tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9408253529789921302024-03-15T18:10:41.307-07:00Daily Blues&;ViewsPersonal observations of one writer. Frequent references to pop culture, blues music and lifetime truths.Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.comBlogger965125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-84143445446950178312024-03-06T11:03:00.000-08:002024-03-06T11:43:32.867-08:00Condemned to Repeat:Trump Supporters CLUELESS About What Caused The Civil War<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This YouTube video is both shocking and revealing. One one level, using a definition of ignorance as “not knowing” you might conclude that these folks just don’t know American history too well. On another level they are disgracefully ignorant. Who draws a blank when asked What caused the Civil War? More importantly why?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/5btpTWNYDL8" width="320" youtube-src-id="5btpTWNYDL8"></iframe></div>If there is anything that anyone with a basic education knows in the country it's the story of how our democracy came to be. We yearly celebrate the birthdays of Washington and Lincoln. Certainly, these folks in the video have heard of them? Maybe not. Lincoln, above all is arguably the most iconic figure in American history. He's on our calendar, our money, and easily recognizable. <div>Maybe, like Nikki Haily, they just don't want to say the word slavery. That would acknowledge the racist history of our country and the thread of white supremacy that runs through our entire history from its inception to the present. For 35 years, I went to teacher's conferences and visited the publisher's displays. Every book published or used in a school has a chapter or two on the Civil War. It is impossible to take any Jr. High or High School history class and not be exposed to some coverage of the causes of the Civil War. Most give a combination of reasons from vague explanations of how the two sections of the country, North and South, had different economies. But always, slavery is mentioned as the leading cause. As Lincoln, himself, said, this nation cannot long exist "half slave and half free." </div><div>Maybe the videographer sought out the most ignorant folks he could find. Or perhaps he did 50 or more interviews and focused on those who came up empty. No matter, my suspicion is that the same result would occur at any Trump rally. Why is that? Your call. </div><div>In his latest book, <b><i>And There Was Light,</i></b> historian John Meachum explores the life of Abraham Lincoln and his constant struggle to lead the country during the Civil War years. Henry Louis Gates, in his review of the book, notes that Meachum has given us "a Lincoln for our times." He certainly has, for the similarities between then and now are most striking. The country then as now with the abortion debate, vis a vis the slavery debate was dealing with an enormously divisive issue. Both sides invoked their notions of God to justify their thinking. </div><div>Lincoln worried about the loss of the democratic experiment that is our government. Insurrectionists had taken up arms. Not so far from today's crises. Looks like we are faced with a Presidential candidate again who does not value democracy as Lincoln did. Being Republicans is about the only thing they have in common. Lincoln was an avid reader and often quoted Greek Philosophers and Shakespeare. </div><div>Too bad there wasn't a literacy requirement to run for President. A reading list would be a good thing. It might eliminate those who would be bound to repeat the less noble aspects of our common history. I wonder if the current Republican candidate for President knows what caused the Civil War?</div><div><br /><div><br /><div><br /></div></div></div>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-38527094400134497692024-02-19T09:10:00.000-08:002024-02-19T09:10:09.246-08:00<p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>They don’t make ‘em like they used to</p><p>I can’t buy them at the store</p><p>The Levi’s that I once knew</p><p>I can’t wear them any more</p><p><br /></p><p>The material is far thinner,</p><p>It don’t last too long this way</p><p>The blue jeans that were once a winner,</p><p>Do not last from day to day.</p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-422733025579419412024-02-07T16:48:00.000-08:002024-02-08T12:35:08.237-08:00Context is Everything<p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">In the early 1970s ethnic studies classes for high school students were less controversial than today. The term “critical race theory” wasn’t used yet and most of these classes were merely an attempt to tell the truth no matter how difficult or ugly. People were ready. Inclusion was long overdue. </span></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Google Sans", Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><div class="ii gt" id=":uo" jslog="20277; u014N:xr6bB; 1:WyIjdGhyZWFkLWY6MTc5MDI2NzUzMzM2NTA2MjUyNyJd; 4:WyIjbXNnLWY6MTc5MDI2NzUzMzM2NTA2MjUyNyJd" style="direction: ltr; margin: 8px 0px 0px; overflow-x: hidden; padding: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="a3s aiL" id=":un" style="direction: initial; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 1.5; overflow: auto hidden; position: relative;"><div>Working in a school district with high percentages of black and brown students, I inherited a program called “Minority History.” </div><div>This was a one-year course divided into two semesters. The first was an entire semester devoted to black history. The second semester featured teaching units on Native American history, Mexican American history, Asian American history, and units on Women’s history. Women, as a minority group, was an early attempt to develop and teach a curriculum that dealt with sexism as well as racism. </div><div>I found myself in charge of this program because it originally belonged to the woman I student taught under and because I was a recent College grad with an undergraduate major at UCLA in African American studies. That was based on the first Black history and literature courses offered there. It garnered some notoriety because the celebrated athlete Kareem Abdul Jabber was also in those classes.</div><div>While my supervising teacher left me resources and access to her curriculum, I was free to enhance what existed and develop my own as well. A major theme in my course was the relationship between concepts like image, identity, and power. While I had done a fair amount of research on African, Mexican, and Asian Americans, it was difficult to find usable resources dealing with Women. The second wave of the feminist movement was in its infancy then, but materials were being developed urgently. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF4LxvmShoT_zlFC90RAzX6R94veo4rrdTsHnbK_8iW3reG9aKKMxOFiuDeSCllJeEm1htO3z8hOfdA3UTMyuVgNZJ72t5gsGubM0DNXTNW2AekHsNjYXs7UCxj31JK8bC_MYnsSs7RPGP6XjlyYvlVf-EWmVno4e5jivVdTqw0-XVf3gOSPlQIVgU0v_k/s800/db64e67018818ecbd9863230008c8b8e.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="643" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF4LxvmShoT_zlFC90RAzX6R94veo4rrdTsHnbK_8iW3reG9aKKMxOFiuDeSCllJeEm1htO3z8hOfdA3UTMyuVgNZJ72t5gsGubM0DNXTNW2AekHsNjYXs7UCxj31JK8bC_MYnsSs7RPGP6XjlyYvlVf-EWmVno4e5jivVdTqw0-XVf3gOSPlQIVgU0v_k/s320/db64e67018818ecbd9863230008c8b8e.jpg" width="257" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>I’d gone to a workshop sponsored by the California Council for the Social Studies and picked up some ideas. The woman who led the workshop presented a slide show focused on images of women in literature. Included were some images from First-grade readers. Many of us present that day learned to read with Dick and Jane books. Looking at some of the images that day, after 25 years or so, we easily saw how sex roles were developed and reinforced. The following week I went to the curriculum library at the School of Education at UC Berkeley, where I‘d graduated the year before. I did not find Dick and Jane, however, I did find a more contemporary reader called Janet and Mark. </div><div>As I scanned the pages, my jaw dropped. Some things became painfully obvious. Whenever Janet and Mark rode in the car with their parents, the males were in the front seat and the females in the backseat. When Janet wanted to do something independently, she made a cake with her mom "for Daddy." Mark, however, declares in another chapter "I want to make something. I can make something good." He then proceeds to put together a car from an old wooden box and some wheels he finds lying around. Very skilled and independent is the message. But the coup de gras comes in a story where Mark is shooting baskets at a hoop mounted on the garage. This driveway setup is identical to what millions of kids have and remember. They can easily relate to the graphics. When Mark finally lets Janet take a shot, she throws up an air ball, (missing the backboard entirely) As Janet shoots, the text reads, “Up up, up and down.” The accompanying graphic is Mark laughing, covering his mouth with his hand. When Janet refuses another attempt because she has been shamed, the graphic shows Mark pointing at her while the text reads, "She is just like a girl, she gives up." I swear that is exactly what it says on the printed page. This sexism is so blatant that it’s difficult, even now, to see how this book made it to publication. </div><div>The following week I put together 35 copies of this story from a First-grade reader and used them in my classes. My students were just as shocked as I had been. We had great discussions about the consequences of these visual images and messages. Others reported that Janet and Mark were the book they learned to read with. </div><div>A few weeks later, a rumor got back to me that I thought so little of my student's skills and abilities that I resorted to First Grade reading level material in my classes. Again, my jaw dropped. Obviously, my use of Janet and Mark had needed to be understood. Again, my classes and I discussed this new issue. In retrospect, I suspect a parent may have seen one of the story copies in their student’s notebook and assumed the worst. Context is everything.</div></div></div></div>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-49715623458611543922024-02-04T11:26:00.000-08:002024-02-06T08:45:35.587-08:00It’s About Time<p> I need to leave her. Like many relationships it’s complicated. Still, the time has come and I know it. Like myself, we have both lost some of our attraction with age. Things weaken, they occasionally fail, slow down. She has, at times been good to me. The unexpected surprises and poignant moments have not been forgotten. They occasionally make me smile. They sneak up on dark days and make me think it has all been worthwhile. But, times change. What was once solid begins to crumble. We adapt or we don’t last long. So, I’ll be heading out soon. My long attachment to horse racing has run its course. I need to leave the race track. </p><p>In the beginning, she lived up to the billing. It begins with the horse. Always, the horse comes first. I have always had a visceral reaction to horses. As a thoroughbred trainer friend of mine always said, It’s in the blood.” It must be because it’s as if I can’t help myself in the presence of an equine athlete. The energy, the glossy coat, pointed ears, rippling muscle, the eyes. Ever stare into the eyes of a thoroughbred? </p><p>This piece is in progress. </p><p>Childhood connections /Characters/ Biggest thrills/ tech changes/ final thoughts</p><p><br /></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-38425479415856378482024-02-01T10:48:00.000-08:002024-02-01T12:42:24.663-08:00C’mon Along<p> I have made the 12-hour drive from Portland to the Bay Area more times than I care to admit. The latest came last week. This time of year, the weather plays a crucial role in determining how smoothly that drive goes. Fortunately, the roads over the mountain passes were clear this time. The rain and fog was ever-present. Though the landscape varies, some characteristics of this trip remain the same. The Oregon part of the trek is often beautiful with sweeping pastureland in the Willamette Valley, and fir and pine forests for hundreds of miles. Rivers are abundant. The Willamette, the McKenzie, the Umqua, the Klamath, and the Upper Sacramento are all visible from the car window. </p><p>In the last 5 years, we have not driven straight through, choosing to stop at the halfway point in Ashland, Oregon. Ashland offers a good place to eat and sleep with peaceful views, bookstores, pubs, outdoor stores, and a beautiful park. It is the home of Southern Oregon University, and, of course, the renounce Shakespeare Festival. It has culture and character. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AsLavu3-kmG6jtGR2HLfTFX_axteu0wn2Jc3yb4N_CD4MZVqbWDGsqq4OvfLhWHR1gO9Xel4FykkaPPQMAlsH3L13XlfMbpscfZUOqJoCRpxvJ1XRZY1tdLGYRe2iAICnyoqsvAaEemCOiEEMBFv43vFLJPaGHljJDbXRYgPol79m8GIUfYl7-VvOi5O/s320/moonlit_oaks_av_wb_at_i-005_21.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AsLavu3-kmG6jtGR2HLfTFX_axteu0wn2Jc3yb4N_CD4MZVqbWDGsqq4OvfLhWHR1gO9Xel4FykkaPPQMAlsH3L13XlfMbpscfZUOqJoCRpxvJ1XRZY1tdLGYRe2iAICnyoqsvAaEemCOiEEMBFv43vFLJPaGHljJDbXRYgPol79m8GIUfYl7-VvOi5O/s1600/moonlit_oaks_av_wb_at_i-005_21.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>On morning two of this trip, we cross the California border after about half an hour on the road. During the winter months, no stop at the border is necessary because there is little concern about fruit being brought into the state. Next, the descent past Yreka, Weed, Shasta City, and Dunsmuir culminates at Shasta Lake. This reservoir is in good shape for the first time in a good while because of recent rains and an improved Snowpack. The descent ends in Redding, Ca. where the landscape changes dramatically. We are in the flats now. The sprawling valley stretches for hours. There are a few farm towns, most start with the letter A. Artois, Arbuckle... Pine and Fir trees have been replaced by Olive trees and rice paddies. It is not uncommon to see a crop duster here and all manner of political signs, mostly right-wing, conservative. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0lieyAN4-RnahJxpva9msImWShMW16MrM7yG2WcnX-e7GohNhF-PxiP76uwoH8Fjuw7LZW7Rte7zBboItcdkT8R3xoYLHQBCq3h51-81-Y0z5oMmsSPsNnsh22HE3JYie6It3KLwNBA0geu3o45zhUg3_aRTIPd0fCMKi5_fUc8PhAwel5-jtbiVKuc5I/s250/travelling-south-on-i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="250" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0lieyAN4-RnahJxpva9msImWShMW16MrM7yG2WcnX-e7GohNhF-PxiP76uwoH8Fjuw7LZW7Rte7zBboItcdkT8R3xoYLHQBCq3h51-81-Y0z5oMmsSPsNnsh22HE3JYie6It3KLwNBA0geu3o45zhUg3_aRTIPd0fCMKi5_fUc8PhAwel5-jtbiVKuc5I/s1600/travelling-south-on-i.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>By the small town of Dunnigan, Interstate 5 continues to Sacramento but offers an off-ramp to I 505 which is the link to I 80 the road to Oakland and San Francisco. I 505 rolls through some barren farmland. It’s flat, straight, and rather dismal. But the transition to I-80 at Vacaville is dynamic. The drivers should brace themselves while making this merge. The sudden appearance of a 5-lane freeway is a jolt. The speed of the cars, their numerous lane changes, and the need to read signs carefully create culture shock. Put simply, the vibe is much different. It's "on your toes" at all times or suffer the consequences. Glad I don't live in that kind of environment anymore.</p><p><br /></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-80731637592088377932024-01-08T10:44:00.000-08:002024-01-10T14:47:20.225-08:00Otter Obsession<p> Yesterday morning as I put on my Otter socks, a recent Christmas present from my sister-in-law, I realized that people now feel free to give me all manner of Otter things. How this got started can only be attributed to my experience while fishing the headwaters of the Deschutes River in Central Oregon. More about that later, but for now, let's look at how and why people get attracted to collecting specific things and why that passion is reinforced by their friends and family in the form of gift-giving.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4wAwp5GrkrZqkMIWpElN8wRVR6dfpV3vLs1I06LiKcBXFdxB8wQDbRvXD-veeqN0vt3I8sYnlYOfhBuvfj_-jKt96B63Xp5tM4zcIrzcZVIV30I3fymtbE7AobD-GQXzUFiIlry-LN1bnuuOlj1hyk1b2-kwheTOYpMS2pc0lCcYgysWy3NCU6YyD1y3W/s879/612Bf-jv66L._AC_SY879_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="879" data-original-width="650" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4wAwp5GrkrZqkMIWpElN8wRVR6dfpV3vLs1I06LiKcBXFdxB8wQDbRvXD-veeqN0vt3I8sYnlYOfhBuvfj_-jKt96B63Xp5tM4zcIrzcZVIV30I3fymtbE7AobD-GQXzUFiIlry-LN1bnuuOlj1hyk1b2-kwheTOYpMS2pc0lCcYgysWy3NCU6YyD1y3W/s320/612Bf-jv66L._AC_SY879_.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>I had a friend once who collected chickens. She was so obsessed with this fetish that I found myself aware of anything representing chickens every time I went shopping. Once in a while, but rarely, I gave her a chicken object. It made me feel good to reinforce this obsession. The same went for an old girlfriend who collected penguins. She had a shelf full but no matter, people gave her penguins all year long. My best guess is that when a person expresses such a strong feeling for a particular animal, bird, or even a color, their friends take notice of such a strong response and are eager to reciprocate. It's a guarantee that your gift or thoughts will be appreciated. Occasionally, the one receiving these contributions must tell everyone, "No more, please." </p><p>If you scan the Facebook groups, it becomes apparent that people collect all sorts of things. It's clear, too that they have devised ways of displaying these collections. The groups that collect what is euphemistically called "Black Americana" are particularly adept at displaying their passion. Loads of Uncle Tom and Aunt Jemima's stereotyped figures adorn these pages, as well as sheet music, kitchen items, and various products of yesteryear. The fact that these are often racist and vile images does not seem to deter these people. In fact, it makes some of the items worth more because they have become more scarce and rare. A huge market in old records is another collection area that has its own dedicated adherents. This is an area where people can spend a lifetime trying to collect a complete set of something or everything released by a particular artist. I once decided to see if I could collect every album in the RCA Victor collection of Vintage Series. This was a group of albums released over 10 years in the Folk, Blues, and Jazz genres. I accumulated many, but one album, "The Railroad in Folksong" still eludes me. On the rare occasions, I think of it, I still search online or in record stores that still exist. Obsession, mystery, or too much time on my hands? Your call.</p><p>II</p><p>I have a favorite spot to fly fish. Over the years the place where the Deschutes River begins has become hallowed ground for me. I first caught fish on the fly there, including my first brook trout. Sometimes, my efforts were in vain and even when I did manage a fish or two, they were always small 6-inch rainbows. Nothing wrong with that, but I'd seen bigger fish come from these waters. That all changed for me when a few years down the road, and higher up the learning curve I managed to bring two beautiful rainbow trout to the net from these waters. But my real high point came the afternoon when I luckily found myself alone where the river winds around a small island in the middle of a meadow. It was late afternoon, and I was standing in the middle of the gently flowing water right before it split into two sections around the island. To my right, a pair of eyes suddenly appeared from the bubbling surface. A dog? A beaver? No, the head of an otter emerged. I froze, not wanting to scare my new friend and also because this was, in fact, a wild animal and I was in his territory. I reeled in my fly and just stood there because I didn't want to hook a fish and then have the otter risk hooking himself if he went for the fish himself. My new friend disappeared and then quickly reemerged near the same spot where I first saw his eyes on me. This time he brought his family. First, his mate swam in front of me to the opposite bank, followed by two small otters, and finally, the man of the family brought up the rear. When all had crossed safely in front of me, they continued to swim down the opposite bank in front of me and then away, and on their way. That was a special moment for me. If I never get to that spot again, I will always treasure that afternoon. True Joy.</p><p><br /></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-26934324262953464862024-01-01T10:38:00.000-08:002024-01-01T13:07:34.274-08:00What Lies Ahead<p> This is the time of year when we take stock of our lives. We think about change and make promises to ourselves. Some call it resolutions but by whatever name, we evaluate expectations for our self-improvement. </p><p>This is not bad, but it all comes down to lasting power. Still, the opportunity to self-reflect is always worthwhile.</p><p>The year ahead features both another Olympic Games, and a Presidential election. Both are on shaky grounds. Both will enrapture the media and both are vulnerable to terrorist attacks. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkk2djzKXEgOUSeXwBA5Qn2ImgKVkr4cXBvsLGDYj7kJt8GJL2RoXdpZuxdFigtvC_bjsi51to0NpXQdpzKaGbkFk0QBP0KvxQyyYZj95wCJzsljeE6e2p-lc2vRdDV9iHy4MnXIn-P-Ao7DmX4i5iQnCAxuA7YyXc9kJnpFocg5I7z8QPK7mHjdxPP-_F/s162/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="104" data-original-width="162" height="104" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkk2djzKXEgOUSeXwBA5Qn2ImgKVkr4cXBvsLGDYj7kJt8GJL2RoXdpZuxdFigtvC_bjsi51to0NpXQdpzKaGbkFk0QBP0KvxQyyYZj95wCJzsljeE6e2p-lc2vRdDV9iHy4MnXIn-P-Ao7DmX4i5iQnCAxuA7YyXc9kJnpFocg5I7z8QPK7mHjdxPP-_F/s1600/images.jpeg" width="162" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>We are also at an inflection point with big concepts like democracy, artificial intelligence, and existential wars that roll on with little regard for those most vulnerable, especially the elderly and children.</p><p>To these threats, we must add our constant bearing witness to a disintegrating environment and our need to change our behaviors to sustain this magnificent planet for those yet to be, and those yet to come on board with what is demanded.</p><p>Mostly, the start of a new year is a chance to reset. To remind ourselves that we have work to do and that we can stop beating ourselves up about what needs to be done, and just start doing it.</p><p>For myself, specifically, I will work with what I enjoy doing and try to keep from excess. That way I can be open to new things, and hopefully improve on some of my skills and bad habits.</p><p>This stage of life, for me, is filled with physical limitations brought about by age. They are not crucial, but nevertheless there and must be dealt with effectively. </p><p>I will try to keep my emotions in check too. Especially with the upcoming political campaigns looming large on the horizon. For the life of me, I will never understand how so many can fall for the lies of a pathological personality so easily. But then, people often believe what they want to believe. Apropos of that, I continue to wonder about the relationship between the quality of education and the quality of political candidates in that system. That is, if we, as a culture valued education and really walked the talk, then maybe we could celebrate political candidates that reflect the best of us and our thinking. Increasingly,I find myself asking,"Is this the best we con do? C'mon, really?"</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-64446166375525902382023-12-13T12:19:00.000-08:002023-12-14T09:40:42.580-08:00Passing People<p> Sometimes it does seem as if we are every age we’ve ever been. When the Fire dept. showed up at my neighborhood “Safer Together” block party and let all the kids climb over their shiny red engine, I regressed to a 9-year-old. Watch me catch a fish and I’m 12 again. Watching a baseball game with the Giants playing I become all ages. But in the last few decades of our lives, something decidedly different occurs. Expression of those differences becomes problematic.</p><p>Having spent the better part of my life as a high school teacher, I am comfortable around young people, especially adolescents. Consequently, I often acknowledge them when walking in public, forgetting sometimes that they don’t think of me as a familiar, albeit trusted teacher they know. When that happens, I get either no response, a cold eye roll, or a rapid look away. Being perceived as a threat or inappropriate may be the last thing on my mind, but it frequently happens.</p><p>In fact, it seems lately that most people we pass on the street look away or don’t acknowledge your presence. Clearly, some will always smile or say good morning or afternoon, but they are usually the older folks. I’m not sure what this means, but it makes me want to greet everyone, especially a stranger, no matter how uncomfortable. </p><p>Some years ago in Berkeley, California we had a resident known as the “waving man.” He lived on MLK St. a main boulevard, and would water his lawn and wave to the morning traffic. Soon people waved back. After a year or two of this spontaneous morning ritual, the waving man began to wear white gloves to make his waves more visible. They’d he was given a few pairs of day-glow orange or yellow!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfqK3Iw1tixwgXs8syzKykq7Kb1heDxZ3O-IK4hJndlFVEmaMxAKbJSKrgd1_Utdj70eBMDDbaNRIYuVbF6vhvg3u52DKYI-IzOh6Jvcuvc0_KD6cwc09C8XBsqq9m1M5bMn7Di6qQ4hEbsge2tKD7_zp8UY5Wxj80AzUYxm4wAmlo6xPl6JtTlQiP7J4X/s360/th.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="360" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfqK3Iw1tixwgXs8syzKykq7Kb1heDxZ3O-IK4hJndlFVEmaMxAKbJSKrgd1_Utdj70eBMDDbaNRIYuVbF6vhvg3u52DKYI-IzOh6Jvcuvc0_KD6cwc09C8XBsqq9m1M5bMn7Di6qQ4hEbsge2tKD7_zp8UY5Wxj80AzUYxm4wAmlo6xPl6JtTlQiP7J4X/s320/th.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>He must be long gone by now, but his simple act of an unsolicited wave met a deep need. I know I always looked forward to passing his house on my way to work.</p><p>II</p><p>I’m finding that with age comes a narrowing of friendship. Last week alone, I had two close friends lament that they have very few friends anymore. One even looked at me and lamented, "You're it." Of course, we survived, while some of our friends moved away. But those friendships that linger like an untended garden, often die. Even Facebook can’t help those ties. The statistics for people living alone in this culture are staggering. In 1940 one-person households averaged just under 8%. Today it is around 30%. I'm not putting a value judgment on this fact, just noting that it is dramatically on the rise. </p><p>Friendship takes work. It takes sacrifice too.</p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-59178565345739986472023-12-02T12:04:00.000-08:002023-12-03T12:12:12.745-08:00Not Forgotten<p> It's hard not to live in the past these days. At the risk of pining for the good old days, I miss more and more some of the things I previously thought would always be there. Newspapers, for example. Not only do we not rely on them for news, I have come to call my local paper the $3.00 crossword puzzle. Now, I could argue for retaining local and national papers, but most of the people who would benefit from that argument would never read or hear of it. </p><p>At some point, all of us over 50 have faced the reality that technology has mapped out our future and left many of the familiar and favorite things we came to depend on in its wake. But at what cost?</p><p>People seem distracted and speedy these days. That might explain why I see so many people drive right through Stop signs. One of the streets in my neighborhood almost requires drivers with a clear right of way to slow to a stop when they come to a corner where side streets have clear Stop signs. Not doing so will often result in a near miss and /or collision. </p><p>The impatience that comes from being online so much impacts many other forms of social interaction as well. We want it and we want it now, whatever it may be. In my neck of the woods, it is possible to go through a day running errands, eating, purchasing needed products, and "relaxing" without getting out of a car. That can't be good. I wonder how long it will be before a car will be on the market that features a toilet of some sort. People would buy that, no doubt.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsL792RiQIXWMXapjxJ3Zq-kYl0yRe1WKpKzPnOhYXpNvO7IzyVIx-axAy8L4PnHADLk2OQ2WUg9C1rhTntsVnpQ0GoeV7LSUuA-LItUCLx7WzZIVZgLy6z7E35EGRVeelFvQyJkRfkiY2WyNW9MYAmnfL9duU8IkgwVuSrhsQzaoJLwbxBowm4kCfIJfx/s1600/s-l1600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsL792RiQIXWMXapjxJ3Zq-kYl0yRe1WKpKzPnOhYXpNvO7IzyVIx-axAy8L4PnHADLk2OQ2WUg9C1rhTntsVnpQ0GoeV7LSUuA-LItUCLx7WzZIVZgLy6z7E35EGRVeelFvQyJkRfkiY2WyNW9MYAmnfL9duU8IkgwVuSrhsQzaoJLwbxBowm4kCfIJfx/s320/s-l1600.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Am I grousing? Not really, just recognizing that the life changes we are now experiencing have losses as well as gains. Unfortunately, when something we like goes, it seldom returns. Last week I saw an ad for a tee-shirt with a rotary dial pictured on the front. It is a mysterious-looking device to the younger generations. </p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-13932156973255201022023-11-14T13:02:00.000-08:002023-11-15T14:11:59.110-08:00The Other<p> With the war between Israel and Hamas has come a huge rise of antisemitism. That’s less surprising than the fact that hatred toward Semitic people is as old as time. Lost in the current strife is the fact that both Arab and Jewish people are considered Semitic. It comes down to the language groups originally spoken by people who historically hail from the Middle East.</p><p>But when we speak about antisemitism and its rise, we’re talking about hatred and prejudice directed toward Jews. In a complex situation like Palestinian and Israeli land claims and rights, the situation is further complicated. How alike and how dissimilar are these people? Isn’t it true that some Israelis and Palestinians have lived side by side peacefully for decades? </p><p>Nevertheless, hatred toward Jews and the vicious stereotypes that often accompany it is very much alive and on the rise. For some, it’s a matter of indolence. Too lazy to change their thinking about the old tropes. Thus when an elderly guest at a dinner party I attended a few years ago told be about a good deal she got at a garage sale by “Jewin’ ’em down" on the price, I was not really shocked, but rather disappointed. Tropes about stingy Jews and dishonest "Gypsies" ( getting Gyped) persist because some folks are too lazy to change their thinking and behavior. Nevertheless, the sting remains for the target group.</p><p>Growing up in a post-war suburban area of Southern California, I was never given any religious background. I knew that my parents and most relatives were Jewish, but never having gone to a synagogue or celebrating the religious holidays, being a Jew was never something that was clear to me. Being the “other” definitely was. That’s because of the way I was treated.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRCQRd2ZWxgFiXC1hqDaDsz-bBNYGbFsgju1bWgwUrDeDxMB4vHCc0hBYCDGBPe9xa9gPcPOMFw4elyHw3ezBnFsoZObFjxm_RqdvP3hB78VAaLQHnOyO1gwYlmjiBfMggJ4D0eh2yFDITD09AYVSSuG9nXlDDnqDDHI-4BFv3E5N1tye7BGy6A-oITXAj/s140/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="140" data-original-width="99" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRCQRd2ZWxgFiXC1hqDaDsz-bBNYGbFsgju1bWgwUrDeDxMB4vHCc0hBYCDGBPe9xa9gPcPOMFw4elyHw3ezBnFsoZObFjxm_RqdvP3hB78VAaLQHnOyO1gwYlmjiBfMggJ4D0eh2yFDITD09AYVSSuG9nXlDDnqDDHI-4BFv3E5N1tye7BGy6A-oITXAj/s1600/images-1.jpeg" width="99" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>My middle school experience offers the best examples. From time to time I’d hear comments like “dirty Jew” or “quit acting like a Jew” but they usually weren’t personal. Of course, there was always a little sting, but I just chalked it up to ignorance. Those same kids freely referred to black folks as “niggers” and Latinos as “beaners” and all Asians as Chink or Dink. Occasionally the term Jap would find its way into this lexicon of stereotyping. </p><p>My Middle School was tough. It had a fair mix of Mexican-American, Asian, and working-class white kids. It also had a tradition of hazing through an act called “scrubbing.” The incoming 7th graders were harassed by 8th and 9th graders by chasing after them and then holding them down while applying lipstick all over their faces. It was harmless at best, and humiliating at worst. Usually, these incidents came at the beginning of the school, but by Fall or Winter, good old-fashioned racial bigotry or antisemitism took root.</p><p>Kids known or suspected to be Jewish had pennies thrown at them. Pelted by pennies was more like it. The message was that Jews are so tight they covet every penny. So if a penny was on the ground, everyone who was Jewish would fight for it. One day while walking to my next class I observed this particular behavior, followed by one of the perpetrators making another. "Do you know why Jews have such big noses? It's where they put all the pennies!" Uproarious laughter followed, but for every kid like me another dart was thrown directly at me.</p><p>The worst incident I experienced came one day while still in Elementary school. I used to walk home with a handful of the kids who lived near me. Three or four lived only a few blocks away and by the time we reached their houses, I was almost home. One day, one of the other 5th-grade girls had about $5.00 to spend on candy. I think her parents were recently separated and her dad gave her a $5 bill for candy because she was feeling depressed about her new home life. She told all the kids she was going to spend the entire $5 and asked about five of us, "What do you want?" Most of us said nothing. So she went on ahead and returned from our community drugstore with the large candy counter with a big brown bag. In those days there was still penny candy and even two for a penny candy. Regular-sized candy bars were a nickel and a dime, so you can imagine how many pieces added up to $5. </p><p>Everybody crowded around to see what poured out of the bag. Then it saw it. The gold foil gleaming in the sun. The one candy I could never afford: was Rolo. The caramel-covered chocolate little disks that were always out of reach for me. Others went for Look bars or Almond Joy. Lots of takers for Necco Wafers, Snickers, and 3 Musketeers. "Go on Bruce, take something our benefactor urged. There was still a huge bagful of candy remaining. "Can I have the Rolo," I queried. "Sure, came the quick reply. So I took it out of the bag and began to carefully unwrap the shiny exterior.</p><p>"Only a Jew would take that," soon echoed in my ear. Dennis, a local bully wasted no time. "I wouldn't take candy from somebody, only a Jew would" he repeated. A dart in the heart, that 65 years later stings as sharp now as it did then. </p><p>I used to question where this kind of insensitivity comes from? But I know now it's taught. There was probably a good reason for adhering to these stereotypes because putting down people often serves to elevate the self. A shakey self, at that. Still, the message that always came through is we are the ones that set the rules, this is our world and you are the other, the less than, the inferior. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-18344672215288006182023-11-04T12:06:00.003-07:002023-11-04T13:26:47.028-07:00Save Our Land<p> Timothy Egan has done it again. This writer is an American treasure. His books cover essential topics from America's past that resonate today and allow for historical perspective that is needed and necessary.</p><p>In A Fever in the Heartland, Egan traces the rise of the Ku Klux Klan in middle America. When we think of the notorious Klan, most of us automatically think of the South. But shortly after World War I, with the country in the throes of a postwar moral dilemma, the infamous Klan rose to prominence and swelled its ranks in the states of Ohio and Indiana. We are talking of a membership in the hundreds of thousands.</p><p>Under the direction of a few prominent personalities the Klan leadership first co-opted the Protestant Church and its ministers. Then it went on to recruit and bribe various political officials from members of Congress to local politicos and judges, law enforcement agencies, and any other decision-making entity that might be of use. </p><p>With DC Stephenson at the helm, the Klan became a national terrorist organization to reckon with and fear. Stephenson was a drifting con man whose racism and xenophobia found a quick home in the Klan. Despite the Klan's moral facade, Stephenson was a hard-drinking, wife-beating, paranoid opportunist who saw a land and population ripe for the picking. He often predicted his success. His arguments on all things political and social were underpinned by his ability to tell a lie so long and strong that he convinced thousands to drop their notions of democracy, fairness, equality, and violence.</p><p>To see thousands of our fellow Americans draped in sheets and hoods attending public meetings that openly advocated white supremacy, anti-semitism, racism, and anti-Catholic views is truly eye-opening. Yet it is the kind of thing that conveniently has been left out of many history books. Those educators committed to telling the truth will have to face these facts at some point. Timothy Egan helps bridge that wide and ever-widening gap with his scholarship.</p><p>As I read through this book one thing comes dramatically to the surface. In documenting the life of DC Stephenson the parallels to a former President of the United States are glaringly clear. The racism, the xenophobia, and the attitudes toward the underclass, immigrants, and women are spot on. If a sociopath can win the presidency, one can surely wrangle the leadership of the Klan.</p><p>**Footnote: In the summer of 1969, while a VISTA Volunteer in Houston, Texas, I took a small poster off a telephone pole near downtown Houston on Main Street. It was a Klan recruitment poster that had a black graphic of a hooded Knight holding a torch while mounted on a rearing steed. Across the image were the words "Save Our Land, Join the Klan." Since that time over 50 years ago, the hatred and fear pseudo-science espoused by this hate group has refused to go away. Are we or have we already been condemned to repeat?</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-74685328613504399082023-10-28T08:38:00.001-07:002023-10-28T08:38:41.808-07:00Brown-Eyed Son<p> </p><p>Early Morning Walk</p><p>Fall is diminishing on this new day,</p><p>Tell me what you saw,</p><p>Jung lives in graffiti and a bag of potatoes on the sidewalk,</p><p>A man wearing a fez gestures emotionally,</p><p>Children stare from a glassed-in playroom,</p><p>But we can only wave and smile before</p><p>Being ushered away silently.</p><p>Motorcycles or motor-psychos have their own</p><p>Brew now.</p><p>A vegan patio, a robed tattoo artist, a bookstore that knits.</p><p>None of this is surreal, just unreal,</p><p>There is a difference, you know.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-5455646960483623372023-10-14T11:54:00.004-07:002023-10-14T11:54:41.428-07:00Old Sheet Music for Sale (Rare)<p> About 35 years ago, while roaming through an uptown antique store in the Carrollton district of New Orleans, I saw something that stopped me cold. It was a piece of sheet music from the early 1900s. I have a small collection of old sheet music, not for playing the tunes, but because of the imagery. I have used pop culture items in my classroom to illustrate racial attitudes and the proliferation of racist, sexist, anti-Semitic, and distorted imagery. In front of me was just such an image, but of such unique quality, I was dumbstruck. </p><p><span> There has long been a tradition of racist imagery in the development of music in America. The genre popularly known as the "Coon Song," was in its prime around the early part of the 20th century. Derived from the minstrel show tradition, the song lyrics of this period unabashedly use the terms nigger and coon as if they were accepted in everyday usage. They were. </span><br /></p><p><span>Sh, here I am in the heart of Dixie staring face to face with this bonafide antique in a condition that suggests it is authentic but there is something about this particular piece that makes it stand out. It is both Anti-Semitic and racist! A double-dose.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_XSrd9JzayAK7eokLteCDtQ5Ynps9kNLaUOWo4q2chdlxxp55QjBYkjX1d6Jxpb7sQA-4kGmTGwf7BKbu7MqIHNvIfJ54Tf4SqGzV0p9nfCGwyCeB1roU7N1J1aTBPC_NdY1iUPYK0Bnm-1AqWvUR1YmrfPxPjjr1xI7OhY5Yl-Q1No-meYJfGLMYZAqE/s3610/IMG_0678.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3610" data-original-width="2947" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_XSrd9JzayAK7eokLteCDtQ5Ynps9kNLaUOWo4q2chdlxxp55QjBYkjX1d6Jxpb7sQA-4kGmTGwf7BKbu7MqIHNvIfJ54Tf4SqGzV0p9nfCGwyCeB1roU7N1J1aTBPC_NdY1iUPYK0Bnm-1AqWvUR1YmrfPxPjjr1xI7OhY5Yl-Q1No-meYJfGLMYZAqE/s320/IMG_0678.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span><p></p><p><span>The song title is "Rebecca's Left Home with a Coon" Under that title is the line, "A Hebrew AfroAmerican impossibility." I must have this.</span></p><p><span>Slowly and unobtrusively, I make my way to the small counter at the front of the store. A balding man in his 60s looks up.</span></p><p><span>"What would you have to have for this piece, " I ask. (I hope he doesn't realize what he has there.) </span></p><p><span>"Oh, that piece is special, it would cost you $100.00. </span></p><p><span>Dumbstruck again. $100. for something that probably cost 15 cents when it first appeared. Still, I knew this opportunity would not come again. I was in New Orleans for a few more weeks participating in a seminar on Southern women writers and on a very limited budget. A hundred bucks would put a dent in my budget I could not afford, so I turned to the only possibility I had to go home with this relic. I had a day off that weekend so I went to the racetrack. Not Fair Grounds, the oldest and best track in town, but Jefferson Downs, a small bull ring track that was as dicey as it appeared. Suffice it to say the last Exacta of the evening paid me $150. so I marched back to Oak Street and that little shop and purchased Rebecca. I wrapped the glassed-in frame in a soft towel and placed it in the middle of my suitcase. She made it home just fine and for the last 35 years or so has resided in my office.</span></p><p><span>*Recently I posted this picture of Rebecca on a Facebook page for African-American memorabilia or some such euphemism. I asked if anyone had ever seen this before or anything like it. After a few weeks, I got a couple of responses confirming how rare I thought it was. One collector even said he had something like it but added no details or pictures. </span></p><p><span>Like my entire collection, it is for sale. I'll accept all issues.</span></p><p><span><br /></span></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-52407457483376793452023-10-09T10:27:00.004-07:002023-10-10T13:21:52.830-07:00Holy Landmine<p> As if we didn’t need another major news trauma to occupy our fearful minds, here comes that old nemesis the latest version of the Arab-Israeli conflict to bring new heights of despair to the airwaves. Of course, what we are dealing with these days is the unprovoked attack by Hamas on the state of Israel. Yes, I know using the word unprovoked here is debatable, but for now it will have to remain.</p><p>This conflict is as convoluted and complicated as it is frustrating. It is not a simple matter of just making sure the Palestinians have a homeland. If that were the case, surely a compromise satisfactory to both sides could be hammered out. I turned an International Relations class of high school seniors loose on this conflict 25 years ago and after looking at the arguments on both sides, and spending time with maps of the region, they came up with a solution that allowed Israelis and Palestinians to live and prosper side by side in the land they have both occupied for centuries. Would that this was so easy to accomplish. </p><p>What is not so easy to deal with is the mentalities both sides hold. Golda Meir, the former Israeli Prime Minister once said that you cannot talk peace with “someone who has come to kill you.” And now the media has a field day with confirmed and unconfirmed reports of atrocities. Most Americans probably don’t know the difference between the Palestinian people and Hamas, let alone the history and current status of the crisis. </p><p>So, with Ukraine suddenly on the back burner, the world watches their news anchor of choice appear under night skies covered with the sight of deployed missiles and explosions. The helmeted news reporters duck for cover, they shed a tear here and there, and report live on the 24 hour cycle. Programs are preempted, live war comes into your living room around the clock. Just in time for Halloween.</p><p>And what of innocent Palestinians who are not supporters of Hamas? The two way bloodbath that is sure to follow will, no doubt tighten the judgment of those who follow the daily array of bombings and atrocities. Who can take sides in a war that kills babies and the elderly without shame?</p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-12747578826323731902023-09-29T13:27:00.003-07:002023-09-30T09:51:52.359-07:00An Ice Cream Tale<p> I love bittersweet chocolate ice cream. The trouble is, very few companies make it. That wasn’t always the case. A few years ago the Three Twins company made a wonderful bittersweet chocolate. Like many things we love, it disappeared when the company went out of business. That happens all too often these days. We find a product we love and then it’s suddenly gone. I have a long list of things I always looked forward to that have disappeared. So it goes.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2CNMyHeiSeliS62xTwcwhsA7HMuzl4HK5OCCsMsGZW57mZM_o1p5vA1Jqei6p_y3p-Qh9FTPwB5l2TPYsP7xmixqvv1TGwbrQ0sVvHq1hdUrY7rKlaVA_XKUxLqursI30SEFH6d3ShcrF2OII50X6A5O3zHkPQp9jkCrbf1eddNvCZ6XZYN5UXooeryBh/s384/three%20twins%20bittersweet%20chocolate%20ice%20cream%20pint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2CNMyHeiSeliS62xTwcwhsA7HMuzl4HK5OCCsMsGZW57mZM_o1p5vA1Jqei6p_y3p-Qh9FTPwB5l2TPYsP7xmixqvv1TGwbrQ0sVvHq1hdUrY7rKlaVA_XKUxLqursI30SEFH6d3ShcrF2OII50X6A5O3zHkPQp9jkCrbf1eddNvCZ6XZYN5UXooeryBh/s320/three%20twins%20bittersweet%20chocolate%20ice%20cream%20pint.jpg" width="292" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>A few months ago, while browsing the ice cream freezer at my local grocery, I chanced to see the words Bittersweet Chocolate on an ice cream container. Well, not exactly. It was a cashew milk frozen dessert boldly displaying my favorite flavor. With lowered expectations, I purchased the product and was delighted to find it was really good. The flavor I’d been missing was now back in my life. </p><p>Not for long. This product, manufactured by the Forager company suddenly disappeared. No store that had previously carried the flavor had it. Most that carried the brand only had Cookies and Cream in their freezers. Another mysterious loss.</p><p>One evening, fantasizing about ice cream I decided to do some serious research to see if anyone made any version of bittersweet chocolate. After much disappointment, I discovered that the Humboldt Creamery in very Northern California did, in fact, offer bittersweet chocolate ice cream. </p><p>But available only in Northern California. </p><p>I drove from Portland, Oregon to the Bay Area a couple of weeks ago. On this drive I’ve done many times, I often stop for gas around Redding, California. There is a large chain grocery store near a convent gas station that is good for hard-to-find things as well as a good selection of fly fishing gear and magazines. Sure enough, there it was Humboldt Creamery Bittersweet Chocolate ice cream. What to do. I could try to eat a pint while on the road, but that wasn’t the best alternative. I waited for the return trip when I’d spend the night in Ashland, Oregon. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAIVIAa5m-kB_C0mT5MkVbbos8cKSvvcPAnqh5wyh4pzmpcS3de4uDI9j1GML2vnpMszcS0pPCnbyEmjw86OWDvGJBHemp4HiuOYm-uZcXGzfkGrnvjV2flrHbS6BV6sviC8XHQak_SpOBIzgoDTfRypN06bSEqAX28AVgtJjiknEWithbCLkGNVJlnXEp/s140/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="140" data-original-width="134" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAIVIAa5m-kB_C0mT5MkVbbos8cKSvvcPAnqh5wyh4pzmpcS3de4uDI9j1GML2vnpMszcS0pPCnbyEmjw86OWDvGJBHemp4HiuOYm-uZcXGzfkGrnvjV2flrHbS6BV6sviC8XHQak_SpOBIzgoDTfRypN06bSEqAX28AVgtJjiknEWithbCLkGNVJlnXEp/s1600/images.jpeg" width="134" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>I bought a pint and tasted it in the parking lot. It was as good as I hoped it would be. Then we packed it up in a freezer bag with ick blocks. By the time I got to Ashland a couple of hours later, it was time to see the results. There, in the quiet motel lobby I removed my prize cargo carefully. The ice had melted but the ice cream container was in tact. What I had was a cool, liquid that resembled and tasted like the best chocolate malt I’d ever had. Definitely worth the effort.</p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-26615912095751523502023-09-11T12:24:00.009-07:002023-09-13T12:52:48.239-07:00Poetry and Rain<p> <span> </span>About 55 years ago, when I was in my Junior year of college at UCLA, I participated in a most exciting activity. On a large bulletin board on the ground floor of Royce Hall, far away from the ads for typewriter service, and upcoming concerts and speakers, way up in the right-hand corner a little experiment was taking place. </p><p><span> an anonymous group of students was exchanging ideas and opinions under pseudonyms. It was the age of flower children and war resistors. It was smack dab in the big middle of the Civil Rights movement. Nixon was the President, and the Beatles were still a relatively new group. Dylan was transitioning from Folk to Rock, Janis Joplin was about a year away, and the Rolling Stones were a competent blues band of British blokes. </span><br /></p><p><span><span> There were no cell phones or computers. Gas costs about a quarter a gallon and tuition for arguably one of the best universities in the country was approximately $80.00 a quarter. Using these false names, students were reaching out to find humanity in a sea of 30,000 students in a city of millions. Anyone could read the posts left by this group. Those posts were literally posted with thumbtacks!</span><br /></span></p><p> Trying to broaden my world and perhaps meet some new friends I sheepishly joined this group under the name of B.L. Poet. Occasionally I offered an opinion or a critique. In time I came to look forward to passing this bulletin board to see if anything new had appeared. One day, someone, whose name I do not recall asked the participants: <i>Write me a poem about rain. </i> I took up the challenge. Within a couple of days, I posted my work. <br /></p><p><span> I no longer have that poem. In the last 50 years, I have lived in 3 states and moved a dozen times. That poem, if it ever made it into one of my poetry folders, did not survive. It served its purpose. But I do recall the last line of the poem. It was something about children who "watched us breathe the rain." I liked that poem, especially the last line. </span><br /></p><p><span><span> Fast forward to today. I decided to see what an AI Bot would do if asked to write a poem. Here is the result:</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDrgZgczMnpYzn60FZRpEZR9CpwcYKqzXq0UR9IbPrGRYHMp8ZOH6dv2Uj9pVy-b1AOR5rdD9Zie_Xwj6oLDWz17FVg9ndaBs4FCh0TpihQZNMpnGDktldmmxRCfYwePNE3XATsGwJ3OjanD_n7Z9kgWCfxxB7NDbX6d24ChSjPAC4WCvPadsLntbpQMpn/s1000/pexels-photo-2929290.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDrgZgczMnpYzn60FZRpEZR9CpwcYKqzXq0UR9IbPrGRYHMp8ZOH6dv2Uj9pVy-b1AOR5rdD9Zie_Xwj6oLDWz17FVg9ndaBs4FCh0TpihQZNMpnGDktldmmxRCfYwePNE3XATsGwJ3OjanD_n7Z9kgWCfxxB7NDbX6d24ChSjPAC4WCvPadsLntbpQMpn/s320/pexels-photo-2929290.jpeg" width="256" /></a></span></span></div><span><span><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Write a poem about rain</span></span><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">The rain falls down </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">A soothing sound</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">A tranquil moment</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">For which we are bound</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">It washes away</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">The dust of the day</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">And cools down the earth</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">In its own special way</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">The plants and the trees</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dance in glee </span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">As their thirst is quenched</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">By natures decree</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><b>There is more, but you get the idea</b></span></span><span face="Inter, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Fira Sans", "Droid Sans", "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space: break-spaces;"> </span></div><div><span face="Inter, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Fira Sans", "Droid Sans", "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-variant-ligatures: none; white-space: break-spaces;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="group flex p-4 pt-3 pr-5 md:rounded-xl" style="--tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-ring-color: rgba(59,130,246,0.5); --tw-ring-inset: var(--tw-empty, ); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; background-color: white; border-color: rgba(229,231,235,var(--tw-border-opacity)); border-image: initial; border-radius: 0.75rem; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: flex; font-family: Inter, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Fira Sans", "Droid Sans", "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; overflow-anchor: none; padding: 0.75rem 1.25rem 1rem 1rem;"><div class="flex w-full flex-col p-1 pt-2" style="--tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-ring-color: rgba(59,130,246,0.5); --tw-ring-inset: var(--tw-empty, ); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; border-color: rgba(229,231,235,var(--tw-border-opacity)); border-image: initial; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: flex; flex-direction: column; overflow-anchor: none; padding: 0.5rem 0.25rem 0.25rem; width: 349px;"><div class="grid flex-grow items-center text-green-900" style="--tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-ring-color: rgba(59,130,246,0.5); --tw-ring-inset: var(--tw-empty, ); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-text-opacity: 1; align-items: center; border-color: rgba(229,231,235,var(--tw-border-opacity)); border-image: initial; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: rgba(0,41,41,var(--tw-text-opacity)); display: grid; flex-grow: 1; overflow-anchor: none;"><div class="flex flex-wrap chat-question overflow-x-auto" style="--tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-ring-color: rgba(59,130,246,0.5); --tw-ring-inset: var(--tw-empty, ); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; border-color: rgba(229,231,235,var(--tw-border-opacity)); border-image: initial; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: flex; flex-wrap: wrap; overflow-anchor: none; overflow-x: auto;"><div class="ml-auto m-1 opacity-0 transition-opacity group-hover:opacity-100" style="--tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-ring-color: rgba(59,130,246,0.5); --tw-ring-inset: var(--tw-empty, ); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; border-color: rgba(229,231,235,var(--tw-border-opacity)); border-image: initial; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0.25rem 0.25rem 0.25rem auto; opacity: 0; overflow-anchor: none; transition-duration: 0.15s; transition-property: opacity; transition-timing-function: cubic-bezier(0.4, 0, 0.2, 1);"><button aria-label="Save Prompt" class="group focus:outline-none flex select-none items-center text-xs rounded-lg px-3 py-2 font-semibold focus:ring-green-500 border bg-white text-grey-800 border-grey-300 hover:text-grey-900 hover:bg-grey-200 hover:border-grey-400 ring-offset-2 focus:ring-2" style="--tw-bg-opacity: 1; --tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-ring-color: rgba(59,130,246,0.5); --tw-ring-inset: var(--tw-empty, ); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 2px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-text-opacity: 1; align-items: center; background-image: none; border-color: rgba(204,217,224,var(--tw-border-opacity)); border-radius: 0.5rem; border-style: solid; border-width: 1px; cursor: pointer; display: flex; font-family: inherit; font-weight: 600; line-height: 1rem; margin: 0px; overflow-anchor: none; padding: 0.5rem 0.75rem; user-select: none;" tabindex="0"><h4 aria-label="Save Prompt" class="flex-nowrap whitespace-nowrap ml-2 text-h4 font-semibold tracking-wide text-left" style="--tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-ring-color: rgba(59,130,246,0.5); --tw-ring-inset: var(--tw-empty, ); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; border-color: rgba(229,231,235,var(--tw-border-opacity)); border-image: initial; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; flex-wrap: nowrap; letter-spacing: 0.025em; line-height: 1rem; margin: 0px 0px 0px 0.5rem; overflow-anchor: none; text-align: left; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Save PromptThe rain falls down</span></h4></button></div></div></div></div></div><div class="group flex p-4 pt-3 pr-5 md:rounded-xl bg-blue-100" style="--tw-bg-opacity: 1; --tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-ring-color: rgba(59,130,246,0.5); --tw-ring-inset: var(--tw-empty, ); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; border-color: rgba(229,231,235,var(--tw-border-opacity)); border-image: initial; border-radius: 0.75rem; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: flex; font-family: Inter, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Fira Sans", "Droid Sans", "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; overflow-anchor: none; padding: 0.75rem 1.25rem 1rem 1rem;"><div class="flex w-full flex-col p-1 pt-2" style="--tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-ring-color: rgba(59,130,246,0.5); --tw-ring-inset: var(--tw-empty, ); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; border-color: rgba(229,231,235,var(--tw-border-opacity)); border-image: initial; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: flex; flex-direction: column; overflow-anchor: none; padding: 0.5rem 0.25rem 0.25rem; width: 349px;"><div class="grid flex-grow items-center text-green-900" style="--tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-ring-color: rgba(59,130,246,0.5); --tw-ring-inset: var(--tw-empty, ); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-text-opacity: 1; align-items: center; border-color: rgba(229,231,235,var(--tw-border-opacity)); border-image: initial; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: rgba(0,41,41,var(--tw-text-opacity)); display: grid; flex-grow: 1; overflow-anchor: none;"><div class="flex-1 overflow-x-auto" style="--tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-ring-color: rgba(59,130,246,0.5); --tw-ring-inset: var(--tw-empty, ); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; border-color: rgba(229,231,235,var(--tw-border-opacity)); border-image: initial; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; flex: 1 1 0%; overflow-anchor: none; overflow-x: auto;"><div class="markdown leading-relaxed" style="--tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-ring-color: rgba(59,130,246,0.5); --tw-ring-inset: var(--tw-empty, ); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; border-color: rgba(229,231,235,var(--tw-border-opacity)); border-image: initial; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.625; overflow-anchor: none;"><p class="mb-3" style="--tw-border-opacity: 1; --tw-ring-color: rgba(59,130,246,0.5); --tw-ring-inset: var(--tw-empty, ); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; border-color: rgba(229,231,235,var(--tw-border-opacity)); border-image: initial; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 0.75rem; overflow-anchor: none;"><br /></p></div></div></div></div></div></div>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-69536449139899876352023-09-05T14:24:00.006-07:002023-09-06T12:02:11.832-07:00What You Do After<p> I just finished a thousand mile road trip. One of the things that happens When you spend the better part of your day in a car is that you hear things on the radio that you might normally have missed. While I often listen to music while driving, I mostly listen to NPR stations from city to city, state to state. It’s always fascinating to hear the differences between the larger cities versions of NPR and those national stations emanating from smaller or university towns.</p><p>So it was last weekend while driving back to Portland from the Bay Area I chanced to hear the name and then the voice of a former student of mine. It was on one of those Sunday afternoon NPR programs that deal with important subjects, but that many people miss because they aren’t in their cars at that time. The topic was AI and other recent computer consequences that our culture is bracing for. I was vaguely listening, concentrating more on passing large semi trucks and noting the distance to the next town. When I heard Lydia’s name mentioned my ears perked and then that familiar voice followed. She is an authority on computer programming and is currently a professor at Columbia University. That is not surprising to me because Lydia was probably the most intelligent student I encountered in my 34 years in the classroom. Unlike other brilliant students I’ve encountered, there was no trace of arrogance or intolerance in Lydia. She easily worked well with her classmates and readily shared her ideas. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLrpVE_qWvtDlQHpIAXvh8YEtBPCHwmbbBBrrJpG0Q4sBPiAHTNkNdJbCL44Edc5jotkuQN8w014dMu3nlfgUiI7ssXcDNTjm0nTG8gJJuz7C4pt2_kO2SVfIZygH2NHU9TfONWduPnRvNXyD-ShFqr2Y0m3wyHDRbvidqwgEg2QelJNSMvf1OL-bBQzwY/s1688/college-admissions.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="1688" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLrpVE_qWvtDlQHpIAXvh8YEtBPCHwmbbBBrrJpG0Q4sBPiAHTNkNdJbCL44Edc5jotkuQN8w014dMu3nlfgUiI7ssXcDNTjm0nTG8gJJuz7C4pt2_kO2SVfIZygH2NHU9TfONWduPnRvNXyD-ShFqr2Y0m3wyHDRbvidqwgEg2QelJNSMvf1OL-bBQzwY/s320/college-admissions.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>I’d heard that she recently married and accepted a position at Columbia, so life must be good for her. I focused on that for a few minutes because I soon recalled a conversation I had with her shortly before she graduated. Lydia dreamed of going to the US Naval Academy. That was her fondest desire and certainly possible because she had the grades, the distortion, and the intangible qualities sought after. Shortly before her final admission, Lydia was diagnosed with some sort of heart murmur that disqualified her. She was crestfallen and upset that she had to go to MIT, her second choice. We laughed because most students would be overjoyed with acceptance to MIT. I tried to help her see that things would be just fine wherever she went. I constantly repeated the line, “It’s not where you go, it’s what you do after you go there that counts.” It often helped soothe an injured soul. Not so Lydia. I think by now she finally has achieved what she’s dreamed of.</p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-76239155476797084182023-08-17T12:07:00.001-07:002023-08-17T12:07:02.591-07:00Peer Pressure<p> I probably won’t be around to see it, but I’m fascinated by how the era of Donald Trump and his impact on American politics will be portrayed. IF, in time he is seen as the sociopath who would be President, then the real emphasis must fall on those who enabled him. Trump is who he is. He’s remarkably consistent at that because he used the same defense mechanisms repeatedly. He projects, denies, and rationalizes with unabashed frequency. </p><p>It is not I who am lying, it’s you. I did not lose the election, my opponent did. I am not racist, you are. Ad nauseam. As a noted psychologist put it, “It is easier for him to lie than to tell the truth.” He checks all the sociopath boxes. He is who he is.</p><p>So, the question now turns to his supporters. It’s fairly to see where his base is coming from. He speaks truth to what they consider the real harmful perceived power in their lives. He does so without shame or accountability. He oversimplifies issues and that plays well with the uneducated. He is their hero despite the contradictions that his racism, sexism, and duplicity convey. </p><p>That leaves the supporters of his that know better. These folks are the ones that interest me the most. They have surrendered their honesty and integrity completely. Their fear of losing an election gets in the way of any sense of ethics they may have previously had. They tremble quietly in fear, save a few Republicans who have ambitions in what remains of the party he ransacked.</p><p>What will history say of these folks?</p><p>In the next year some of Trump’s outrageous actions may come before a jury. A jury of his peers would mean a panel of sociopaths. Wouldn’t it? </p><p><br /></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-51968317204190463832023-08-03T13:27:00.003-07:002023-08-03T17:26:41.705-07:00It Was Once a Game<p><span> <span> </span><span> </span> </span> It's always about the money. No surprise there, but something is happening to professional sports in America, resulting in consequences for amateur sports. I'm not talking about the salaries, that's another story, albeit inter-related to my topic. </p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Time was when a baseball player could play an entire career for one team. Mention a name like Al Kaline, or Ted Williams, and only one team comes to mind. Most folks forget that Jackie Robinson was traded to the Giants right before he retired. He never played for them, but had he gone on with his historic career, it would have ended in a Giants uniform. </p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>I never thought that Willie Mays would ever leave the Giants. Seeing him in a Mets uniform was tough, but at least he had the familiar NY on his cap again. There is no allegiance left for most professional athletes. They are commodities and while some are brought back to their original teams before they hang it up for one last hurrah, the chances of playing for the same team all career long are almost nil. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4Md8BSPrm8w9A6xxSse06dWafQDzkzplKfPfdZV6EIT4Tzvm6R1VgYalF7p_oqtX8Jb1lrZR6pCOezHkquBrlQuYKY2U1mZQnKABzdb0sKbV-3UBrQVUstz_EMnPK3PN5Fjj8a1w8EgsxTFNv9BngjRLTzWTpNukzJXzQ-lQcdH3uzLC3ny1mWmyY23I/s225/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4Md8BSPrm8w9A6xxSse06dWafQDzkzplKfPfdZV6EIT4Tzvm6R1VgYalF7p_oqtX8Jb1lrZR6pCOezHkquBrlQuYKY2U1mZQnKABzdb0sKbV-3UBrQVUstz_EMnPK3PN5Fjj8a1w8EgsxTFNv9BngjRLTzWTpNukzJXzQ-lQcdH3uzLC3ny1mWmyY23I/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span> A similar thing is happening with team uniforms and colors. Specific colors were consistently associated with specific teams. The other day I saw an SF Giants cap in Dodger blue advertised. What's up with that? Just step on tradition. <br /></span>In recent years, many teams, both collegiate and professional have added black to their color schemes. UCLA football has a uniform with the familiar blue and gold on black pants. It's supposed to make them more fierce, like the old Oakland Raiders, I suppose.</p><p><span> Speaking of college football, the money involved is now impacting the demise of a once strong and important conference. The Pacific 12 will be down to 9 teams next year as USC, UCLA and the University of Oregon will soon join the Big Ten. This leaves the state schools, like Washington State and Oregon State in a tough position. It has yet to be determined what Stanford and the University of Washington will do. The reason is simple: the millions involved in television rights. So in effect, the big networks like ESPN and NBC, and CBS can end the years of traditional rivalry that was once so important to those programs. </span><br /></p><p><span><span> Yeah, I know I sound like an old man complaining about change. That's right. I'm proud to be one of the voices that hate to lose some of the traditions that made college football so different from professional. The money does the talking and a few schools will benefit. Those with power and influence will ruin another dimension of American sports. </span><br /></span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-0wTOdZwFpG-AGU9ci9TLYfiLYkLNFon2BT9F5yUfHFe8QgESk-n5sE9d2Q3brW2-ybEOyj39l4WrCuJGv7XGJKUY_bwcY0-Gdv3e2gS4n8uUdZNEiBGbD0BokAKCWZKDoaBOV_7mgVVUmu0tdVa1Tp6kgrjonpz_T6Cow7pjUTJdBtGx3zanlshTWd7e/s1000/519FpLMsqDL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="616" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-0wTOdZwFpG-AGU9ci9TLYfiLYkLNFon2BT9F5yUfHFe8QgESk-n5sE9d2Q3brW2-ybEOyj39l4WrCuJGv7XGJKUY_bwcY0-Gdv3e2gS4n8uUdZNEiBGbD0BokAKCWZKDoaBOV_7mgVVUmu0tdVa1Tp6kgrjonpz_T6Cow7pjUTJdBtGx3zanlshTWd7e/s320/519FpLMsqDL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="197" /></a></span></div><span><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span> About 30 years ago a book and movie appeared called Rollerball. It was a dystopic look at a world where all sports had evolved into one remaining sport called rollerball. A large steel ball was herded into a steel net by two teams representing large corporate interests. No matter if players were killed during play. The injured were scooped up and replaced quickly. The whole world rooted for the multinational of their choice. Looks like we are on our way to this dystopic form of sport.</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span> </span><br /></p><p><br /></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-54699796460581216712023-07-19T12:42:00.002-07:002023-07-19T13:01:05.305-07:00History 176<p><span> </span>I recently discovered the newsletter of Kareem Abdul Jabbar, the famous basketball player, now retired. I subscribed and found his take on various events in the news both well-written and most enjoyable. I'm not surprised, as I've read some of his books and followed his on and off-the-court career for years.</p><p><span><span> We go way back, Kareem and I. I'm about 6 months older than he, and we shared some of the same classes in college at UCLA.</span> Most noteworthy were the two African-American history classes taught by Dr. Ron Yakaki in 1967 and 1968. These were among the first Black history courses in the University of California system. As history majors at UCLA, it was probably inevitable that our paths would cross in a classroom or two. </span><br /></p><p><span><span> Occasionally I'd see Kareem on campus walking to class like any other student. He was hard to miss. I recall he often walked with a woman who may have been one of the cheerleaders. She was barely 5 feet tall.</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span> Years later, I realize how special those courses were. Of course back then they were listed as History 176, History of the American Negro. They must have been titled by some academic dean who hadn't read Malcolm X and didn't know, as Malcolm said, "Negro attaches you to nothing. there is no place called Negroland." Soon afterward, the preferred term became Black, with a capital B.</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> Dr. Takaki's lectures were stimulating and very informative. We were learning things that had been missing from our education for years. Probably the day I recall most was the afternoon that Kareem stood up, all 7 feet 1 1/2 inches of him, and announced to the class that his name was no longer Lew Alcindor. He had a copy of Life Magazine with him that featured a profile of him. He explained to the class that though the article in Life referred to him as Lew Alcindor, it was wrong, his name was now Kareem Abdul Jabarr and he was now a Muslim. That was not surprising as we all knew about the conversion of Muhammad Ali and other sports figures. </span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2_BKDJbbQ_ekLUZnj3ECDyc1QcKHqiSWd3OnCB9xmCOaLMDXwTZ8KtgNycRoaCi1NvqQ_z9__CoYAl-gUUhCU2OLhq7IE4ygzvkHSZ-L635nGBju25yYpwfxxUst6g8lzvn2nC-304vmJ5jHNAxbp6Xv9LAjbi2AqdBD_QcW5XYZD1TEDqgb9LUAd2xAC/s275/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2_BKDJbbQ_ekLUZnj3ECDyc1QcKHqiSWd3OnCB9xmCOaLMDXwTZ8KtgNycRoaCi1NvqQ_z9__CoYAl-gUUhCU2OLhq7IE4ygzvkHSZ-L635nGBju25yYpwfxxUst6g8lzvn2nC-304vmJ5jHNAxbp6Xv9LAjbi2AqdBD_QcW5XYZD1TEDqgb9LUAd2xAC/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" width="183" /></a></span></span></div><span><span><br /><span><br /></span></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span><span> I've often wondered what happened to some of my classmates from those two history courses. I became friendly with a young African American man named David Morris who, I think, was headed for the clergy, and a Latino man named Gerald Padilla, who was then a graduate student in history. Gerald used to say that the chances of his marrying a Latina were greatly reduced because he was an intellectual and the statistics for Latina graduate students were virtually non-existent. He worried about that.</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> There was another classmate from those two courses that crossed my mind the other day. Her name was Wallace Albertson. She was the wife of Jack Albertson, the actor (Chico and the Man, Days of Wine and Roses), and had put together a little discussion group in their home in the Hollywood Hills. It was an attempt to bring together a diverse group of people to rationally discuss key issues and learn from each other. As I recall, some of the other participants in Dr. Takaki's classes and those discussions had entertainment industry connections. There was Eddie Anderson Jr., the son of the famous Eddie Anderson who played Jack Benny's man Friday named Rochester. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span> UC Berkeley got most of the national attention in those days, but the UCLA campus was the site of a number of big anti-war demonstrations, the all-campus People's Park Strike, and the assassination of two Black Panther Party members. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bjKT3gee3q5PDTdd5-q9JtPAO4n90DYBDgxfFco2irmJMtsYqcQy1KyI3GIsOI26hEmcdAkrs3dWUqwxxROnadGRDXWeU4cnWoQTE_0XtwhxlbBmeJySVcfZqQK-Mu_LO4KJ8VxfU4MKJVhW5wkzWPAQCLwsVZqeK-f8ij6XSiINVHYzjdW_x6D7ZWib/s367/Unknown-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="137" data-original-width="367" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bjKT3gee3q5PDTdd5-q9JtPAO4n90DYBDgxfFco2irmJMtsYqcQy1KyI3GIsOI26hEmcdAkrs3dWUqwxxROnadGRDXWeU4cnWoQTE_0XtwhxlbBmeJySVcfZqQK-Mu_LO4KJ8VxfU4MKJVhW5wkzWPAQCLwsVZqeK-f8ij6XSiINVHYzjdW_x6D7ZWib/s320/Unknown-1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></span></span></div><span><span><span><br /><span><br /></span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Many history classes met in Haines Hall, the beautiful Italian Romanesque building that stood next to the UCLA landmark, the iconic Royce Hall.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I recall I once stayed after class to ask Dr. Kakaki a question and Kareem and a couple of his friends were close by. They were discussing something that had been the topic of the lecture that day and I soon joined in with them. Craning my neck to look up at Kareem while I was addressing him was definitely memorable. It's nice to reconnect with him again, in some small way. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-19880706436412597582023-07-13T09:47:00.004-07:002023-07-13T09:55:22.283-07:00Come Out and Play<p><span> </span> Psychologists have long studied the nature of play in and for children. Often, the bottom line here is imagination. The essence of play for many children is the ability to imagine and then model the people and things we see.</p><p><span> But Play, like most social institutions is changing...rapidly. Kids don't play the way they used to, quite simply. Something is lost and gained because of that. Take three generations and sit them down and discuss the nature of play. What and how did you play as a child and how does that differ from kids today and how did it differ from your parent's generation?</span></p><p><span><span> The technology developed in the last few decades seems to be the driving factor in describing these differences. Today everything is virtual as opposed to real. Sure kids still play Monopoly and maybe even Clue but they rarely invent their own games. </span></span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi9LZQm5_eE8h1LNHQ-J6gqEmBIwJ86EmqO6mirtWKJcD9UEENiIkj-qUUGLW3JK9-NcpGZerD2Qp3G4NmrN4jWNnQwZxD6s-TGUHfRXgGECRNAYQBfKUZceOrPOJI0Bkcq2mRP6ZrGYyh8-43nitO-CEPcnOLjSVrHKtacZ4rw8nTgf1ArrgqCZz4EoC-/s894/61iiucH2D4L._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="894" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi9LZQm5_eE8h1LNHQ-J6gqEmBIwJ86EmqO6mirtWKJcD9UEENiIkj-qUUGLW3JK9-NcpGZerD2Qp3G4NmrN4jWNnQwZxD6s-TGUHfRXgGECRNAYQBfKUZceOrPOJI0Bkcq2mRP6ZrGYyh8-43nitO-CEPcnOLjSVrHKtacZ4rw8nTgf1ArrgqCZz4EoC-/s320/61iiucH2D4L._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span> I think my childhood, growing up in the 1950s was typical of the post-war generation. My memories of play are vivid. With the boys, it was always war, with lots of army gear and running through the neighborhood attacking and defending various areas. But with the many kids in my neighborhood, all being between 8 and 12 years old, we had elaborate games and scenarios that included boys and girls playing all day in summertime together.</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span>We played Western Town, and Office, the most. Sure the sex roles were rigid, but that's what we knew. We created a restaurant with a bar and called it the Candlelight Inn. When my uncle gave my folks some retired bowling pins ( his job was refinishing bowling alley lanes) we grabbed the best-looking ones before they could be burned in the fireplace and played Bowling Alley using a basketball to knock over the pins in our driveway.</span></span></span></p><p><span><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSnSK1sbH6KPAlD3hRoL73rTinaIee2dZtSizmMJT7rPxBrWXWmdySYtefJf-AJ7nfnjcG6DFy1xDKCz6hvoiyBGN7ZSOQ3hyhfFAOQsR743a_mx02QOB0UL5fvF7Z6FaZddN8FwnyLNqsoIietlxXo-A_TTpENNNEfClFgXY1EzRcMcR4Cek2u7LkYsF/s1300/17849122-group-of-six-children-dressing-up-as-professions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="809" data-original-width="1300" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSnSK1sbH6KPAlD3hRoL73rTinaIee2dZtSizmMJT7rPxBrWXWmdySYtefJf-AJ7nfnjcG6DFy1xDKCz6hvoiyBGN7ZSOQ3hyhfFAOQsR743a_mx02QOB0UL5fvF7Z6FaZddN8FwnyLNqsoIietlxXo-A_TTpENNNEfClFgXY1EzRcMcR4Cek2u7LkYsF/s320/17849122-group-of-six-children-dressing-up-as-professions.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span><span><br /><span><br /></span></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span><span> When one of our neighbors who was an executive for the Carnation Company dumped a load of file folders containing invoices and correspondence in his trash, we salvaged the best-looking ones and played office. I was the vice president of a firm called Rockwell and Rockwell. The President was the oldest kid in our group. I'm afraid the girls were secretaries and wives. But that's what we knew. That's what we saw on television, in our parent's lives, and in our society in general. It was a true Mad Men universe.</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span> When my nieces' children were young, about 15 years ago,4 cousins used to go into their Great Grandma's closet and put on all her costume jewelry and play. Invited to join them one day, I agreed to have them adorn me with all manner of costume jewelry. According to them, I was the "King" even though I was wearing their Nana"s earrings, scarves, hats, and necklaces. It all looked rather sparkly and therefore fit for a king. I rejoiced that they were using their imagination much like I recall I did with my peers. How often does that happen today? I hope it is not lost, for I fear the consequences. </span><br /></p><p><span><span> In the next few years, I expect there will be studies that answer some of these questions. Already we, as a culture, seem to be concerned about the amount of outdoor time kids spend, and how they often are online for hours at a time. All of us need to be concerned about the latter, I'm told. </span><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-46052329914992046062023-07-08T12:20:00.002-07:002023-07-08T12:52:15.668-07:00Sweet Home in the Delta<p> <span> With the release of the long-awaited work of the late blues scholar Mack McCormick, I decided to read what blues enthusiasts and ethnomusicologists were crowing about. McCormick was reputed to be the best source on the subject of Robert Johnson, the Mississippi Delta bluesman that is generally regarded as the force for much of what later became Rhythm and Blues and Rock and Roll. </span></p><p><span><span> His archive was enormous if organized. Filled with notes, photos, records, and clippings, and Mack was always going to write a book. After his death, the entire bundle went to the Smithsonian. Fortunately, the book that was always promised came to light posthumously. It did not disappoint. However, it is not the last word on Johnson, whose short life, (he died at 27) was always shrouded in myth and legend. </span><br /></span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJRTo0JLr0VS33tzJWSzuJg5lJzq_r8PM9kxhMyHvG8BtXyM6gZVPLH4Kz0qA7BDJZeh3LYJ_8SUQ7e4vLsUqFk6nVGDh0RWvJridrOe0zyABQEgZTTxeGA_CRNjLUmGUOHDRczIe4vjXy9Okc4w4TQzyrx_T_OeLhAMxZYhQwZmISxuo1z6FOl5Bf5AX/s362/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="139" data-original-width="362" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJRTo0JLr0VS33tzJWSzuJg5lJzq_r8PM9kxhMyHvG8BtXyM6gZVPLH4Kz0qA7BDJZeh3LYJ_8SUQ7e4vLsUqFk6nVGDh0RWvJridrOe0zyABQEgZTTxeGA_CRNjLUmGUOHDRczIe4vjXy9Okc4w4TQzyrx_T_OeLhAMxZYhQwZmISxuo1z6FOl5Bf5AX/w401-h154/Unknown.jpeg" width="401" /></a></span></div><span><br /><span><br /></span></span><p></p><p> Slowly, the veil is lifting and the real Johnson is beginning to emerge after decades of misinformation and just plain nonsense. One of Johnson's sisters released a book called<i> Brother Robert,</i> along with a wonderful work called <i>Escaping the Delta, Robert Johnson and the Invention of the Blues,</i> by Elijah Wald the man emerges from the weight of the mythology like a beautiful butterfly from a cocoon. <br /></p><p><span> Johnson was a master of the slide guitar style so typical of the Mississippi Delta. No, he did not go to the crossroads and sell his soul to the Devil. But he did almost miraculously improve his playing skills in a short time. He played in small Delta towns and ultimately went to larger venues in Chicago and New York. He was a loner, a rambler, and a hard-drinking survivor who loved the attention from the women who came to the Juke joints and country stores where he most often played. </span><br /></p><p><span><span> Reading all these books has settled some things for me. It has also given me new insights into who many of these sketchy figures really were. For example, many Delta blues figures, Robert Johnson included, loved and could play other kinds of music. They were well aware of current trends and tastes but the record companies who grudgingly recorded them were only interested in one stereotypical genre. The fact that Johnson liked and played tunes by Gene Autry or Fats Waller, comes as a huge surprise, but it need not. These guys were real people who went to movies when they could, listened to the radio, and occasionally bought phonograph records. They cared little about what was "authentic" and more about where and how they could make a living.</span><br /></span></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-64337814552802306912023-06-23T11:02:00.003-07:002023-06-23T11:07:10.205-07:00The Barber of North Portland<p> Going to the barber shop is an entirely different experience in 2023 than it was as a kid in the 1950s and 60s. Back then, it was a man's world with calendars, magazines, and conversation. It was all male-centered. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHHw9AT9XxfANYUkCL-lZS0u7wsmYheexOtB9sS8lYNz6Y1LM3ZtumxhsCHUTUGzrnycixUlGBt8EccFflFRgwL96JPEPa2QRtR_b_ON_8MeB84Zd5CTo_SNnb4CaPPe9iuhG53oow43La5a-QAu2g-z-AwK1YbEjzWAhoGjR05qsx1-rnguOhw5btU4y-/s283/images.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="178" data-original-width="283" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHHw9AT9XxfANYUkCL-lZS0u7wsmYheexOtB9sS8lYNz6Y1LM3ZtumxhsCHUTUGzrnycixUlGBt8EccFflFRgwL96JPEPa2QRtR_b_ON_8MeB84Zd5CTo_SNnb4CaPPe9iuhG53oow43La5a-QAu2g-z-AwK1YbEjzWAhoGjR05qsx1-rnguOhw5btU4y-/s1600/images.png" width="283" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>There was one barber who specialized in cutting women's hair, but I only saw him do that a few times in my first 20 years. Today, I go to what I like to call, "my hipster barber shop." Depending on the time of day, you can sip a beer or some good whiskey while waiting. There are a few coffee table-type books but most folks just amuse themselves on their smartphones. Those phones are used for obtaining appointments and making payments, including tips for the work done.</p><p>In my barber shop today, the haircutters are both men and women. An equal number usually. But what I like most is the conversation I enjoy with my favorite barber there. He's young, 26, and loves to chat. He's also very good at what he does, from the first few clips through to the shaving of the neck. </p><p><span> I like the conversation but must also note the music played is often rock and blues with a sprinkling of jazz and pop. So different that the Perry Como, Bing Crosby, or Doris Day tunes from my childhood. </span><br /></p><p><span>The barbers often look like the historical photos on the walls there. They have big, well-maintained beards, and wear pocket watches on chains. But my man, Dash, is thin with short hair, and a most curious disposition.</span></p><p><span>We talk about pop culture, books, music, and the outdoors. Like me, he likes to fish and even fly fishes. His fiance is always referred to as "my lady." I think he's intrigued by the fact that I taught high school for 35 years and often asks me questions about that. But the last time I was there we explored our age difference. It's 50 years! "What's it like to be old?" he asked in all seriousness. It's different and not different from being young I responded in all seriousness. He liked the fact that I told him in my find I'm sometimes 19. The body tells a different story, though. </span></p><p><span>Last week Dash told me a funny story about the oldest customer he has. This 90-year-old comes in about every two weeks. According to Dash, "He has very little hair on the top of his head and what he does have on the sides is thin and rather wispy." </span></p><p><span>Dash continued, "When I'm done he looks in the mirror, pats the wispy hair on the sides and then says, Yougive a great haircut." </span></p><p><span>I don't thin I'll ever get to that stage.</span></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-91023432706565723292023-06-11T09:59:00.003-07:002023-06-11T09:59:55.105-07:00Silver Path<p><b> On the eve of my 25th Wedding Anniversary </b></p><p><br /></p><p>Our slow dance continues,</p><p> We walk this silver path together </p><p>into a new forest.</p><p>We have received the greatest gift of all,</p><p> Time</p><p>The best rest on this sojourn is the</p><p> Space we find available...always.</p><p>We are only alone with ourselves when it matters,</p><p> Beyond fear and despair,</p><p>The music plays ever slowly for partners </p><p> Who care, and are there.</p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-940825352978992130.post-27582334666316914142023-06-07T11:27:00.003-07:002023-06-07T11:40:27.711-07:00Cap n' Gun<p><span> </span> It was bound to happen. A shooting at a high school graduation just seems par for the course these days. I can't think of a worse place for panic. As a veteran of at least 30 high school graduations, I've seen them decline in quality and substance. For that reason, I volunteered to run the tryouts and judging of grad speakers at my high school. I did that for about 10 years. Of course, there were other judges that included students and parents. A well-balanced approach.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1wKt_oBAxhsDpf_CsnriI81x5dIN3aYfFdAp0VrWXRuSYfDr8XIjtEZCnIpAlhQKjoSn2nhJXwXfm9QOxPIH-lEutz0VUBVQzblEzv6Y5OlCRZdSMIx23wfHmhbsynkwaA3_LmK1DjEvpxP8gOYtT9GP0ZXVFPxgUHuyx-r40WgOTHtKEQFw9fGtp4w/s1300/121165435-armed-teachers-social-issue-as-a-gun-wearing-a-graduation-mortarboard-as-a-symbol-for-security-in.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="1300" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1wKt_oBAxhsDpf_CsnriI81x5dIN3aYfFdAp0VrWXRuSYfDr8XIjtEZCnIpAlhQKjoSn2nhJXwXfm9QOxPIH-lEutz0VUBVQzblEzv6Y5OlCRZdSMIx23wfHmhbsynkwaA3_LmK1DjEvpxP8gOYtT9GP0ZXVFPxgUHuyx-r40WgOTHtKEQFw9fGtp4w/s320/121165435-armed-teachers-social-issue-as-a-gun-wearing-a-graduation-mortarboard-as-a-symbol-for-security-in.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span> What I noticed is that the ceremony of the graduation became increasingly less formal. So much so that it began to feel like a mockery. Aside from students dancing or romping, or strutting across the stage, the parents often were most out of control. The "ceremony was so noisy on the occasion that no one could hear anything. </span><br /></p><p><span><span> It got so bad that most educators I know couldn't wait for it all to end. Is this what we want? I kept asking myself that question, with very little sense of outrage from some, and apathy from others. Finally, I settled on a compromise. I must accept that I'm essentially old school about all the screaming and strutting. I decided to let that go in favor of some speeches of substance. </span><br /></span></p><p><span><span>In that area, we made some gains. One year, when my district almost went bankrupt, and 19 teachers were laid off, one of the speakers said what everybody was thinking. She delivered the most effective speech I've ever seen questioning the powers that be who allow budgets to be cut, dynamic young teachers to be let go, and the ineptitude of lawmakers to prevent these situations from re-occurring every year. Of course, some of those same powers had edited her speech and removed some of the most controversial (in their view) content. But...She went ahead and delivered her speech just the way it originally appeared. She was right in the middle of her graduation. What were they going to do? She knew what speech would be delivered and had no intention of making any changes. </span></span></p><p><span><span><span> That's why I say it was bound to happen. The school is a reflection of the community. Nothing more, nothing less. If the community has gun violence problems, those problems get invited to graduation too. Somehow there is a great irony here. Graduation is one of the closest institutions we have in this culture to a rite of passage. It marks, in a formal way the passage from childhood to adulthood. With the loss of decorum and the fear of violence, what are we saying about what matters and what can we expect for these newly minted adults?</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><br /></span></span></p><p><span> </span><br /></p><p><br /></p>Blues Greenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09502505257238114770noreply@blogger.com0