Friday, August 18, 2017

dream on

Some mornings, and this was one, take one’s breath away, usually, and this was one, before the camera can be grabbed and a shot snapped.

Some August mornings, today again, are so stiflingly humid as also to take the breath. But

the walk was good anyway. 

For the first time in thirty-five or more years, this morning I parked my car, dropped keys in lap instead of pocket, locked car door, got out, and realized what I’d done just as the lock clicked. So

rode to Big Mama’s on the Bayou in Robert’s truck, ordered an extra breakfast, for Linda, phoned her with the bad news she must come get me and bring extra keys. She laughed before I got to a punch line.

No matter. Panama City is accommodatingly small and convenient. Not so much as Apalachicola our years there, but still as&c. This was basically from one end of Beach Drive to the other. 

Best recent dream. Reporting aboard a cruiser as a commander. Alles ist gut until I realize I'm in a lieutenant commander billet. Explaining that my last two commander assignments were captain billets, to no avail, I relax and enjoy the cruiser. What brought this to dream? USS Fitzgerald news. I love cruisers, destroyers and battleships. Keep the rest unless I'm 23 and this is me.

Thursday, August 17, 2017

mousey dung v the TiC

A problem with legalizing merciful euthanasia (Greek for good death) is the potential for its abuse as a cover for murder, for getting rid of undesirables, and for hastening one’s inheritance. In like manner, while the time has come for doing away with freedom of speech in the United States, similar to what has been done in post-WW2 Germany and in England, for peace and public safety and to reduce violence, I wouldn’t want anyone but myself deciding what is acceptable speech or defining undesirables. Certainly not some Tweeter in Chief.

Nevertheless - with what is arising in America, far right fringe purposefully getting their parade permits and legally abusing freedom of speech and freedom of assembly to attract and incite violence, and now the stirring, waking, and uprising to power of the violent left who are far more than a fringe element and whom politicians dare not oppose because currently the left are politically correct, where the prospect is more and more Charlottesvilles, increasingly deadly - the time has come either for legal and possibly constitutional muzzles on speech, display and parade or for accepting our slide into a violent, armed society inching into civil war.

Between the First and Second Amendments, the United States is a steaming caldron of catastrophe in which the nasty foam is boiling over. Watching and thinking and writing, I am but a deranged old man helplessly and uselessly trying to figure out whether we are late 1920s and early 1930s Germany heading into Third Reich Redivivus or are re-living into the successively disastrous political and cultural reforms* of Mousey Dung. If the former, violence may be the only way to prevent what happened in Germany from happening in America; more likely the latter and our own Great Cultural Revolution is currently underway to obliterate, correct and rewrite. 

What can an old man do but watch and wish this Time-Turner worked and I could flee into the age of my grandfathers.


Amendment I. Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances. 


Sole purpose of the Tug at Dawn picture, taken just now, is to prevent the flag of Nazi Germany from showing up on my FB page, and because mixing these two flags is but a hint of how ugly Amerika can sink into ultimate evil.

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

outa here

Three evenings, two hours, 8/7c Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, History Channel. But that a friend told me, I’d have missed my only kind of program. As well as fascinating car pictures, highway and street scenes from early 1900s right on through the 20th century, interesting observations of typical History Channel that remind me of things I learned in seminary about OT Bible stories: don’t let it bother me if plausibility, details, chronology and historicity are overshadowed by enthusiasm, fascination and imagination, because such didn’t in the least bother those who first told, heard, and later wrote it down. The story was the thing, not its minutiae.

The program I loved, all three evenings. What did I notice. Not only evening to evening, but clip to break to clip to break to clip there was an enormous amount of backing up and coming forward, like dancing the two-step in grade school, two steps forward, one step back. So many scenes played numerous times. No matter, I loved them all. Poor old Louis Chevrolet the Francophone Swiss race car driver, totally missed out. I enjoyed the story of Henry Ford cheating the Dodge Brothers. They covered the Edsel car but no mention of Ford bringing in Lincoln and Edsel creating Mercury. Hank Ford’s first act upon taking over from his grandfather was to fire Harry Bennett the hoodlum, but Hank didn’t boldly fire Bennett to his face as shown in the program, rather, Hank (Henry Ford II) had John Dugas hand Bennett his walking papers. 

About 1952, Ed Cole persuades Al Sloan of the necessity to overtake Ford’s obsolete flat-head V8 by moving Chevrolet from the straight six engine to an OHV V8 — Ed does this on History Channel by taking Al for a ride in a sleek, hot 1955 Mercury two door hardtop with continental kit. 

Using a 1955 car in a 1952 scene, History Channel doesn’t mean one to notice the out-of-chronos, but it did answer my earlier question of how History Channel thought a 1955 Mercury Montclair changed America. 

Anyway, the scrumptious 1955 Chevy with small block V8 was the result, Chevy’s first V8 since 1918: I saw my first one parked on a street in Gainesville the fall of 1954, my sophomore year at UFlorida, basically the car that moved America into the magical V8 age. 

And History Channel overdid the alcoholism of HFordII by showing him pouring himself a new glass of whisky to open every scene in his office where, unlike his artistic father and his mechanical grandfather, he did nothing but give orders and take another gulp of gold. 

Where might I this moment go back to in my lifetime if I could? Maybe to that crisp 1954 fall morning in Gainesville when I admire that brand new turquoise and white 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air with the V8 emblem beneath each taillight, and marvel that anyone would pay $4000 for a Chevrolet. Nineteen years old, I'll take life from there. 

What car had I completely forgotten? Plymouth Cricket, that was to compete with Chevy Vega and Ford Pinto. I no thank you.

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

hyenas and lunatics

Again a little more warm and muggy than comfortable for starting outside on 7H porch. Summer predawn Life is Good though, and a favorite is to wake to a churning panorama of lightning and thunder in clouds over the Gulf.

No fireworks, just hot and close this Tuesday morning. After the cup of black and bite of dark, the stairwell exercise.

News shared with me by the person reading PCNH from the opposing chair: three different white supremacist groups seeking to speak at venues in Florida, Texas, and Virginia. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, America a nation of racist, sociological, and religious bigots, once largely closeted but under our emerging dark and menacing political climate where evil is good, people are picking up symbols, flags, now statues, outing themselves, showing their colors. Who can say why they're not content to bottom-feed on angry white trash, but now targeting white college students for conversion and confirmation, der frei Junge. Having been such, escaped from home, tasting freedom and license, pushing and longing to rebel against something, anything, everything, especially political or religious, I remember that age as singularly, confusingly vulnerable.

In the beginning the earth was without form, and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep, and God hovered. Now, madmen empowered to press buttons, unlock insane asylums, open cages at the zoo, and this will not end well. 


Sunday, August 13, 2017

moments, places

Above is the moment and place of my heart. Who missed it missed an unimaginable blessing. 

Blogpost below is completely unrelated to picture above and picture below it. 

Though the blogposts aren’t continuous from day to day, an exception this morning, the weekend’s furor over CSA General Robert E. Lee in mind. 

What we were taught, learned, lived, believed, cherished and knew growing up - -  evilly dead wrong first on slavery then on segregation that we “knew” was so right in the South because it was the way society had always been for us - - we should be mindful that we as a culture may have been wrong on anything or even everything. Including our heroes. Flannery O’Connor, fiction author of southern noir, much of which reads so depressing ludicrous dark and rings so outrageous absurd familiar, writes a story about us, a dysfunctional family where one does not know truth from imagination and reimagined reality, where our past, dead and gone, is whatever we choose it to have been. It isn’t always the victor who writes history. Flannery’s short story “A Late Encounter with the Enemy” and incisive CliffsNotes that follow, or try the linked self examination. Reading Flannery, even if we find our dead Generals, is a worthwhile process for self discovery into abysmal, willful, willfully forgotten, and self-deceptive absence of self-awareness, where outright lies become our truth ->

A Late Encounter with the Enemy

By Flannery O’Connor

General Sash was a hundred and four years old. He lived with his granddaughter, Sally Poker Sash, who was sixty-two years old and who prayed every night on her knees that he would live until her graduation from college. The General didn’t give two slaps for her graduation but he never doubted he would live for it. Living had got to be such a habit with him that he couldn’t conceive of any other condition. A graduation exercise was not exactly his idea of a good time, even if, as she said, he would be expected to sit on the stage in his uniform. She said there would be a long procession of teachers and students in their robes but that there wouldn’t be anything to equal him in his uniform. He knew this well enough without her telling him, and as for the damn procession, it could march to hell and back and not cause him a quiver. He liked parades with floats full of Miss Americas and Miss Daytona Beaches and Miss Queen Cotton Products. He didn’t have any use for processions and a procession full of schoolteachers was about as deadly as the River Styx to his way of thinking. However, he was willing to sit on the stage in his uniform so that they could see him. 

Sally Poker was not as sure as he was that he would live until her graduation. There had not been any perceptible change in him for the last five years, but she had the sense that she might be cheated out of her triumph because she so often was. She had been going to summer school every year for the past twenty because when she started teaching, there were no such things as degrees. In those times, she said, everything was normal but nothing had been normal since she was sixteen, and for the past twenty summers, when she should have been resting, she had had to take a trunk in the burning heat to the state teacher’s college; and though when she returned in the fall, she always taught in the exact way she had been taught not to teach, this was a mild revenge that didn’t satisfy her sense of justice. She wanted the General at her graduation because she wanted to show what she stood for, or, as she said, “what all was behind her,” and was not behind them. This them was not anybody in particular. It was just all the upstarts who had turned the world on its head and unsettled the ways of decent living. 

She meant to stand on that platform in August with the General sitting in his wheel chair on the stage behind her and she meant to hold her head very high as if she were saying, “See him! See him! My kin, all you upstarts! Glorious upright old man standing for the old traditions! Dignity! Honor! Courage! See him!” One night in her sleep she screamed, “See him! See him!” and turned her head and found him sitting in his wheel chair behind her with a terrible expression on his face and with all his clothes off except the general’s hat and she had waked up and had not dared to go back to sleep again that night. 

For his part, the General would not have consented even to attend her graduation if she had not promised to see to it that he sit on the stage. He liked to sit on any stage. He considered that he was still a very handsome man. When he had been able to stand up, he had measured five feet four inches of pure game cock. He had white hair that reached to his shoulders behind and he would not wear teeth because he thought his profile was more striking without them. When he put on his full-dress general’s uniform, he knew well enough that there was nothing to match him anywhere. 

This was not the same uniform he had worn in the War between the States. He had not actually been a general in that war. He had probably been a foot soldier; he didn’t remember what he had been; in fact, he didn’t remember that war at all. It was like his feet, which hung down now shriveled at the very end of him, without feeling, covered with a blue-gray afghan that Sally Poker had crocheted when she was a little girl. He didn’t remember the Spanish-American War in which he had lost a son; he didn’t even remember the son. He didn’t have any use for history because he never expected to meet it again. To his mind, history was connected with processions and life with parades and he liked parades. People were always asking him if he remembered this or that — a dreary black procession of questions about the past. There was only one event in the past that had any significance for him and that he cared to talk about: that was twelve years ago when he had received the general’s uniform and had been in the premiere. 

“I was in that preemy they had in Atlanta,” he would tell visitors sitting on his front porch. “Surrounded by beautiful guls. It wasn’t a thing local about it. It was nothing local about it. Listen here. It was a nashnul event and they had me in it — up onto the stage. There was no bob-tails at it. Every person at it had paid ten dollars to get in and had to wear his tuxseeder. I was in this uniform. A beautiful gul presented me with it that afternoon in a hotel room.” 

“It was in a suite in the hotel and I was in it too, Papa,” Sally Poker would say, winking at the visitors. “You weren’t alone with any young lady in a hotel room.” 

“Was, I’d a known what to do,” the old General would say with a sharp look and the visitors would scream with laughter. “This was a Hollywood, California, gul,” he’d continue. “She was from Hollywood, California, and didn’t have any part in the pitcher. Out there they have so many beautiful guls that they don’t need that they call them a extra and they don’t use them for nothing but presenting people with things and having their pitchers taken. They took my pitcher with her. No, it was two of them. One on either side and me in the middle with my arms around each of them’s waist and their waist ain’t any bigger than a half a dollar.” 

Sally Poker would interrupt again. “It was Mr. Govisky that gave you the uniform, Papa, and he gave me the most exquisite corsage. Really, I wish you could have seen it. It was made with gladiola petals taken off and painted gold and put back together to look like a rose. It was exquisite. I wish you could have seen it, it was ...” 

“It was as big as her head,” the General would snarl. “I was tellin it. They gimme this uniform and they gimme this soward and they say, `Now General, we don’t want you to start a war on us. All we want you to do is march right up on that stage when you’re innerduced tonight and answer a few questions. Think you can do that?’ ‘Think I can do it!’ I say. ‘Listen here. I was doing things before you were born,’ and they hollered.” 

“He was the hit of the show,” Sally Poker would say, but she didn’t much like to remember the premiere on account of what had happened to her feet at it. She had bought a new dress for the occasion — a long black crepe dinner dress with a rhinestone buckle and a bolero — and a pair of silver slippers to wear with it, because she was supposed to go up on the stage with him to keep him from falling. Everything was arranged for them. A real limousine came at ten minutes to eight and took them to the theater. It drew up under the marquee at exactly the right time, after the big stars and the director and the author and the governor and the mayor and some less important stars. The police kept traffic from jamming and there were ropes to keep the people off who couldn’t go. All the people who couldn’t go watched them step out of the limousine into the lights. Then they walked down the red and gold foyer and an usherette in a Confederate cap and little short skirt conducted them to their special seats. The audience was already there and a group of UDC members began to clap when they saw the General in his uniform and that started everybody to clap. A few more celebrities came after them and then the doors closed and the lights went down. 

A young man with blond wavy hair who said he represented the motion-picture industry came out and began to introduce everybody and each one who was introduced walked up on the stage and said how really happy he was to be here for this great event. The General and his granddaughter were introduced sixteenth on the program. He was introduced as General Tennessee Flintrock Sash of the Confederacy, though Sally Poker had told Mr. Govisky that his name was George Poker Sash and that he had only been a major. She helped him up from his seat but her heart was beating so fast she didn’t know whether she’d make it herself. 

The old man walked up the aisle slowly with his fierce white head high and his hat held over his heart. The orchestra began to play the Confederate Battle Hymn very softly and the UDC members rose as a group and did not sit down again until the General was on the stage. When he reached the center of the stage with Sally Poker just behind him guiding his elbow, the orchestra burst out in a loud rendition of the Battle Hymn and the old man, with real stage presence, gave a vigorous trembling salute and stood at attention until the last blast had died away. Two of the usherettes in Confederate caps and short skirts held a Confederate and a Union flag crossed behind them. 

The General stood in the exact center of the spotlight and it caught a weird moon-shaped slice of Sally Poker — the corsage, the rhinestone buckle and one hand clenched around a white glove and handkerchief. The young man with the blond wavy hair inserted himself into the circle of light and said he was really happy to have here tonight for this great event, one, he said, who had fought and bled in the battles they would soon see daringly re-enacted on the screen, and “Tell me, General,” he asked, “how old are you?” 

“Niiiiiinnttty-two!” the General screamed.

The young man looked as if this were just about the most impressive thing that had been said all evening. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “let’s give the General the biggest hand we’ve got!” and there was applause immediately and the young man indicated to Sally Poker with a motion of his thumb that she could take the old man back to his seat now so that the next person could be introduced; but the General had not finished. He stood immovable in the exact center of the spotlight, his neck thrust forward, his mouth slightly open, and his voracious gray eyes drinking in the glare and the applause. He elbowed his granddaughter roughly away. “How I keep so young,” he screeched, “I kiss all the pretty guls!” 

This was met with a great din of spontaneous applause and it was at just that instant that Sally Poker looked down at her feet and discovered that in the excitement of getting ready she had forgotten to change her shoes: two brown Girl Scout oxfords protruded from the bottom of her dress. She gave the General a yank and almost ran with him off the stage. He was very angry that he had not got to say how glad he was to be here for this event and on the way back to his seat, he kept saying as loud as he could, “I’m glad to be here at this preemy with all these beautiful guls!” but there was another celebrity going up the other aisle and nobody paid any attention to him. He slept through the picture, muttering fiercely every now and then in his sleep. 

Since then, his life had not been very interesting. His feet were completely dead now, his knees worked like old hinges, his kidneys functioned when they would, but his heart persisted doggedly to beat. The past and the future were the same thing to him, one forgotten and the other not remembered; he had no more notion of dying than a cat. Every year on Confederate Memorial Day, he was bundled up and lent to the Capitol City Museum where he was displayed from one to four in a musty room full of old photographs, old uniforms, old artillery, and historic documents. All these were carefully preserved in glass cases so that children would not put their hands on them. He wore his general’s uniform from the premiere and sat, with a fixed scowl, inside a small roped area. There was nothing about him to indicate that he was alive except an occasional movement in his milky gray eyes, but once when a bold child touched his sword, his arm shot forward and slapped the hand off in an instant. In the spring when the old homes were opened for pilgrimages, he was invited to wear his uniform and sit in some conspicuous spot and lend atmosphere to the scene. Some of these times he only snarled at the visitors but sometimes he told about the premiere and the beautiful girls. 

If he had died before Sally Poker’s graduation, she thought she would have died herself. At the beginning of the summer term, even before she knew if she would pass, she told the Dean that her grandfather, General Tennessee Flintrock Sash of the Confederacy, would attend her graduation and that he was a hundred and four years old and that his mind was still clear as a bell. Distinguished visitors were always welcome and could sit on the stage and be introduced. She made arrangements with her nephew, John Wesley Poker Sash, a Boy Scout, to come wheel the General’s chair. 

She thought how sweet it would be to see the old man in his courageous gray and the young boy in his clean khaki — the old and the new, she thought appropriately — they would be behind her on the stage when she received her degree. 

Everything went almost exactly as she had planned. In the summer while she was away at school, the General stayed with other relatives and they brought him and John Wesley, the Boy Scout, down to the graduation. A reporter came to the hotel where they stayed and took the General’s picture with Sally Poker on one side of him and John Wesley on the other. The General, who had had his picture taken with beautiful girls, didn’t think much of this. He had forgotten precisely what kind of event this was he was going to attend but he remembered that he was to wear his uniform and carry the sword. 

On the morning of the graduation, Sally Poker had to line up in the academic procession with the B.S.’s in Elementary Education and she couldn’t see to getting him on the stage herself — but John Wesley, a fat blond boy of ten with an executive expression, guaranteed to take care of everything. She came in her academic gown to the hotel and dressed the old man in his uniform. He was as frail as a dried spider. “Aren’t you just thrilled, Papa?” she asked. “I’m just thrilled to death!”

“Put the soward acrost my lap, damm you,” the old man said, “where it’ll shine.” 

She put it there and then stood back looking at him. “You look just grand,” she said 

“God damm it,” the old man said in a slow monotonous certain tone as if he were saying it to the beating of his heart. “God damm every goddam thing to hell.” 

“Now, now,” she said and left happily to join the procession. 

The graduates were lined up behind the Science building and she found her place just as the line started to move. She had not slept much the night before and when she had, she had dreamed of the exercises, murmuring, “See him, see him?” in her sleep but waking up every time just before she turned her head to look at him behind her. The graduates had to walk three blocks in the hot sun in their black wool robes and as she plodded stolidly along, she thought that if anyone considered this academic procession something impressive to behold, they need only wait until they saw that old General in his courageous gray and that clean young Boy Scout stoutly wheeling his chair across the stage with the sunlight catching the sword. She imagined that John Wesley had the old man ready now behind the stage. 

The black procession wound its way up the two blocks and started on the main walk leading to the auditorium. The visitors stood on the grass, picking out their graduates. Men were pushing back their hats and wiping their foreheads and women were lifting their dresses slightly from the shoulders to keep them from sticking to their backs. The graduates in their heavy robes looked as if the last beads of ignorance were being sweated out of them. The sun blazed off the fenders of automobiles and beat from the columns of the buildings and pulled the eye from one spot of glare to another. It pulled Sally Poker’s toward the big red Coca-Cola machine that had been set up by the side of the auditorium. Here she saw the General parked, scowling and hatless in his chair in the blazing sun while John Wesley, his blouse loose behind, his hip and cheek pressed to the red machine, was drinking a Coca-Cola. She broke from the line and galloped to them and snatched the bottle away. She shook the boy and thrust in his blouse and put the hat on the old man’s head. “Now get him in there!” she said, pointing one rigid finger to the side door of the building. 

For his part the General felt as if there were a little hole beginning to widen in the top of his head. The boy wheeled him rapidly down a walk and up a ramp and into a building and bumped him over the stage entrance and into position where he had been told and the General glared in front of him at heads that all seemed to flow together and eyes that moved from one face to another. Several figures in black robes came and picked up his hand and shook it. A black procession was flowing up each aisle and forming to stately music in a pool in front of him. The music seemed to be entering his head through the little hole and he thought for a second that the procession would try to enter it too. 

He didn’t know what procession this was but there was something familiar about it. It must be familiar to him since it had come to meet him, but he didn’t like a black procession. Any procession that came to meet him, he thought irritably, ought to have floats with beautiful guls on them like the floats before the preemy. It must be something connected with history like they were always having. He had no use for any of it. What happened then wasn’t anything to a man living now and he was living now. 

When all the procession had flowed into the black pool, a black figure began orating in front of it. The figure was telling something about history and the General made up his mind he wouldn’t listen, but the words kept seeping in through the little hole in his head. He heard his own name mentioned and his chair was shuttled forward roughly and the Boy Scout took a big bow. They called his name and the fat brat bowed. Goddam you, the old man tried to say, get out of my way, I can stand up! — but he was jerked back again before he could get up and take the bow. He supposed the noise they made was for him. If he was over, he didn’t intend to listen to any more of it. If it hadn’t been for the little hole in the top of his head, none of the words would have got to him. He thought of putting his finger up there into the hole to block them but the hole was a little wider than his finger and it felt as if it were getting deeper. 

Another black robe had taken the place of the first one and was talking now and he heard his name mentioned again but they were not talking about him, they were still talking about history. “If we forget our past,” the speaker was saying, “we won’t remember our future and it will be as well for we won’t have one.” The General heard some of these words gradually. He had forgotten history and he didn’t intend to remember it again. He had forgotten the name and face of his wife and the names and faces of his children or even if he had a wife and children, and he had forgotten the names of places and the places themselves and what had happened at them. 

He was considerably irked by the hole in his head. He had not expected to have a hole in his head at this event. It was the slow black music that had put it there and though most of the music had stopped outside, there was still a little of it in the hole, going deeper and moving around in his thoughts, letting the words he heard into the dark places of his brain. He heard the words, Chickamauga, Shiloh, Johnston, Lee, and he knew he was inspiring all these words that meant nothing to him. He wondered if he had been a general at Chickamauga or at Lee. Then he tried to see himself and the horse mounted in the middle of a float full of beautiful girls, being driven slowly through downtown Atlanta. Instead, the old words began to stir in his head as if they were trying to wrench themselves out of place and come to life. 

The speaker was through with that war and had gone on to the next one and now he was approaching another and all his words, like the black procession, were vaguely familiar and irritating. There was a long finger of music in the General’s head, probing various spots that were words, letting in a little light on the words and helping them to live. The words began to come toward him and he said, Dammit! I ain’t going to have it! and he started edging backwards to get out of the way. Then he saw the figure in the black robe sit down and there was a noise and the black pool in front of him began to rumble and to flow toward him from either side to the black slow music, and he said, Stop dammit! I can’t do but one thing at a time! He couldn’t protect himself from the words and attend to the procession too and the words were coming at him fast. He felt that he was running backwards and the words were coming at him like musket fire, just escaping him but getting nearer and nearer. He turned around and began to run as fast as he could but he found himself running toward the words. He was running into a regular volley of them and meeting them with quick curses. As the music swelled toward him, the entire past opened up on him out of nowhere and he felt his body riddled in a hundred places with sharp stabs of pain and he fell down, returning a curse for every hit. He saw his wife’s narrow face looking at him critically through her round gold-rimmed glasses; he saw one of his squinting bald-headed sons; and his mother ran toward him with an anxious look; then a succession of places— Chickamauga, Shiloh, Marthasville —rushed at him as if the past were the only future now and he had to endure it. Then suddenly he saw that the black procession was almost on him. He recognized it, for it had been dogging all his days. He made such a desperate effort to see over it and find out what comes after the past that his hand clenched the sword until the blade touched bone. 

The graduates were crossing the stage in a long file to receive their scrolls and shake the president’s hand. As Sally Poker, who was near the end, crossed, she glanced at the General and saw him sitting fixed and fierce, his eyes wide open, and she turned her head forward again and held it a perceptible degree higher and received her scroll. Once it was all over and she was out of the auditorium in the sun again, she located her kin and they waited together on a bench in the shade for John Wesley to wheel the old man out. That crafty scout had bumped him out the back way and rolled him at high speed down a flagstone path and was waiting now, with the corpse, in the long line at the Coca-Cola machine. 


Backpack Sunday round the Altar, HNEC

Berlin Trader 589x93 making for New Orleans

I am

It’s easy to be on the wrong side of history, all you have to do is be born there. I don’t know whether any statues of Stalin are still standing in cities of Russia and the former Soviet Union, and I expect Hitler statues are illegal in Germany. But I did grow up in an era when Robert E. Lee was named softly, respectfully, affectionately, reverently. Unlike Jefferson Davis, General Lee was our eponymous father in an age when our grandparents were still struggling with the idea of honoring Abraham Lincoln; and General Sherman was reviled. I may be the last generation of that, but we grew up when family feelings were still raw, and I loved them, and I am what I am. Who are my people? I remember, still love.

A large portrait of General Lee hung over the fireplace mantlepiece of my college fraternity house, and KA pledges were taught that we should emulate his integrity and his honorable character as southern gentlemen. Religion aside, we were taught, and believed, that he was the best that we could be. And "one was a soldier, and one was a priest," Confederate General Leonidas Polk, a military academy graduate, was an Episcopal bishop.

I’m not going to forget all that, nor quit my heritage no matter how many statues are removed and flags lowered around the South, or Southern high schools renamed, or Old South Balls forbidden at colleges and stricken from spring calendars. I do not appreciate the flag that once ran chills down my spine being breezed hatefully through town from the beds of pickup trucks driven by defiant, ignorant, arrogant and contemptible white trash who have got to hate someone because there is no one who is lower than they are. But I may continue to stand quietly if ever again I hear a band playing “Dixie.” Although "Dixie" has become politically incorrect, if I can stand for “Florida, Our Alma Mater” and “Hail to the Victors Valiant” and the Navy Hymn, I can stand for “Dixie” and remember who I am. 

American and a Naval officer, I can and do stand and salute National Anthem, color guard and flag raised. But I am as much a Southerner as some whom I love dearly are Yankees and Midwesterners. Who I am isn’t going away in my lifetime, and though the time has come for reimagining and reimaging our history, I do understand but do not yet agree, appreciate or approve General Lee’s statues being removed and his memory and reputation desecrated. 

At the end of it, the Confederacy lost The War, thank God, and I am an American before almost anything else in my Being; I can hardly realize that I have been so fortunate, not to say blessed, to have been born and lived and be American. The violent demonstrations in Virginia are the evil doings of evil people, energized by evil politics and the evil state of our society. We don’t have to be “united” on everything, there is room for differences, but for our differences to be driven by hatred, and expressed as vicious, violent and murderous hate, signifies who and what we have become as a people, and I am ashamed, ashamed, ashamed. But I am.


Pic: Lee statue in Charlottesville, VA

Saturday, August 12, 2017

dark with a pink promise

Saturday 12th August 2017, at 80° 88% and almost deathly still, a morning too warm comfortably to sit outside on 7H porch with black & dark. Tug with its telltale row of three lights slanted down to stern slowly pushes a barge by. Oddly, especially for a lazy one, life is somewhat sweeter if a task is pressing, distracting, which is not so at the moment.

Just before the internet, something was written about a dawning new electronic age when everything imaginable, anything one could want or imagine, could be called up on one’s computer to watch, study, read. It would be through something to be called the world wide web, now nicknamed the internet. I thought that was ridiculous, impossible, but last night I watched incredibly mediocre war films, likely truer than a contrived drama to the real life of those who lived it and died there, Yugoslav partisans against Yugoslav Home Guard, rounding them up, letting volunteers change sides, sending the rest home stripped to their underwear and keeping their uniforms and weapons, killing traitors who changed sides too often, infiltrating a Home Guard fort and slaughtering everyone inside after visiting back and forth with old neighbors; Yugoslavians, Hungarians, Serbs and Croats still and always hating each other even while wearing the same uniforms; and the German enemy, whom all sides hated but whom the partisans were fighting and with whom the Home Guard were forced to ally, never showing up at all. English subtitles because, while it’s possible to follow some German language films without subtitles, Hungarian, unless you heard it from your mother’s womb, is totally alien, just sounds, only sounds, nothing but sounds. 

Life may be mediocre, but something thrilling, dark, and incomprehensibly irrational is always happening offstage.  Ask anyone who’s lived more than eight decades of it.


  • Friday breakfast, memories and a dozen fried oysters 
  • Saturday suddenly clouding, raining and cooling enough to go sit outside after all
  • Saturday clearing through with a pink promise and a bit of blue

Friday, August 11, 2017

Pain, toasted

A.Word.A.Day shows up in the email every morning, pride and production of its genius Anu Garg. This week’s words have related to bodily functions, Monday antitussive through Friday analgesic and that not the half of it: aperient, emetic, and diuretic

Today someone, a subscriber maybe, posted pain, French for bread, with a picture of a most unhappy slice of bread who is about to become toast, buttered, bitten, chewed up and swallowed, pain: irony of two languages meeting and not meaning the same thing at all. 

Or maybe three, blustering with fire and fury, millions toasted because of the narcissistic posturing of two bullies, one a dictator, the other who thought he would be because he didn't read the constitution and who will, hopefully, be toasted before he figures out how his code card works.

French, English, Korean, to introduce a fourth tongue, what a schlemiel doesn’t even come close. For example, he was once quoted to say he might fire the Speaker of the House. For another, I’m no Mitch McConnell fan either, but odd for one who can fire neither to pick fights with the two who can orchestrate toasting him. More irony.

Cocoa, cup of hot cocoa this morning, nevermind why.

Toast, toaster, toasted.


Thursday, August 10, 2017

first thing

The first thing I opened this morning, thinking that was it, was an AmTrak timetable from last spring, showing how I was going to travel to Maine this summer to visit BroadBay the home of my German ancestor Andreas Wäller; a trip I keep imagining hopefully from my bucket-list. But that adventure wasn't what I was looking for this morning. Somewhere in all this mess, on the desktop of this or my other main computer, but elusive, I can’t find it, is an eccentric amateur analysis I was doing involving this Sunday’s gospel, Matthew 14:22-33, the First Gospel’s account of Jesus walking on water, walking out over the surface of the sea. Each significantly different, the story appears in Mark, Matthew and John but not Luke. I might say it began in Mark, which is where Matthew got his, but nobody knows John’s sources for his much later writing, which many scholars think did not come from Mark, and which sources may in fact predate Mark’s traditions; but both of which, Mark and John, may even come from a common eyewitness memory. Even perhaps a bedtime story that Simon Peter told his grandson ages later but before. 

In my so-called “analysis,” I was showing, just myself because I’m not preaching Sunday and owing to our major parish celebration I’m not having my adult Sunday school class this week, both how the synoptic accounts differ because of Mark’s and Matthew’s different agenda, and how Mark and John differ and explore possible reasons for that. And I’d thought to maybe run it as a blogpost before Matthew’s story is read to the congregation on Sunday. But I give up: crushingly distracting tragedies and threats of calamities in Life & Time & Space have rudely overtaken and overshadowed, as so in fact have octogenarian mental processes, I’m done with it. 

It's an interesting week such that, somehow, between local and world news and what I know that you don't know, Life & Time & Space seem more real and significant at the moment than Contemplation, even though my heart and mind know that’s not the Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth. As perhaps witness Plato's most famous story of the cave, the fire, and the flickering shadows: who do we mortals think we are, and what the hell do we know?  

Actually, this all may be some Martian's nightmare entitled "The Life & Time & Loves, Hates, Hopes and Fears of Uncle Bubba." It’s A Mad Mad Mad Mad World with an all star cast and still and anyway a blessing, and mostly a joy to gladden the hearts of those who travel with us.

DThos+ rushing along somewhere downstream in +Time+ and no longer recognizing the rocks, and villages, and faces of natives peering at me from behind the trees along the banks on either side.

Moonset On a World Ablaze, or was my hand unsteady?

Wednesday, August 9, 2017

How will it be?

Plans for the week and upcoming weekend. Wednesday evening prayer & spaghetti. Thursday oysters. Sunday morning loads of children, Rally Day, Backpack Sunday, pork, chicken and other good things. Sunday evening: History Channel, Sun Aug 13 8/7c - - what prep am I doing to get ready for the car program? Watched a preview video online and halted at one scene.

Who can name the above car takes home the red ribbon, as the blue ribbon is already pinned on me. Roofline looks like a convertible but could be a hardtop. Wraparound windshield is a period giveaway, beginning 1954 for GM, 1955 for FoMoCo, 1957 for Chrysler, yielding a starting model year for search. Thinking I see Ford features: steering wheel, dashboard, side trim and two color style, forward slant of front fender. First check 1955 Ford, nope. Check 1955 Mercury catalogue ... . 

How’s that? Lucky break. Nothing is absolute and I try never to be certain in theology or cars, but I’m all 1955 Mercury Montclair hardtop or convertible with the top up, same body colors as that 1955 Mercury transparent hardtop, remember those, Sunliner or Skyliner for Ford with a fancier name for the Mercury version, Montclair Sun Valley? Challengers are welcome. My uncertainty is I don’t see how this car fits the theme Cars that Made America, any takers on that?

On the eastern front. Atlantic article this week proves me wrong again in thinking all violent American wing-nuts are right wing radicals. Never heard of antifa but interesting to hear the left can be counted on beyond intellectual bluster. Historically, pics of street violence in Germany during late 1920s to early 1930s show better organized communist leftists might have taken the national socialist brownshirts, preventing the Third Reich and revising world history in favor of Soviet Socialist Europe. But so what, both brutally evil. Ten years after WorldWarII my economics professor at UFlorida liked to draw on the blackboard two halves of a circle showing extreme left circling round to meet extreme right in the back, dictatorship, centralized economics, zero human rights. Thus, Stalin &/or Hitler could recur anytime. Coming forward these decades, we live an angry political, social, religious era of division, intolerance, hatred, anti-intellectualism, unteachable ignorance, and choosing lies and illusion to the obliteration of truth, in which the 2nd amendment could again play the role for which the founding fathers meant it. Right v Left instead of North v South and future ages, if any, calling it Civil War II.

Opening a second front, political correctness wins again against exercise of freedom of speech that was so mindless as to hint naïveté, stupidity, or a death wish. As the author says, “cue the outrage and applause machines,” and in this case the outrage machine tracked him down and fired him. Freedom of speech is protected against government and in public but not in the workplace. On the cowardly side, to be left alone to pay the rent and eat, one must keep one’s mouth shut. Of which, regarding USNavy and TEC bones to pick, my lips are zipped. 

Opening a nuclear front, fire and fury like the world has never seen.

The doctrine of Speak Softly but Carry a Big Stick is Dead.

Deadly egomaniacal games of blustering diplomatic chicken. All government and all authority is always all ways all bad: there are constitutional ways to stop the spiraling madness and begin to recover a measure of national sanity. Meantime, anyone with loved ones in Korea or Japan might consider sending them tickets to come home immediately. It's disheartening to wake up mornings not knowing whether the world is going to be ablaze.

Top: CFC Forest Panama 442x69 from PTO Limon to load kraft liner for Colon

Home front: death of Glen Campbell. 1968-1969 at the Naval War College, I loved Glen Campbell and Bobbie Gentry and my 78 rpm record loaded with their songs. Two favorites, All I Have to Do is Dream, and Let It Be Me:

Antitussive, aperient, and today emetic. I don't have a taste for Anu Garg's words this week. Tomorrow diuretic?