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)."
Monday, September 30, 2013
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, September 2, 2013
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.
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.
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