This blogger's relatively recent acquisition of a computer has afforded many opportunities to "catch up" with the kaleidoscopic cornucopia of wonders available in cyberspace while riding on the "magic carpet" that is this phenomenal machine. Often imagined is the reactions of persons in history who have returned to life in the 21st century and are, again fantastically, my guests. High on my list of "show and tell" for these time travelers is of course, this incredible device par excellence of the Information Superhighway. An especially favorite scenario however, is the following: am driving George Washington and giving him a tour of New York. The conveyance itself, a 2012 internal combustion engine powered vehicle, weatherproof and comfortable, is causing the eyeballs of the Father of Our Country to bulge dangerously. I then grow anxious about the sights and sounds (outside and spectacularly visible through big clear windows of my spiffy new sedan) that appear capable of overloading his brain and blinding my most dear V.I.P. After all, other speeding cars, trucks, motorcycles, majestic bridges spanning the East and Hudson rivers (the former that he could not ford and employed longboats to riskily cross after The Battle of Brooklyn), jet planes, subways, skyscrapers, skywriting, Skype, stadia, television, true tales of men on the Moon, radio, movies, and on and on: any one of these could shock our beloved Prez No.1 into a crazed euphoria and/or fearfulness that he might never recover from. But heck! This is, I tell myself, a dream and the worst that could happen is that our wonderful spiritual Dad and surveyor from ol' Virginny might buy the farm with a coronary. Well, duh… can harm come to a dead man? So give George the four star tour and let's not spare the eye candy! When his peepers have absorbed but a tenth of the afore mentioned goodies of what is one huge Coney Island for him (metro N.Y. as Dreamland, natch) more surrealism is quite logically in order: utter amazement causes his wooden teeth to defy gravity and come flying out of his mouth as the last straw breaks the metaphorical camel's back. Was it the loop-de-loops performed by the Army's Blue Knights F-16 fighter squadron over, appropriately, Coney Island's pristine beach (well, in George's day anyhow) that did it or was it that Skyping session with my cousin in Germany that made the First in War, First In Peace Guy start searching for his choppers. Am not sure: I'm starting to get dizzy too with all this empathy for him and for his take on what is far beyond awesome for this iconic guy from the eighteenth century. I owe him a stiff drink. Rum, I mean grog, might help and here goes, and I mean it sincerely: "Mr. President, thank you for coming. I hope I haven't disturbed or frightened you. Oh, I withdraw the second part of that sentence. You are the epitome of fearlessness to us, your descendants. You see sir, these incredible and stupendous sights are not imported from some other planet. They are the fruits of you and your generation's efforts: those of simple but steadfast bravery, intelligence, hard work, faith in Science as well as of a Supreme Being. Reasoning, rationality, prudence and yet daring, unbounded energy married to self-control, all these were and are the gifts you bestowed on us. This, if you will pardon the immodesty, is what we have made of them. Thank you.
"Now if you don't mind, I would like to further soothe any anxieties you may still have (oh, may I hit you again on the rum'n cola?). There's a great joint, er, restaurant…you see, you are in luck sir. After all, this is New York (what?….no sir, not a trace of the fire remains…also, glad you missed the plague in Poe's day....actually, thankfully, so did I). What I mean is… I have located an authentic American colonial-style cuisine establishment. Yes, that's right. They have your favorite: peanut soup and unlimited refills on Indian and hasty pudding. Tripe? Yes, sir, as good as at Valley Forge…..oh, I beg your pardon sir. Yes, of course, I couldn't agree more when you say 'no reprising gastronomic effort however loving and well meaning could quite compare to that stick-to-the-ribs Pepper Pot that was served that winter that near starvation and the seeming disappearance of certain vital appendages of most of our men due to minus 14 degree evenings in camp occurred.' Oh, what's that sir? You're getting hungry? 'Any port in a storm'? Didn't know that expression dated back that far. How silly of me: the Egyptians had ocean going fleets. What? Oh, wonderful sir. Glad you're feeling better. Yes, the entrance is right here. That? Oh, it's called a jukebox. It's a device that will play music. Yes, I promise. No, there are no small men inside of it. Well, it's actually a tad passe. We have something called YouTube now. Never mind sir. You've had a long day and a long journey. No, I think Paul Revere and The Raiders would be something of a disappointment for you, sir. Yes, if you must, it's C-42. But perhaps consider a country tune…maybe a Virginia reel by Bill Monroe? No, no relation to James, I don't believe so. Country music? Well, it's based on rural rhythms of the American heartland: our original folk music. Well, yes, that's right. It is the music of this country and I don't know quite why it's not the music of our entire country. You see there have been tremendous sociological changes since your presidency, sir. Well, there have been non-European influences and…oh, well if you just press that white square button there. Oh, sorry you'll need a quarter, I mean…two pieces of eight in one coin. Uh…you'll never guess whose image is on its obverse. Yes, of course, Mr. President: heads you win, tails I lose. And welcome home. sir."
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Divesting
The faraway creek trickled and tickled the toes. Once we disturbed a submerged stone in its coldness. A rusted crayfish complained about the invasion of his resting place with an annoyed lethargic wiggle. "What is he and why is he?" my callow companion had asked. The sun was warmer, both there then and here now while the green pokes through in places weird and unexpected. Spring will have its way though neglected hulks of automotive chassis, abandoned mop handles and desiccated rodents' skeletons mar the beauty of my backyard hard by the railroad tracks of old Woodside. Yes, this is the cruelest month. Life throbs without while within the echoes of what was are hardly heard. Judge Judy scolds in the background. Her confidence gives a vicarious thrill. Knowing and imparting her knowledge, she excoriates and/or dismisses the slow witted dissemblers in her midst. My rooting interests migrate inexplicably toward these losers. Smartypants Judy. The creek trickles on assumedly. Now rusted Billy Beer cans, non-existent then, may still lay side by side with Mr. Crusty's descendants, the incipient country freshet not much more or less pristine than my urban world.
I wish I could hold hands with Marsha Miller. I never did. It was 1966 and "Red Rubber Ball" was playing on the radio. Its melody and words always came to mind while furtively glancing at her in class. She was petite, dark and very attractive with the flip style of the day sometimes hiding her downcast eyes. Her shyness never revealed a trace of any coquettishness, the formidability and imperviousness of her chary ways perhaps only surpassed by my own. I believe it was James Mason in "Pandora and The Flying Dutchman" (or was it in "Lolita"?), or some other worthy actor who mused to the effect: "there are certain moments in time that are so indescribably lovely and ineluctable that one cannot forget or ever quite get over them and their power." I see what my end is, but the Marshas of my days call out to me somehow still. Was not Anne Francis' "Marsha" only a department store mannequin in a haunting "Twilight Zone" episode of yore? She so wanted to live, but was obliged by the law of her race to return, as Bryant reminded us in his "Thanatopsis", to her "chamber in the silent halls of death." I hope "my" Marsha married and made babies, her timidity just a passing phase of youth's decency and a virginal viewpoint that sunrises and sunsets molded and caused to blossom by degrees into maturity, wisdom and cheerful aplomb, with her latter day, confident congeniality a fixed point for all time and her learned lessons now bearing all kinds of wondrous fruit. Would that I could offer a kind word to her, whether she needs one or not, and then disappear forever in a reverie of other pleasant, youthful ghosts.
I wish I could hold hands with Marsha Miller. I never did. It was 1966 and "Red Rubber Ball" was playing on the radio. Its melody and words always came to mind while furtively glancing at her in class. She was petite, dark and very attractive with the flip style of the day sometimes hiding her downcast eyes. Her shyness never revealed a trace of any coquettishness, the formidability and imperviousness of her chary ways perhaps only surpassed by my own. I believe it was James Mason in "Pandora and The Flying Dutchman" (or was it in "Lolita"?), or some other worthy actor who mused to the effect: "there are certain moments in time that are so indescribably lovely and ineluctable that one cannot forget or ever quite get over them and their power." I see what my end is, but the Marshas of my days call out to me somehow still. Was not Anne Francis' "Marsha" only a department store mannequin in a haunting "Twilight Zone" episode of yore? She so wanted to live, but was obliged by the law of her race to return, as Bryant reminded us in his "Thanatopsis", to her "chamber in the silent halls of death." I hope "my" Marsha married and made babies, her timidity just a passing phase of youth's decency and a virginal viewpoint that sunrises and sunsets molded and caused to blossom by degrees into maturity, wisdom and cheerful aplomb, with her latter day, confident congeniality a fixed point for all time and her learned lessons now bearing all kinds of wondrous fruit. Would that I could offer a kind word to her, whether she needs one or not, and then disappear forever in a reverie of other pleasant, youthful ghosts.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
The Alamo And Other American Glory
Our history, that of these United States, ought always to include the saga of The Alamo and its defenders: Texans and/or supporters of Texan independence, who nearly all, to a man, died there after a 13 day siege on March 6, 1836. At the time these men were often referred to as Texians and their dream was of an independent nation: Texas. Their fondest hopes were realized, not long after Sam Houston's victory at San Jacinto, but the true reason for their struggle lay with their destiny with the colossus of Columbia (and its destiny as well), their neighbor and blood brothers, sons and grandsons of the Spirit of '76.
My knowledge of American history was gained in public schools, back in the day when an honest, more than adequate education could be readily had and was usually acquired barring a complete inability or disinclination to apply one's self. Learn, most of us did and popular culture, especially aided by Walt Disney's natural as well as American history film and television productions, increased dramatically our absorption of knowledge about the formative years of our republic. Loving and reinforcing accounts of American heroes like Daniel Boone, Francis Marion ("Swampfox"), Davey Crockett, Jim Bowie, and others were the bases for a sense of kinship and pride in our past and gave us heroes aplenty in a time when self-doubt and hyper criticism of our western march as a people was unheard of. Myth and legend intermixed with historical facts and the result was a patriotic vision that cemented our unity as a nation before discordant interests from the worst elements of anti-Western "thinking" began their strongest forays against our culture soon after the close of World War II (most ironic after the defeat of the most virulent forms of despotism ever in mankind's history).
The winners of conflicts, whether they be armed struggles, cultural wars or economic battles, get to write the history books and shape and mould the new generations who are taught about their forefathers and their deeds. We are those winners and have traditionally not shrunk from this historical fact. Might does not necessarily make right, but a healthy degree of self-criticism should remain just that. A pendulum swinging too far, as is the case with many if not most educators and political scientists today, has resulted in a moral relativism that has deteriorated into, in more than a few instances, an overt hostility toward the memories of some of the founders of this nation and especially of men who fought to establish the republic in its fledgling days, when its survivability was not an assured thing.
The siege of The Alamo was one of those seminal moments in our history when intrepidity and courage ultimately won the war though not the battle. Who remembers today the Mexican victors? Who celebrates the annihilation of a force less than one tenth the size of its attackers? Who honors the slaughter of the few Texians who had survived the final firefight and had surrendered to Santa Ana's minions or the fact of the very few whose lives were spared, in many cases to serve simply as messengers with a cautionary tale (an expedient and actually a timid underestimation by Santa Ana of the will to resist by Texans implacably readying themselves to avenge the carnage at the mission)? No, we remember the besieged and their pluck, men who laid down their lives so that others might partake of the blessings of a free people, and if we dare to love these ancestors of ours (related and/or spiritual) unapologetically, we hail their memories and thank them for reprising earlier heroism against other despots, at Lexington-Concord, Yorktown, on Lake Erie, New Orleans or in dozens of other places on the North American continent. And we thank them for blazing a trail, more than figuratively, as part of the then continuing pioneering movement that tamed the wilderness and encouraged future heroics, both the peaceful ones: of further building, expanding and strengthening this country, its paths, railroads, highways, bridges, towns, schools, churches, farms, industry and especially the sinews and musculature of Anglo-American laws, language and customs, as well as those noble deeds then yet to come in sadly, more wars: the Mexican-American, our most tragic Civil War, the Spanish-American, two world wars, the ones in Korea, Viet Nam, Iraq, Afghanistan and the global counter-terrorism struggles through to today. We are not a war loving nation, but neither have we ever avoided a fight when sufficiently provoked nor is the toleration for losing, once "let's roll" is announced, anywhere near our comfort zone. C.S. Lewis' character Screwtape (Satan) in his letters to his nephew/apprentice devil warns his young relative about not being too gleeful or complacent about the opportunities for sin, destruction and especially the harvesting of souls during wartime. It is as much a time for Christianity (or liberty loving men) to score points for its side through sacrifice, gallantry, hardihood and the saving of lives, as well as souls. Again, war itself is not to be glorified, but individuals with free will and again, a love of liberty, can shine in these irrational and brutish circumstances. We specialize in this kind of courage and nobility (think of the firemen, police and others on September 11, 2001, the men of the Berlin Airlift, The Battling Bastards of Bastogne, the besieged at Bataan and so many other instances); it's who we are still, despite years of self-loathing projected onto the American people by small but zealous groups of Marxists, One-worlders and the usual assorted collection of apologists for or critics of supposed American "imperialism."
A few final thoughts about the American character. We are not a small-minded or mean spirited people. We are generous and "fair and square" is not, traditionally, a rhyming couplet devoid of meaning for us. And good humor is not some marginalized or compartmentalized facet of our dealings with others and ourselves. Davey Crockett was a great example of this spirit. His storytelling, jokes, exaggerations and self-deprecations (not unlike Lincoln, a contemporary) added also to this rich mix of complex qualities of a great people: happy, optimistic, thoroughly democratic but condemnatory of neither the wealthy nor the impoverished as if either station in life was a judgment on either's moral worth. A belief in opportunity, self-reliance and states' rights delicately balanced with a restrained Federalism, not Statism, are some of the other hallmarks of our beloved land.
My knowledge of American history was gained in public schools, back in the day when an honest, more than adequate education could be readily had and was usually acquired barring a complete inability or disinclination to apply one's self. Learn, most of us did and popular culture, especially aided by Walt Disney's natural as well as American history film and television productions, increased dramatically our absorption of knowledge about the formative years of our republic. Loving and reinforcing accounts of American heroes like Daniel Boone, Francis Marion ("Swampfox"), Davey Crockett, Jim Bowie, and others were the bases for a sense of kinship and pride in our past and gave us heroes aplenty in a time when self-doubt and hyper criticism of our western march as a people was unheard of. Myth and legend intermixed with historical facts and the result was a patriotic vision that cemented our unity as a nation before discordant interests from the worst elements of anti-Western "thinking" began their strongest forays against our culture soon after the close of World War II (most ironic after the defeat of the most virulent forms of despotism ever in mankind's history).
The winners of conflicts, whether they be armed struggles, cultural wars or economic battles, get to write the history books and shape and mould the new generations who are taught about their forefathers and their deeds. We are those winners and have traditionally not shrunk from this historical fact. Might does not necessarily make right, but a healthy degree of self-criticism should remain just that. A pendulum swinging too far, as is the case with many if not most educators and political scientists today, has resulted in a moral relativism that has deteriorated into, in more than a few instances, an overt hostility toward the memories of some of the founders of this nation and especially of men who fought to establish the republic in its fledgling days, when its survivability was not an assured thing.
The siege of The Alamo was one of those seminal moments in our history when intrepidity and courage ultimately won the war though not the battle. Who remembers today the Mexican victors? Who celebrates the annihilation of a force less than one tenth the size of its attackers? Who honors the slaughter of the few Texians who had survived the final firefight and had surrendered to Santa Ana's minions or the fact of the very few whose lives were spared, in many cases to serve simply as messengers with a cautionary tale (an expedient and actually a timid underestimation by Santa Ana of the will to resist by Texans implacably readying themselves to avenge the carnage at the mission)? No, we remember the besieged and their pluck, men who laid down their lives so that others might partake of the blessings of a free people, and if we dare to love these ancestors of ours (related and/or spiritual) unapologetically, we hail their memories and thank them for reprising earlier heroism against other despots, at Lexington-Concord, Yorktown, on Lake Erie, New Orleans or in dozens of other places on the North American continent. And we thank them for blazing a trail, more than figuratively, as part of the then continuing pioneering movement that tamed the wilderness and encouraged future heroics, both the peaceful ones: of further building, expanding and strengthening this country, its paths, railroads, highways, bridges, towns, schools, churches, farms, industry and especially the sinews and musculature of Anglo-American laws, language and customs, as well as those noble deeds then yet to come in sadly, more wars: the Mexican-American, our most tragic Civil War, the Spanish-American, two world wars, the ones in Korea, Viet Nam, Iraq, Afghanistan and the global counter-terrorism struggles through to today. We are not a war loving nation, but neither have we ever avoided a fight when sufficiently provoked nor is the toleration for losing, once "let's roll" is announced, anywhere near our comfort zone. C.S. Lewis' character Screwtape (Satan) in his letters to his nephew/apprentice devil warns his young relative about not being too gleeful or complacent about the opportunities for sin, destruction and especially the harvesting of souls during wartime. It is as much a time for Christianity (or liberty loving men) to score points for its side through sacrifice, gallantry, hardihood and the saving of lives, as well as souls. Again, war itself is not to be glorified, but individuals with free will and again, a love of liberty, can shine in these irrational and brutish circumstances. We specialize in this kind of courage and nobility (think of the firemen, police and others on September 11, 2001, the men of the Berlin Airlift, The Battling Bastards of Bastogne, the besieged at Bataan and so many other instances); it's who we are still, despite years of self-loathing projected onto the American people by small but zealous groups of Marxists, One-worlders and the usual assorted collection of apologists for or critics of supposed American "imperialism."
A few final thoughts about the American character. We are not a small-minded or mean spirited people. We are generous and "fair and square" is not, traditionally, a rhyming couplet devoid of meaning for us. And good humor is not some marginalized or compartmentalized facet of our dealings with others and ourselves. Davey Crockett was a great example of this spirit. His storytelling, jokes, exaggerations and self-deprecations (not unlike Lincoln, a contemporary) added also to this rich mix of complex qualities of a great people: happy, optimistic, thoroughly democratic but condemnatory of neither the wealthy nor the impoverished as if either station in life was a judgment on either's moral worth. A belief in opportunity, self-reliance and states' rights delicately balanced with a restrained Federalism, not Statism, are some of the other hallmarks of our beloved land.
Time To Get Up
It's not merely sleepiness nor is it a pleasant dream that one longs to return to that keeps one curled up under a sleeping bag cum comforter. It's partially the delicious warmth trapped under this cover and the "just right" quality of the supportive mattress and down pillows that are keeping this blogger so horizontally satisfied. Then too, the world's demands and my disinclination to absorb any more stress right now makes the word "awake" seem like a dirty one. "Reveile", urgings like "up and at 'em" (always thought it was "up in Adam" and remained confused for years about Original Sin somehow being connected to my sleepyheadedness) and advice like "the early bird catches the worm!" all seemed part of a societal plot to force daylight and energetic endeavors upon a youthful lad needing his rest. The teen years, we are told, are a time requiring long visits with Morpheus and his gang. Growth and repair, via lingering in Snooze City is right and proper and matches one's great appetites for physical activity and libidinal as well as gastronomical pursuits at that stage of life. But what is my excuse as middle age ages me and less hours of "down" time are allegedly needed and as comb-overs plus a less than supple spine all proclaim the approach of Geezerdom and the supposed increase in opportunities for catnaps galore in front of the t.v., at a show, lecture or movie (theoretically counteracting those fitful conk-outs in the wee {wee} hours that limit chances to sustain a prostrate position in blotto-land due to a burgeoning prostate)? Again, that big mean ol' world out there may have something to do with it. Remember that cartoon of yore in which a newly hatched chick emerges out of his shell with a look of alarm and trepidation already stamped upon his face? Next panel, this brand new guy on the block looks around, surely doesn't dig what he sees, and in the last panel has rearranged and restored all broken parts of his egg after returning to same in an attempt to "delete" his birth. Can one "un-ring" a bell or argue with Khayyam: "The Moving Finger writes; and having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it." So, doing one's best each and every time might be a good idea if second chances are illusory. Each morning is a new beginning, Khayyam's fatalism notwithstanding and the choice remains: follow the good girl or the bad girl's way. The one awakens and says "good morning, God!" The other, upon opening her eyes says "Good God, morning??"
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