Daily Blues & Views

      Last year I bought a Tee shirt that caught my eye.  A white line drawing of a fly fisherman casting a beautiful loop on a navy blue background with the words "Poetry in Silence."  It's a wonderful thought, b ut often romanticized.  Oh, I can cast a perfect loop like that from time to time, but the reality of fly fishing, especially for an aging fly fisher is often less than poetic, if not silent. Like the sport itself, the art of fly fishing is particularly challenging for the aging fisherman.  Some have challenges with walking in a river, or balance in slinking on and over boulders or slippery river bottoms, while others deal with the ravages of Parkinson's or Dementia.  For others it's simply the strength in their legs, or strain on their backs.        Like myself, most older fly fishers are often just glad to be there.  Fly fishing takes us to some of the most beautiful places on Earth.  Withal come...

It hits like a dart.  A dart, thrown without warning, that pierces your armor.  A word or two that won't break your bones but inflicts great harm.  That time when someone said something that hurts.   The surprise, of course, is that they said it and your are required to respond.  No getting away from it, their outrageous belief demands attention.  To remain silent is complicity.  The kind of complicity that you decided long ago never to be a part of.  Yet, here you are, silent.   There are reasons for your silence.  Assumptions made by someone in your environment mean that the offending person did not think that you would mind their racism, or sexism, or ridiculous beliefs.  You do, but there are reasons for your silence.  Sometimes, survival.   So here you are, an eye witness to racism, and you have a difficult time responding. Case in point: In the early summer of 1970, I found myself with a small group of friends travel...

 I call it the "Hipster" barber shop.  It's run by millenniums and has all the trappings of their influence.  Most of the men who cut hair there have at least one tattoo, facial hair, and work schedules that give them ample time off.  The women who work there fit the age demographic, have tattoos, and are as friendly as the men.  You can have a beer, a shot of whiskey, or even a non-alcoholic beverage while you wait.  In place of the strictly male barber shop reading material, you might find coffee table books, or copies of Rolling Stone, or perhaps the local community newspaper.  Most people waiting just sit with their phones in front of their faces.  The background music is often hard rock, or blues, or perhaps a local radio DJ.   Within this establishment, I go to the same barber, a 29-year old man called Dash.  My wife goes to a 30 something woman called Cash.  Cash and Dash, is that Hipster enough for you? Dash and I have good ...

 The President has declared my home a "War Zone."  He is prone to exaggerate and use hyperbole, but this is so off the hook it can be nothing but funny.  Only, with Trump, there is very little humor.  His war zone is confined to 1 square block in a city that covers 149 square miles.   And still he rants on. People here are posting pictures of people sitting outside watching the sunset from a restaurant patio, or swimming in a river, lake, or swimming pool, or enjoying on of the many city parks, under the title of "Life in the War Zone.  It's all a big joke that isn't very funny.  Aside from a small flare-up now and then at an ICE headquarters the war is not here.  It's an insult to people who really do live in a war zone.   True, the National Guard troops the President has activated help with the optics, but then people are posting pictures of them, in uniform, standing outside of VooDoo Donuts, clutching pink boxes instead of automatic weapo...

 My sister and I are a year apart.  Now we live about 20 minutes away from each other.  That hasn't been the case for over 50 years.  After a childhood at home with our parents, we went our separate ways when she got married at age 19, and I went to college.   As children, we were very close.  I actually have an ancient memory of us in separate cribs in the same room.  Most of our childhood together we were in separate bedrooms.  Mine was what would be called a den, and she occupied a small bedroom.  Growing up, we would knock on the wall separating our rooms.  We'd communicate things like are you going to get up now? Do you want to play? and Are you going to go back to sleep.  They were simple knocking patterns.  We even incorporated part of the theme from the TV show Dragnet to indicate, "Go away, I'm not interested."   All that died out as we matured from 5 year olds to kids about 9 or 10.  Today, however, when I u...

 If you look at the official state of the relations that the US has with the country of Vietnam, the State Department says, The United States supports a strong, prosperous, independent, and resilient Vietnam that contributes to regional and international security; engages in mutually beneficial trade relations; respects human rights and the rule of law; and is resilient in the face of climate and energy-related challenges. The United States and Vietnam are trusted partners with a friendship grounded in mutual respect that has developed since the normalization of diplomatic relations in 1995. This  rosy outlook despite the brutal history of the US involvement in the Vietnam War from about 1963-73.  I wonder how many of the 58,000 American dead, and 3.8 million Vietnamese dead could have imagined it would be so peaceful 60 years later?  How would they respond to the fact that the US and Vietnam are such good trading partners.  That the two cultures are i...

 I just finished the new biography of Sanora Babb by Iris Jamahl Dunkle.  Babb is the author who wrote a Dust Bowl novel and was put on hold because Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath was published a few weeks before hers was slated to be.  The fact that she was a woman, with a woman's perspective on this major historical event, had as much to do with her second class treatment.  In recent years, it's come to public knowledge that Steinbeck actually relied on Babb's notes and ethnographic data in putting together his award winning novel.   Sanora Babb's story is one of constant struggle and perseverance.  She was born dirt poor-literally, as her family lived in a dugout home in Western Colorado for a time before moving to a couple of small towns in Kansas.  The daughter of an abusive addicted gambler, Babb witnessed the emotional and physical abuse of her mother and sister.  Herself, as well.  But after learning to read from newspapers plastered on...

                          60s Witness A 10 year-old boy crying at the funeral     of his older brother,  A warm summer afternoon, while my mother irons. I                          listen to a King speak and try to tell anyone who will listen that this is history-making, Fire hoses, snarling dogs, a Sheriff named Bull. College students are next.   We're told to carry plastic bags filled with water in our your pockets when the governor comes to campus, this will help when the tear gas flies, CIA agents are rumored to be attending our classes, watch what you say,                          or not. At a party in 1969, all they played was Creedence...one after another. Today we marched inside a draft board,  the clerks scared and outraged by our au...

 I had an idea that they would work.  They did, for the most part.  The writing prompts and strategies I used with 11th and 12th graders in high school had much to offer older adults.   That's what prompted me to take a leap of faith and offer a writing class for older folks.  There was the Tai-Chi group too.  For the past year, I've been taking Tai-Chi classes through my local gym and community center.  It was there I met an ice group of older folks who have lived a bit of life.  They have stories to tell.  Sometimes, they even want to tell them, but just need a little motivation.  I asked around, and when it appeared that there was a small core of folks that expressed interest in a class that would offer some writing opportunities, I decided to proceed.   I envisioned this little writing workshop as more of a volunteer effort.  But, when I asked at my local community center I learned that everything offered there went through...

 So the President is a sociopath.  The Emperor had no clothes.  Power corrupts completely, remember?   One of the more predictable things about our current President is that he projects.  Not the sound of his voice, the psychological defense mechanism of projection.  Remember learning about that?  If not, it's the one defined as attributing one's own unacceptable thoughts, feelings, or impulses to others, as if to avoid confronting those own impulses or behaviors within their own psyche.   So, when the President says that the beliefs of his opponents are radical, or "crazy" or dangerous, or even false, he's really describing himself.  We all do this to a degree, but not to the extent that our President does.  If you can stomach him, or afford to spend the time, check this out.  It's remarkably consistent.   A well-known case in point: . In 2016, Trump criticized opponent Hillary Clinton’s use of an unsecured personal email serv...

                                There's a time a for joy                                    A time for tears                                    A time we'll treasure through the years                                    We'll remember always                                      Graduation day                                               ...

 In May of 1970, right before I ended my VISTA service in Houston, Texas, all the people who had lived in the house that became the Communications Center, posed for a group photo on the front porch of the decrepit home that endured at 1506 Rosewood Ave.  It has since become an iconic photo.  Iconic because it freezes time and represents a moment in that time that says so much. Aside from a 50 year reunion with most of the people in that photo, there always remained two individuals that were never heard from.  That's because they were not VISTA Volunteers like most of us, they were, in fact, high school students that often hung out at C-2*(C squared-Communications Center) See them on far right of photo. One of the programs that VISTA created that year was called "The University of Thought."  It was a "Free University" for high school students.  In those days, the concept of a free university was popular.  It was an opportunity for young people to take c...

 I had a hunch they would work.  They did.  I was able to use writing prompts, strategies, and activities I had used with high school students with senior citizens.  Needless to say, this was very gratifying.  Here's the story. About a year ago, after enrolling in a Tai Chi class through my local community center and then again at a local gym, I met a number of retired seniors who just happened to be some of the friendliest people I have ever known.  Our little community of elders id talkative and delightful.  After talking with a number of them, I realized that they certainly had some stories to tell.  They had been and some still are all manner of professions.  Teachers, nurses, realtors, lawyers, waitresses, architects, and more.  It occurred to me then that a writing class where seniors write about their lives to preserve stories for posterity might be something they'd be interested in.  So, I set about trying to make that happe...

 I've returned to The Book of Qualities, by J Ruth Gentler once again to meet the needs of one of the senior students in my little Writing From Memory class I'm currently teaching in my local community center.  This little volume personifies various concepts and personality traits.  The particular student "in need" seems to be fixated on writing about her past relationships.  Apparently, there were many.   I'm OK with that.  I only hope that she picks a few qualities that are as revealing about herself as those that might describe her Ex's.  There is much to be learned by writing about a quality.  The aforementioned book seems to have survived well over the years.  I first encountered it and its author way back in the late 1970s.  I took a journal writing workshop from her.  Then, a few years later, her book came out and I introduced these writing exercises to my students.  11th grade Juniors seemed to do the best with it. ...

 I've never had a nickname.  Although, for a brief period, during my Little League years I was called "greenie" for a time.  That didn't stick into adolescence and adulthood.  There was, however, another brief moment in time when I actually did have a nickname.  Here's the story. At age 20, in my junior year of college, I became obsessed with the Blues.  Blues music, blues history, blues singers, blues records.  It was a perfect unity of aesthetic experience that created this passion.  The first ethnic studies classes offered at UCLA played an important part.  My midterm for what was then called "Negro History" was to write a paper on a topic relevant to the coursework.  I chose the subject of the Blues and how it reflected import events and experiences in African American history and culture.  At the time, the burgeoning folk and rock music scene was also evolving.  Being in Los Angeles helped too.  At a small, now iconic...

 In 1957, when I was ten years old, Disneyland opened to the public.  Living in Southern California at the time, every kid on my street couldn't wait for the opportunity to ride in the jungle boat in Adventureland, drive the Autotopia cars in Tomorrowland, and sit in the stagecoach exploring Frontierland.  Two of my neighborhood friends were among the first to have these experiences.  Their father worked at Technicolor and the first days of Disneyland were reserved for families of those who worked in the movie industry.  They returned from their privileged visit to the Magic Kingdom with home movies to show all the envious kids in the neighborhood.   Shortly after that time, my front yard was transformed into something much better.  Actually it was my entire neighborhood block.  We had Sewerland.  I know it doesn't sound exciting, or even something to praise, but Sewerland was the best thing to happen to 10 year old kids.  Our little pos...