The Moon Is Green

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March 16, 2016, Prescott- I’ve had an affection for things Celtic, since long before things Celtic became trendy.  My half-English mother forbade the playing of Irish music in the house, but she’s come around to at least allow its play, on the music channels of her cable service.

My own affection for such is part of a lifelong connection with those who are close to the soil.  So, I feel bonds with the indigenous- not only my Penobscot ancestors on my paternal grandmother’s line, but all Native Americans, Inuits, Siberians, Hawaiians, Australian aboriginals and those whom I called, in my childhood ignorance, “the natives” (tribal Africans).

I associate Celts, ancient Teutons, Slavs and the nomadic peoples of the Eurasian steppe with the land, also.  It seems they ravaged one another, in wave after wave, and usually just as the one group was settling into sedentary life, there came the next horde.

That’s been the way of humanity, since we headed up, out of Africa, and wherever else we may have mastered the art of upright mobility, and spread across the continents.  We have so often looked to the other’s yard, for prosperity- or at least for a change of scene. Indigenous people had these conflicts, too, though when the Europeans came to these shores, with visions of commerce and gain, the American peoples were in the process of establishing a peaceful network of trade routes, from southeast Alaska and the taiga of Canada, to Tierra del Fuego, and so many points in between.  It is highly likely that there was trading between the Aleuts and the people of Japan; between the Greenland Inuit and the peoples of Scotland and Norway (even before Iceland was settled); and, possibly, between the seafaring people of what is now northeast Brazil and the kingdoms of western Africa.   Then, too, nobody could hold a candle to the masters of the ocean:  Those who went east, from the Malay Peninsula, and became the Micronesians and Polynesians, or west, and became the Malagasy.

We face, possibly in my lifetime, if not in my son’s, a decision about the proper use of the resources on our planet’s Moon, then those of at least the near planets of our solar system.  Green- the colour of many of our wardrobes, tomorrow, will continue to have different connotations to different people.  Mean green, or gentle green?  Commerce, at any cost, or careful stewardship?  It seems this has gone on, since Croesus minted his first coins, or even since the nations that pre-dated the Great Flood, if one believes in such things.

Where are you, in this debate?  (My Xangan friends, in particular, please know that I don’t take umbrage at contrary opinions, even if I get a little spirited once in a while.)  Express yourselves, and Erin Go Bragh!

Portrait of the Poet

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February 1, 2016, Prescott-

The Winter Scavenger Hunt prompt says “artist”, not “poet”, but a poet IS an artist.

Today begins the month “officially” set aside as Black History Month.  African-Americans certainly are not limited to any given point along a year, in terms of their impact on our nation’s history.  Yet, why quibble?  We do well to reach as far back as possible, in comprehending the spirit and drive that gives each individual, regardless of ethnicity or melanin level, the capacity for great achievement.

The first published African-American poet, Phillis Wheatley, was brought to Boston at the age of 8, from either Gambia or Senegal.  She was given the name Phillis by her captor, Peter Gwinn, and sold as a slave to a tailor named John Wheatley.  The Wheatley family taught Phillis to read and write, encouraging her to study the Classics.

Phillis began to write her own poetry at the age of 14.  She drew the favourable attention of both British and American leaders of both politics and thought, having audiences with the Lord Mayor of London and George Washington.  Thomas Paine published her work in the Pennsylvania Gazette, and she drew favourable commentary from Voltaire.

Things went sour for Phillis, after her master died.  Though she was freed, under the terms of his will, and married a Free African-American grocer, John Peters, the prevailing view of society was not favourable towards African-Americans.  The Peters’ struggled financially, John was imprisoned, in 1784 and Phillis, along with their infant son, died shortly thereafter, she being only 31.

Here is a sample of her poetry, which drew on both Christian and animist influences, as well as ancient Greek and European Enlightenment thought.

“On Virtue”

O Thou bright jewel in my aim I strive
To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare
Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach.
I cease to wonder, and no more attempt
Thine height t’ explore, or fathom thy profound.
But, O my soul, sink not into despair,
Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand
Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head.
Fain would the heav’n-born soul with her converse,
Then seek, then court her for her promis’d bliss.

Auspicious queen, thine heav’nly pinions spread,
And lead celestial Chastity along;
Lo! now her sacred retinue descends,
Array’d in glory from the orbs above.
Attend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years!
O leave me not to the false joys of time!
But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.
Greatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee,
To give me an higher appellation still,
Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay,
O thou, enthron’d with Cherubs in the realms of day.[9]

Phillis had conflicting feelings about slavery, recognizing, on one level that it was the cruelest of institutions, while simultaneously expressing the view that captivity had served her well, by bringing her to Christianity.

In any event, I see Phillis Wheatley as the first great African-American woman, in public life.

The Road to 65, Mile 364: The Stuff That Matters

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November 27, 2015, Chula Vista-  The brisk walk from Aram’s apartment to the area’s Costco was a two-mile round trip.  I carried a small box, with salad fixings and a brick of sharp cheddar.  I could have driven, or taken the bus.  Instead, I was inspired, both by my own tradition and by a tourist in New York, who preferred to walk uptown from One World Trade Center, so as to “see what I’m passing.”

Having made two long journeys, this past year, I can say I saw alot.  There are differences between the Pacific Northwest and the Gulf Coast, but also key similarities.  Both are humid and moist.  Both have people who are passionately close to the sea.  Both require crossing starkly beautiful deserts, if one approaches by road or rail.  Both have compelling stories to share and both have celebratory traditions.  The Native Americans and First Nations peoples of Oregon, Idaho, Washington, British Columbia and southeast Alaska have civilized traditions and lore going back thousands of years.  So do the Cherokee, Creek, Choctaw, Miccosukee, Alabama, and the hybrid nation we call the Seminole.  The story of the Aboriginals of North America matters, immensely.

Having hiked up Mt. Verstovia, along East Glacier Trail, six miles around Ketchikan, all over Manzanar, on two more segments of Black Canyon National Recreation Trail, and along the Prescott Circle, not far from my place of residence, I feel continually blessed by nature, health and mobility.  The environment matters, enormously.

I spent time among the historical remnants of early European settlers and missionaries, in Santa Barbara, San Luis (now called Tallahassee) , San Antonio, Wrangell and Sitka.  They wreaked havoc on those they found in the area already, thinking that educating the “savages” and exploiting the natural resources were their twin obligations to King and Country.  Their successors followed suit, and I saw the results- some worthy of respect, (Tonopah, Bellingham and Moscow,ID), for the honest labour that modestly claimed a share of the resources of land and sea.  Others, like the ravaging of Native Peoples in Sitka and Hoonah, the slaughter of Chinese immigrants in Hells Canyon and the internment of Japanese-Americans, as recorded for posterity, at Manzanar and Poston, stand as reminders of just how far we have to go.  The historical record matters, tellingly.

I returned to work, towards the end of this, my 65th year, secondarily to recoup some of my financial resources, but primarily because the well-being of yet another rising generation needs whatever champions who can arise.  I will work another five years or so, as long as my health and the goodwill of the powers that be remain strong.  The people we call “Millennials” and “Generation Z” matter, beyond measure.

I will miss Margaret and Ardith Lambert, Tom Boyd, my Xanga friends who called themselves Inciteful and Sister Mae, and feel the losses of several friends’ parents, whom I never met, but sense their character, in the people their children, who are my friends, have become.  Losses matter, achingly.

I visit with my son, not as often as I would like, but when our mutual schedules permit.  I communicate with my immediate and extended families, again not as regularly as is desired, but often enough that we know we are there for one another.  I visited with an elder in Colorado, at the beginning of this year, attempted to spend time with another elder in Florida, though to no avail, and did visit with people I regard as family, in Alabama, Mississippi, California,Nevada, Washington and Alaska.  Family loves, quarrels, understands, misunderstands, hides, seeks and ultimately stays in bond.  Family matters, indelibly, and yes, to answer an online friend’s plaint- family includes friends.

Central to all has been Faith.  Looking back at the past 6 1/2 decades, I could never have survived my own missteps and foibles, or the trials sent my way, without knowing that there is something greater, Someone Indestructible, always seeing and caring.  Belief, and the Faith Community, matter, in primacy.

So, my road to 65 nears an end.  It has been vast, long, alternately wide and narrow, by turns straight and curving.  It started at the end of a year of intense expansion of personal boundaries and ends at the beginning of a year of unknowns.  Decisions made by others will figure greatly in my course of action.  Time goes on.

 

The Road to 65, Mile 362: Passing Through Yuma

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November 25, 2015, Chula Vista-  After getting my Nissan serviced, and a few other errands, which are always necessary before departing Prescott, I headed down the mountain, towards San Diego, and a holiday weekend with the most important person in my life.

This time, I opted for a twist.  Turning onto AZ 95 south, at Quartzsite, in Arizona’s Outback, I headed down to the southwest AZ city of Yuma, underrated largely because of its status as the hottest spot, in a state that is very hot from May to October.

Nowadays, though, Yuma is very, very pleasant, and it was quite cool, when I rolled up Prison Hill, for a walk around the East Wetlands and along the exterior of Yuma Territorial Prison Historical State Park (about which, more, on my next visit in mid-March).

The Wetlands trail takes the walker down to the Colorado River, which is in fairly good shape right now.  Here are a few scenes of what I encountered. (These are what the new and improved Word Press offers as a photo collage, under Windows 10.  Just click on the photo, to see the caption.)

The rest of the journey was spent navigating high speed, rather frenetic holiday fellow travelers:  Crowded road from Yuma to El Centro, a bit quieter from there to Alpine and bustling again, until I got to Chula Vista.  In Alpine, I enjoyed a decent Gyro plate at Greek Village Grill, which sits tucked away in a restaurant mini-mall, on the south end of downtown.  The town itself looks worthy of further exploration, when it is light out.

For now, as indicated above and at the second from lower right, I will be happily celebrating Thanksgiving, the Day of the Covenant (see next post) and the 65th anniversary of the arrival of a squawling, but eventually happy, baby boy.

The Road to 65, Mile 337: Such Is Halloween

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October 31, 2015, Phoenix- This day was the first Halloween I have spent away from home, since 1991. The current generation of children are more likely to be confined to one narrow space, or another-either a prescribed street, populated by well-heeled folks, who put up elaborate decorations, or a carefully-arranged event, often (ironically) faith-based.  The turnout on my street, last year, was exactly eight trick-or-treaters.

I had business here yesterday, and elected to stay down in the city, especially after getting invited to a large house party.  The day proceeded as a drive around several Memory Lanes, starting with breakfast at a family restaurant, close to our old house.  It was called Fast Eddie’s, for several years.  Now, it goes by The Cracked Egg.  The Irish Omelet was hot and well-prepared, and the servers congenial.  I like the former name better, but everything else is just fine.  I drove by our former home, finding it occupied by a family who seem to be doing well.  Then, came a visit to Penny’s grave site, where I placed a dozen roses, and reflected on all that we managed to accomplish together, often in spite of ourselves.

After a couple of hours in Sunnyslope’s Acacia Branch Library, and a bit of shopping, I took a couple of strolls around Steele Indian School Park, named for the former Bureau of Indian Affairs residential school, whose vacant buildings are preserved at the site and for Horace C. Steele, a businessman, whose charitable foundation made the park possible.  Several families were enjoying the bright late afternoon, including a few who were fishing the small pond.

After a second stroll, this one at Park Central Mall, which was once managed by my late friend, Mike.  The place was mostly closed for the evening, lending an eerie, but not disconcerting, aura to my time.  It reminded me of a similar walk, last year, at the huge, but silent Frankfurt Messe.

Upon arriving at the aforementioned party, I found myself being greeted by Gomez and Morticia Addams (aka my friends, Jens and Maggie).  There were nearly a hundred people on site, but I seemed to be the only one with a plastic mask (Chewbacca, from “Star Wars”), which precipitated a lot of good-natured chuckles, from the older guests, and eye-rolls from the hipsters.  The food was nice, though, and Maggie’s intense decorations were, as usual, phenomenal.  Three small outbuildings, and the grounds in between, contained theme-park quality displays.  After a few lengthy conversations with some old friends, and new acquaintances, it was time to watch, as Gomez and Morticia offered their signature tango.    We were not disappointed.

I had to head back to Prescott, shortly after 10, but I will recall this much-needed time, reconnecting with old haunts (no pun intended) as a time for grounding.  The coming, very busy two weeks will go much smoother, for the break that was taken.

The Road to 65, Mile 319: Conquistador

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October 12, 2015, Chino Valley-

A few thoughts about the day, as we might look at it.

The deer trails, drawing the interest of the hunters,

became the Kinship Trails, drawing the interest of the merchants,

the soldiers and the monks.

The Conquistador Trails, drawing the interest of the pioneers,

the entrepreneurs and the downtrodden,

became the railroads and macadam highways, drawing the

interest of the Lords of Commerce and the satisfied multitudes.

The Interstate Highways, drawing the interest of the masses,

fleeing oppression, become

closed, behind walls and fences.

The Road to 65, Mile 260: P.C.

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August 15, 2015, Prescott- The Chaplain giving a benediction, at today’s “Spirit of 45” remembrance of World War II veterans, referenced political correctness as a threat to freedom, while noting how the GI Generation accomplished their goals without a systematic enforcement of unwritten social code.

That got me thinking about “P.C.”  I was raised to look at people, strictly as individuals.  Pejoratives were not allowed in our house, pure and simple.  My parents were people of their time, and it took Mom years to accept the idea of “mixed marriages”.  Yet, every person with whom we came in contact was to be respected.

Being unusual, in my own right, made it actually easier to accept and embrace differences. I have since had the bounty of having a wide variety of friends, from all backgrounds.  Political correctness has had little or nothing to do with this.

I see how P.C.has had some great benefits, as it brought people out of their “business as usual” comfort zones.  The Civil Rights movements, which have brought codified assurance of equality under the law, to women,  people of colour and to the LGBT community, were a vital necessity in a society that was too immersed in a comfort level that thrived on separation.

I need to say this, though:  The only thing that really will result in a truly inclusive society, which will not discriminate against ANY of its members, is a change of the human heart.  We are reaching a saturation point, in terms of the amount of criticism being directed at those whose opinions or lifestyles might not mesh with those of the critics.  The over-dependence on political correctness, as a guide to personal and community choices, will likely result in a confused generation, alienated from its legacy- as no historical figure could possibly clear the bar that overuse of political correctness is foisting upon our education system.  Yes, it is good, and necessary, to know that several of the Founding Fathers owned slaves, hated Native Americans and were condescending towards women.  It is good, and necessary, to know the truth about Abraham Lincoln’s view of people of colour, or Franklin D. Roosevelt’s anti-Semitism.   That should not blind us to the good that those men did. It should only remind us that no one is perfect, save the Founders of the Great Faiths.  It should show us where we were, as a people, at various points in time, and that we are making progress, steadily.  WITHOUT EXCUSING the wrongheadedness of our forebears, let us remind ourselves that the march of history is forward, upward, towards enlightenment.

Consigning all historical figures to the dust bin is a mistake, for then we will, at some point, revert to the same practices we claim to abhor, albeit in a different form.  Banning those of different, sometimes archaic, OPINIONS from speaking, will only lead to clandestine and terror-oriented groups, such as IS, the Rakhine Buddhists, the Ku Klux Klan and Opus Dei,  to openly hostile congregations like Westboro Baptist Church, or, worst of all, to criminal cartels, which profit from the dregs of human suffering.

Only attention to one’s heart and soul can bring about the peace and inclusiveness that we all seek.  How this is done, should be solely up to the individual, so long as it does not bring harm to another.  Violence, intimidation, or codified pressure from without cannot work to our advantage, in the long run.

The only correctness that can bring lasting peace, is personal correctness.  It is a huge responsibility, and it is given to each and every one of us.  No government, or social medium, can tend to it in our stead.

The Road to 65, Mile 254: Sharlot Hall

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August 9, 2015, Prescott- I spent about ninety minutes, this afternoon, visiting Sharlot Hall Museum, Prescott’s historical gallery.  This was the final day of the 2015 Mountain Arts and Crafts Festival, which coincides with the Cowboy Poets Gathering, at Yavapai College.

This was my fourth visit to the Museum, and was mainly to check out the refurbished Arizona Time Line exhibit, in the main hall.  I noticed there was a panel about the proto-planet, Theia, which collided with Earth, back in the days when our planet more resembled the sunny side of Mercury.  It did not end well for poor Theia.  A very well-crafted pair of Pleistocene wall panels loom above the depictions of North American mammals from that Era.

Otherwise, Sharlot Hall preserves several buildings as they were during the period 1870-1910.  My favourite remains the log Governor’s Mansion. As there were few other visitors here, this afternoon, I was able to enjoy the presence of about five monarch butterflies, one of which had a six-inch wingspan. To see the exteriors of the buildings, please check out my 2012 post: https://peacefulwarrior9.com/2012/01/20/the-exterior-of-sharlot-hall-museum-prescott-az/.

Next up:  I will be in Mohave Valley, in northwest Arizona, for the next three days or so, helping with Red Cross sheltering and damage assessment, owing to a nasty desert wildfire, near the Colorado River.  I will continue to post as time allows, during this time period.