Care of the Threads

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August 6, 2023- When I was first learning the use of tools, like wrenches, screwdrivers and ratchets, my father would caution me against either being overzealous in tightening the screw, nut or bolt, or being too timid and not tightening it enough. Each one has its particular tight place, he’d say, and I have followed that practice to this day. Every point of contact has its proper tightness.

At breakfast, this morning, another patron was inveighing against members of the political party opposite hers, saying that if we were to get rid of them, the country would at long last be in good shape. Being independent, politically, I replied that there needs to be a balance in all things. That didn’t set all that well with her, but she had no rebuttal. Others at the table agreed with the notion of balance, expressed the wish that those on the “other side” would see the need for a happy medium, as well.

I see the “wrench” in this case as a means of bringing people together, in just the right measure. The lady in question has no friends, or even acquaintances, on “the other side”. There are those from whom I’ve heard, on that side of the fence, who can’t name one person whose views are opposite theirs, who they regard as compadres. It’s all fear, and apprehension makes a very poor fastening agent. I pointed out, this morning, that if Right and Left came to understand they were both being used, and by much the same individuals and groups, the political differences between them would take second fiddle to the unity that would ensue against those wirepullers. There was no argument after that.

This afternoon, a gathering for the purpose of commemorating the Atomic Bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki reiterated that things like poisoning the atmosphere with nuclear fallout are an equal opportunity death sentence for the entire planet. I have had exchanges with proponents of maintaining a nuclear arsenal, at various times over the years; my point being that it really only takes ONE high-capacity nuclear weapon to pretty much wipe out a large swath of the Earth’s population. Some are not convinced of that, but really the nuclear screwdriver would take but a few turns to obliterate its fastener, its handler and everyone between its launching site and its target-as well as everyone beyond.

We are, as Walt Kelly said, our own worst enemy. We can also choose to be our own best friends. It all hangs in the balance.

“Shake It, Don’t Break It”

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August 4, 2023- So sang the irrepressible, ever-engaging keyboardist and social activist, as several of us were up and dancing to the rhythmic flow. There is no better way to get in some hyperactivity, around here at least, than at a Jonathan Best concert. There he was, on the Raven’s sound stage, with members of the Lisa Mitts Band. Jon even wore Lisa’s dress, because she couldn’t be present, this evening. You never know what to expect from Jonathan, but it’s always memorable-and relevant. He is at once an outlier-and a mover/shaker.

I have always been an outlier. At the same time, it has always been important to me to support the legitimate efforts of others, even those who were in a clique of some kind. The elites of my teen years, to the extent they were even elites, were generally friendly and while I was not in any “inner circle”, I was never shut out by them, either. The outlier part was largely in my own head.

Self-fulfilling prophecies tend to perpetuate themselves, though. In the Army, rank and file soldiers, especially in stateside posts, were very clear about who was part of an “in-crowd” and who was a cast off. It had nothing to do with job performance, and everything to do with whether the self-styled group leader liked someone or not. I played right into that scenario. The same pattern would repeat itself, now and then, throughout my working life.

That outlier stigma arises in my head, every so often, still. There are certain people whose presence and energy tend to trigger the feeling that I need to get to the sideline and stay there. One such individual, this evening, had me wanting to keep away from the group that was dancing, initially. Getting a vibe that was both elitist and fearful, it was easy to just bounce and sway, in a corner. My buddy, Ken, a few years older than me, has no such compunction. He went right up to the apparent snob, engaging in banter and dancing in his own style. Ken is everyone’s friend.

Before long, Jonathan’s grooves and beats had me forget about who might have wanted me to stay out of the group. Once Ken saw that I was relaxed and no longer keeping to myself, he went back to his conversations at the bar, and elsewhere, occasionally coming back up to the dance area and speaking with a few of the ladies.

The upshot of all this is that, after all this time on Earth, I am finally casting the burden that not even Penny’s love, or the acceptance I’ve felt from so many friends, could completely remove. I don’t know where my feelings of being an outcast even came from, but I know they need to be gone.

Shake it, don’t break it, indeed.

On Agency

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August 3, 2023- The former President of the United States faced a Federal Magistrate today, for the second time in a month. He heard the charges against him, pleaded Not Guilty and thanked the Magistrate, before being released in his own recognizance. He maintains innocence, until proven guilty. He maintains agency, regardless.

The topic of agency arose, this evening, during a study session on the matter of public discourse. While the discussion ended up a bit off the rails, largely due to my being a bit tired, after a long day, and thus, not moderating matters as well as I might have, the agency of both those who were carried away in dialogue and those who felt left out, were addressed by the end of the session. Ground rules were established, going forward.

Ironically, the whole kerfuffle came about when the subject of the agency held by children was brought up-by yours truly. That led to discussion about gratuitous spanking of toddlers, and the umbrage taken by some people of our, and our parents’, generations when objections to such “punishment” are raised. Those who got carried away are of the opinion,as am I, that striking people just perpetuates violence. The others in the group, themselves hardly people who believe in corporal punishment, felt “point taken, now let’s move on.”

I have evolved in my thinking on the matters of both agency for children and of corporal punishment. I once believed in the pecking order, that children should serve adults. That went out the window, when I caught some adults using that notion of “service” as a pretext for abusive behaviour.

I have never given our son anything less than respect for who he is, nor have I, save one or two unfortunate lapses of judgement, as a teacher and counselor, seen fit to belittle a child’s soul. My own experience of corporal punishment, as a child, was sparing. Mom and Dad regarded it as tool, to be used judiciously. I followed suit as a parent, until it became obvious to me that there is a conflict between using force as a parent and communicating responsible behaviour to one’s child.

My overall sense, for the longest time now, is that each person, regardless of age, has personal agency. The child needs guidance and reinforcement. The elder needs reassurance of continued relevance. All of us in-between, likewise, need consistent respect, regardless of our positions on matters being discussed or positions in a community.

Trade-offs

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August 2, 2023- A photo has gone viral today, of a stern-faced man, in Niamey, Niger, holding up a sign that says, in French, “Long live Putin”. There appeared to be about five hundred people around him, in the photograph, at a rally organized by the new self-appointed leader of that impoverished West African nation. How many were there of their own volition is debatable, but if they were brought there under duress, or with the promise of perquisites/rewards, the adulation for the autocratic leader of the Russian Federation will soon fade. It would not surprise me to learn that the man mentioned above was put up to holding the sign, by soldiers of the Wagner Group, who are ubiquitous in the Sahel region. He certainly did not look very happy to be there.

In a nutshell, I attribute the ease with which demagogues can rise to power, in impoverished nations, to the legacy of colonialism. When personal agency or a sense of community is cut off, by interlopers, for the sake of satisfying the greed of those invaders, the resentment simmers. This will prove as true for the Russians, as it has for the western European colonizers of yore. The only path to overcoming poverty among the masses is unity-under a democratic system, not under the yoke of a tyrant-be he home-grown or foreign-born.

This brings me to Florida-and the notion that slavery was beneficial to the enslaved. That this trope was first advanced by a professor of history, who is himself African-American, does not impress me in the least. Anyone can excuse abusive or oppressive conditions, and offer up a silver lining. More convincing is the umbrage taken to this cockamamie nonsense, by several Black Conservatives. They may ascribe to the noble concept of self-reliance, but attach to it anything that says their ancestors benefitted from having been enslaved, and the cord, rightfully, is cut.

Everything, as Dr.Thomas Sowell once wrote, is a trade-off. If you enslave a people, you break their self-reliance. If you steal agency from another person, then they learn dependency, and you now have an albatross around the neck. If, on the other hand, a person is empowered, honoured and granted agency for life, then society has one more individual who can actually contribute the gifts given by the Divine-on her/his own.

Box? What Box?

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August 1, 2023- “There is a cancellation for today, at Noon.”, was the response of the manager at my dentist’s office, when I called to inquire on the matter. My plans for a leisurely day, around downtown Prescott, quickly evaporated, and I was on the road to Phoenix, by 9:40. It wasn’t a hard ride, and the desert was not that hot.

A one-hour slot took forty minutes for the hygienist to clean my teeth , followed by a quick handling of a small issue she found, during the routine. There was some discussion of the vagaries of aging, relative to the human mouth, and I resolved to look into natural, as opposed to fluoridic, means to deal with the matter. For her part, the hygienist did recommend a non-fluoridic toothpaste as an alternative.

I did not follow my usual post-dental visit routine, so no visit to the cemetery or to Local Jonny’s, but straight back to Home Base, giving KIA an hour to cool down-then it was over to the dealer’s, for some TLC. The dealership also had a slot open for today, at 4 p.m. Sportage did a lot of work, going to Nanaimo and back, so an oil & lube, tire rotation and car wash was in order. All is “green” with the vehicle, and it will have a fairly routine month of August, staying within state, before a cross-country jaunt next month, and a San Diego drive, to park near Lindbergh, for my flight to the Philippines in October.

These were just the beginnings of indications that this month is going to be strictly “out of the box”, in terms of what I must do, day to day. A friend will need a ride to an appointment, just before my own, in a few days. The two are in the same part of town, so I agreed to help and can juggle my time a bit.

Others (people I know and trust, BTW) are reaching out for financial help, but that will need to stay in the box for now, as work doesn’t kick back in until next week, and with the Federal credit rating snafu, who knows what our collective nest eggs will look like in a week? Probably, all will be well; I’ve just learned to hedge my bets, over the years.

From all indications thus far, though, it’ll be a fascinating month of serendipity.

Jitterbug, with The Munchkins

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July 28, 2023, Carson City– The cast was set to dancing and jumping about, in this version of the spell cast by a cheekier version of the Wicked Witch of the West. W3 did not feel like even hinting at opium being an acceptable diversion and so came the Jitterbug, whose weapon was getting everyone to dance until they dropped from exhaustion. The classic dance marathon, instead of deadly poison, was a tad more family friendly-but W3 still asked Scarecrow if he wanted to play ball.

“The Wizard of Oz” first came into my consciousness when I was about nine, and we started watching it, as a family, once a year. When I hit my mid-teens, the watch party shifted to a gathering of friends-still a time for laughs and feigned fright. Seeing that it has not lost its appeal is re-assuring. There is much that is not ersatz about our culture, and these are the totems that I hope will remain.

Children and teens are almost universally dear to my heart. One of the dearest was on stage as a Munchkin, her time under the klieg lights about five minutes of play time and a few minutes at the end. In our pre-play conversation, I re-assured her that this is how just about everything starts. The first jobs are almost always the equivalent of a small role, with few lines. It is approaching the task with aplomb, with the confidence that one is going to do the small stuff well and move up the ladder, to a place that is deserved, that makes the dream become reality.

So she did her small role well, being visible and audible from where I was sitting, with her grandmother, in the second row. Afterward, the three of us went to a fast food place and each got an orange cream shake. We talked of the importance of agency, which she has already stood for, as she described an incident in which she asked that officials remove a poster she finds offensive. She heard us say: “Good on you and keep standing for justice, even when-especially when, it’s hard.”

I will always stand beside her, her brother, cousins and any other young person who is looking at being hazed or subjected to injustice.

No Foggy Notions

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July 24, 2023, Surrey, BC- Rain came to Vancouver Island, as promised, early this morning, and stayed the day. The precipitation was mostly gentle, but after checking out of Painted Turtle, I opted to spend much of the day in the Public Library. There were also forays into nearby coffee shops. The first was to Serious Coffee-where a barista at first greeted me cheerfully, later showing a rather serious face, after another patron made a snide comment to her, while himself wearing a sly grin. I thought to myself, while scowling at him, that there is no call for lording it over another person, especially when they are trying to work. The people I have observed here, young and elder alike, do work hard-and deserve appreciation.

After 4 p.m., the rain tapered off, affording me a chance to visit Petroglyph Provincial Park and Bowen Park, both south of town.

An elk, fleeing a hunter
A flounder, or a crab?
A seal looks up.
A bear, enjoying its kill
Two wolves, on the attack.
Western White Pines, Bowen Park
Nanaimo River, Bowen Park
Stairstep Falls, Bowen Park

A perfectly prepared and portioned chicken cutlet with chow mein awaited me, at Sun’s Noodle Bar, virtually across the highway from the turn-off to Duke Point. The congenial server made all of the patrons feel like guests in her own parlor. Thus did my visit to the island draw to a close.

Leaving Duke Point, south of Nanaimo
Dyke Point, up close

The ferry, as it happened, was late leaving Tsawwassen, and so was also late leaving Duke Point. We got back to Tsawwassen around 11:10 p.m., and I arrived at Sun Suite, here in Surrey, around midnight, initially somewhat to the consternation of my Korean host-who reminded himself that I was, after all, not piloting the ship and that I had made good time, once off the vessel and driving around a strange city in the dark and rain.

Sun Suite is a very fine place, in which to rest from three frenetic days, with more to come.

An Homage To The Well-Set Table

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July 20, 2023, Salem, OR- The table was set in a way that would have done my maternal grandmother proud: A wide dinner under plate, with a salad plate on top of it and a place setting of sterling silverware, wrapped in a cloth napkin, at each seat. There was a water glass, and empty cup and saucer, at each seat, also. The fare was placed in the middle of the dining table, and we passed the food around, using our best table manners. Such was our host’s first meal gathering, since COVID.

I woke this morning, in Medford, ten miles from the site of the lunch time gathering, to a message from a childhood friend, saying that he was en route to Medford, from a town an hour away. I went to Mellelo Coffee Roasters, enjoyed a light breakfast and coffee, and waited, writing a blog post in the meantime. The meet-up never occurred, due to a variety of small details, but I found Mellelo to be another supremely welcoming place. I didn’t take photos of the spot, as there were people sitting in front, enjoying their breakfasts, but you may find Mellelo at https://mellelo.com/

East of Ashland, there is a place called Equamore-a facility for rescued horses. https://equamore.org/ It is here that my friends, Jody and Philip Weah, have lived, for many years, and until a recent drought, had a garden that was second to none. I know the place will flourish, outwardly, again. It flourishes inwardly, still, as evidenced by the delightful repast that Jody put together, using products that Philip provided from his employer, Harry & David. There were several cheeses and jams, fresh bagels, and even fresher fruit. They do not have horses, per se, but they do have a large dog who may as well be a horse, given his size. He’s a guard dog, though, which meets their needs. I enjoyed discussions with my hosts, and their other two guests-on topics ranging from Baha’i subjects to the state of table decorum, in this day and age.

After an hour or two, it was time for this one to go on up the road, so with a fond hug and farewell to the Weahs, I drove on, in the heat that was somewhat tempered from yesterday’s infernal temperatures. Oregon did not approach the 100-degree mark, at least today.

Salem– Oregon’s capital city is one of several towns in the state that are named for counterparts in New England. I stopped here for the night, planting myself in a room at one of the two Motel 6s that are found here. First order of business, though, was a light supper. Valiant, The Sandwich, a name inspired by video game culture, if there ever was one, proved quite valiant, indeed. An ample, but not overpowering ham, pineapple and grilled onion combination, filling a ciabatta bun, with roasted tomato soup on the side, restored my fading energy-and for the second state capital tour in a row, I found myself walking around Oregon’s seat of government-in early evening and with a ring of construction fence around it, just as had been the case when I visited the capitol at Sacramento, in early May. Salem’s fence, though, goes down to the edge of a busy parkway, on the north side, making circumnambulation a death sentence. I made do with walking on three sides of the structure.

Here are a few scenes of the day.

Equamore, east of Ashland, OR
The Beaver State’s homage to the GI Generation
An homage to childhood, as well: ” A Parade of Animals”, by Peter Helzer, graces the west lawn of Oregon’s Capitol.
The “Parade”, up close.
Oregon Capitol’s crown, from north side.

The cityscape had its share of those suffering, in the wake of high rents and social dislocation. A forlorn woman sat, alone, on a bench, not far from the sculpture of the animals. Maybe she was reminded of a happier time in her life-or maybe it, too, was a nightmare. A disheveled man passed me, as I was checking in to Motel 6. A short time later, a security guard told the desk clerk that “the problem was solved”. Seeing another human being as a “problem” is a problem in itself. She told me that the man had been in the motel’s dumpster-seeking to sleep there. Now, that would have been a problem, had the trash truck shown up to empty the bin, with him still inside. The conversation shifted, to human trafficking, when a man showed up, to pay extra for a young lady, who wasn’t related to him. The clerk wisely asked for the young woman’s papers-which fortunately, they were able to produce. I did not get a sense that there was anything amiss-and after forty years in the field, I pick up on stuff like that.

So, with a good day under my belt, I tumbled into bed. The homeless man went across the street, where there is an organized shelter-and slept in its lobby.

The Middle Matters

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July 18, 2023, Sacramento- The day spent getting here had a potpourri of interesting stops, at least through the morning.

Ludlow– Holly B. served up a nice plate of scrambled eggs, Polish sausage, home fries and an English muffin, with a caveat: The eggs-and much chicken meat, no longer taste like much, when they come from a large factory farm. She has her own chickens at the small desert farm that she shares with her husband. They roam at will-as any chickens that taste good, and produce delicious eggs, are wont to do.

The others workers at Ludlow Cafe concurred. They, too, are farm folk. We spoke of health issues and I heard them out, about the health scares that have recently troubled their revered chef and their own family members. There is an alkaline taste in the local tap water, likely adding to those issues. Ludlow is at the eastern edge of California’s midsection-which starts at Calexico, on the southern border and zips on through, past Barstow, Bakersfield, Fresno and the ‘M’ cities- Madera, Merced and Modesto, to this bustling capital city, and on up to Redding and Chico, thence to the Oregon line.

Barstow- I decided that the triple digit heat was not going to factor, in making a drive through this often overlooked, but essential, part of the Golden State. In Barstow, where I stopped after checking out of Ludlow Motel, there is a Harvey House, which serves as the city’s Amtrak Station. A Harvey House, of which there are still a few in the West, was a hotel built by Fred Harvey, in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries. Barstow was seen as a vital link between Los Angeles and the great National Parks of central California-as well as with Death Valley, Joshua Tree and the Grand Canyon.

Today, the town soldiers on and keeps this superb building in mint condition. The two ballrooms can be rented for events, and look as if they are waiting for those who can still “trip the light fantastic”.

Railroad Museum, Barstow- at the Harvey House complex.
Harvey House,Barstow
East Ballroom, Harvey House, Barstow
Upstairs, there is a small NASA Museum, focusing on the Sun and planets of “our” Solar System. This montage of Neptune includes a drawing of the outermost planet, (it is actually farther from the Sun than is Pluto), by a young visitor named Paul. I like how he depicted Neptune’s North Pole. Barstow, and the western Mojave, have no shortage of creative talent.

Boron- My last photo-oriented stop of the day was the resurgent home of Twenty Mule Team Borax. I recall, in middle school, that a sometime bully chortled, about yours truly, “He is a low-grade moron, who thinks he lives on boron.” No one laughed at his quip, and I pondered how, besides the two rhyming words, he ever saw himself as clever. We became friends as older teens, though, and he went on to live an exemplary life, before dying just prior to the COVID outbreak. So, I stopped here and took shots of the two active borax mines. Here, for Sean-and in honour of Mr. Reagan, when he hosted “Death Valley Days”, are those sites, from a distance.

West side mine, Boron
East side mine, Boron

Roadside observations- There was much that was unphotographed, but registered in my mind’s camera: The lava beds outside Newberry Springs, extending almost to Daggett, were blocked off by road construction at Newberry. Joshua Trees, the standout feature of the Mojave Desert, are plentiful in some areas and scarce in others. There is a huge stand of them, just north of the City of Mojave, west of Bakersfield. The latter-mentioned city pays proper homage to two of its great musical talents: Buck Owens and Merle Haggard, with streets named for both gentlemen and centers that showcase their respective life’s work. Fresno, and the three ‘Ms’, focus a fair amount of their agricultural wealth on education. Fresno is as much worthy of mention for its health care system, as for its farming.

A horrid accident, on the opposite side of road from us, stopped south bound traffic from the north side of Turlock, clear to the south end of Modesto. Our side of Highway 99 experienced a slowing, but mostly because of the need to position emergency vehicles opposite the crash site. Two vehicles were mangled, one of them lying upside down in the middle of the road.

I got to HI Sacramento around 6 p.m. and after struggling to get the parking lot gate open, due to solar flares interfering with the radio frequency of the gate’s system, enjoyed a lovely carnitas and black bean salad at La Cosecha, three blocks south of the hostel.

No assessment of life anywhere can fail to include its midsection-and California’s Central Valley is second to none.

Leslie Van Houten

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July 12, 2023- She was, in her youth, the sort of girl with whom I might have fallen madly in love . That long brown hair, those soulful eyes, and that longing for someone, anyone, who would see her as more than that beautiful outward appearance, made her ‘ripe for rescue’, my mates would’ve said. That was my teenage self’s ideal-a girl who needed me.

That night, though, when her pseudo-rescuer, one Tex Watson, told her to “do something” to their captive, Rosemary LaBianca, an innocent small businesswoman, in the wrong place at the wrong time-on that hot August night, she gave up that humanity, that beauty became a facade-as Leslie the Lost stabbed the frantic woman, who had just become a widow, at the hands of another Manson girl.

That night, I was a continent away, in the initial stages of becoming a man-a trainee in Echo Company, 3rd Battalion, 1st Brigade-at Fort Jackson, SC. A few of my fellows spoke of hearing something about a crazy-eyed “lunatic”, named Charles Manson, who had gone on a killing spree-and that maybe he had some “hot chicks” doing his dirty work. No one was certain, though, and the talk dried up-to turn, a few days later, to an event we were all missing: The Woodstock Festival, ten hours away, in the Hudson Valley of New York. It was around then that the Drill Instructors began bantering among themselves about what they would do, if they had five minutes alone with Manson-and what they would like to do to some of those girls. Of course, they also said, Woodstock, and its women, were a whole lot closer.

Then we got back to the business of training, qualifying with our rifles and bayonets, passing our Physical Fitness tests and General Knowledge exams, marching on the parade ground-and going on with our Advanced Individual Training.

I mostly forgot about Manson, and his dastardly crew-though every so often, I would be reminded of those horrible acts of savagery-and just how shallow a person’s physical appearance can render her or him, by movies like “Helter Skelter”, and, much later, “Once Upon A Time in Hollywood”. Manson got what he deserved. Leslie Van Houten is now out of one prison, but will never get of the other. The prison of public opinion will never see the long-gone pretty teenager. It will forever see the drug-crazed monster, stabbing away at someone presented to her as “the enemy”. The most charitable among us will see an aging lost soul, who has to learn fifty years’ worth of life skills-from driving a car to installing apps on a cellular phone-and good luck in finding a job, college degrees aside. The most astute among young people will see exactly what not to become. I see an indictment of self-centered, abdicating parents, who failed their daughter, terribly.

There, but for a loving family and a decent set of opportunities, might have gone I.