A Very Special Christmas Gift

I had tried to learn her name and something of her life about four years ago, when I first purchased this computer.  A chat room with comments that were then five years old, revealed that others in cyberspace did not know who she was either. The wondering really began with my first viewing of the film "A Christmas Carol" in the early 1960s.  This 1951 English production starring Alistair Sim as Ebenezer Scrooge, had each year increasingly solidified its rightful claim in my family's hearts, as one of the treasured parts of our Christmas traditions and expressions of love.  The film's ending included a cameo and silent role that instantly touched us all and was an added bonus to the present of this beloved film and its "father", Charles Dickens.  The young woman, as I said, spoke not a word. Consequently, no literature on the internet could I find, crediting her as a cast member. But what was so special about her? If you have seen the movie, less than twice, it is possible that that question might arise to a casual observer of the movie. However, it would take a casualness, bordering on a want of feeling for Dickens' tale's message, to not have one's attention and sentiments arrested by viewing Miss X on consecutive presentations of the movie.  Her only acting included the business of taking Scrooge's overcoat and then fixing him with the most supremely disarming look of heavenly encouragement as the hesitant old sinner weighs the decision to enter his nephew's Christmas gathering.  She persists in her loving, inviting and yet chary glance and one intuits that she, with her goodness (and sublimely huge, innocent eyes), is part of Ebenezer's reclamation.

Well, the mystery of her identity ended quickly and quietly as another Christmas Day passed last week. "Ask and you shall receive" was never a truer statement, when on Boxing Day, I enquired of my Facebook friends in general: "Does anyone know who played Scrooge's nephew Fred's chambermaid?" And a mutual friend and new, much appreciated F.B. pal responded speedily and has now made it possible for me (to steal a line, but the identical sentiment of another friend who I had the pleasure of bringing these glad tidings to) "to at last, die in peace" with the identity and brief biography of this actress of so long ago. The chambermaid was played by Miss Theresa Derrington. It was in fact, very satisfying to learn that she is still with us, and that she has apparently led a remarkably unremarkable life with marriage, children, grandchildren and a long career as an art teacher. Her role in "Scrooge" (its title in the U.K.) was her second and last in film. God bless you, young lady. You shall forever remain a juvenescent soul to me and to all who love Christmas.

And Hail The Old Years, Lads and Lasses Too

"That's the way the old year passes (fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!)…Hail the new ye lads and lasses." And yet , my eyes and heart turn toward yesteryear, with the considerable encouragement of a mini-marathon on cable t.v. this New Year's Eve of Rock 'n Roll exploitation films of the late '50s. One is entitled "Go, Johnny Go!" It was released in 1959 and it starred Jimmy Clanton and Sandy Stewart.  Clanton was a twenty year old heartthrob from New Orleans, a dimpled, jelly rolled and blonde haired Adonis with soaring vocals and just the right plaintive sob in his instrument, sure to cause coming-of-age teen gals to swoon and spend on his vinyl discs, both in reel and real life. His character's love interest is an old friend and a career minded singer as well, portrayed by Miss Stewart. I only had eyes for her.  She epitomized what society's merchants of entertainment envisioned were its audiences' hopes, dreams and aspirations of and for a young American woman.  She was kind, sweeet, breezy, properly if conditionally platonic, with an indomitable upbeatness and sophisticated sense of humor that was a perfect match for her glorious smile and big, ever so pretty eyes.  Where is Miss Stewart today?  Common sense and mathematics tell us that she would be an old woman now. Happily, cyberspace sources report that she is still with us.  Her singing career was short lived and she chose a traditional path of marriage and children within five years of this film's release. There is not much more to remark upon, except to say that her smile seems to defy time and the mortality that presses down upon us and that some of us are made more mindful of as another year slips away.  Sandy, not unlike Miss Derrington (see blog entry of today also), soothes us in ways sometimes unfathomable as we begin no longer think of "angel" as a worn out term of endearment or a casual kind of "thank you" for a kindness.

Expired License Plates

They were invariably dirty, often greasy and not rarely were smeared with dog excrement. For a grade schooler to tote one was a conspicuous sight and more than fifty years ago, they were heavy, big and sometimes came with rusted accessories attached to them, like bolts, nuts and "ticker things" (in the parlance of my older brother and myself, i.e. small metal plates with the two digits of the formerly new year that were bolted over the old year's in one of the plate's corners).  These were quite unlike today's lightweight, aluminum ones.

We learned early on that they were manufactured in prisons and that certain letters adjacent to the numerals referred to their issuance for motorists residing in certain parts of New York state. What attracted us to them? And why did we collect them with a quasi-religious fervor? Perhaps they were a bridge to adulthood; their availability was not assured and alertness and good fortune were factors in gathering them to our bosoms. They were artifacts, relatively small works of art with colors alternating from year to year or at an interval of several years. They were substantial and each one was unique.  They proclaimed their identities in no uncertain terms and they silently exuded somehow,  a certain confidence and independence. And yet they obediently permitted our harvesting.

In New York, the yellowish gold of numerals and letters contrasted with black backgrounds and then these elements exchanged colors in alternate periods. The motto "Empire State" with the abbreviations of year and state, "'55" (for example) and "NY", respectively, appeared above or below the characters. Very infrequently, but memorably, we found one in an empty lot or close by one of a service station's steel drum trash barrels that was a strange color and from another state!  These discoveries were exotic and thrilling for an eight year old. Sometimes they were temptingly visible but nearly inaccessible.  This was the case with a dark green specimen with white lettering and a curious image in its center, separating the alpha numeric grouping.  "Why, that's a pelican!" said a genial old janitor from my school who sensed my excitement for the rectangular piece of metal lying in the short grass behind a very tall chain link fence painted black and protecting the community garden adjacent to the public schoolyard where I played during recess from classes in the nearby building.  I was just learning to read, but the registration "tag" was upside down, though on its obverse.  An older student with a hoe heard us conversing and we caught his eye. Perhaps the adult's authoritative as well as friendly ways encouraged the pre-teen.  He was asked to simply throw the plate over the fence. Obediently, he complied and as it barely cleared the top of the structure, we thanked him. With a wave and a whistle the oldster left me to my treasure and the young gardener returned to his seedlings.  I could clearly see the outline of the pelican now and tried to decipher the words below the numbers and letters.  "S P O R T S M A N ' S   P A R A D I S E"  it spelled out.  Below were the letters  "L O U I S I A N A" and the numbers "'56". To this day, this plate hangs in the badly decayed wooden toolshed that my grandfather built in 1954 in our backyard.

So many plates were collected from the early '50s until into the '70s that some "pruning" became necessary over the years.  Today, there are only several dozen remaining, but some of these have found a home in my brother's house and I even found a very utilitarian use for a rare pair of '57s.  My antique Ford of that year sports them in lieu of regular historical plates.  New York's law permits it as long as the vintage tags are not identical in number and/or letter sequence to an existing current N.Y.S. plate. Such a situation is a near impossibility, given the configuration and number of characters of modern era plates. By any measure, and certainly through an adult's eyes, typically more so than that of a child's, these souvenirs of American automotive history, or more usually one's own or family's history of car ownership, can easily help preserve that history by the collection of these objects. Enough dry space and a bit of care can keep them indefinitely.

Autumn's Farewell

The stillness of a day in very late autumn: the telephone receiver has been placed off the hook and the seemingly incessant beeping of the phone company's scolding for not holding their service in sufficiently high esteem, has stopped. Only the crash of an airplane, nearby motor vehicles or car alarms could likeliest intrude on these peaceful moments.  There has been much tumult in cyberspace, much of it the result of my pulling on the devil's tail. I am particularly appreciative of family at times like these and with Christmas Day nearly upon us. A nostalgia page on Facebook, the social networking phenomenon, has provided many hours of escape, but even that palls after only so many recollections start to remind us that present day challenges deserve our attention too. The coming new year: what are the hopes and fears? Lennon spoke in his smugness (was it a drug induced reverie?): "Nothing's gonna change my world." Perhaps Lenin bragged conversely to the following effect: "Everything's gonna change your world."  They were both wrong and both overrated.  The changes are already felt. My infirmities, nascent now but their advancements inevitable, telegraph their mischief and the socio-political landscape, with no friendliness, advises vigilance and forethought.  My enemies on the 'net, underestimating the value of my intelligence, boast of the future belonging to the most adaptable to change, a silent tribute to cockroaches, no doubt.

Taking care of one's self is the priority, or "Quality is 'Job One'" as one of America's automotive giants asserts. Serving others must be part of the equation too. Yes, there is a natural conflict there to a certain degree. But both command respect and our efforts.  Loving and being loved: they remain among the finest of human enterprises.  Contributing to our civilization is so much more than an annual tax payment or weekly attendance at church. The smallest social interactions, if they evince caring, exposure of our frailties with good humor and are inclusive of all, can pile up the points, admirably and well competitive with single, dramatic events and expressions of good will by popes, presidents and other celebrities.  Heroism is not limited to only the headline makers, the warriors and the rocket scientists. Even Gelsomina's rock in La Strada is good for something and has a purpose. And blessed silence is the moist soil and needed darkness in partnership with sunshiny/human consciousness. It's a special place and way of being that permits that small voice of truth to be heard.

St. Andrew's Day

It is a particularly dark St. Andrew's Day today in Scotland. The feast day that marks the life of St. Andrew, the Apostle and patron saint of the nation, occurred the day after a tragic accident that killed eight persons, both those in a tavern and passengers of a police helicopter that struck the pub in Glasgow. Disasters both natural and man made are nothing new to Scotland; her proud history includes countless trials and tribulations, but the land's indomitable spirit is a beacon of Western civilization's many points of light and inspiration for any nation aspiring to secure liberty and autonomy. ….To Be Continued

Cirencester and Other Places

It was early September and summer in England does not linger like it does back home. My travel companion was nearing his thirtieth birthday and I was twenty eight. Neither of us had ever been outside of North America, so we were really not unlike babes in the wood, albeit a very civilized one in which all inhabitants spoke English, even if with a "funny" accent. We rented a Ford Cortina, spiffy looking and red with its unfamiliar, outsized yellow license plate, another  one of the small reminders that we were not dreaming and that a huge silver bird had indeed transported us to this new and exotic realm. Before we could drive the diminutive sedan from the agency, the "underground" ride from Heathrow to our basement lodgings in Bloomsbury had been the first order of business. The rail link felt more like our suburban trains in metropolitan New York than the seedy N.Y.C. transit system of the economically stressed "Big Apple" of the late '70s. But we knew rather speedily that we were not paralleling the Hudson or zipping along the flatness of Long Island. Visually, mile after mile revealed that we were in a foreign land. Neat brick houses were the chief housing stock that mutely greeted us, with their endless chimneys and dainty window boxes of flowers festooned religiously with beautiful bouquets of all kinds of poesies, some recognizable, some strange, but all novel treats for the eyes as the train rumbled eastward. This was Brittania in the twenty-sixth year of the reign of Elizabeth II and during the exceedingly brief papacy of John Paul I, and we were happily drinking it in as we soon descended to glide along, literally underground now, as we approached St. Pancras station, hard by the British Museum. Yes, we were green in many ways, especially as travelers. Ponderous suitcases were unnecessary challenges that youth and determination gamely met while arthritis and hernias were maladies three decades into the future. More curious sights, sounds and smells: a store proclaiming its produce and services with a sign that read "Fishmonger", a public phone that instructed us to wait for the "rapid pips", the competing aromas that wrinkled our brows as well as our noses: the exhaust of burned diesel fuel from double decker buses and large boxy black vehicles we came to know as the equivalent of our yellow taxicabs and the airborne greasy molecules from the meat pies sold by many a street vendor corresponding to Manhattan's hot dog carts. The jet lag typically took its toll and we rested on our beds in our modest quarters for several hours, intrigued by the lower legs and feet that trod (as the natives would say) past the partly recessed windows of the room of our hotel in Cartwright Gardens. It was years later that I learned that a parachute mine landed very near this site during The Blitz and that other more conventional ordnance from the Luftwaffe had peppered the immediate area resulting in the once circular street's present configuration of a semi-circle.

Well, our repose was brief and our excitement overcame any inertia. The afore mentioned Cortina, its steering wheel on the "wrong"side, was our magic carpet ride to explore this "sceptered isle" and we eagerly scooted into London's controlled chaos of traffic, a milieu both familiar and strange at the same time. We intellectually knew that the United Kingdom was a land small in size, like most on the European continent. But we also learned, like most Americans, that the emotional or "gut" knowledge of the compactness of the country only comes when one has driven from point A to point B. In the particular, while softly singing "The White Cliffs of Dover" (taught to me as a child by my parents) we motored towards them with still much of the afternoon remaining when we arrived. There they were, unmistakably chalky.  We saw no bluebirds, but what did circle overhead gave one a quiet thrill and a chance to remember again what our English cousins, along with our fathers and forefathers, fought and died for in two world wars.

We motored on. Folkstone, Worthing,
To Be Continued

Beloved Spectres

The photographs that my family possess may as well be daguerreotypes. Aside from their non-digital nature, the images in our family collection are of people who are dead or are radically changed from their juvenile or younger images.  To view a snapshot unseen for decades can jolt a person. A deceased relative or friend may live again for at least an instant as that portion of one's brain dealing with memory is dramatically stimulated by the likeness, and in turn, the remembrance of its owner's personality and many a forgotten idiosyncracy. The faithful re-creations of one gone, often results in an experience the effects of which are not, at first, so terribly potent. But contemplation of the picture, "seeing" a ghost or otherwise focusing while intently ruminating on someone from the past, may move one from a state of inurement to one of discombobulation with tears of regret, longing or even rapture.

Several months ago I happened to chance upon a black and white photo of a high school friend, taken  over forty years ago. It was one of those "good" photos, the antithesis of the variety that are regretted with the usual phrase "it doesn't do him justice." No, this was the youthful lad we all knew, his exuberant visage, familiar Slavic features and assertively friendly ways all brought back in a nano second by the immutably on-target phenomenon of what a camera accomplishes. The pleasure derived from restarting a memory, as it were, is further injected with an indescribably powerful charge when (as in this case) it's discovered via cyberspace's relentlessly efficient sources that the subject of the photo is long dead. Assuming the invulnerability of those frozen in time in our emotional and mathematical calculations is the chief culprit of this shock.  

These records of what the eye and the heart both see, can bog us down.  Sometimes they may aid us too well in our search for intimacy with our dearest shades. This may especially be so with the clinging to a memory of an erstwhile or impossible relationship of the living as well as the dead. A young Judy Garland comes readily to mind as her character pines for Clark Gable while cradling his framed photo and singing "You Made Me Love You".  In Henry Clay Work's (1832-1884) song "The Picture On The Wall" (1864) the traumatic, psychic rape of our divided nation is expressed with skill somehow beyond merely that of creating a haunting beauty, through the singer's grieving reveries while drinking in the daguerreotype of a slain son.  The practice, more common than in less recent years, of displaying photos and mementos of the deceased at a wake, is an obvious choice for enhancing the effect of anecdotes and personal stories. Still, one may become stuck, i.e. an almost masochistic mono mania is a real danger as growth, change and the descendants of the dead are somehow less valued and healthily celebrated as the new torch bearers of our Family of Man.                                                      

Several years ago I attended an outdoors show for classic automobiles. This particular event is perhaps the hugest of its kind on the East coast. One's special favorites, however obscure or old the make or model, are fairly likely to appear and delight the aficionado seeking to satisfy his particular taste for automotive nostalgia thanks to the tremendous volume of vehicles. But with the wondrous variety of specimens of America's automotive history, come a variety of persons (owners) from many walks of life and not all with a predictable psychology relative to the past. One gent had his 1955 Ford Crown Victoria with its original two-toned colors (bright yellow and black) vividly restored and a head-turner of the first order judging by the crowd gathered. Yet, the group seemed less delighted than awed or even disquieted by a closer inspection of the vehicle. A faded letter had been affixed to the inside of the rear driver's side window. It told of young love, embarrassing expressions of the same and still more extravagant outpourings of emotion only a callow fellow would dare to immortalize with ink on paper. The missive was dated "Purgatory, 32nd of Never 1956."  On each of the old classic's four tires were (the pair of fender skirts were removed and proudly displayed on low pedestals to the side of each rear wheel), instead of the factory hubcap, a very beautiful lucite-like clear convex disc encapsulating the black and white portrait photograph of a pretty young woman in the short bob and choker often seen worn by a co-ed of well over half a century ago. There was something awry in her expression despite a winsome smile. There was clearly something wrong with her image in quadruplicate and where it appeared.  No one in the crowd said a word, not unlike those who scrupulously respected the photographs of missing persons that abundantly adorned countless billboards and lamp posts for many weeks hard by the ruins of the World Trade Center after September 11, 2001.    

Aprils And Octobers

The Boston Red Sox are the World Champions of Baseball! This came to pass with the final and necessary achievement of clinching the title by winning a fourth game last evening in their series with the St. Louis Cardinals. The game was played at Fenway Park, the team's iconic and storied home field since 1912. This was the first time since 1918 that they secured the championship while in their beloved home stadium: too long a period for any likely survivors of the event of ninety five years ago to remember it.  But joyous remains the occasion, even if celebrated by descendants only, actual and spiritual ones of the so much earlier event. Remembrance must inevitably rely on those willing to transmit the histories of important milestones especially as the lives of primary sources fade and then end.

Many an October has afforded golden memories, particularly regarding bygone glories of our National Pastime. But the month itself seems to have a kind of vivacity that rivals April, though the former sits astride the beauty of autumn's crisp freshness while it seems to remain mindful of the fast approach of mortality that winter represents. Before 1962, I never gave much thought to either month as the epitome of its respective season. Halloween was a gentle time then, limited to a week or so before the date of All Hallows Eve. And there was no obsession with occult matters, just the spooky tales meant to entertain and contrast with the lightness most sought in their lives. Many more people then knew that the day after was All Saints Day, a holy day of obligation for Roman Catholics. But back to the month: the golden orange one with its obvious association with fall leaves that have turned to many different colors: russets, oranges, reds, various browns and yellows together with the harvesting of butternut squashes, pumpkins and other gourds. Earth tones dominate and nature seems to remind us of the cycles of our days as forcefully as Eliot's "cruelest month." In April of '62 I was enjoying the start of another baseball season, reminding me of the sport's annual commencement and conclusion being associated as usual with April and October, respectively. My beloved Dodgers were in contention to win another pennant and the prospect of jet travel for the first time later that summer made for a pleasant time in my life. But then it happened. An international crisis, the discovery of missiles in Cuba aimed at the continental United States quickly evolved into such a dramatic series of events, each leading to ever increasing, unimaginable levels of fear, that the coolest of heads could not assure or promise us that doomsday would be avoided. The fun that had been Halloween was never to return after that October. Horror with no safety net or the believability of a parent's soothing touch is a phenomenon with only one safe aspect: the reliability of the accuracy of its placement in a file marked "traumatic".  …To Be Continued

G-dd-mn That Gendarme

The thin, pale yellow paper sits on my desk. Its smudges are minimal considering its carbon copy nature. The urge to crumple it into a ball and throw it in the face of the person who handed it to me several days ago has this morning, left even the world of my imaginings. The focus is now on adjudging the worthiness of undertaking the usual steps to schedule a hearing with a referee of New York State's Department of Motor Vehicles motivated by roughly equal parts of strong, if not very righteous indignation and the lifelong inclination to deeply resent having one's pocket picked, especially if the picker of said pocket is neither an impulsive thief nor a highwayman proudly claiming such a job description, but rather, an employee of a government agency, someone whose salary I help pay. "Society's Hired Goons" was the term a friend used to use to describe police officers. It seems a bit harsh on first flush, especially if one let's nostalgia and one's earliest instruction by mothers and teachers about the goodness and reliability of men in blue uniforms (and their helpfulness during our ambulations to and from school, across streets with traffic and other hazards) be remembered as well as it was inculcated.  But my earliest memories about law enforcement officers, unlike those of probably most children, included a psychic trauma that has never been fully eradicated. This incident of more than fifty seven years ago plus the education and training of a cop which (despite the relatively recent inclusion of "sensitivity" training for prospective rookies) rarely features the embracing of a compassionate or "good" cop mindset (especially in a one-on-one confrontation) together made for the usual, but a particularly unpleasant personal experience this time. It is never in abundant supply (this elusive compassion) in the quotidian endeavors of these men and perhaps for good reasons. Dealing with truly bad folks with such regularity, a "one size fits all" approach is likely and inevitably part of the way a member of the "fuzz" so often demeaningly interacts with a disobedient motorist (alleged runner of stop signs, for example, moi) or a psychotic mass murderer.

But one does grow more than a little weary. This particular day featured enough bad luck to cause me to wonder aloud whether or not God was testing me or if his chief competitor for souls was given a carte blanche to make sport of me and my hamster-in-a-wheel efforts to avoid certain mundane futilities. Many little details worked their black magic to "screw" me this hectic day, or so it seems, despite being one who often rails against those mired in the muck of victimology. I present herewith, the facts.

Parking my big, old but attractively repainted, full sized '82 Chevy Caprice in a neighbor's large backyard for the last six months or so (and with their permission, for mutually beneficial reasons) and now near the eve of the demolition of their unoccupied, one hundred twenty year old house and sizable surrounding property, was that day, the same one that a major utility (water) was scheduled to be shut off for the building. Specifically asking my neighbor if the removal of my car was necessary for the work to be done, I was assured that this was not the case. When I needed to move the vehicle about an hour later, the work crew and a huge John Deere tractor blocked my path. With a fairly minor delay, my exit was cleared and I was on my way. Returning an hour and a half later, no access was available and the usual scarcity of parking spaces, as well as the fact that alternate side of the street parking rules on the street meant that even fewer spaces were open, caused me to seek a parking spot elsewhere in the neighborhood.  This is a situation far too similar to seeking free on-street parking in Manhattan, one of the world's most notorious places for suffering the inconvenience, waste of time, gasoline and the stress of circling and circling ad nauseum in order to secure a space for one's car.

After forty some odd minutes of searching, I espied a possible space about two blocks away. It was at the far right corner of an intersection that I have driven past hundreds if not thousands of times in my forty six years of driving. For at least forty three of those forty six years, there was no stop sign at that intersection for traffic going in the direction that I was that day. The construction of houses on empty and irregular plots of land a couple of years or so ago at this location apparently caused some genius at the city's Traffic Department to install this second sign (one already existed for all these many years at the perpendicular one way street to the left of the two way avenue that I was on). My usual pause (a bonafide stop) may have been fudged as I sought the space at the corner that required a right turn into the northerly continuation of the afore mentioned one way street. Instantaneously a squad car pounced with all the "bells and whistles" at the peace officer's disposal. "No good deed goes unpunished" I thought. After trying for three quarters of an hour to avoid breaking the law and being issued a summons by parking illegally, a calculating flatfoot with a quota to fill, no doubt, for the waning month, was now, with the full backing of the law, preparing to start the process of relieving me of one hundred thirty eight dollars for a vehicular move about as dangerous as brushing against some overhanging leaves while parking near a tree in mid-summer. The intersection is especially quiet; the avenue just beyond the intersection suddenly narrows, then quickly ends and has always been a one way one because of that. Thus, there is no oncoming traffic, only halted traffic (if any) of vehicles waiting to proceed from my left. There was no one coming when my supposed infraction occurred. The fact of dozens or perhaps hundreds of parking spaces occupied at that moment in my neighborhood that would not be filled were it not for illegal aliens with cars but without driver's licenses, darkened my mood considerably as the patrolman approached my window after having announced with his bullhorn that I was not to leave my seat. Just then the image of the burly, uniformed man I met in 1956 came to me and now blackened my musings considerably further, sending them to an especially desolate place. It was on an April day, I somehow remember, that as a kindergartner, I witnessed this large, blue uniformed man push a shorter, smaller man, almost knocking him down. The diminutive man wearing an apron and working in his own store was my father.  I was confused and frightened and did not understand. I did not like the big man. I knew he was a policeman but I knew that my father was not a bad man. The sadism and corruption of this particular cop was later revealed, but not in any way that could erase what I had seen.

I too am not a bad man. But the power of a strange man to exercise a dominance over me or the people I love, with the threat of force, with society's approval….all these facts were learned in a very uniquely educational and intimate way on that long ago spring day. I do not hate cops. I just am acutely aware of their ability to abuse their authority. The unpleasantness of a traffic ticket is just one of the many vicissitudes of life and a rather trivial one at that. But one dislikes failure and this sudden "report card" of a kind of societal transgression that is revealed on a public street with a certain degree of humiliation, both infuriates and encourages self-reflection. One can do better. One can be more careful. One can subordinate one's ego to be a safer and better driver. But a very strong instinct to be suspicious of authority is a healthy thing too, I aver…. and a very American one at that. I'm glad it's alive and well in this current age of would-be tyrants, and those who have already succeeded as such bullies.  

Always Welcome

There is an automobile trip that I make several times a year. Most every occasion includes a traveling companion whom I first knew when we were both teenagers in the mid-1960s. We lost touch nearly four decades ago and it was not until my father died five years ago that I attempted to find him without the aid of a computer but armed with several telephone directories and as it proved, a bit of good luck. I wanted to inform him about Dad because his father and mine worked together in the fruit and produce business for nearly thirty years and I knew the mutual admiration of all three men involved.

The only familiar name in a slightly outdated "White Pages" book was that of a woman I remembered was his mother's sister. After seven rings a quavering but alert voice answered my call. She repeated my father's name as well as mine, conveying no sense of hesitation or doubt about who she was speaking with. Informing her about Dad, she offered her own news immediately after that of her condolences. The man I sought, her nephew Vincent, was still in New York, but his father, mother and wife had all died within the last two years.

Well, we reconnected at the wake and soon began our new tradition: journeying to the place where our fathers are buried: the National cemetery less than 100 minutes from our respective homes. A navy man like his WWII veteran father (who had died one month before mine), my old pal had served in Vietnam. His wounds, I learned in time, were not visible ones.

Vincent's aunt's late husband had a long five year hitch in the army during the "Big One" like his brother-in-law and had worked with him and my Dad. And Vincent's wife served too, but "only"on the home front, caring for her ailing mother-in-law after raising two children. She succumbed to cancer between the occasions of her in-laws deaths and while but a "rookie" grandmother with her first little one too young to remember her. They are all sleeping at the edge of a beautiful section of long rows of white gravestones close to trees, a bench and no more than a scant couple of dozen yards from each other.  My Dad is several minutes away in a newer section, a sun drenched field that recalls his love of the summer and our small garden. It seems larger than Vincent's family's section, with the trees younger and fewer. Dad's grave's centrality reminds me of his many hardworking years, the natural center of attention in a store pulsating with action, commerce and the many customers he served with unstinting attentiveness, humanity and humor.

There are six other graves that we visit. Returning from Dad's, a five minute stroll brings us to the one of my brother's friend, a fellow poet resting, like Vincent's people, on the edge of a section and like all of them, in sight of the occasional turkey, deer or even a mole.  If civilian habits of our great Civil War were revived and modern federal regulations changed, one could picnic in these fields of stone, the serenity and pastoral ambience most conducive to relaxation, meditation, the sharing of bread and the enjoyment of good company. In any circumstance, as visitors we are always welcome; our loving hosts ever patient, obedient and sounding boards for our recollections, our fondest stories of mirth and of the idiosynchratic doings of each of them.

Next, there's my Uncle Angelo who served between the big mid-century wars: WWII and Korea, much of his Army hitch while stationed in that former colony of Japan and then soon to be most sullen land of interminable internecine agony and enmity. He too is on the very corner of a shaded section, a pleasing distance from the road with a bench also near his remains. Just beyond are many tall bushes affording privacy and comfort. Some of the many surrounding tombstones catch one's eye inevitably, as in all the sections…. young men, never to grow old, or taken in the fullness of their years like Dad. So many stories are there, forever untold to us, only hinted at by the birth and death years, the war in which they served, the rank, the medals awarded, and sometimes an epitaph, almost always too brief. After Angelo, we approach a section near the entrance/exit of the huge burial ground. Here are four graves. The parents of a girl that I was hopelessly smitten with nearly half a century ago rest near its northern border. I don't recall how I learned of these plots. The first year that Vincent and I traveled here, the mother was alive. Then she availed herself of the choice, as all spouses of veterans can and most do: to rest beside their beloved. I met the father once. He was kind,"old school" and like Dad and five of my uncles who served, a member of "The Greatest Generation". He was also not sure why I had introduced myself to him one day on his doorstep nearly thirty years ago. I quickly became unsure as well and stifled a strange anger while shaking his hand and mumbling my regards to him as well as his long married, long moved away daughter. I never troubled him again.

Last on our list are my godparents. Another Navy man, rather, a proud member of the Seabees was my convivial, stern, yet affectionate uncle, a bus driver with a booming voice that served him well after the war as a sergeant in the Army Reserves as well as on crowded public buses in New York city. His death marked the first family interment in this cemetery nearly a quarter century ago. The markers then were, and in that section remain, large brass rectangles nearly flush with the grass. I recall that my Uncle Damiano's first name was misspelled and uncorrected for a couple of years after first displayed. It was but a brief indignity for his proud shade; the wonderful happenstance (or did he view a brochure with a map bearing street signs of the new military graveyard?) of the lane running close by his tomb named for his boyhood hero Theodore Roosevelt still brings a smile to my lips when approaching his grave, knowing how proud this would (or does) make him. My aunt died ten years after her husband and they both made the very long journey from their home in Pennsylvania to this melancholy and tranquil spot, a place staked out because of my uncle's yearning to break free, despite his love of family, and to rest near his wartime buddies: a new family that he and his childless bride chose to keep close to their hearts, a tribe formed and nurtured when their marriage was young and a terrible war separated them soon after they exchanged their vows.

We never come empty handed. Vincent gathers his wife's favorite flowers from their backyard and whatever else is in season, always more than enough for each grave marker. Infrequently, I bring what I have from Dad's garden and we distribute them to adorn all eleven graves: small zinnias, marigolds, "snowballs" or hydrangeas, peace roses, colonial roses and others. Vincent supplies fronds of evergreens and holly in the Christmas season from the big trees near his driveway.  One would like to stay much longer. The exigencies of time and distance are almost always pressing and our reveries and remembrances are predictably abbreviated. But again, they, our hosts, are there each time, welcoming and uncomplaining, never with a grievance or a hurt feeling for our absence or its length as we grieve each time, the depth of our feelings varying but our prayers and love never fading like the cut flowers or the sunlight of our winter trips. Once we lingered, caring not about traffic, life's necessary errands, irritants of bills, bureaucracy, worries of the timeliness of pending appointments, and countless other responsibilities of our often tedious days. Time did not seem to matter on this occasion and a dreamless sleep struck me as enchanting, while a calm collection of our thoughts was soon equally appealing and believed attainable. It will all end here someday, with or without a morbid viewpoint regarding the matter.  It can be depressing or relieving, depending on one's frame of mind and/or inclination to be calculating or reflective. Vincent will, in fact, be interred here, joining his wife someday. It would be very wonderful, in an indescribable way, to be able to join Dad under his tombstone reading "Sa Benedic" (his greeting in Sicilian whenever he met his parents) and the terse "BSM" and "PH" for his most important awarded medals . But having never served, I must search for another resting place. What could be greater than a place to call home, one close to my parents? My epitaph may refer simply to my joy or sorrow, depending on the distance of my bones from theirs.

The Coming Civil War

The government is "shutting down" in a few minutes. That's what news broadcasters have been warning me all day. The almost constant ambience of crises in American politics in recent years is something that one could easily become inured to, especially as no sky (a la Chicken Little's hysterical world view) has apparently crashed down upon our heads up to and including, for the moment, now.

When the posturing, fault-finding, jockeying for advantage and other often dissembling maneuvers have been spent and revealed to be unprofitable as genuine balm for our national wounds, where do we go?  The age old assumption that compromise is the only road worth traveling upon may be called into question, when good will makes itself scarce and dark motives are relentlessly imputed to those whose favored policies are despised. "Let's disagree without being disagreeable" is another chestnut we cling to as some of us wax nostalgic for a supposed gentler time.  The recollections may be clouded by wishful thinking. Contentious doings have unceasingly been a part of human affairs, especially those involving national policies. There come however, cyclically, times when socio-political and cultural balances are upset, particularly when flux is the norm and disaffected groups sense an opportunity to challenge established ones.  The radicalizing of political views in America is unmistakable. Since the dawn of the century resentments have grown along with frustrations.  At that time a glib and adroit politician was completing his last year in the White House. He blew off an impeachment the year before and his would-be executioners chafed from the coitus interruptus of the affair (the political one, that is) as the leader of the Free World skated with the mathematics of the American Senate on his side. The country's ancient ambivalence about public vs. personal morality and cultural wars that first seriously erupted soon after the assassination of John F. Kennedy were encapsulated by the prolonged crisis (the sex scandal and perjurious statements of the nation's forty second president). Extreme irritation about being denied soon was experienced by supporters of "Slick Willie's" former running mate and would-be successor. Weeks turning into months and a Supreme Court decision proclaiming the election in favor of the Republican nominee, though his narrow victory in the Electoral College had contrasted provocatively with his loss of the popular vote, was more than a sore point for his opponents. An atmosphere charged with the seething cogitations and verbal spitfire of vengeful Democrats as well as of darker elements of the already long inflamed sinistre end of that party's political spectrum was ameliorated only slightly by the indubitable re-election of "Dubya" and the shaky but still solid unity of a nation at war.

The economic near calamity in the closing months of the Texan's second term assured the outcome of the next election, despite a successful "surge" in Iraq and the remarkably thin resume of the mulatto candidate of the Democrats. A seminal election it was. Thoughtfulness, a conservative mindset (in terms of careful, prudent decisions favoring experience over riskiness and the unknown) and an informed, educated sensibility were all in short supply.  No real Conservative (note the capital letter) choice was offered; McCain was a curious hybrid of maverick and establishment politician and proved to be an extraordinarily poor campaigner with infuriatingly collegial debating techniques, highly inappropriate given his opponent who was soon shown to be even slicker than "Willie" but in reality, the most incompetent and/or most dangerous leader in American history.

Fast forward to mid-October of this thirteenth year of the 21st century: the "shutdown" itself has been shut down for several days now.  The Occupier-in-Chief stifled his snickering just long enough to convince the "low information" and considerable portion of the electorate with attention spans of hamsters, of his "above the fray" judicious rule: a complete fiction that his thespian skills still accomplish with the aid of such intellectually challenged citizens and non-citizens alike. There is a nightmarish quality about his ability to prevail. To oppose and defeat his manifestly wrongheaded policies seem at first as challenging as brushing away a fly, but in this dark reverie one's arms are discovered to be leaden and soon even paralyzed. The efforts to stop his pet project: socialized medicine (or "dog food" for all Americans, many hungering for the imagined free ride and "nourishment" of a postponement of sickness and death by an earthly God The Father/Uncle Sam) and any reining in of his uber profligate spending, both fail despite gallant tries against a monolithic Democrat House and especially its Senate manning the high ground much like Wehrmacht forces smugly ensconced atop Monte Cassino and firing downward on The Allies with impunity. This analogy segues with the provocative title of this blog entry.                                                                          

Is a second American civil war approaching? The ill will is there. A recurrent anger is also a reality every election cycle and even oftener, though it is one with varied causes and still diffuse enough to not encourage determined organizing.  The Tea Party is an exception, but not enough Americans are as yet angry enough and perpetual badmouthing and belittling of Taxed Enough Already people by the government controlled (or exceedingly sycophantic) national media has held it somewhat in check (the Big Lie technique and the human inclination to find a convenient scape goat are factors in play here). Folks unfortunately do "shoot the messenger" ("Republicans and T.P.ers are most to blame for the shutdown" goes the mantra) or at least wax ill-tempered, much like one screaming through cheap apartment walls for a neighbor to cease his equally noisy cries, uncaring of the possibility that a homicide (or tyrannical power grab) might be in progress. In short, things would seem to require getting much worse, before intolerance might not "lose the name of action." Our lives are so interwoven with each other's, not because of any tribal kinship, but because of the nature of modern society. This fact also militates, to use a perhaps ironic verb, against armed civilian forces opposing each other or rebelling against any repressions of the current administration. Economic dislocation, extreme inflation or deflation and further suspensions of civil liberties by the government (radical and massive implementation of eminent domain powers for example) could yet light a fuse. Still, unlike our bloody War Between The States of one hundred and fifty years ago, geography neatly congruent with ideological, economic and cultural differences is not as simply bifurcated today. Yes, huge contiguous areas of the West and South form a natural "nation" and the assumed opposing "state" of the Northeast and East coast together with the West/"Left" coast might argue for a plausibly imagined "two Americas" with the latter group a bit like the old East and West Pakistan.

But why would we countenance such a sanguinary sundering or even a bloodless one? Well, the fact that we've "fallen out of love" might be one reason submitted to an imaginary National Divorce Court by either or both sides. Again, the fault lines of our national politics have been especially active in recent decades and so-called progressive elements (the whole range from brown nosed do-gooders to hardcore Bolsheviks) have seen their opportunities large and juicy before them with the election and re-election of the messianic Hawaiian/Indonesian mongrel. Then too, old orders seem about to be upset with the homosexual aggressiveness and the illegal alien cancers on the body politic.  These "revolting developments" as observed by Mr. Chester Reilly, an Everyman comic character of working class values and of America's brief mid-century honeymoon with peace, prosperity and the hegemony of traditional culture, together with modern conservative "culture warriors" such as today's Mr. Bill O'Reilly, spiritual son of Chester but Harvard educated and with a Jimmy Connors-like, delightful, pugilist world view, all could spell RUMBLE.

Combine all the above described animosity with the fecklessness of our politicians and their stomach turning panderings and one cannot rule out power vacuums that could lead to bloodshed, especially as litigious efforts grow less satisfying and other corruptions and delays of justice ("justice denied") frustrate a public beyond its boiling point. And finally, like the urban parking sign on many a homeowner's garage door that reads "Don't Even THINK Of Parking Here", the tinkering with any laws that might weaken the Second Amendment come under that trip-wire category for a huge chunk of our nation's citizens who, thank God, admonish forcefully every day to gun control freaks "don't even THINK about abridging this one (and with their arsenals mutely concurring in this warning to any aspiring secular king or queen)."

Recall, Remount, Retread

Randomly assigned by U.S. Fifth Army Hdqts. in Italy were "names" or radio call signals referring to regiments of the Tenth Mtn. Division. They were "Recall" (85th Reg.), "Remount" (86th Reg.) and "Retread" (87th Reg.).

There are five men whose names I have known for nearly sixty years and whose photographic images I have been familiar with to varying degrees for the same length of time. Four of the five I met at least once while growing up and one man was perhaps my Dad's dearest friend who I always referred to and addressed as "Uncle" by early custom and habit. These men were my father's buddies during the closing months of the Second World War in the mountains and valleys of northern Italy while serving with the U.S. Army's Tenth Mountain Division. The mutual fondness of Dad and "Uncle" Henny spoke to a certain bond that only war and its intense fostering of camaraderie could forge. I perhaps always took all the men's existences for granted and it was not until a fortnight ago that I seriously (and futilely) sought to locate and contact the three whose demises I was not sure of. Now sadly, I am. News of a reunion for veterans (and mostly descendants) of this division of the Army next month spurred my search.

All of them were a part of the Infantry, Detachment 2680th Hq. Co. attached to the 10th Mtn. Div. Hq. Co. and with the exception of my Dad were all either foreign born and/or of German extraction. Because the men were all part of G-2 or M.I.S. (Military Intelligence Service) and their chief duties included work as interpreters, interrogators and translators of captured enemy personnel, civilian refugees and their personal property (diaries especially), a working knowledge of German and/or Italian were obvious assets and hence it was not by chance that these men were proficient in these languages. "Uncle" Henny was born in the Bronx of German immigrant parents, Fred had been born in Germany at the dawn of the Weimar Republic, Adolf (who understandably preferred the nickname "Al") was also born there several years later while Gerhard was born in the last year of the German Empire (1918). Stephan, a.k.a. "Big Steve"was a native of Poland and my father was the only other native born American and only one born to Sicilian immigrant parents in Manhattan.

They were all really part of our extended family, especially Henny, whom my family visited and was visited by regularly for nearly thirty years after the war. "Big" Steve came to our home when I was still a pre-schooler and I remember distinctly thinking that a friendly giant was our guest. Exchanging Christmas cards with them, including Al and Fred, helped to reinforce our memories of them and familial ties.

There is an expertise in a field called psycho-photography. Like handwriting analysis or the art and science of body language, photos tell a tale that the learned can reveal. My estimations are just hunches, but they're educated ones. The photographs that I possess of my father and his friends are ones that speak of men purposeful and contented. I know the basic history of the war and these are comrades in arms who, to use the modern parlance "have each other's backs." Loneliness and doubt are non-existent (well, they're easily suppressed thanks to the strength afforded by friendship's power) and this despite a dedicated foe and the ever present threat of mayhem and death. Perhaps they are inured to the conflict. Destruction is wreaked daily by their side against the enemy. The end is inevitable and the victory is envisioned if not yet at hand. One photo shows my Dad (in the middle) and Al and Henny in particularly relaxed poses; so much so that they're perhaps not poses. The foliage about them is especially leafy and their smiles are broader, more relaxed than other similar snaps. Al is even playfully reaching out behind Dad's back to attempt a pat of Henny's prematurely balding pate. My guess is that the war is already over and summer, in more ways than one is nearly here. But the other photos tell also of affection but of a determination with hostilities not yet ended. In one, my father is exiting (or entering) a jeep with his Lt. (Gerhard) and though perhaps posed, it seems a polite pause for the photographer as their visages tell of business still pending and the date written in Dad's hand on the reverse which reads "March 1945" confirms that Axis forces are still operating somewhere nearby and are perfectly capable of causing trouble however battered they may be (arguably a glaring understatement given the then recent, now famed battles of Riva Ridge and the slaughter then yet to be in April's heartaches).

I guess my favorite photo is that of my father interrogating a captured Italian prisoner (reportedly the first one) on 29 January of '45 (a soldier of Mussolini's puppet state: the Republic of Salo). Growing up, this image was so matter-of-fact for a pre-schooler's understanding ("that's Daddy working while in the Army"). His non-threatening style, whether relating to a refugee or a prisoner, is evident in this shot and it was a great part of his success with friends, foes, civilians and commanding officers alike.  Only the passage of so many decades and the receding of memories of my aging "boomer" generation as well as those of the Greatest Generation (or their now approaching eradication as primary sources of history whether by advanced senescence or death) alerts me now to the preciousness of this and other images from that seminal era in world history.

What Al, "Uncle" Henny, Fred, "Big" Steve, Lt. Bromberg and Dad taught me was this: heroes don't usually come home to brass bands, confetti, and Medals of Honor placed around their necks or with offers for work in Hollywood or on television (with absolutely all due respect and love for the late, great Audie Leon Murphy). They come home (if they are lucky) in relatively good health: the same normal set of biceps, same non-Herculean physiques, with most of their hair, even if grayer, familiar (if wearier) smiles and the quiet ardor for the continuation of the life they had led. Scars, both visible and invisible (the latter surely immutable) attest to the thievery of at least some of the "best years" of their lives. But this return to "normalcy" and the willingness of most of our men under arms to give their assent to life again and the now realized prayer for peace, is another aspect of their true heroism and yet another gift to a grateful land.    

The Trouble With Water

We like water.  It's so luxuriating (though no cost may be involved) to immerse one's self in say, a sparkling, clear, blue-green lagoon surrounded by a tropical atoll on a beautiful, warm and sunny day. Gulping clean, cool water to slake a powerful thirst: this too is most desirable and lovely for the easily discomfited human body and soul (the physical pleasure is such that it can be indistinguishable, if the deprivation has been of such duration and intensity, from a spiritual "high"). Of course, water's attraction goes considerably beyond likability. We may very well have emerged from the depths eons ago, and so fundamental to life, and in so many ways, are the oceans, streams, lakes, rivers, rains, etc. that we enjoy, that one would be equally too blase to "like" water as to casually acknowledge a fondness for the air we breathe.

Nonetheless, water, like atomic energy, food and sex, can be taken for granted, abused or in many cases, is abusive towards us. Obviously, flooding comes quickly to mind as one of life's recurring miseries for many challenged by a slightness of elevation of geography and/or one's residence's climate's propensity for precipitation. Then too, there is the "nuisance of drowning", as some wag put it.  Something so lovely that again, embraces and envelops our smoldering corporeal selves with a deeply soothing refreshment on a blistering August day can deliver us to the promised land in an instant, choking and suffocating our oxygen deprived lungs with way too much of its "good thing" qualities.

Something as highly prized as any other natural resource that can enrich a man, water has been the driving force behind many a human endeavor both noble and perhaps too often, ugly. The mystery of the underlying plot of the film Chinatown is revealed near the picture's denoument.  It's all about water, the legal rights to it and the illegal, greedy and deadly actions and intrigues that men perpetrate to own and control it. The French film Jean de Florette similarly depicts this sordid aspect of our fallen natures with an astonishing intensity that reminds us that concepts such as poetic justice and/or divine retribution had perhaps best not be discounted or snickered at. The mock baptism of one of the film's characters by another to celebrate their ill-gotten control of a secret spring seemed to set the stage for heaven's eventual wrath.

The majesty of water and the fact that we incline toward not grouping it in the pantheon of traditionally cherished examples of material wealth, but as an instrument for obtaining them is instructive of our tendency to fall short of appreciating many things of natural and true value. That which typically impresses: fame, fortune, power, gold, diamonds, beautiful objects, fancy supercharged automobiles, mansions, yachts and the adulation, esteem or fear of others, these are the objects of our hollow affections. An episode of the early 1960s television drama series The Twilight Zone brings into sharp focus the final triumph of water as our truly but neglected beloved, bar none.  After latter day burglars/ Rip Van Winkles concoct a scheme to purloin gold bars and stow them in a cave in a remote desert while lying nearby in above ground glass coffins (made comatose for a century by a mysterious potion), their plan seems to have born fruit upon their awakening. In short order, their unremarkable "dishonor among thieves" and the ravages of the desert sun lead to the group's attrition and increasingly virulent mutual distrust and hatred. When the surviving two yeggs are reduced to one (the penultimate survivor is bludgeoned from behind by one of the gold bars wielded by the weaker, abused final survivor) his debilitated state is buoyed by his envisioned freedom from prosecution and hard "earned" wealth. All too soon the great cost of conniving grows greater. Bars of gold are heavy and the last of the water in his canteen leads to exhaustion and delerium. When two late 21st century motorists discover the dying crook he promises them all the remaining gold in his knapsack for just a sip of water. The couple is befuddled by the prostrate man's offering. One then remembers that gold once was highly valued many years before man learned to manufacture it.

The trouble with water is, in the final analysis, really only the trouble with us: ever scheming, ever conflicted by our dual natures and ever restless. A recent ad campaign to sell beer uses a fictional character, supposedly the epitome of cosmopolitan manliness and style who urges viewers to "stay thirsty, my friend." No need to preach this silly sermon to increase sales: thirst of all kinds have and always will rule our lives. If gratitude for water however (itself, and as a metaphor for all our natural treasures), like our daily bread, could grow to the point that other cravings are somehow diminished, a better world might emerge. Still, conservation is forever hard work and the drama of doing or not "doing the right thing" will always be with us whether it's sharing water (and other resources) or projecting the darkness within ourselves onto other tribes or societies. It's a most tricky thing.

Pride, Hide, Vied, Lied, Died

There is an episode of the classic television program of the early 1960s, "The Twilight Zone", in which the two main characters, members of an exclusive upper crust private men's club, place competing wagers over the issue of whether one of them (a young, elegant, patrician, loquacious braggart) can remain absolutely silent for a year's time. The considerably older man is generationally and temperamentally disinclined to like his garrulous fellow club member, but the latter's nattering seems to strike at a very deep chord of loathing and revulsion, especially because of the oldster's passion for peace, quiet and reflection that is the norm at this club's premises, much like a library's or church's much valued silence.

To insure the integrity of the rules of the wager, the young member is placed in a glass enclosure within the confines of the rather large sitting room of the club. Highly sensitive microphones and tape recorders are installed to capture any breaches of the peace, i.e. any sound at all that might escape the lips of the contestant. The bet, $500,000, is mutually vouched for after some suspicious dickering and the period of mounting drama begins with great interest and a dearth of good humor: these men are at war.  Suspenseful music is congruent with the growing tension and the days come and go, telescoped of course for the requirements of the teleplay.

A stately clock is seen in the main drawing room on the final day of the marathon test….To Be Continued

Words At War With Lovers of Thoughtfulness

New expressions, like newborns or anything generationally nascent have, in a sense, always been with us. So, in a way, they're not really new, but just at a stage where they shortly are assigned, by usage and popularity, to the vocabulary of mainstream American English or in some cases are rejected or abandoned by degrees through indifference or the fickle pronouncements of vogue mongers who many of us slavishly kowtow to, though in most cases these manipulators of new lingo are promoters of this junk. The following phrases or expressions have grown in recent years, like unpleasant weeds in a garden. And while they may yet prove to be "plants" not hardy enough to survive until a welcome mat is placed before them by the folks who prepare the O.E.D., their nuisance value is enormous particularly since they are so typically used to express attitudes (a limited collection of them), but all with unpleasant undertones that underscore the zeitgeist in most unappealing ways. And so, like dangerous potholes in a road it is worth warning one about such verbal hazards. Brevity is a chief characteristic (nothing wrong with that, at least on first flush). Exultant emotionalism is another. And dismissiveness, together with a short attention span, are features of these new expressions or rather they echo such mindsets of the great mass of people who use these very dull tools of communication with predictability and numbing repetitiveness.

Here is the list: 1) "Is this great or what?" (Why am I enjoined to ascertain how wonderful a situation is, one that the person experiencing the positive news or event obviously knows the answer to? There's something almost furtive and self-protective about not wanting to indulge in an expression of unbounded joy, as if one has found a diamond ring and is more concerned about the coast being clear of a possible rightful owner). Suggestion: use instead "This is wonderful news. I couldn't be happier."  2) "Whatever!" (Is mentation too exhausting for the person who uses this  mind-deadening word?  The deliberate cloudiness of this unenlightening remark seems to signal supreme indifference that leaves a person at sea regarding what may be an important matter to him/her.  A non-committal remark like this is less desirable than an emphatic rebuke or sharp criticism that, while it might bruise an ego, let's someone know where he/she stands and might lead to enlightenment or clarification that may edify both parties.  But "NO-OOOO!", in the words of the late John Belushi's character on Saturday Night Live, our self-indulgence of demonstrating our world weariness or smugness about our jaded world view is a higher priority than striving for excellent communication with a fellow human). Suggestion: Try venturing an opinion rather than expressing a moodiness reminiscent of one lounging on a couch while yawning in another's face and passing gas.  3)"Shut up!" (That this weatherbeaten expression of rude rejection has developed in many cases into a positive remark, i.e. a simple substitution for "Hey, you're kidding!" is quite amazing.  It seems that the implied violence of the phrase is preserved and calculatedly so. Again, like "Is this great or what?", there is a pessimism and defensiveness, that conveys the wish to remain unharmed by what may prove to be faux good news and so there is a kind of pre-emption that almost threatens the bearer of good news to not taunt by giving such unreliable tidings). Suggestion: use instead "You're kidding me, pal! I can't believe it!" And when your incredulity fades as shock gives way to pleasure, why not say "Gee pal, I appreciate the great news. It was really nice of you to break it to me." 4) "No problem!"(This has long been an irritant that now almost totally dominates telephone conversations, especially during customer service business calls.  There is again, the brevity of assuring all that any reflection or cogitation about the matter or qualms about a product or a service and the shipping involved are totally unnecessary endeavors. In short, "stop worrying and most importantly, stop thinking so that this exchange can end sooner rather than later" and so that the entrepreneur or his agent can get on to another call to enable more orders to be processed and more profits to be made.)  Suggestion: return to the quaint but thoughtful "Oh, yes sir, that is what we shall do to expedite your order and yes, the product will be delivered on or before the date I indicated. Yes, we will attend to that special feature that you requested and I have made a note of the special handling you requested. IF there are any questions that come up, please feel free to call me, Mr. So and So, at this number and my private extension ABC or that of my associate Mrs. Jane Doe at extension XYZ. You are very welcome. It's our pleasure to serve you. Good bye."

Well, I believe I'll say "goodbye" as well. Hopefully, a point or two has been made and received as helpful. The time that is required to express a clear and heartfelt thought is not so great that the above short-cuts are acceptable or as valuable as the tried and true methods that our beautiful English language affords us.  Words are not merely "words." They can enlighten. They can obfuscate. But most importantly, they have the power to delight and to raise our spirits as well as consciouness and increase our knowledge and wisdom. Why deaden that richness of possibilities, i.e. that "nerve", with brain atrophying utterances like "later, dude", "cool" or the afore mentioned examples?  Better to cling to a silence that may be interpreted as studied, rightly or wrongly, but that will not inflict any harm or disappointment, while allowing one's opposite communicant an opportunity to use his/her imagination about your "depth" and contemplative capacities. In other words, "shut up!", in the traditional sense of the phrase.

"Stocked My Heart With Icy, Frigid Air"

Russ Columbo was one of the first crooners on American radio. His talents and efforts seriously rivaled those of Harry "Bing" Crosby, the preeminent vocalist of this genre. Russ was forging a promising career even before the Stock Market Crash of October 1929. His voice's intimate timbre was, like Crosby's, ideal for the new carbon springs microphone and its revolutionary use on the airwaves. He was quite the "hearthrob" and his songs of lost love and other laments of pining Romeos (in fact, he was dubbed the "Romeo of Radio"), ushered in an era where sexuality and celebrity would both strengthen their respective impacts immeasurably and unceasingly, as they have evidently continued to do so, up to the present time. Yet the raucous and libertine zeitgeist of the Jazz Age was abating as Columbo's career was beginning to soar. Exhaustion with the excesses of the post war era's freneticism, disillusionment and suppression of tender sensibilities, allowed for the "sweet" sounds to come to the fore in American music, both among vocalists like Russ and orchestras like Guy Lombardo and His Canadians, Les Brown and His Band of Renown and Paul Whiteman and His Orchestra, to name a few. These groups were really a continuation of the Society orchestras that flourished early in the century and that were so popular with New York's and other urban upper class circles.                                                                                                                                                

But what was the new spirit at the dawn of the Great Depression? The nation's economy was obviously front and center for most, while the totalitarian mindset was beginning to attract more and more persons who tired of democracy's seemingly anemic response to unemployment and poverty. Fascists or bolsheviks: they both were able to push reality away from the minds of many with stirring appeals to darker impulses and quick fixes for our various ailments. Still, a certain gentleness, a feminine spirit, contrastingly seemed to pervade the arts, particularly pop music. Columbo himself, though a sex symbol, seemed to cause more women to want to nurture him rather than be ravished by him. His big hit "I'm Through With Love" (the above title of this blog entry is a fragment of one of the song's lyrics) was like many another in which themes of unrequited love, rejection and the slavery of obsession and other dicta of the libido were the foci of a great number of consumers of musical entertainment. Perhaps the subject of angst, though unremarkably on the minds of so many relative to the basics, such as putting food on the table, was permeating all spheres of life. Then again, there's nothing new or trailblazing about sorrowful love songs. Barbara Allen and Greensleeves tell forcefully of their ancient pedigree. Some songs of the '30s even directly addressed the existential and/or economic pain. Al Bowlly's Twentieth Century Blues and Got The Jitters by Ben Pollack were among them as was of course, Rudy Vallee's As Time Goes By. This one though had an upbeat message that really fit (and hopefully, fits) the American character, namely that the old verities are just that: immutable because they are true and are grounded in something that in some way can melt the most determinedly frozen tickers over time.

Fishing Trips And Hidden Places

A vacation is a time to vacate. Like the emptying of a trash can, a kit bag of troubles, a cluttered mind or a careworn soul crowded with unchanging ways of perceiving reality: all these and more can be lightened and enlightened by a journey on a small skiff to a sunny, summer kissed bay where an off shore zephyr of clean, salty air envelops one and helps forgetfulness remind us how simple and quickly sweet daydreaming can thrive. And all the while nature, so thoroughly, is at the helm while we trick ourselves into supposing that we are masterful sailors or captains of our fate. The thrill really comes as we begin to understand, consciously or not, that something or Someone else is in charge. Sure, we may open the throttle on our outboard with a simple twist of our wrist and we may adroitly zig or zag to avoid a "school" of kelp or negotiate a path safely between pilings under a causeway bridge, but what we have done at root, is to have hitched our maritime "wagon to a star", one that is in truth, some immutable beacon, greater than the lights of all the lighthouses beaming their aid to seafaring men since near the dawn of our time here on this planet, an orb that's three fifths covered by the briny expanse that beckons and repels us with strangely competing powers.

As a child, the joke was never appreciated or even understood. One understood it intellectually as pubescence came and went. But it was not really until the backside of fifty, that the old bromide ("Gee this is great, a beautiful sunny day, water like glass, gentle breezes, my favorite fishing pole, favorite beer, favorite pipe, comfortably padded life preservers and delicious sandwiches….am just going to lay back, maybe sleep, and if the fish don't bite, why things'll be simply perfect!") was comprehended at that "gut" level and that only an old soul could concur with via chuckles aplenty and cries of "amen." And yet, the pulsating drama of the hunt and the call of the unknown (if not the wild) are things never quite dispensed with even when one is an old man. We're ever restless, hard wired to perform and innately inclined toward conquest. Plumbing those depths, whether five feet below the bottom of one's dory or sixty feet down on a deep sea jaunt with diesel fuel, a pitching deck and the added edginess of competing fishermen aboard an inboard party boat, all threatening nausea, well, the tension and mystery of what piscatorial monsters await one's provocations is forever a theatrical phenomenon that only a dead man ignores. There is life under those swells, creatures that do not philosophize, but that kill or are killed in an endless battle royale called survival. The removal of the actual demands placed upon a hunter who is not threatened by hunger (as the last nearly one hundred years have granted Western men), does little to blunt the craving to subdue a fish, to ensnare and thwart his unfettered wriggling and writhing. Others may deride this sport as not worthy of the name, but these are fish, not men that we are catching, unlike the Fisherman from Nazareth. Does a fish feel? May as well ask if it has a soul.

The sense of the universal is upon one while sitting under a broiling sun and open to all of the elements.  And it is there, while seeing as far as the eye can, where gray blue water meets azure sky with enshrouding mists or crystal clarity, and where other kaleidoscopic combinations of color and varying visibilities work their magic. And yet, what is more intimate than being confined to a fragile bark with a fishing buddy and then experiencing the sudden visit from a thrashing beast fighting for its freedom as no other man or beast can hear or see the battle save for a batch of killies trapped in a floating wooden box alongside and attached to our craft with a short, stout knotted rope and perhaps a marauding salt water fly who sinks his "teeth" into one's ankle right through a sweat sock. He seems a kind of miniature fighter plane literally nipping at one's heels and an ally of the finny foe trying desperately to quit one's hated hook.

But feeding frenzies exploited by deceiving anglers always abate sooner or later as time and tides change the environment both above and below the ever changing waters. That aging fisherman's not so secret prayer for no action is encouraged by a becalmed sea, a sun just beginning, almost imperceptibly, to set and a cyclical yearning for peace in his psyche, or is it simply a function of his weariness?

Kosciusko on Social Teas

Characters once abounded in America. A friend who grew up on Long Island's south shore during the second world war and the first decade immediately after it, is of this opinion as well, based on his first hand experiences. He is a natural storyteller and a character himself; his Hibernian heritage perhaps assured both.  More than mischievous, he and his pals each were neither colorless nor cut from the same cloth as are so many automatons of our twenty first century collection of drab cyberspace addicts and tweeting twits. No, Danny and the gang that he gallivanted with had so much to stimulate them and the big, wild world of an America still largely rural, minimally regulated and still untamed by technology and the blandness of today's liberty loathing authorities, was a special place where youthful hijinx and rebellious derring-do could and did flower. With gasoline at mid century just a little over 20 cents per gallon, the roads not yet choked with motorists and the American spirit of innovation and grand schemes of unbridled fun and mayhem given the greenest of lights with the fledgling post war prosperity, the world for these pre-teens and teens was their oyster and they missed nary an opportunity. Drag racing, joy rides, midget car racing, dangerous rides of hanging from trains, the backs of buses, sanitation vehicles, amusement rides made dangerous by flouting safety rules, and elaborate pranks played on older citizens, police and plenty of other unsuspecting stuffy folks or those furtively attempting to conduct their own naughty business, all were fair game for these semi-harmless hooligans. This last group of victims were usually relatively older kids or any adults who, while canoodling, or preferably much more amorously occupied in a Lover's Lane, were assaulted in mid-passion by these miscreants who would pounce by suddenly opening the victim's car door, drag the male half of the horizontally indisposed couple out of the vehicle, further pulling down his already "half-staff" trousers in the process (we'll forego any other allusions communicated by the above compound word). "Gall" does not seem the appropriate or strong enough word to apply to such conduct, but "ballsy" does. Said victims, suitably outraged, would often attempt to throttle these characters, the zeal to accomplish such not infrequently causing them to fail since they typically forgot while in such a state to safely hitch up their pants first; the results were predictable and ego-crushing, if only rarely seriously injurious.

But less antagonistic demonstrations of character abounded in those bygone days as well. Poverty, isolation and again, minimal intrusions by do-gooders: each played a part in this, no doubt. A man could eke out a living gathering, pushing (and eventually selling) stacks of newspapers in an abandoned baby carriage, those big four wheeled jobs that seemed capacious enough for three toddlers to romp in. Such a man (am remembering one infirm, unshaven old guy in my neighborhood with ratty black woolen suit jacket and unmatching dun trousers, who limped on a clearly deformed limb, and with an Andy Capp styled hat upon his gray head), could walk (or shuffle) as long as he was willing or able with no social worker or authority from an agency for the homeless interfering with his enterprises. Beggars were once authorized in New York. Before the second world war, my grandfather would be regularly greeted in his fruit and produce store by a man in a rumpled suit displaying a mendicant's license who would remove his battered fedora and promptly receive a dime from Nonno. This happened each and every time he and his tin cup showed up at regularly spaced intervals.

Oddballs were often encountered in Automats, those exciting fast food restaurants in the Manhattan of yore that were almost militantly democratic with their great popularity, technological novelties and very affordable prices. A fellow, down on his luck, could linger of a mid-winter's evening at a table with yesterday's newspaper and a hot bowl of "tomato" soup. The soup was free since the water was simply hot tap from a spigot for tea and one of the table's standard condiments, catsup, was readily at hand. A few crackers completed the "luxury" meal. Once I spied a guy happily imagining the life of a gourmand as  the "crackers" with his hot meal were the very dignified "Social Tea" cookies, perhaps a gift from some  nearby swell that he slathered repeatedly with globs of brown mustard from the shiny white earthen little pot with the lid/stopper, another regular amenity on every Horn and Hardart dinner table. Maybe it was Gulden's brand or Bauer's, but the dark grainy texture calls to mind the very tasty latter day Kosciusko that was especially available by the mid-'80s when Plochman bought the famed Polish name. In any case, brown mustards of more than half century ago were associated with exciting, exotic repasts, i.e. very grown-up gastronomy and not at all pedestrian like the bright yellow condiments we dutifully ate and that Mom smeared on our bologna and white bread school day sandwiches.

But what made for a genuine character? Memorable, idiosyncratic folks, those who did things from the wellspring of their individuality: these persons might qualify for such a designation. A lack of formal education was a factor too. Societal "sanitizing" by the "use your fork in your left hand while cutting your meat with the knife in your right and then switch and use the fork with your right hand to bring the food to your mouth" crowd was not yet as successful and widespread in its missionary work to make uniform the behavior of their benighted and less fortunate (or so they were deemed) fellow pilgrims. Folks left to their own devices, either by again, geographic isolation, temperament or an intelligence bereft of sophistication or gadgetry, produced results, both interesting and unique. Folk art comes to mind.  In the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn there was a fairly ornate concrete bench festooned with chunks of colored glass and bits of a wide variety of tiles that formed a kind of mosaic design embedded in this particular outdoor "furniture" on display in a front yard along Metropolitan avenue. The carefully gathered pieces installed across the bench's back formed the words "New York World's Fair 1939." Alongside the space was the artist's home and it too was partially covered, like a not so modest tattoo, going up a portion of one side of the building, with similar material and was equally arresting to the eye.  Further south, in Sheepshead Bay, there once was an automobile parked publicly near where I used to work. The car was one of those late '60s American muscle cars, a Chrysler product: long, low and yet not very stylish, but it silently spoke of power and swagger.  The owner clearly loved the vehicle, but it was also clear that he had limited means for restoring the then thirty or so year old car.  He did what he could with elaborate homestyle paint jobs every year.  To preserve the chassis as best as he was able, the paint was applied thickly with numerous oil based coats of a smokey orange that was dabbed all over to include the bumpers and chrome as well. It seemed to be wrapped in a cocoon of paint and it proclaimed the individuality of its owner with a certain intensity if not beauty.

Individualism lives. It has been battered by many forces in the current Dark Ages, but it trudges on.  As long as the American, nay, the human spirit has corporeal beings to animate and bring to life its imaginings and yearnings, the "nuts", "kooks" and colorful characters will be with us. It's a comfort and an encouragement.

On A Street In 1957

The leaves were matted near the curb. The recent downpour left other traces of debris, dog poop being the most nearly disintegrated of them, happily. Generally, the landscape was freshened and a sense of renewal was in the air. This was my neighborhood: no longer semi-rural perhaps, as a 1938 brochure extolling the virtues of the surrounding environment of the then new Boulevard Gardens apartment complex in North Woodside described it. No, this was Woodside, just past mid-century: visually and in fact, more industrial than ever before, stable, conservative (though we didn't know it), with its residents descendants of Scots-Irish, Irish, German-Americans, a sprinkling of W.A.S.P.S., Ashkenazi Jews, and other assimilated folks or those aspiring mightily to be so, from many other European lands as well, especially Italians, Poles and Greeks, blue collar folks, artisans and laborers, few "eggheads", all proud Americans, nearly all Caucasian, moral, God-fearing (and the very few atheists, homosexuals, beatniks and generic troublemakers knew to keep their traps shut) and most especially, hopeful.

This particular day was like many another. Frying onions, i.e. their odor wafting through hallways of walk-up apartment buildings was familiar and comforting. Children playing on stoops or venturing near the curbs, some shorn of their locks, silently told of the presence of ringworm in some residences and families. The appearance of a 1952 Topps baseball card, like the slightly torn one of journeyman "Chisox" hurler Lou Kretlow that I found in an empty lot near the Northern boulevard Independent Subway station, was not an uncommon or unpleasant occurrence for a rabid collector of these little works of art mounted on neat cardboard rectangles and fragrant, if new, with the sweet dusty residue of pink chewing gum.

The growing urban landscape included small factories and a burgeoning volume in traffic that was the fruit of the full re-tooling for a peacetime economy that the auto industry and other titans of industry and government strove for and welcomed. Peacetime prosperity was a reality despite a bitterly cold Cold War. The afore mentioned empty lot along with others, though they were a kind of endangered species, coexisted with the factories, auto repair shops, food processing plants, tool and dye establishments, etc., much the same way that horse drawn wagons, while dwindling numerically, made their peace with the horseless buggies that became increasingly speedier, larger and more numerous by the close of World War I.

But what of life on this street on this newly sunny late morning, a cold spring one that made my flannel Roy Rogers shirt feel oh so, welcome against my skinny ribbed torso? As I walked past parked cars with their split windshields, some with the new wraparound style and triangular little vent windows, I didn't notice of course, the empty spaces between many of them, the non-existent curbing along some sections of the street or the lack of signs informing drivers of alternate side parking regulations; these were all things yet to be. And there was no sense of how fleeting time could and would someday become. A grade schooler like me only pondered the moment's concern and wondered what Mom had packed in his brightly painted lunchbox with Davey Crockett's image on it. Was the chocolate milk in the thermos remembered? The evening meal may as well have been decades into the future as far as my catalogue of thoughts could tell, though in really just an instant (as an aged one's perceptions of the clock's all powerful ticking could reckon), my next door neighbor's mother would project her cry half way down the street: "Supper's on the table!" Like the latter day characters in Our Town, my observations of the ghosts of my youth are inevitably filled with uber-emotional wistfulness and the indescribable sense of fragility and awareness of the exceedingly transitory nature of persons and events that were then unquestioningly believed to be as solid as Gibraltar and as unchanging as the Kingdom of God.

This day I saw "Big" Mike for the first time. They had told me about him. The frightened whisperings of juvenile tongues pre-disposed toward the thrill of seeing bogeymen had colored utterly my understanding of him. Someone screamed "run!" and I sprinted away toward the safety of other adults whose faces I knew and who did not drag their legs or stare ahead with bulging eyes embedded in a face crimson and twisted with wisps of white down above jug ears. Still, it was his street too. And life on it was no doubt quite different for him than it was for us little ones, ambulating with abandon and quite oblivious to the fact that Mike once ran as we did. When most of us could only crawl or were fetuses in our mothers' bellies, or like the youngest of us, just zygotes, "Big"Mike first became a monster and not as "Big" as those who loved him and remembered he was. A cerebro vascular accident, as the old-time doctors in Woodside termed it, had left him with his speech badly slurred and that big left foot scraping one of his once shiny black shoes across the pavement. They were shoes that he used to proudly wear along with his double rowed brass buttoned policeman's dark blue tunic and sharply pressed trousers. At the dawn of mid-century he also did not hold one of those withered arms uselessly against his chest and his flashes of Irish temper were not horrific wailings, but lightning strikes of anger happily married to a wink and a flash of wit of a seemingly undying mind. Then too, until the stroke he could twirl a nightstick with the dexterity of a teen bound for glory as a juggler or a crackerjack Las Vegas card dealer. When most of our parents were also just beginning their journeys, Mike had, on a Chelsea corner dimly lit by a solitary gas lamp, taken a bullet in the line of duty that penetrated a bicep, but that youth and grit shook off and that made a wiser and stronger cop in mind and body. He was a good man. Many of us did not learn this until years after the cessation of those inadvertent hauntings.

Yes, the only bad man on our street was really just a sick man.  Juvenile delinquency though was the new obsession of newspapermen, the purveyors of pop culture and Hollywood moguls. There was money in depicting youthful rebellion or worse. Yet gum chewing in school was still the no.1 concern of educators with the lull between the fright over "Reefer Madness" in the '40s and the spread of "weed" in the mid-'60s just that: a hiatus before the emerging tumor of the drug culture. This interlude was real, however short-lived it proved to be. Teenage gangs were in reality, pubescent folks just hammering out social rules of engagement as they naturally sought their "place in the sun" distinct from children as well as adults. We had such a gang. They never harmed anyone and their desire to "rev" a jalopy's engine, preen before members of the opposite sex and display varsity jackets (uniforms of identity and belonging), carry or have carried school books by one's "steady", were as revolutionary as they got. No need to pretend: as in all human communities, there were real problems. Some girls did "get into trouble" and the less than mature judgment of the teen male, especially behind the wheel of an internal combustion engine vehicle, resulted in many a tragedy, no different than today. But these incidents were fewer, more remarkable and deeply regretted than today's brutal atmosphere of unabating violence, promiscuity and moral ignorance, if not bankruptcy. Creativity and tenderness….art in short, grew on this street as well. It took the form of music: yes, rock and roll, especially the doo wop stylings of acapella all-male groups harmonizing in the alleyways separating our apartment buildings and semi-detached houses. Complex rules of playtime were other manifestations of fertile young minds, the ones not yet made dizzy by pubescence. There was hopscotch, scully, boxball, punch ball, ringalerio and other diversions in our little busy world of socializing, budding grown-ups.

The most significant fact about existence then and there is one that contrasts sharply with reality on the same block today, nearly six decades, eleven presidents and nine or so wars later. Your neighbor and yourself were not only known to each other, but each other's offspring knew that they were answerable to each other's parents, i.e. all adults. Oh, of course there were exceptions. The eccentric old bachelor or the chronic inebriate down near the corner was not in "the loop" about group parenting. But by and large, ours was a block of families, with sizable numbers of small fry clogging the pavement or shouting and carrying on in backyards, the empty lots and the nearby schoolyard, their controlled chaos kept on this razor's edge of civilization by watchful loving eyes of mature men and women who knew the kind of world they had and the kind that they wanted to keep and it was a world permeated by love and structure, meaningful and committed to a future of upholding traditions and mores of beloved ancestors, but one determined to expand peace, prosperity, knowledge and especially to spread the distilled wisdom of liberty, education, good old American innovation and good humor. It is a street that is no more.

The Tortured Tree

I knew a lady who painted portraits of her children and grandchildren, as well as landscapes, seascapes and occasionally impressionist and still life paintings. She clearly had talent, but it had been thwarted initially, by a backward and myopic father who died only weeks too late to not deny her the acceptance of a scholarship and attendance at a prestigious and excellent art institute of learning while still in her teens. This particular injury to her opportunity and future was irrevocable when added to circumstances such as economic demands, marriage, children and all the other usual responsibilities of these realities together with running a household and helping with the family business. But like a healthy and vigorous plant not permitted the proper sunshine and nutrients to its surrounding soil, she grew in spite of these shackles that, rather than dragging her down, made for a more interesting and remarkable living thing, i.e. her art, its twisted form triumphing through the fruits born of its own special trial and tribulations. Yes, she neither became another O'Keefe nor a Cassatt, but the purity of her art and wounded but undefeated purpose allowed her to abide. Over the years, with no bitterness detected by me or anyone who ever knew her, the results of her labor were somehow more beautiful objects of beauty precisely because of strictures and oppressions.

We have all seen the indomitability of nature. The mimosa trees growing wildly up against chain link fences in my father's backyard for many years, uncomplainingly produced what was their collective destiny with the intimate aid of photosynthesis and blessed rain. That is, hardy wooden trunks grew through and around the iron links and anything akin to a description of the sight as those of somehow crippled vegetation or a perversity of nature, compared to a freely growing tree, misses the mark and fails to see the drama of constraints and how human nature as well as that of simpler forms of life courageously strive and overcome.

Sewage Supreme or The Dirty Half Dozen

John Edwards, Bob Filner, Mario Lopez, Mark Sanford, Elliott Spitzer and Anthony Weiner are all men who did or do hold public office and either did or do continue to remain in or aspire to elective office in state, local or national politics in the United States of America in this, the thirteenth year of the twenty first century. What do they have in common?  They all have been accused of and revealed to have been involved in immoral and unfaithful behavior related to their unchecked libidos.  Except for Edwards and possibly Lopez, a.k.a. "Grope-ez" (he of the perhaps slowly dawning self-awareness due to his age and  sudden unemployment) these men are adjudged by this blogger to be ethically challenged narcissists in continued denial who therefore are unwilling or unable to remove themselves from the public square and whose fragile inhibitions are neither nourished nor encouraged by a growing portion of the electorate that has increasingly demonstrated itself to be morally obtuse and similarly disinclined to consider self-control about its own promiscuity.

The time has long since passed that one needs to preface any condemnation of sexual indiscretions with the defensive assurance to the reader that one is not a puritan.  The ethos of the 1960's ("free love", the championing of non-judgmental ways and the constant urgings to "do it if it feels good') has held sway for far too long in America.  Allying itself with the "New Morality" of that era of counter-culturalism is really now, what one may safely identify as the "Old Immorality." In Weiner's case he has repeatedly lied about his "sexting." When his dissembling was revealed, and only then, did he come clean about these activities. Resignation from national office did not come easily for the former congressman. Two years after he did agree to step down, he began very recently, a renewed campaign for the mayoralty of what was perhaps the greatest city in the world, New York. We were assured that his rehabilitation was complete and that he was ready, in the dreary parlance and empty sloganeering of Democratic Liberalism to "move forward." Speedily it was announced that other "sexting" incidents occurred AFTER he had resigned his office. With equal alacrity Weiner called a press conference and rationalized all of his behavior with a wife by his side who chimed in with her own little apologia for why, in effect, Anthony was not deeply disturbed and did not deserve to be denied a chance to become the next mayor of the very wormy "Big Apple." Neither was convincing, but their ambitions and again, the weakness of the objections to his deeply flawed character keeps the unpleasantness of his continued presence in the public consciousness alive, like a hopefully dying rat that is for the present, too strong for the particularly weak dose of vermicide, i.e. opprobium that it has ingested.

When Bill Clinton avoided removal from the most powerful office in the world in 1999 for his perjurious acts growing out of his illicit sex life, it marked a milestone in the nation's cultural climate. While our traditions about privacy and the almost religiously held view about the inviolable bifurcation between public service and one's personal life were then and are now as strong as they ever were, the Clinton scandal inoculated, for the first time, other and future politicians from the fear of "infection" caused by repulsive behavior. In short, the negative consequences of indulging one's appetites receded to the point that there increasingly became no consequences. Routinely, more and more offenders paid lip service to traditional sensibilities by remarking that they had taken "full responsibility" for their actions and that they had, at the very least (and it was all too often demonstrated to be the very least of their peccadilloes), "exercised poor judgment", as if their transgression was no more than that of a mediocre outfielder who didn't account for the sun's rays while unsuccessfully trying to settle under a pop fly.

But conjoined with this behavior that many dismiss as just "naughty" comes a more systemic nastiness that one is inclined to view as not just coincidental. In the case of Spitzer, there is no great debate about his penchant for arrogance. He in fact, evinces a certain pride in his past behavior that he no doubt views as heroic, i.e. that of a "kick ass" reformer whose self-description early in his aborted gubernatorial term of office was that of a "f--king steamroller." More than a few other incidents point to  the gracelessness of this man, including the "Troopergate" issue and his vindictiveness in other areas.

The vileness and mental cruelty of Edwards towards his dying wife is well documented and Weiner's combativeness along with his self-destructive sexting nonsense reinforces what former Mayoy Giuliani once said of him not long after the former congressman first appeared on the national scene: "there was always something wrong with Anthony."

Well, the ancient saw is true. As our politicians are democratically elected "we get the leadership that we deserve." Do we really want to be deserving of morally feculent and bankrupt leaders? As software operators and others in the early days of computers warned those seeking excellence and accuracy from dubious facts and data: "garbage in….garbage out." The flotsam and jetsam on the seascape of our political world cannot endlessly be cleaned up and removed. The hubris that asserts that these "oceans" cannot become irretrievably polluted is a risky mindset akin to the conduct of these pathetic yet dangerous men.