The Land of the Lost

I’m not the smartest person in the room. I have often disagreed with what those in power - on both sides of the political spectrum in this country - are doing with that power. I know that Donald Trump won the presidential election, unequivocally and undeniably. 

AND… there is an awful lot that concerns me right now for the future safety of my friends on all sides of every issue that we could bring up. And I’m not just talking about my more liberal, left-leaning friends. 

I’m not into debating whether what’s happening will ultimately be for the greater good or disasterous. I simply don’t believe that a “little pain” equates to a relatively short timeframe of economic discomfort and political rearranging that winds up  (or down) with things in a better place for those of us in my portion of the federal tax bracket.

Honestly, I fear for the direction things are heading - for all of us. You may laugh it off and think that you understand what we are in for; more power to you… I hope that you’re right. Because at the end of the day, what is actually better - in reality - for 95% of you - is probably also better for me. Except that I already disagree with much of the means to whatever end is in store. 

The thing that worries me most is that I don’t believe that anybody truly knows what we are in for. We’re like the family on that raft in The Land of the Lost - heading towards that waterfall. I can hear the intro music playing in my head.  

Find your “Dopeys” and your “Cha-Ka’s” now, because sooner than we all think, the “Grumpy’s” and the “Sleestaks” might be running amok outside your cave. That analogy might apply to more of us than anyone reading this post believes. 

And maybe I’m completely full of shit and my concerns are baseless. I hope so.

Memories: Opinion on reactions to “American Sniper.”

***

Memories: February 4th, 2015

Some of the topics discussed below are dated now, but the opinions are still the ones I hold about so much of where we as a nation have found ourselves recently on the international stage. 

I don’t often comment on many political things these days; I did more often back in 2015. The Iraq War and its repercussions are topics with which I feel I have some level of expertise and experience which qualify me to share my opinions. 

“Several sad observations from a liberally-minded ex-military member... I was amused by the response of some liberals who criticized the movie "American Sniper" for not highlighting the wrong-headed premise for going into Iraq in the first place. 

As a military member, your job is to do your best to come out alive and to keep your colleagues in arms alive, to the best of your ability, while trying not to cause undue harm to innocents. By the time forces are sent in to fight, it does not make sense to ask a sniper to question the bigger picture in each moment of life or death struggle. 

Now we see in Iraq a development that justifies boots on the ground, but due to past choices, we are politically hamstrung, and financially impotent even in Europe, where old-style Russian thinking threatens while leaders have been hiding their heads in the sand. 

The lesson of Iraq is one of choosing your battles, and of how choosing the wrong ones can force the hands of politicians and young men and women for generations. We should be fighting ISIS on the ground, but we wouldn't be facing that threat in its current form if we'd just stayed in Afghanistan in 2003.  

So much of what we see today in the Middle East could have been circumvented if we would just have had a backbone in our dealings with Israel over their illegal settlements and crimes against humanity aimed unjustly at the Palestinians. We should have supported the protesters in Bahrain. We should have supported the democratic process in Egypt. We should be supporting Ukraine against Russian "separatists." 

We should be supporting the US Constitution against domestic enemies, but our military has become irretrievably intertwined with the biggest domestic enemy of the spirit of that sacred document. 

A great dichotomy exists in the reality that while we are still a great nation, with amazing potential to do good for ourselves and for humankind, in another disturbingly trivialized sense, the terrorists of 9/11, whether inspired by a misguided view of religion or by covert funding, have won a major victory over the "we" that we once were. If you can't see that, then you aren't paying attention. 

End of my soapbox rant for tonight.”

~ as written February 4th, 2015.

***

Betrayed in a dream by the “daud / dhaad / ض"

I had one of my rare but interesting intense, symbolic dreams that feels almost more realistic than real life. 

The world seemed older, maybe not simpler, but more subtle and less technological. In this dream I looked more like a stereotypical male Ivy Leaguer (whatever that is, but definitely thinner and more handsome than I am in real life). I remember buttoning a suit, fixing a tie while looking in the mirror; I had a more narrow, chiseled face, thinner black hair, a dimple, and a smile that was dashing. 

I was either a student in college at some old institution or had just graduated. I remember strolling along under shady, sturdy trees around a sunlit, flower-lined stonewall campus joking casually alongside the no-face man who would soon become my handler. 

We went on a funcation across Europe. We met others of similar educational, socio-economic ilk, enjoyed some fine dining and cultural entertainment opportunities, mostly in dark, ancient, brick and stone cities in Eastern Europe and the Near East.  Next thing I knew in my dream, my life was immersed in lightning paced, jet-setting intrigue.

Somehow we were working to figure out the connections between the terrorists in Southwest Asia / Middle East and Europe. I don’t remember any specifics of what I was doing in my dream when I was off traveling from one country to another, using multiple passports and (apparently) only slightly modified “disguises,” but a couple of things happened that let me in on a bit of what I was up to. 

In a side office of one of the embassies in what might’ve been Belgium, a woman that I thought of as a kindly older (I was in my early 20’s) somewhat frumpy secretary asked me what the government had me up to these days. She asked nicely and with genuine curiosity, but when I said, “oh just trying to wrangle through some minor disagreements and come to terms on totally inconsequential details,” she looked at me hard and skeptically and said, “hmmm...” dismissively. 

Outside her door (we were in some sort of a secure space apparently) one of my colleagues - with a harried look but a glimmer in his eye which suggested he’d also experienced a whirlwind exciting and perhaps treacherous week - stopped me briefly and asked me how many places I’d been to in the last week. I paused and quietly revealed “well, one passport is stamped in Prague, Ankara and Jerusalem, another has me going through Afghanistan, Pakistan and Czechoslovakia, and another has me in London, Paris, and Berlin - so you tell me...” He gave me a knowing look, breathlessly rattled off his list, which included Cairo, Moscow and Baghdad, and then hurried off to some other part of the building. 

At that point, just as I was stepping off towards whatever came next, the secretary from the office shot her arm out of her office doorway, grabbed me by the shoulder, and yanked me backwards until I was standing back in front of her desk with her office door pulled shut. “Minor disagreements and inconsequential details indeed...” We both smiled, me sheepishly, she grimly.

“Now you listen to me, IF you get in trouble, here is my number. You call and tell me you’re coming. Then come straight into my office, walk into this closet, which will be closed and locked.

“Here is a key” (which she handed me) “Walk into this closet and walk right down the stairs. I’ll be waiting at the bottom for you and we’ll get you off to someplace safe. Oh, and lock the door behind you. 

I thanked her and walked out the door. As I was leaving what had been the Belgian embassy building, I exited by a narrow stone stairway directly onto a busy street. There was a boy begging at the base of the steps and I stopped to say hello and to give him some change. Somehow I learned that the boy’s native language was Arabic, so we started speaking Arabic together; in the course of our conversation we both used a word that had the letter “ض" in it. 

I must’ve pronounced the letter more like a “daal” “د" because a kindly old grandfatherly type man, hunched over, wearing a suit and using a cane corrected me politely. He tapped me on the shoulder and spoke humbly,  “beg your pardon sir, it’s pronounced _____ not _____.” His voice was oddly high pitched, nasally, and frail. I smiled and said, “right you are my man - my mistake, thank you, I always mess up the daud words.” I bid them both a good day and went off on my way. (I’ve tried to remember since waking what the daud word was that we used, but can’t quite find it).

Cut in the dream directly to Baghdad now. I’m participating in a meeting of officials and apparently  I’m using an assumed identity of a person who wouldn’t have any business being anywhere near Belgium. I use the same word in the course of casual Arabic conversation that I had used in Belgium with the child beggar. A man in a fine silk suit, standing straight without a cane,  taps me from behind on the shoulder, “Beg your pardon Sir, it’s pronounced _____ not _____.” I smiled and said... nothing. As I turned I could see Saddam Hussein looking directly and sharply into my eyes. I now recognized that he had been the grandfatherly old gentleman in a disguise of his own. I knew in that moment that he also recognized me. His voice was still high pitched, nasally and frail, but this was his house, and I was caught. Betrayed by the ض

Trump, Ticks and Flea Circuses

I had a dream about Trump last night. 

A bunch of administration people or maybe the press pool and I were in a room with him. He had created art that looked like a Rorschach Test. I thought it was a bad attempt at a tarantula, and I said “oh, is it a tarantula?” which was met by uneasy chuckles in the room. He corrected me and said it was actually a tick, which it did, in fact, resemble a bit. 

In my dream the idea of a tick then transformed into a flea,  and Trump was talking about how “you know... fleas are actually talented and admirable,” because "look at all they can do in those flea circuses, even though they're so tiny and everybody just thinks of them as pests..." 

In hindsight, the Rorschach blob looked an awful lot like a coronavirus. I think there might be just a bit of symbolism in this dream.

Ants and Fate

“Fate” is only those currents of history we allow to pass over, through and out from us in our name, without sufficient action to turn the tides. We don’t control fate; we steer it. Like a billion ants gripping spider threads hooked into the skin of the leviathan. Many must pull in unison to change its course. Many are pulling against you. Fate is in your hands, and in the hands of all who will not let go. What direction do you want to go?

Rock Story

*

In the end,
nothing is
inherently worth reaching for.
 
But,
reaching for nothing assures that
you'll attain it.

Even a rock has a story;
it is not completely dead.

Do you want to live
your life
like a rock?

Reaching for something,
anything,
gives that thing value.

It's the reaching
 that makes life
worth the time it takes
for living.

Do you want
to live?

Look
for some
little ledge
or
crevasse
to reach
out to.

Better still,
stretch
out
those
wings

***

Peasants and Civics

*

One can learn a big civics lesson simply by comparing how Western media portrayed Soviet government activities against its own citizens throughout the 1960's-1980's - and how typical Western citizens viewed the "evil deeds" of that communist regime, to how our modern media tends to cover our very own version of similar deeds, justified by very similar arguments - and how our citizens now view that kind of thing here. I remember when I was a kid wondering why Soviet citizens would be so complacent in the midst of it all. I guess the truth is, most of us really just want to be sitting securely in a stable boat with our life jackets securely fastened, even when we suspect that our boat may be headed in the wrong direction. As long as it's floating and we're not running out of rations, we'll make it another day. Good enough for peasants I suppose.

***

Morning Walk in Grand Junction

*

Going back to Grand Junction, Colorado this weekend brought back more than just memories of that particular locale. The air is different here. It is a "dry" desert air, which is immediately reminiscent to me of the few trips I took back to Yuma, Arizona after joining the Air Force. Everyone in Yuma will try to explain the difference in the air by calling it a "dry heat." A phrase which explains much more than the words alone to people who have called the desert home for a while. I would find my way back there for visits home to see my family. The desert has a certain inexplicable appeal to me. It feels like home. Its essence feeds my soul, and brings me back to the earliest roots that I recognize in my soul as being a part of something distinctly "me."

The birdsong was the next distinctive difference that I noticed. In Grand Junction, I was hearing more doves and magpies and mockingbirds than what are usually heard on the other side of the Rockies. The morning air was crisp and cool, but noticeably warmer than in FOCO. The light was more vivid than what the wintery air in Fort Collins has been, and though the town of Fort Collins has so much more to offer than GJ, there is something about the light and the quality of the air in the high desert that still gives me nostalgic pangs of homesickness that perhaps only a true desert rat would understand.

As I was taking the dogs for their initial walk of the morning, looking out towards the lovely and unique topography that makes up Junction's distinctive horizon, I was reminded of many mornings back in the mid-80's when I had first returned to Yuma from Virginia, when would go for an early morning bike-ride hoping to meet up with my childhood mentor and 4-H leader, Dr. Don Tuttle. He would often be out riding his own bike, picking up cans along the way, as he headed over to what would, years later become the riverside park in Yuma. He would work there on cleaning up the trash from what used to be a dumping ground, or to plant some plants that would be attractive in the years to come, when the same site would become a popular destination for locals and visitors alike. Dr. Tuttle was a solid man among what I saw as otherwise crazy and unpredictable men, a calm in the midst of a storm that was my childhood in Yuma, a rock in a sunlit sea of dust and sand.

As the dogs and I continued walking, I saw an older gentleman out in his front yard spraying the weeds in the cracks of his walkway with a small hand-pump sprayer that reminded me of my grandfather's little sprayer in Virginia; he would often be found, at the crack of dawn, out in the back yard, working on his small garden. He loved that little garden, and it showed. He was usually quiet and thoughtful on those early mornings, but he always had a welcoming smile to share, and some humorous observation or another to break the ice, as I found my way to whatever rock, piece of wood, or his dog house that I was about to overturn in my never-ending search for the next exciting insect that would cross my path. He was another wonderful man who I was blessed to have as part of my life as a teenager. He would save his great bits of insight for our many walks to the banks of the James River, and the docks near Appomattox Manor in Hopewell, Virginia. He shared those tidbits of wisdom willingly and readily. I miss that man.

Along the sidewalk, the random appearance of a paper airplane, tumbling over and over in the grass in the morning breeze, brought back vivid memories of my years at Fourth Avenue Junior High School, when I was completely socially inept (not that much has changed...) where I practiced making the most aerodynamic paper airplanes that I could manage, and then would test the different designs by flying them in the perfect breezes that blew across the main courtyard out front along Fourth Avenue. Those planes would often soar to amazing heights for what were, to my 12 year old self, impressive distances.

Funny the random thoughts that find their way into your brain on a simple walk through a neighborhood, in a place where you haven't been for a while. Funny how memories come unbidden, but not unwelcome, to an open mind devoid of worry, when the desert smells, the singing of the birds, and folded bits of paper travel upon the breeze, and land lightly upon the consciousness, decorating the present with little, tiny, colorful fragments of the past.

***

Veterans' Day 2014

 *

The reasons for joining the military are usually more complicated than patriotism, love of country, and sacrifice. The reasons for going to war are usually more complicated than protecting freedom, spreading democracy, and right versus wrong or good versus evil. Someday, we may live in a world where a military is not necessary, and a world where our leaders don't use their military personnel to achieve wrong-minded and immoral goals. We don't live in that world today. With mixed feelings and troubled mental waters around the broader issues, I will say this, the people I knew in the military were the absolute finest sort of people. My time in the military taught me the extent of what is possible in all aspects of life, friendship, loyalty, self-sacrifice, work ethic, determination, goal-oriented-living, success, satisfaction, insight, sadness, despair and loss. I learned so much about the real world in the military, that I would never unmake the choice to join (unless I somehow could've been born with all the knowledge I have now). There are few roles in the world that can take a person into such intense circumstances, where the good, the bad and the ugly are all wrapped up in one flag draped generation's memories after another. The prayer that I have is that we veterans can teach future generations that there is at least as much honor (if not more) in civilians' preventing our leaders from sending men and women to war, when that war is unnecessary or unjust, as there is in military personnel offering their lives when that sacrifice is truly called for.

***

Universal Truth, Goodness, Morality, Justice, Right and Wrong.

*

An unbiased observance of nature, as well as biological and physical systems teaches that while there may be such a thing as a universal "truth," there is no such thing as universal morality, justice, goodness, or even right and wrong. These ideals, where they exist at all, come into being in our lives only where we choose to live according to what is best for the others with which we are in relationship, with whom we share an agreed upon covenant, through a mutual understanding (or at least acceptance) between ourselves and those others whose value we have decided to honor as equally divine.

Without these mutual ties and commitments, whatever is done by an individual is done according to the nature of that entity itself. That is, of course, if we're not assuming the existence of a god or a devil behind the actions of mankind, of mosquitoes, of hurricanes, floods, or the attacks of mountain lions on unlucky day hikers. All creatures commit evil in the eyes of other beings with which they are not in covenant, whenever their actions cause harm, discomfort, pain, suffering or death. Both good and evil are truly, and only, in the eye of the beholder.

No sentient being gives up life or endures pain willingly (without reason), and no natural, inanimate system kills intentionally. If we are to live in a world that includes morality, goodness, justice and things that are "right," then we will do so only because we have chosen such constructs within which to build our society. Even if we believe that there is a god, or some kind of ultimate universal goodness or morality, it might still be useful to act as if there is not, because if such a one exists, its justice is not swift, its mercy is not omnipresent, and its timetable is one that extends well beyond that of the human lifespan.

Like good and evil, divinity is also in the eye of the beholder. We are able to look around and recognize the divine and the sacred in the simple fact of existence. Can a stone sense another stone or the lizard basking upon it in the light of an inanimate sun? Who is to say. But we know what we can see. Perhaps our value to the universe is, in part, our awareness. Though we are certainly not alone in that trait, our contribution (if any) to a universal consciousness is as unique as our individual experience. 

It might be sensible to hope that, in the overall scheme of things, the values that we hold dear represent added value to the universe... a contribution on some level to its self-awareness, something akin to a divine universal achievement of Nirvana. Perhaps part of our charge is to experience all of the attributes of emotion, joy, pain, suffering, elation, in order to demonstrate, for the rest of existence what is possible. Perhaps not. While we cannot know for certain, we can to some extent create the world that we hope for while we are here, and hope for the best. But while we're here, we can do much more than hope.

Look within yourself and outward toward others, not just those human others, but to the plants and the animals as well.  See their innate worth and the divinity shining out from within them, exploding in rays of light from the dark, crusted outer shell encasing their glorious souls. Decide with whom you are in relationship and commit to a covenant that will bond you to them and them to you. If there is a such thing as a universal morality, this is the first step towards finding it. If there is not, you're now a fellow human-creator of it.

While there may not be a such thing as a universal morality, there may be a such thing as universal truth. If there is a universal truth, it includes these facts: We all must die, but most of us want to live. While we are all blessed with the full strength and power of the universe, we are cursed with the vulnerability of our corporal form. While we are able to recognize the sacred beauty and the divinity within every living thing, each of us must destroy some form of life in order maintain our own. There are some realities that we can transcend, while at the same time, there are some evils that we must commit (at least in the eyes of weaker beings) in the most simple act of mere survival.

If God exists, he or she may have created goodness, morality, right and wrong, and justice; but an observance of natural, biological and physical systems teaches us that such a god has left it up to us to recreate those constructs, form them, teach them, and enforce them during our short time here on earth. Whatever god is, it is not an enforcer of human ideals. If anything, he or she is simply the un-caused cause that has caused our hearts and minds to be drawn toward these ideals in the first place. The rest, it would seem, is up to us.

***

Roman Histories - by MRM - 1 March, 2014

*

Then there was
Mr. Titus Livy,
Who wrote of recent Roman truths,
To which he was privy.
Rome's once virtuous glory
Had been quite a blast.
But that was then, and this was now.
It could not last.

Tacitus
Was not at all so taciturn...
Was he watching Nero fiddle,
  Back when Rome was burned?
"Power makes men immoral,"
Is what Tacitus said.
The moral of this story is:
They're all now dead.

Augustine
Was the Bishop of "Hippo-land:"
If he lived in that place today,
He'd be an Algerian.
  He wrote of "The City of God"
vs. "The City of Man."
Augustine said that, "In the end,
It's all God's plan."

To Augustine,
Time was linear,
(As opposed to merely cyclical)
Derived from his understanding
Of all things scriptural.
His idea of predetermination
Is "Teleology."
"God already knows the ending
Of His story."

***

The Death of Ivan Ilych, by Leo Tolstoy

*

The Death of Ivan Ilych is a complicated conglomeration of personal images, especially when one has insight into the author's life. It seems to me that the main argument Tolstoy is making is that the normal, comfortable, "respectable" urban life to which so many aspire can be a very hollow one, unless the individual is being "assertively conscious" of how he or she is living and proactive with regard to making meaningful and life affirming choices whenever possible.

"Having it all" is not really that, unless one is concerned with more than appearances, income, and the respect of his or her peers. One can collect things, respectable acquaintances, a nice home, a good job, and can still be empty. One can live an entire lifetime without ever really living. The dichotomy is that sometimes, those who are the most in the moment, may live in a state of relative misery, experiencing true need and a sense of lack, without ever gaining the respect, or even the notice of others in their community. 

The only real hero in this story, if there is one, is Gerasim. He is the only one of whom we can say, "what you see is what you get." He is sincere, he is unassuming, and he is sympathetic. He does not act kindly out of a merely altruistic selflessness, he is helpful and friendly because he realizes that he too is mortal, and he has the hope that when he is dying, he will be shown the same kindness. Gerasim is the most human character in the story, and he is also, arguably, the "lowest" character in the eyes of urban society.

There is a sadness related to this reality: that in order to attain comfort and to warrant respect, some may find that they have to sacrifice their souls on the altar of the status-quo. But if one were able to stand outside the microcosm of their daily reality, and look into the snow-globe from the outside, one might see that living simply, and being true to basic human instincts, emotions, and sympathies is the finest example of success that nature affords us, regardless of what our business-minded society says with regard to rank, status, and material wealth.

We're all in the same boat in many ways, or perhaps in many boats on the same river. I think that what Tolstoy is saying in The Death of Ivan Ilych is, "be aware of the river; if you choose to go with the flow, don't do so absentmindedly." Look around! See! Act! We all die. Live now. Be ready.

***

Do Good Where You Are

*

Those who strive

mainly

to do good

within their small social, local, and family circles

probably do more

to positively influence history

and change the world for good

than those who strive

mainly

to influence history

and change the world.

*** 

Orographically Speaking

*

Orographically Speaking - by MRM ~ January 31st, 2014

Warm air holds a bit more water.
Orographic rain begins life in air that's hotter,
As moisture held inside the air,
Where you can't see it (but it's still there). 

Winds push warmth "UP," over the mountains,
  Warm air cools down. "ON" come the fountains.
Cold air does not like to be so moist.
The waters inside are left with no choice. 

They condense, form clouds, and then snow or rain.
Once over the mountains, the air lowers again.
The air then gets warmer, and what happens next?
The rains stop falling; the people are vexed. 

It's rain shadow desert, this side of the hills,
While their neighbors, o're the rise get their bellies filled
With veggies and fruits from orographic rains,
While the folks on this side see naught but dry plains.

***

The Catholic Church and International Corporations

*

It is interesting to compare the influence of the Catholic Church over rulers of nations during the Middle Ages to the influence of international corporations over the rulers of nations today. 

Just a thought.

***

War Guilt

 *

The Nazis had been defeated for many years before Germany's citizens could face their collective guilt for atrocities committed during WWII. How long will it take for the "undefeated" US populace to come to terms with its collective guilt for the atrocities committed during the seemingly doomed and arguably misguided Iraq War? 

All of those families, who lost loved ones, have a reason to want there to have been a worthwhile purpose for our soldiers' loss of life. Individuals trying to do good in their little spheres of influence does not change the fact that history will prove that we, as a nation, were wrong. 

***

Thinking About Drone Strikes

*

How can we, as a society, get to a place where our government is not using drone strikes against merely "suspected terrorists" abroad, and prevent the eventuality that drone strikes against potentially innocent "suspected criminals" domestically will become an accepted practice? I want to get involved in an organization that is making real progress towards this goal. If a suitable one doesn't exist, it may be time to create one.

The previously fictional, dystopian reality of people living smaller lives, afraid of stealthy government forces flying through their skies, targeting and killing all those who might oppose it,  is already being experienced in some areas of the world, in our name. It is an unacceptable situation. It is my intention to do something, at the very least speak my mind, in an attempt to have some effect on this trend.

The way our government is currently executing the "War on Terror" guarantees a new generation of terrorists 20 years from now. It's the ultimate dream of the Military Industrial Complex. A self-fulfilling prophecy of violence and hatred, fed by a society that is either too polarized to organize effective opposition, or too afraid to speak out openly with any strength of conviction, for fear of government reprisals or public scorn.

I currently have no idea what the polling data show with regard to public opinion of drone strikes abroad. I'll admit that I've been intellectually lazy in this regard. My sense, however, is that we've become collectively apathetic. When it comes to national security concerns, we seem to have this idea that the government holds all the cards, all the information, and all the power. In fact, when it comes to most of our officials, even those on the intelligence committees and in oversight capacities, it's mostly the blind leading the blind, shooting first and asking questions later, letting God sort it out, and praying that the next big attack doesn't happen during their watch.

I am ashamed of our country's overseas drone policy. Unsubstantiated strikes that kill scores of innocent civilians should be considered crimes against humanity. 

Unless we are willing to accept strikes that might, unfortunately, kill a few of our own innocent family members in our own neighborhoods, we should not be willing to condone them in the neighborhoods of others. And the day our government is willing to use lethal drone strikes in our own neighborhoods, against its own citizens, is the day that we all should ensure that government is no longer allowed to stay in power. A few years ago, I might have left out the "in our own neighborhoods" part of that last statement, but nowadays, omitting that might make that statement seditious, because we're already bombing and killing our own citizens, aren't we. 

Of course my aim would be to work within the framework of our current government system to change our government's policies on the use of drone strikes, both domestically and abroad, for what that is worth.

***

"Wintery Things" Fact # 1

 *

Wintery Things that Really Do Happen: 
A Primer for Yuman Children. 

Fact # 1:

Snow really does slide off of roofs in giant clumps that will break apart on your head and leave you covered in snow. This occurrence isn't just some exaggerational fiction depicted in holiday programs (that have nothing to do with your desert reality) to make you laugh, such as Charlie Brown and South Park. Go somewhere with a lot of snow. You will see that it is so.

***

What Pearl Harbor Means to Me

* 

 

I wasn't yet born on December 7th, 1941, so no matter what my understanding of that historical day, the true meaning of it cannot possibly be as alive for me as it remains for some. What does live on for me, however, is the memory of one man whose example made a great impact on my life. This is a reprint of a blog post that I wrote in 2011, titled "Luke Tucker - A Pearl Harbor Day Tribute." It remains one of the most popular blog posts on this site, so I chose to reprint it in honor of my old friend. I hope that you will enjoy getting to know the Mr. Tucker of my youth.

*

Luke Tucker was a wrinkled, loose skinned man with scraggly, white hair when I met him in 1980. His arms were hairy and covered with dark tattoos. He drank way too much, and I could smell the alcohol wafting from his Airstream trailer before sunrise on Sunday mornings. He had a quick wit, and would spout out one-liners whenever I delivered his newspaper. Over time we developed a friendship.

For the first few months, I delivered my papers from a baby stroller, often pushing the stroller with one hand while playing a broken harmonica (which my dad had given to me when I was four) with the other. One day Luke gave me a sturdy, new Western Flyer wagon with high slatted wooden sides. It was waiting at his doorstep when I came by. He said that if I was going to be delivering papers, I needed a good wagon or a bike to do it right. For Christmas the next year, he bought me a chromatic harmonica. It was exactly like the one my dad had given me, except that this one was shiny and new, and all of its reeds were in tune. I was 10 years old, and life was good.

Luke began meeting me outside whenever I'd come around in the afternoon. He'd sit out on the shaded cement patio listening to the tinny sounds of an ancient transistor radio. He would usually offer me a cup of lemonade or a 16oz glass bottle of Coke. I would tell him about my day at school, and he always had some new joke to tell that he had heard at the auto-shop where he spent his days helping out.

Over time, that familiar Sunday morning smell of alcohol disappeared, replaced by the pleasant aromas of bacon, sausage, strong coffee and maple syrup. The Three Stooges and The Little Rascals (already old classics by then) would be playing on his portable black and white television, which was connected by a flat cable to a tall, old-fashioned metal antenna outside. Canned audience laughter slid through the crack of the thin, cold aluminum trailer door as the sun began to peek over the eastern foothills.

Luke had long since met my mom, who correctly surmised that he was a harmless, likeable old man. One day, he asked her if it would be o.k. to have me over for breakfast some mornings after my route. Those old Sunday morning programs had always been his favorites, he thought I might enjoy them, and he would be happy to have the company. Besides, he was already making breakfast anyway... She gave her permission, on the condition that I didn't stop at his place until after I had finished my morning deliveries.

From that day on, I would finish those Sunday papers by 6am. Then I would rush back to Luke's trailer park, wagon in tow, or riding the bike that I'd purchased with my paper route money. We'd sit and watch the hijinks of the Stooges and the goofy humor of the Rascals. We laughed and laughed at those corny episodes. We'd trade jokes too: the latest that I'd heard at school and his better, grittier versions from decades long past. Eventually, always - Luke would go outside and light up a cigar. He would look through the smoke, into the distance, in silence. For a few minutes he was somewhere far away, in some unreachable part of his mind. Sometimes I'd stand out in the cold with him, quietly hoping that he really didn't feel as alone in the world as he appeared.

It wasn't until a year or so later, when he was the subject of a full page write-up on Pearl Harbor Day in our local paper, that I learned that Luke Tucker, my Luke Tucker, was a Pearl Harbor vet. I was shocked. How could I not have known? I was excited to see him again, to ask about his experiences, and to hear his stories of adventure.

It was a weekday evening; Luke was on his patio. He was drinking. He had had too much. I don't remember now exactly how the conversation went, but he went off on me and called me names. I was so upset that my mother went to his place and gave him a piece of her mind. She told him that if he ever spoke that way to me again, that interaction would be our last. He was either going to treat me well, or our friendship would be over.

The next time I saw Luke, his eyes were smiling through slow, silent tears. He was so sorry for how he had acted. I said to him, "I was just surprised that you were a hero all this time and I never knew it. I just wanted to hear your side of the story. I'm proud to know someone like you." The tears began to stream, but his posture remained stoic. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, looking at nothing. Slowly and deliberately he said, "I'm no hero. You don't want to hear the stories that I have to tell, and I don't want to tell them. I lost a lot of friends in that war; they are the real heroes. It's because of them that you'll never have to know the things that I know."

His big, leathery hand clasped mine for the first and only time. He looked me straight in the eye, and told me that I deserved all the best that life had to offer. He said that he was thankful to know that a child of this generation could live with so much joy. "You are a good kid and I'm proud to be your friend." Then he asked me to please, never ask him about that war, ever again.

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2023 Vision

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In ten years, we intend to be living with much less "stuff," much further off the grid, growing vegetables, hunting for meat, raising bees, chirabbits, and goats, hiking and playing with a solar-powered ham radio from nearby mountaintops, creating music with guitar, piano and harmonica & singing songs with Rachael, friends, and whatever family is around, taking the wienie dogs for walks in the woods with my sweetie, and reading and writing with a cat in my lap. So... I need to learn how to really use a gun and hunt, get my amateur radio license reinstated, and find the perfect place to declare as home base. 

I'll continue to post the little steps that we make towards this goal, using the 2023 Vision label on those posts.

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