof.  That's because that was the house that had probably the first color TV in the San Fernando Valley.  Hell, probably the first one in Southern California.  Rupert Goodspeed, a TV engineer for CBS and family had moved on.  As the late 50s gave way to the 60s, a new family occupied the home directly opposite my family home.  

To say they were different folks would be an understatement.  Coming to the greater LA basin from Ripley, Tennessee was a culture shock at best, traumatizing at worse.  But they settled in, not exactly the stereotypical hillbillys, but not far off, either.  

Homer, Ruby, and their son Eddie soon adapted to the demands and lifestyle of Southern California.  Eddie "talked funny" to most of the neighborhood kids and didn't easily fall into street baseball games or the budding adolescent summer night hang-out culture now developing on Bonner Ave.  

Ruby was seen now and again running errands in the '56 Ford they owned.  She rarely talked to other neighborhood women and only appeared in the front yard with her prized Chihauwa, Twinkles.  Ruby's accent was best heard while she was calling Twinkles into the house.  Not exactly Dolly Parton, but nevertheless entertaining.  

It was Homer, the man of the house that held the most interest.  He resembled Andy Griffith, who at that time, was enjoying enormous popularity nationwide as the Sheriff of Maybury RFD.  Homer was kind, wise, and patient.  He liked all things outdoors, horses, fishing, and cars.  In no time he became a surrogate father figure to many of the kids on the block.  Homer would take up horseback riding, fishing, and on occasion, let us drive what he referred to as his "little 56" around the block.  He had his expressions too.  It was never San Francisco, but rather "San Franfrisco."  When his beloved Ford needed tires, he would say, "I got to throw some rubber on there."

One time I caught what to me was a huge bass at a local reservoir and took it over to Homer and Ruby.  They were overjoyed and before I could even ask my mom if I could have dinner with them, Homer had cleaned the fish and Ruby had breaded it in cornmeal and fried it up along with grits and okra and I sat at their table the proud provider.  That would have never happened in my home.  

After my folks died, I lost touch with Homer and Ruby, and Eddie.  I'm sure they are no longer on this earth, but Eddie might be around somewhere as he was a year or two younger than me.  My friendship with them wasn't all good memories as by the time the Civil Rights movement was in full swing followed by the Vietnam War, I'm sure our viewpoints differed.  Don't know if that would have mattered all that much, but I always wanted to tell Homer how much I appreciated all the opportunities he provided to the kid of New York migrants.

Getting Late

 "It's getting late, but it's not dark yet."

My heroes are aging.  Strike that, they are getting old.  Very old, very fast.  So it seems.  The baseball player in his 90s can only recollect.  The boxer can barely stand.  The writers are blind and the fisherman can no longer tie a knot.  

And then there is Dylan.  He announces a new tour.  It's what he does.  Still writes songs of substance and takes his show on the road.

For me, it was always about Dylan.  The force that hit home at the precise moment I needed.  He is a giant redwood with roots that go deep to Woody Guthrie and beyond to Baudelaire.  Thick, gnarly, massive roots that go to the magma.  He really does contain multitudes.

My intro was on Thursday nights.  At 6:55pm I would go to the backyard and ready the two trash barrels to be taken to the curb in front of our house.  I was set with earphones in place and my transistor radio in my pocket.  By 6:57, the first trash barrel was in place.  By 6:59 the second one was in place.  Turning to walk back up the driveway, I'd tune to KFWB because at precisely 7: o'clock they would play the number one song in England.  For weeks that song was "The Times are Changin.'  It would take another year before that album became available and I would sit on the top of the stack in my bedroom.  

In the following years, Dylan would invent and reinvent himself many times.  I cared little about his image.  Just keep those lyrics coming and that original harmonica style.  By the time "Like a Rolling Stone" etched its way into Rock and Roll legend, I had 3 Dylan albums.  

Shortly after I graduated high school I went to a party with many of my classmates.  This was different because some were in college and some went into the military.  Some got married and started families and some went into the workforce

My best friend and I unapologetically announced when someone played Dylan's hit record, (Like a Rolling Stone) that he was the greatest poet of the 20th century.  We had no way of knowing that, we just wanted to let our peers know that they needed to pay attention, listen to what he was saying and think about his messages.  We were arrogant and a little ignorant about great poetry but years later when Dylan won a Nobel Prize, I wore a satisfied smile.

For me, it was always about Dylan.

Check Your Compass

 Battle Lines are being drawn.  The Supreme Court's 5-4 majority is about to put an end to Roe v Wade.  Despite the fact that national polls show a majority of Americans are pro-choice, the stage is set.  Settled Law?  Not so, apparently.  

Already many women I know are gearing up for the fight they know is coming.  This is worst-case scenario stuff.  If anything could polarize this country more than it already is, it is the question of legal abortion.  

It is the slavery of our time.  The biggest moral question dividing the country...despite the polls.  For many, it appears as if our country is going backward.  So why now?  I can't help but think this move is related to other issues, most notably the agenda of what's left of the Republican party.  

This is the agenda of fear and the mixture of church and state.  The ironies abound.  Liberals say that the pro-life faction is only pro-life until a child is born.  After that child is born, they claim, that child is virtually abandoned when it comes to all the resources needed to sustain that life.  To really be pro-life means to create a society that supports the well-being of that child all through life.  

What will probably ensue if the Court follows through with ending Roe v Wade is that individual states will handle the question.  Already I've heard people say that they will open their homes to women who need this kind of health care.  

37 years ago, my father-in-law, Don Minkler became what he considered to be the face of reason by participating in a public service ad about the need for medically safe abortion.  The feature ran in Time magazine and the message is just as important today as it was then.  I share it here because the stakes are high and the people are angry.

Old Enough?

 We've been watching a few episodes of a Japanese TV program that Netflix recently introduced to this country.  It's called "Old Enough" and apparently has been very popular in Japan for a number of years now.

The premise is simple.  Young children are given simple errands to run and are followed by a camera crew to see how they do.  Some of the youthful participants are as young as 2 or 3 years of age.  Japanese culture values independence and the ability to overcome challenges, hence the popularity of the show.  We see, on occasion, that the kids are tailed by adults and cameramen on occasion so there is some sense of security. Nevertheless, there is something about watching a 2-year-old trying t cross a busy 4-lane street with nothing but a little yellow flag held out in front of him that gives one pause.

The show makes for some funny moments.  Often the kids forget to get something from the grocery store and have to go back.  They talk to themselves, get waylaid, drop packages, but often meet other helpful adults along the way.  They get a lot of freebies from local merchants who seem to enjoy these young shoppers.  

It occurred to me that this program could probably never be duplicated in this culture.  The streets are too dangerous in many more ways, and many American merchants probably wouldn't want to be bothered to drop everything to help a kid who seems lost or confused.  

Then there is the entire area of protection and overprotection of children.  I can hardly see an American mother, especially one of the helicopter variety, allowing any child of hers to endure this type of character building.  The entire concept is filled with cognitive dissonance.

What might be even more interesting than watching "Of Age"  is to witness a panel discussion of parents from all over the world watching the show and commenting.  There are moments of pure cuteness and adorability.  That and the fact that the music and animation that comes with the production values make the program very comfortable to watch.  They sure do like pink and yellow, orange, and turquoise blue in Japan.

History Rhymes

 My generation remembers how WWII was taught in history classes in high school.  Lots of "Good War" propaganda and black and white footage of kids collecting rubber and other recyclables for the war effort.  Of course, there was plenty of film footage of battleships, parades at home, and occasionally, some very grisly footage of American troops liberating concentration camps.

My high school history teachers, Mr. Rubenstein and Mr.Elcott were more like Jewish comedians who were very knowledgeable.  Elcott was a dead ringer for the late Borsh Belt stand-up comedian Jackie Mason.  When a student told him that he was doing his term paper on Indonesia, Elcott was dumbfounded because that was too general a subject.  He replied, "What about Indonesia?  Should they or should they not wear a G-string?"  Stuff like that you never forget.

It was Mr. Rubenstein, who had an equally strong sense of humor, and who inspired me to become a teacher.  He was one of the coolest teachers that were masters of his subject.  Hell, he lived WWII.  We all knew that he'd been shot down over Europe and had spent some time as a POW.  We knew, too, that when the time came to deal with Nazi Germany he became unusually distant for a few days.  But I'll give him major props for showing us some of that concentration camp footage.  It seared the reality of genocide into our brains.  

Having been born immediately after WWII, we all assumed that we'd never have to endure anything like that again.  We could not foresee the attempts at genocide that would follow in Eastern Europe, Africa, and parts of Asia.  

With the recent attempts at genocide in Ukraine, we can all count another attempt at man's ultimate indignity.  Given the improved quality of technology, I wonder how this current generation will receive and perceive these images of war?  They are already exposed to enough blood and gore just by watching the daily news or what sometimes passes for video games or entertainment, it's bound to be different.

I worry about that desensitization.  

The best antidote, in my view, for presenting this difficult history to young people is to let them figure out how it might be stopped.  That is: ended.  For good.

Bottle Up and Go

 The first week of April and the world still has eyes only for the humanitarian crisis in Ukraine.  And why not?  It's much more important than "the slap" which will soon evaporate.  But with COVID seemingly on the wane, some things are emerging like the early blossoms and buds of spring.  

Here in the Northwest, we have a false Spring before we can even think about the turning of the seasons.  We get all manner of white and pink blossoms on the trees only to see them blown and then washed away by the cold rains of March and April.  But there are other signs that life is emerging.

Change is in the air, along with the pollen.  Fewer masks are worn and some restaurants reemerging give way to silent hope.  In my neighborhood, a new restaurant has graced the string of abandoned storefronts.  It's someone's dream, and with a name like the Rockabilly cafe, holds promise.  The trouble is I see far too few folks giving it a try.  I'll get down there before too long and I hope the owner is there.  That's because I'm still trying to find a home for my Elvis wine bottle.  It might look good sitting on a shelf surrounded by 50s memorabilia and a jukebox.  

Back in the late 70s, shortly after the death of "The King" I was picking up a few things in one of the Bay Areas' most upscale markets.  I chanced to see a display of wine and thought this bottle might be a collector's item one day.  I think I paid something like $15 for the promotion and was thrilled to find an original poem by "The colonel" on the label.  Col. Tom Parker, the former manager of Presely had apparently penned this masterpiece of trite imagery.  All in all, a good deal.  So now I'm left with finding a forever home for this bottle that still might find favor with some folks.  

If business is waning at the Rockabilly Cafe, perhaps a small museum on-site with artifacts of the genre might be just the thing to stimulate the popularity of the place.  I'd love to make this donation so that I could rest easy knowing that my Elvis wine bottle would have a home.  It's now or never.

Seeing Again

 I recently spent some time with my 97-year-old mother-in-law.  It was our first visit since COVID rearranged everyone's travel plan.  At her age, she's assumed her rightful place as the Grand Dame of my wife's family.  She is also a good touchstone for all the social, political, and cultural changes going on.  Her eyesight is not good, so I try to read to her on each visit.  It is always well received and much appreciated. 

This time,  after a brief session, we were chatting and I happened to mention that I recently looked up the house I grew up in on Google maps.  From there I found a real estate listing and was able to see some of the sales histories since my sister and I sold the place after my father's death.  I was bemoaning the fact that there were no interior pictures but I could see that the front lawn and our big silver maple tree were gone replaced by concrete.  My father's beloved redwood on the front side had been painted blue or was replaced by blue siding.  It was hard to tell which.  

At this, my mother-in-law began to muse about her childhood home.  She told me that her family purchased the home in Newton, Mass in 1930.  The lightbulb came on.  

"Would you like to see if we can find a picture online?" I asked. 

At that, we began her search on my iPad.  Sure enough, the stately home of her childhood appeared.  Her reaction was mildly astonishing.  To say that seeing this home elevated her spirits is an understatement.  It was almost as if I'd brought someone from the dead.  In a way, that was precisely what happened.

She was so overcome with emotion that she instantly called her 93-year-old sister to tell her the news.   Now,  both these elders are not currently computer savvy and cannot perform the simplest of searches because of eyesight.  In fact, they've pretty much given up cyberspace.  But this ability to view their childhood home was just too much.  It got me thinking.  To see something you never expected to see again is quite an experience.  

It reminded me of the time I went to an Italian festival in San Francisco some years ago.  There was a room with enlarged photos of the Italian community in San Francisco during the Depression years.  I was struck by one photo of an old stake truck with a big wine barrel on the bed and a big crowd around it.  The caption explained that it was a Sunday delivery of wine that many folks were crowding around.  With wine illegal, many Italian-Americans were unable to continue some cultural traditions.  

Suddenly, an older man, accompanied by two women became very animated.  All three were speaking in Italian.  The gentleman was obviously emotionally overcome.  He began to cry.  People turned to look.  Finally, I asked one of the women accompanying him what was the matter.  

"He sees himself as a young man in this photo," she replied.  Sure enough, there in the crowd, waiting for their Sunday wine allotment, was a younger version of this tearful man.  Powerful.  Again, like seeing something yo never thought you'd see again.

Do right

 Hard Times.  Those two words have accompanied American history through many a decade.  When used by a noted historian like Howard Zinn, pay attention.  The quote below is currently making its way around social media and for good reason.

Aside from offering hope in the midst of the current malaise, Zinn reminds us that courage and kindness exist concurrently in even the most difficult of circumstances.  Perhaps the real message here is to not freeze up, don't lock yourself away.  All around me today people are wondering how much more they can take.  With the pandemic, climate crisis, and the brutal invasion of Ukraine, which gives life to the specter of nuclear war, and perpetual racism, no wonder folks are trying to find a literal and figurative hole in which to hide.  

Find the humanity, Zinn seems to say.  Like Mr. Rogers, who urged children in a crisis to find "the helpers," we must seek out those people and experiences where human life is valued above all else. 

Like the ancient Greek philosopher, Herodotus said, "We can never step into the same river twice, for fresh waters are ever flowing upon us," the world we currently inhabit is changing daily.   

An old spiritual I like to hear now and then reminds us that "Now is the healing time." That healing can take many forms and is best accomplished by many taking small steps.  There is another chip of philosophy running all around my brain.  I think it might be Thoreau.  Anyway, that bit of knowledge goes, "If you would prevent others from doing wrong--Do right." This is what got me to make personal decisions that affected my own life.  Decisions made while holding a moral compass.  

The first step in doing the right thing is to acknowledge that morality exists.  Some folks aren't sure, at least that's how they act.  Except for the sociopath, of course, who recognizes no moral authority.  Who has the incapacity to feel what other humans feel and is often ill with malignant narcissism.  The trouble is, of course, there have been ard currently are national leaders who are carrying this disease.  Still, we must remember that they do not rep[resent the mindset of the countries they purport to lead.  Their mental flaw is, of course, that they do not realize that when the mass of people unite, and when an idea's time has come, there is very little they can do to stop that.  Of course, in this atomic age, that could have devastating consequences, but fortunately, more often than not, it is them and their false idols who end up on the trash heap of history.