Alternative Service

 Writer Chris Hedges wrote a book called War is a Force That Gives Us Meaning.  Though the title says it all, more specifically, Hedges was looking at why humankind seems to tolerate, if not glorify war as the be all end all reason for being.  True it brings out the best and worst of us on occasion, but take a minute to think what life would be like if humanity simply decided not to participate.  This impossibility would take a collective action so vast as to seem impossible, but, if such a consensus could be reached, imagine what life would be like.  

Some young folks are impatient about when they can get in the game.  hey prepare themselves with military video games, all manner of camp clothing, and being obsessed with the latest fighting technology.  I had a student once who was obnoxious in his passion to become a fighting marine.  He couldn't wait to see blood, taste blood, or let blood.  Constantly reminding anyone who would listen what he was going to do once he finished basic trining and became battle tested, he became isolated and shunned by many of his peers.  To the best of my knowledge, he got his chance, became severely injured and was left with a massive existential crisis.  The meaning he sought quickly turned into disillusionment.  War casualties take many forms.  

We are fond of and careful to say, "Thank You for Your Service," to military veterans.  Yet no-one says that to PeaceCorps or Americore/VISTA alumni about their service.  The old Selective Service System had a set of criteria they used to grant alternative service to the military.  One such criterion was that the service had to "disrupt your life." That meant it couldn't be easy, safe, or without personal risk.  The poverty pockets I served in in Texas were some of the most dangerous communities in the nation.  Living on $180.00 a month certainly insured a life of disruption.  

I do not mean to diminish anybody's service.  I just wonder why only one kind gets recognition.  I fear it means that going into the poorest communities in this country to sacrifice time, treasure, and safety is not as important in fighting the nation's wars. That the war on poverty was not as important as the war in Vietnam or anywhere else for that matter.  We are what we value.  Just give us the choice.

But nobody ever says, Thank you for your service to those volunteers.

Still, our country would be better served if all young citizens, by the age of 18 were required to serve their country.  This compulsory service could take various forms including military service and/or community service.  Seems like an obvious win/win situation with far reaching consequences.  The only thing preventing it is political will.  

Going Home

 One of the best responses to the argument that dreams are but random firings of brain cells is, "Then why do we have recurring dreams?" The notion here is that if dreams were so random, why do we seem to have dream motifs or even the same dream over and over again?

I was thinking about this after a repeated motif in my dreams came up again the other night.  I'm in a strange city, usually staying in a hotel somewhere unfamiliar.  I can't seem to get back to where I'm staying or supposed to be.  I walk the streets looking for a familiar neighborhood, mostly for safety reasons.  Sometimes, I'm at a conference and can't find the way back to a hotel room. On other occasions I'm with childhood friends and then suddenly find myself alone, unable to phone them or anyone else for that manner.  One variation even has a dysfunctional cell phone in my possession.  I realize that I should just call someone or Lyft and get a ride home, but the phone is usually an old flip-phone and it disintegrates in my hands as I try to find a number to call.  

Sometimes I wonder about the origin of these dreams, off just exactly what it is that in behind their origin.  I'm reminded of an experience I had many years ago while serving as a VISTA Volunteer in all the wrong sections of Houston, Texas.  Most of my service was in the inner city, the 3rd Ward, to be exact.  But Houston, in 1969 was regarded as one of the most violent cities in the country.  In fact, the 5th Ward was known as "Blood Alley," and the word on the street was that if a 24 hour period ever went by without at least one homicide, it would make headlines in the Houston Chronicle.  I actually saw that during my year there.

Given this context, here's the experience I had.  I had gone to a movie with three other VISTAS. It was in downtown Houston on a Friday night.  That was a big deal because we had very little money and simply wanted a break from the intensity of the training we were completing.  Around 10:00, when the movie let out, we were faced with the issue of finding our way home.  Home for us was a placement with a poor family who lived in the worst poverty pockets in the inner city.  I was the only one who needed to get to the 3rd Ward. A few others were in the 4th and 6th Wards and at least had one or two others with them.  Bus service was dicey at that hour, so we set off walking in various directions.  My trek "home" would take about 40 minutes to an hour.  A single, white guy walking in an all Black neighborhood at that hour was not a good idea.  I had no choice.  Even in daylight hours I'd get asked for money and if I had paid my "protection fee."  That's just the way it was.  This was before the crack epidemic that would hit in the 1980s, but the evidence of folks getting high was all over the ground.  Empty bottles that once held Boone's Farm Apple wine and MD 20/20.  The latter was a cheap Mogan David  20 proof red wine especially targeted for the ghetto.  Robitussin cough syrup bottles were also plentiful examples of a cheap high.  

I walked for about half an hour. It was now completely dark.  The last mile was still ahead of me and the street scene was getting more active.  I began to get looks, then stares.  I stopped at a well lit gas station. I noticed a pay phone and then it hit me.  During my daytime walks in this neighborhood I had seen what were known as "Transportation Services."  Predating Uber and Lyft, these were enterprising locals who stenciled their names, i.e. "Brown's Transportation Service" on their car doors and, unlicensed, went about hauling locals to church, the grocery store, or laundromat for a nominal fee.  For a dollar or two, you could get a round trip to a doctor appointment.  Win/win.  I remembered the name of one such service and called for a pick-up.  A young man about my age appeared driving an old model Chevy and I asked for a ride to Drew Ave.  15 minutes later, I arrived at the home of the Miller family, with whom I was staying during my VISTA training.  Problem solved.  I had only about 3 dollars and some change in my pocket, but, as I recall, this little one-way trip only set me back 2 dollars.

Relieved, I thanked him and managed a 50 cent tip.  He spoke very little, but the look on his face told me he was wondering what the Hell this kid was doing here at this hour.  

I've come to believe that this experience might be part of the reason for one of my recurring dream motifs.

To Look for America

 In the last few days I've put on some miles.  Accompanying my sister from her move from Bozeman, Montana to Vancouver, Washington, gave me a quick look at much of rural America in some of the most beautiful country this nation has to offer.

For a fly fisherman, like myself, driving by some of the best waters in Montana, Idaho, and Washington, (Oregon too) is pure torture.  But just being there, even if only for a brief moment, is sometimes enough.

To someone who has lived most of his life in an urban environment, what is most striking is the lack of diversity is many of these areas.  Of course, that is just a cursory observation because there are Black, Latino, and Asian folks everywhere.  In these Northwestern states, there are also large Native populations. The preponderance of Indian casinos everywhere is a not so subtle reminder of that.  But many of these little towns are ranching communities and the residents are conservative, fly the flag at every opportunity, and value the space between them and their neighbors.

We stopped for gas at a combo gas station/market in Clinton, Montana. In beat up old Jeep Wrangler, with the steering wheel on the other side of the front seat was a 20 something woman who was the local mail carrier.  I wondered if the job had been passed on in her family.  Seemed like a good secure job to have in that area in these troubled economic times.  She filled the Jeep while staring at her cell phone screen, much like anyone her age.  Later, on our way back to I-90, I saw her crawling along the frontage road extending her arm out to the mail boxes that lined the street.  There was no other movement on this Tuesday morning in Clinton, save the few cars that wizzed by on the highway. 

Despite the proliferation of fast food restaurants every so often, this area has a few brew pubs and diners that give travelers much needed food options.  Every town seems to have a Chinese, Italian, and Mexican place.  The pubs and restaurants that offer standard fare all seem to have a Cattleman's burger and a vegetarian choice.  If it's called the Cattleman's burger, it better be high quality because cattlemen abound in this region.

The mountain passes were filled with low hanging clouds and the wintry mix of rain/snow.  On the downhill side, were drizzles, an occasional cell of driving rain, and some weak sunshine.  

I look at the people that inhabit these places and wonder about their politics, their personal lives, and their hopes and fears.  They might do the same with my presence.  Yet, one thing is now fascinating for me.  Years ago, when I first started to drive across the country and would stop in rural towns, it was glaringly obvious, because I was young where I stood on political issues and what my values were.  In the 60s and 70s, your hair length was often a mirror into your thoughts, beliefs, and values.  Right or wrong, people were quick to judge.  today, my gray hair and beard, my age, and overall demeanor make those judgements impossible.  In short, I look like every other 70 something old duffer in town complete with ball cap and jeans.  This makes me smile. 

Diagnosis

 We've had phone conversations for over 60 years.  From the time we met at 9 years of age in a Little League dugout, Kenny was my friend.  After we ended up at the same Jr. High school, and later went to high school together, our friendship cemented.  It helped that we shared the same birthday.  Having a close friend with the same birthday can be hazardous because we often get caught up in our own birthday that we tend to forget, even temporarily that we have a friend that needs to be remembered too.

Over the years, Kenny and I shared a love for the same type of music, most notably Blues and Jazz, as well as a healthy Giants/Dodgers rivalry.  For a time, Kenny was my fishing buddy, having some experience in fly fishing.  For about 5 years we even planned and enjoyed a summer fishing trip in either Oregon or the Sierras.  One year, however, Kenny decided he wasn't going to fish, but rather just wanted to enjoy sitting by a river.  He was always a little odd like that.  My wife even thinks he might be "on the spectrum."  Either way, Kenny has always been a contrary.  

In high school we were both involved in senior class politics. I was class president, and Kenny was a cheerleader. In those days, each Senior class had a name, class colors a fight song, a motto, and cheerleaders.  Hard to believe now, but that was such a big deal back then.  Our class colors were Powder Blue and Black and all the guys wore powder blue tux jackets to the prom.  Kenny wore a coral orange.  Kenny was a contrary.

It was in the late 60s that Kenny and I really bonded.  Despite going to different colleges, we were both still at home and on weekends would go to see all the budding rock groups, the traditional blues and folk singers, and many "foreign films" together.  Growing up in LA had its advantages in that regard.  In fact, I once made a list of the Blues greats we saw at the old Ashgrove on Melrose Ave. That list included the likes of Son House, Howlin" wolf, Lightnin" Hopkins, Arthur Crudup, and Sleepy John Estes.  Taj Mahal and Big Mama Thornton were also regulars at that club.  In many ways those trips from the Valley to the city over Laurel Canyon were transformative.  

A few months ago I noticed that Kenny was becoming harder and harder to communicate with over the phone.  He'd had some health issues, including a bad case of bronchitis, but it seemed as if his voice would be clear and then break up as if he were walking away from the phone.  After that it seemed as if I couldn't make sense of what he was referring to, or as if his words were muddled.  I once got a voicemail from him that really made no sense, as if someone was telling you something important with no context.  

Recently, I learned that Kenny has been diagnosed with dementia.  That answered many of my questions.  His denial and inability to communicate exactly what has been going on now seems normal.

Although I've had some experience with Alzheimers, this diagnosis for Kenny hit me like a gut punch.  I slowly have realized that he will no longer be able to drive, and that our phone conversations may get even more problematic.  His partner tells me that he still enjoys reading. I hope he can continue to do that because he's always been a withdrawn type and being able to read will make his days easier to pass.

It will take me a good while to process all this and figure out how t support Kenny and how best to continue our friendship without any undue stress on him or his partner.  In any event, I know I'll never miss his birthday.