So what else is new.
I ran across this in ALTERNET today. My first comment is that it is nothing more than one of the first zaps from Democrats into a Republican. Does it strike me as an oddity or an uncommon practice? Heck no.
Comment 2. It's now the Republicans turn to zap the Dems, and they will. Do I think the American public will lose any sleep over this? Heck no.
Comment 3. I don't know about you or the rest of the American public, but I think it's a darn good idea to use prisoners in every state for public works. I am sure that this would free up some state money for other purposes and I am sure most of the cons would like to do some consturctive work for which I think they would be paid a stipend, and maybe even learn a skill that maybe, just maybe they could turn to when they are released. As it stands now, I think they just sit and think of how better to commit criminal acts when they are released.
McCain Gets 80% Discount; Free Inmate Labor for Fundraiser
Homewood AL Mayor Barry McCulley (R-obviously) has stepped in it with this one. He's supposed to bring requests for discounts to the City Council, but for some reason he decided to rent the McCain people a room at Rosewood Hall for $250, substantially less than the going rate of $1,200 for a weeknight event. He also provided free inmate labor to set up the tables and chairs, waiving the usual $100 set-up fee.
Homewood Mayor Barry McCulley said the rental rate was discounted because the event was on Monday, a slow day for business. City Council members say they always vote on such discounts but didn't get a say in this deal. They're upset, as are local Democrats.
"I think it's outrageous," said Robert Yarbrough, chairman of the Jefferson County Democratic Party and a Homewood resident.
"I was charged full book rate. I was never offered any free inmate services to set up for my event. Mayor McCulley owes an apology to every citizen in Homewood as to why he arbitrarily changed the fee for this out-of-state senator from Arizona."
Yarbrough rented the entire hall, three rooms, on Thursday nights in September 2006 and September 2007 for the Democratic Blue Dot Ball fundraiser. The weekday fee is $1,700 for all three rooms, according to the official rates. Yarbrough said the Democrats paid more than $2,500 for all charges each year.
McCulley claims Council President Ginger Busby agreed to the discount, but she says different.
"The mayor asked me if the hall could be free for the McCain event, and I said absolutely not," Busby said. "He then asked if it was appropriate to charge a lesser fee for Mondays. I said as long as it didn't cost the city money, it could be considered."
That's right. The Mayor had no problem charging one of his own tax-paying citizens full freight, but he wanted to give away the store for John McCain. Does anyone else think party affiliation might have played a tiny part in his decision?
City Council member David Hooks is also concerned about the legal ramifications of the city making what amounts to an in-kind donation to a political campaign. Perhaps the Mayor just assumed that every taxpayer in Homewood is a McCain supporter. Robbie Yarbrough won't be the only person telling him he's wrong.
April 28, 2008
April 27, 2008
April 26, 2008
Take a Master Class With Luciano Pavarotti : NPR Music
Click above then scroll to the bottom and click to see John Candy portray Pavarotti talking to his Godfather about getting work. Performed at SCTV. John Candy died too young.
Click above then scroll to the bottom and click to see John Candy portray Pavarotti talking to his Godfather about getting work. Performed at SCTV. John Candy died too young.
April 25, 2008
April 24, 2008
Could it be. Perhaps it's time for the slumbering Detroit Tigers and the Cleveland Indians to start looking a little like what was advertised. Cleveland wins 15-1 and Detroit wins 19-6. A lot of frustration being taken out on someone. Right now they share last place in the division. I think when the season is over they will be first and second in their division. Cleveland first of course.
Another passing scene moment: While watching a commercial between innings I am subjected to another degradation of our language. The actor uses the term, MYBAD. What the h--- is that supposed to mean?
Another passing scene moment: While watching a commercial between innings I am subjected to another degradation of our language. The actor uses the term, MYBAD. What the h--- is that supposed to mean?
April 23, 2008
April 22, 2008
April 19, 2008
April 18, 2008
April 17, 2008
This piece appeared today in the New York Times Opinion section. It was written by Timothy Egan. For those of you who have not discovered the Opinion section in the Times, it is a great place to listen to America talk on many different subjects. Todays subject is close to my heart as I like so many have watched this happening in my hometown.
My hometown like many in the forties through the sixties was a town of industrial diversity of about fifty thousand well paid individuals living the good life. Then in the sixties the bubble burst, the industries infrastructure needed updated, but the powers that be decided it was financially to their benefit instead to relocate to other areas where they were welcomed with open arms and lucrative financial packages. It happened here in my hometown as it did in thousands of others.
Today my hometown is still here, the population is almost the same, but it is at its core much different. We no longer make things on a world size scale, we have become a service economy with lower pay scales and a less proud population, but we persevere. We lose our children to other locations where they can compete and prosper, that hurts. No longer do we enjoy multi-generational family life and this maybe hurts the most, but we are still here.
We will never be the same, but that's the way life is, always changing, always interesting to say the least.
My comments #34 in the Times are found here http://egan.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/04/16/lost-town-blues/index.html?ref=opinion
April 16, 2008, 6:41 pm
Lost Town Blues
In the town where I grew up, men had new trucks in their driveways, and three weeks of vacation for chasing deer in the fall and fish in the summer. They drank beer at a morning happy-hour after the graveyard shift ended, and voted for Democrats because they cared about the little guy, or so it was said.
In less than a generation’s time, the life jobs at the aluminum factory disappeared and the men lost their health benefits, their pensions, their self-confidence. You could say, without starting a fight, that some of them turned to God or guns for comfort — or at least for diversion. And then there were those who turned to alcohol.
It’s an old story, the grinding of winners into losers, a sort of geographic lottery. My town was Spokane, Wash., which has rebounded somewhat from the collapse of Kaiser Aluminum. But it could be McKeesport, Pa., or Utica, N.Y., or any of the 900 counties across the country that have lost jobs or population for decades.
People who live in small towns that have been passed over don’t need to be told that they’re bitter, or heroic. They’re stuck, is what they are. The honest ones say they would follow their kids out of town, if only they had the means. A few years ago, a University of Nebraska survey of 3,087 people in rural counties asked people how they felt about their lives. Only 11 percent of them said they were satisfied with where they lived. Optimism, as much a part of the landscape as winter wheat, was disappearing.
This sentiment, real but wrapped up in pride over place, may be in part why the polls show little change in Barack Obama’s standing since his comments about the bitterness of small towns and the working class. The pundits and voters are having two different conversations, not for the first time.
In that sense, the arc of this controversy is typical of how these things go: struggling towns are props, not issues.
One side rushes to drape themselves in flags, guns and the kind of Norman Rockwell hagiography that is far removed from the 2008 reality of meth labs and foreclosure frontiers. The other side says religion is for fools, and if only they had a new Starbucks in town, some of those Bible-banging gun nuts could learn to love Sundays with Norah Jones and a Scrabble game.
The low point in this discussion was Hillary Clinton talking about how she learned to shoot — “behind the cottage that my grandfather built on a little lake called Lake Winola outside of Scranton.” Yes, and after that it was Wellesley, Yale, the White House and the $109 million fortune she made with her husband trading in their name and influence. She’s got elite cred with the best of them.
Obama can counter with the endorsement this week from Bruce Springsteen. Nobody in American literature or politics has done a better job than the Boss of describing (as in “My Hometown”) the heartbreak of a foreman who says, “these jobs are going boys and they ain’t coming back.”
But for a presidential campaign, we should forget rock lyrics, guns and God, and who can throw back a boiler-maker like a real man. The only question should be how — or whether — rust belt and rural towns can join the tomorrow economies.
For that matter, we should retire the test over which presidential candidate voters would most like to have a beer with. George W. Bush, when he was drinking, was probably a fun guy in a bar — all those frat boy tricks, flatulence jokes and arcane stats on long-retired major leaguers.
But he’s run the country into the ground, even if the only measurement is how blue collar workers fared under his watch. And he is the only leader who has actually embraced the elite label. At a fundraising dinner during his first term with the “haves and the have-mores,” as he referred to them, Bush said: “Some people call you the elite — I call you my base.” Now, he was joking, but there’s an element of truth there. And for the record, median hourly wages in Pennsylvania are down 16 cents from five years ago, adjusting for inflation.
So, solutions? On John McCain’s Web site, he talks as much about reviving small town America as he does about Lindsay Lohan’s love life — zilch. Clinton and Obama each have detailed, multi-point proposals. They’re heavy on new energy solutions — solar, wind, converting crops to fuel, with faded factory towns doing the work. The problem, as we’ve seen with the huge rise in commodity crop prices, is that when food and fuel compete for the same source, family budgets strain. Hillary is out with a new ad in Indiana, promising to keep defense jobs in the state — pork as public policy, another sleight-of-hand trick for small town America.
Is it too much to ask one of these candidates for an honest but painful statement suggesting that perhaps a lot of these towns may never come back? Or that the way to economic revival is to lose the pipe dream that Google is going to relocate to an old steel town because they have a tax-free enterprise zone and some cool mountain-bike trails?
“By the time November rolls around,” said Gov. Ed Rendell of Pennsylvania, Hillary’s top surrogate in the state, Obama’s comment “will be long forgotten.”
So will small town America. Again.
Comments (17)
1.April 17th,
2008
3:06 am Thanks for the interesting analysis. The reason I worried about Obama’s recent insensitive remarks was that they sound very urban-centric/ethnocentric and may express an underlying attitude. Is he really committed to going going beyond stereotypes and visiting small towns and talking seriously with people and planners? Or will he focus on urban America after he’s elected? As you say, ethanol is not the future. How about a new WPA for rebuilding the infrastructure? There’s a big shortage of health care workers now. Could some small-town people be retrained for that? If the Dems offered solutions for people moving out of dying towns, probably a lot of people would be willing to move out — but not without a safety net. How about a national organization called Rust-Red Panthers or something like that?
— Posted by Chris
2.April 17th,
2008
3:27 am This was so painful to read because it speaks to the core of what’s wrong with our leadership. George Bush ran the country into the ground and none of the candidates give any hope that they will, or can, do any better. Whether its the pain of the small town, or the pain of urban decay, the truth of what’s going on seems to be either mis-stated or avoided. It will be very hard to vote in the actual election because the long, expensive, wasteful drive to the election has not given any evidence that a true, insightful leader will result.
— Posted by Bliss Siman
3.April 17th,
2008
3:28 am Excellent article! (For the record I support Barack Obama.) As I type this I am living in the Pacific Northwest. I am not originally from here, but I love this part of the country- I am in the Tri-Cities, which is an anomaly as our employment rate has just risen.
— Posted by Mary A
4.April 17th,
2008
4:19 am Mr. Egan — I usually respect your work enormously, but this piece was appalling. You accuse the pundits of a disconnect while writing about these small towns as if they were exclusively male. Would including — or simply acknowledging — women in the discussion have somehow damaged your anti-elite cred?
— Posted by Maggie
5.April 17th,
2008
4:58 am You sound like a Seattle nutcase who, when one asks ,”Which way is the road to Spokane?”You get the reply,”What do you want to go there for?”
Perhaps you should make a trip to your hometown and see what a really nice place it is. I have been around the world more than once, and I live here because I like it.
— Posted by Frances McCaffrey
6.April 17th,
2008
5:30 am How convenient: a poll that says a small percentage of folks in rural America want out as overwhelmingly as the inmates of nursing homes!
Similar results will be found in major metroplitan areas but in fact it’s not that different than it ever was - these ARE the good old days.
As we link into ever-widening interest groups and resist categorization we emerge from these over-simplified analyses with possibilities for cooperation for humanity unlike any ever had. Small town “values” are still valuable and living in rat-races where the air is cancerously polluted is even worse than the “despair” of lost jobs that nobody wants.
Love.
— Posted by William Loughborough
7.April 17th,
2008
5:48 am This is an excellent piece. In the final analysis it’s going to be about marketing and the ‘golden’ rule. Power has left. Like the mining country of East Kentucky where the mine owners had the gold and the people had the poverty that same scenario seems to be playing out in the land of corn and wheat fields. Nothing new here.
— Posted by e t gregory
8.April 17th,
2008
5:51 am Well, Mr. Egan,
Then why leave Spokane for Seattle?
— Posted by ileftspokanetoo
9.April 17th,
2008
6:03 am How very true. I’ve worked all over the most rural and unpopulated counties of the West, and some rural and depopulating counties of the East.
“Is it too much to ask one of these candidates for an honest but painful statement suggesting that perhaps a lot of these towns may never come back?”
Yes. Just as the dream in my state of a university for every quarter of the state, offering every major, at every level, is likely destined to die. Just as the small rural schoolhouse did.
It’s an urban country now. Ghost towns don’t come only from the 19th century’s mistakes and lost dreams. (And the West? Can be very bitter and clinging-to-narrow-values, too.)
— Posted by Idaho Pine
10.April 17th,
2008
6:05 am Basic problem is that Americans are voting for public relations perfect people. The real experienced people with talent and ability to put America back on course will never run for high office. They have lived a life with both successes and failures triumphs and mistakes. These are the trials and tribulations that make us men, that forge real leaders.
Observing a modern American election is like watching a bunch of mouthy beauty pagant contestants trying to show us just how perfect they have been and hence just how much they deserve to win. Their messages are tailor made for the specific state, the specific town but in the end it is all hot air. One of these public relations hounds is elected and political business returns to normal.
Change will come only after Americans learn to vote for those who are not perfect, who have climbed high mountains and sank to low valleys, who will really bring the interest of the little guy to bear on all issues. This person is you and me. He is in all of us.
Until we change we must resolve ourselves to a long slow slide into the status of second rate nation talking of the good old times and imagining that we still are rich and prosperious.
Robert
Washington, DC
— Posted by Robert
11.April 17th,
2008
6:10 am (oops, hit submit by accident).
So kudos to you and Obama for pointing out this “bitter” truth. It seems that so far he has proven himself a new kind of leader, indeed: unafraid to confront reality with thoughtful words, which may be clumsy at times.
But when isn’t it awkward to articulate a truth that’s been denied for decades? These truths - about the rural decline, like the role of race in our society - have been by most politicians behind the rhetoric that disguises their disinterest, or even fear, and certainly, often, inability to tackle the real questions facing the U.S. and the planet.
— Posted by Idaho Pine
12.April 17th,
2008
6:15 am Small town America is a bedrock of values, hopes, and dreams. It is also a tumbleweed, wind-blown ghost town of misery and lethargy. Feelings wash across this land with the connectivity of the internet - somehow giving the impression that the world is moving on without us and we are part of a glacial decline - a backwater - yet an early indicator of national trends as much as a canary carried by coal miners to sense the toxic atmosphere…by dying first.
There is much at stake and it is the core of the rhetoric of politicians. Small towns provide the incubator for our economy and future success in technology, business and politics. Tim Egan, one of my fdavorites,comes from the State of Washington where the barefoot schoolboy law prevailed, providing a threshold of funds for rural schools to offer education to kids that would build their understanding and incubate their dreams. Kids were so smart they saw their opportunity far, far away from their small town - they migrated to the big city. This has been the rule for the last 100 years. Some stayed and invested in the local community, some made it big then came home, some vowed like Scarlet O’Hara in Gone With the Wind - Lord I never want to be poor again…and never, never came home.
As I travel the world I find old friends from my small town of Sunnyside, Washington in every imaginable walk of life - many very successful because that small town was an incubator of big dreams of the greatest nation of the world. We still believe that stuff. We benefitted as a community of farmers from the huge public works projects that provided good jobs for our families building the national highway system and running the huge energy research laboratories at Hanford, Washington. The schools eagerly polled their students to get a piece of that federal money that was distributed to schools of federal worker children. We attended Community Concerts provided by the federal government grants bringing artists from the New York Metropolitan Opera and the Chicago Symphony into our little town - we learned about diversity and respected culture.
It is true there were twice as many taverns in town as there were churches, but the churches were on every corner. Sunday morning was a rousing chorus of church bells coaxing mothers to bundle up their kids and attend services. In small town America fathers and sons sneaked out on a Sunday morning and went fishing and hunting - still do. We had our Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, our Rotary Clubs, our Masonic Lodges and our Kiwanis Clubs, our American Legion, VFW and our Little League baseball teams sponsored by the A&W Root Beer Company and the local John Deere distributor. Yes we learned how to shoot, how to survive in the wilderness and how to respect life and preserve our freedoms. This deep love of freedom and soul and trust in God are values deep seated in American culture - not bitterness about lost American Dreams. These values are strong as bedrock and can be reinforced to bolster the strength of our hopes for a brighter future of our nation and its leadership role in the world community.
We have our heroes - those who leave our small towns and make it big- by careers in public service, the military, business or professions. We are not - repeat - are not psychotically clinging to religion and guns - we simply associate guns and God with our love for individual freedom. Despite our reliance on occasional federal programs creating opportunities for good jobs and future for our kids, we are wise to maintain a healthy distrust of the federal government’s insufferable tendency to want to dictate how we are to run our daily lives in our “village”. We may be bitter and frustrated - but we are proud - we have dreams - and somehow - with our faith in God - we know our kids can be anything that they want to be - with hard work and sacrifice. We only wish that more would finally come home and reinvest in the intellectual capital that they left behind for the opportunity of the big city.
— Posted by Dennis Egan
13.April 17th,
2008
6:22 am Mr. Egan makes some pithy observations. The frustrating thing I am resigned to is that we the people actually require our politicians to ignore unhappy facts.
Proof is provided by recalling the public and political reaction of former Presidents Jimmy Carter’s pronouncement that we were in an “era of limits” compared to Ronald Reagan’s fondly remembered “Morning in America”.
Mr. Carters conservation programs were abolished by Mr. Reagan with assurances that oil supplies would be bountiful if only government would get out of the way of the market forces.
So, here we sit with market forces causing gas prices to four dollars a gallon and a collapse of the housing market that will remove the possibility of the “American way of life” for millions of Americans whether they live in large cities or rural communities.
Nero fiddled while Rome burned because he was insane. Our candidates fiddle while America falls because we the people insist on it.
— Posted by Greg
14.April 17th,
2008
6:45 am Compelling insights to the real condition of small town America. Bruce Springstein has endorsed Obama. That is a telling analysis
RDF
— Posted by Richard Fortner
15.April 17th,
2008
7:15 am I sure that, given the chance, Hilary would do just as much for the small towns around the country as she has done for upstate New York; nothing.
I am equally sure that Obama would find spending a weekend in my small town completly beyond him. we have one traffic light, but no starbucks.
— Posted by John Torgersen
16.April 17th,
2008
7:25 am We’re all props for the politicians. Energy independence has the greatest potential to bring jobs back, but it all boils down to corporate greed.
Corporations owe their loyalty to shareholders, not employees. Their job is to provide the biggest return on the dollar. All other things being equal, they go where they can pay the least.
Small towns all over the world are drying up.
— Posted by Robert59
17.April 17th,
2008
7:48 am Mr. Egan,
How, exactly, does the 2nd largest city in the state of Washington qualify as a small town? If you want to talk about Republic, or Metalline Falls, or some other NE Washington small town that’s lost industry, then the analogies presented in your opinion piece might fit, but a city with a quarter million people is not a small town.
— Posted by Sean
My hometown like many in the forties through the sixties was a town of industrial diversity of about fifty thousand well paid individuals living the good life. Then in the sixties the bubble burst, the industries infrastructure needed updated, but the powers that be decided it was financially to their benefit instead to relocate to other areas where they were welcomed with open arms and lucrative financial packages. It happened here in my hometown as it did in thousands of others.
Today my hometown is still here, the population is almost the same, but it is at its core much different. We no longer make things on a world size scale, we have become a service economy with lower pay scales and a less proud population, but we persevere. We lose our children to other locations where they can compete and prosper, that hurts. No longer do we enjoy multi-generational family life and this maybe hurts the most, but we are still here.
We will never be the same, but that's the way life is, always changing, always interesting to say the least.
My comments #34 in the Times are found here http://egan.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/04/16/lost-town-blues/index.html?ref=opinion
April 16, 2008, 6:41 pm
Lost Town Blues
In the town where I grew up, men had new trucks in their driveways, and three weeks of vacation for chasing deer in the fall and fish in the summer. They drank beer at a morning happy-hour after the graveyard shift ended, and voted for Democrats because they cared about the little guy, or so it was said.
In less than a generation’s time, the life jobs at the aluminum factory disappeared and the men lost their health benefits, their pensions, their self-confidence. You could say, without starting a fight, that some of them turned to God or guns for comfort — or at least for diversion. And then there were those who turned to alcohol.
It’s an old story, the grinding of winners into losers, a sort of geographic lottery. My town was Spokane, Wash., which has rebounded somewhat from the collapse of Kaiser Aluminum. But it could be McKeesport, Pa., or Utica, N.Y., or any of the 900 counties across the country that have lost jobs or population for decades.
People who live in small towns that have been passed over don’t need to be told that they’re bitter, or heroic. They’re stuck, is what they are. The honest ones say they would follow their kids out of town, if only they had the means. A few years ago, a University of Nebraska survey of 3,087 people in rural counties asked people how they felt about their lives. Only 11 percent of them said they were satisfied with where they lived. Optimism, as much a part of the landscape as winter wheat, was disappearing.
This sentiment, real but wrapped up in pride over place, may be in part why the polls show little change in Barack Obama’s standing since his comments about the bitterness of small towns and the working class. The pundits and voters are having two different conversations, not for the first time.
In that sense, the arc of this controversy is typical of how these things go: struggling towns are props, not issues.
One side rushes to drape themselves in flags, guns and the kind of Norman Rockwell hagiography that is far removed from the 2008 reality of meth labs and foreclosure frontiers. The other side says religion is for fools, and if only they had a new Starbucks in town, some of those Bible-banging gun nuts could learn to love Sundays with Norah Jones and a Scrabble game.
The low point in this discussion was Hillary Clinton talking about how she learned to shoot — “behind the cottage that my grandfather built on a little lake called Lake Winola outside of Scranton.” Yes, and after that it was Wellesley, Yale, the White House and the $109 million fortune she made with her husband trading in their name and influence. She’s got elite cred with the best of them.
Obama can counter with the endorsement this week from Bruce Springsteen. Nobody in American literature or politics has done a better job than the Boss of describing (as in “My Hometown”) the heartbreak of a foreman who says, “these jobs are going boys and they ain’t coming back.”
But for a presidential campaign, we should forget rock lyrics, guns and God, and who can throw back a boiler-maker like a real man. The only question should be how — or whether — rust belt and rural towns can join the tomorrow economies.
For that matter, we should retire the test over which presidential candidate voters would most like to have a beer with. George W. Bush, when he was drinking, was probably a fun guy in a bar — all those frat boy tricks, flatulence jokes and arcane stats on long-retired major leaguers.
But he’s run the country into the ground, even if the only measurement is how blue collar workers fared under his watch. And he is the only leader who has actually embraced the elite label. At a fundraising dinner during his first term with the “haves and the have-mores,” as he referred to them, Bush said: “Some people call you the elite — I call you my base.” Now, he was joking, but there’s an element of truth there. And for the record, median hourly wages in Pennsylvania are down 16 cents from five years ago, adjusting for inflation.
So, solutions? On John McCain’s Web site, he talks as much about reviving small town America as he does about Lindsay Lohan’s love life — zilch. Clinton and Obama each have detailed, multi-point proposals. They’re heavy on new energy solutions — solar, wind, converting crops to fuel, with faded factory towns doing the work. The problem, as we’ve seen with the huge rise in commodity crop prices, is that when food and fuel compete for the same source, family budgets strain. Hillary is out with a new ad in Indiana, promising to keep defense jobs in the state — pork as public policy, another sleight-of-hand trick for small town America.
Is it too much to ask one of these candidates for an honest but painful statement suggesting that perhaps a lot of these towns may never come back? Or that the way to economic revival is to lose the pipe dream that Google is going to relocate to an old steel town because they have a tax-free enterprise zone and some cool mountain-bike trails?
“By the time November rolls around,” said Gov. Ed Rendell of Pennsylvania, Hillary’s top surrogate in the state, Obama’s comment “will be long forgotten.”
So will small town America. Again.
Comments (17)
1.April 17th,
2008
3:06 am Thanks for the interesting analysis. The reason I worried about Obama’s recent insensitive remarks was that they sound very urban-centric/ethnocentric and may express an underlying attitude. Is he really committed to going going beyond stereotypes and visiting small towns and talking seriously with people and planners? Or will he focus on urban America after he’s elected? As you say, ethanol is not the future. How about a new WPA for rebuilding the infrastructure? There’s a big shortage of health care workers now. Could some small-town people be retrained for that? If the Dems offered solutions for people moving out of dying towns, probably a lot of people would be willing to move out — but not without a safety net. How about a national organization called Rust-Red Panthers or something like that?
— Posted by Chris
2.April 17th,
2008
3:27 am This was so painful to read because it speaks to the core of what’s wrong with our leadership. George Bush ran the country into the ground and none of the candidates give any hope that they will, or can, do any better. Whether its the pain of the small town, or the pain of urban decay, the truth of what’s going on seems to be either mis-stated or avoided. It will be very hard to vote in the actual election because the long, expensive, wasteful drive to the election has not given any evidence that a true, insightful leader will result.
— Posted by Bliss Siman
3.April 17th,
2008
3:28 am Excellent article! (For the record I support Barack Obama.) As I type this I am living in the Pacific Northwest. I am not originally from here, but I love this part of the country- I am in the Tri-Cities, which is an anomaly as our employment rate has just risen.
— Posted by Mary A
4.April 17th,
2008
4:19 am Mr. Egan — I usually respect your work enormously, but this piece was appalling. You accuse the pundits of a disconnect while writing about these small towns as if they were exclusively male. Would including — or simply acknowledging — women in the discussion have somehow damaged your anti-elite cred?
— Posted by Maggie
5.April 17th,
2008
4:58 am You sound like a Seattle nutcase who, when one asks ,”Which way is the road to Spokane?”You get the reply,”What do you want to go there for?”
Perhaps you should make a trip to your hometown and see what a really nice place it is. I have been around the world more than once, and I live here because I like it.
— Posted by Frances McCaffrey
6.April 17th,
2008
5:30 am How convenient: a poll that says a small percentage of folks in rural America want out as overwhelmingly as the inmates of nursing homes!
Similar results will be found in major metroplitan areas but in fact it’s not that different than it ever was - these ARE the good old days.
As we link into ever-widening interest groups and resist categorization we emerge from these over-simplified analyses with possibilities for cooperation for humanity unlike any ever had. Small town “values” are still valuable and living in rat-races where the air is cancerously polluted is even worse than the “despair” of lost jobs that nobody wants.
Love.
— Posted by William Loughborough
7.April 17th,
2008
5:48 am This is an excellent piece. In the final analysis it’s going to be about marketing and the ‘golden’ rule. Power has left. Like the mining country of East Kentucky where the mine owners had the gold and the people had the poverty that same scenario seems to be playing out in the land of corn and wheat fields. Nothing new here.
— Posted by e t gregory
8.April 17th,
2008
5:51 am Well, Mr. Egan,
Then why leave Spokane for Seattle?
— Posted by ileftspokanetoo
9.April 17th,
2008
6:03 am How very true. I’ve worked all over the most rural and unpopulated counties of the West, and some rural and depopulating counties of the East.
“Is it too much to ask one of these candidates for an honest but painful statement suggesting that perhaps a lot of these towns may never come back?”
Yes. Just as the dream in my state of a university for every quarter of the state, offering every major, at every level, is likely destined to die. Just as the small rural schoolhouse did.
It’s an urban country now. Ghost towns don’t come only from the 19th century’s mistakes and lost dreams. (And the West? Can be very bitter and clinging-to-narrow-values, too.)
— Posted by Idaho Pine
10.April 17th,
2008
6:05 am Basic problem is that Americans are voting for public relations perfect people. The real experienced people with talent and ability to put America back on course will never run for high office. They have lived a life with both successes and failures triumphs and mistakes. These are the trials and tribulations that make us men, that forge real leaders.
Observing a modern American election is like watching a bunch of mouthy beauty pagant contestants trying to show us just how perfect they have been and hence just how much they deserve to win. Their messages are tailor made for the specific state, the specific town but in the end it is all hot air. One of these public relations hounds is elected and political business returns to normal.
Change will come only after Americans learn to vote for those who are not perfect, who have climbed high mountains and sank to low valleys, who will really bring the interest of the little guy to bear on all issues. This person is you and me. He is in all of us.
Until we change we must resolve ourselves to a long slow slide into the status of second rate nation talking of the good old times and imagining that we still are rich and prosperious.
Robert
Washington, DC
— Posted by Robert
11.April 17th,
2008
6:10 am (oops, hit submit by accident).
So kudos to you and Obama for pointing out this “bitter” truth. It seems that so far he has proven himself a new kind of leader, indeed: unafraid to confront reality with thoughtful words, which may be clumsy at times.
But when isn’t it awkward to articulate a truth that’s been denied for decades? These truths - about the rural decline, like the role of race in our society - have been by most politicians behind the rhetoric that disguises their disinterest, or even fear, and certainly, often, inability to tackle the real questions facing the U.S. and the planet.
— Posted by Idaho Pine
12.April 17th,
2008
6:15 am Small town America is a bedrock of values, hopes, and dreams. It is also a tumbleweed, wind-blown ghost town of misery and lethargy. Feelings wash across this land with the connectivity of the internet - somehow giving the impression that the world is moving on without us and we are part of a glacial decline - a backwater - yet an early indicator of national trends as much as a canary carried by coal miners to sense the toxic atmosphere…by dying first.
There is much at stake and it is the core of the rhetoric of politicians. Small towns provide the incubator for our economy and future success in technology, business and politics. Tim Egan, one of my fdavorites,comes from the State of Washington where the barefoot schoolboy law prevailed, providing a threshold of funds for rural schools to offer education to kids that would build their understanding and incubate their dreams. Kids were so smart they saw their opportunity far, far away from their small town - they migrated to the big city. This has been the rule for the last 100 years. Some stayed and invested in the local community, some made it big then came home, some vowed like Scarlet O’Hara in Gone With the Wind - Lord I never want to be poor again…and never, never came home.
As I travel the world I find old friends from my small town of Sunnyside, Washington in every imaginable walk of life - many very successful because that small town was an incubator of big dreams of the greatest nation of the world. We still believe that stuff. We benefitted as a community of farmers from the huge public works projects that provided good jobs for our families building the national highway system and running the huge energy research laboratories at Hanford, Washington. The schools eagerly polled their students to get a piece of that federal money that was distributed to schools of federal worker children. We attended Community Concerts provided by the federal government grants bringing artists from the New York Metropolitan Opera and the Chicago Symphony into our little town - we learned about diversity and respected culture.
It is true there were twice as many taverns in town as there were churches, but the churches were on every corner. Sunday morning was a rousing chorus of church bells coaxing mothers to bundle up their kids and attend services. In small town America fathers and sons sneaked out on a Sunday morning and went fishing and hunting - still do. We had our Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, our Rotary Clubs, our Masonic Lodges and our Kiwanis Clubs, our American Legion, VFW and our Little League baseball teams sponsored by the A&W Root Beer Company and the local John Deere distributor. Yes we learned how to shoot, how to survive in the wilderness and how to respect life and preserve our freedoms. This deep love of freedom and soul and trust in God are values deep seated in American culture - not bitterness about lost American Dreams. These values are strong as bedrock and can be reinforced to bolster the strength of our hopes for a brighter future of our nation and its leadership role in the world community.
We have our heroes - those who leave our small towns and make it big- by careers in public service, the military, business or professions. We are not - repeat - are not psychotically clinging to religion and guns - we simply associate guns and God with our love for individual freedom. Despite our reliance on occasional federal programs creating opportunities for good jobs and future for our kids, we are wise to maintain a healthy distrust of the federal government’s insufferable tendency to want to dictate how we are to run our daily lives in our “village”. We may be bitter and frustrated - but we are proud - we have dreams - and somehow - with our faith in God - we know our kids can be anything that they want to be - with hard work and sacrifice. We only wish that more would finally come home and reinvest in the intellectual capital that they left behind for the opportunity of the big city.
— Posted by Dennis Egan
13.April 17th,
2008
6:22 am Mr. Egan makes some pithy observations. The frustrating thing I am resigned to is that we the people actually require our politicians to ignore unhappy facts.
Proof is provided by recalling the public and political reaction of former Presidents Jimmy Carter’s pronouncement that we were in an “era of limits” compared to Ronald Reagan’s fondly remembered “Morning in America”.
Mr. Carters conservation programs were abolished by Mr. Reagan with assurances that oil supplies would be bountiful if only government would get out of the way of the market forces.
So, here we sit with market forces causing gas prices to four dollars a gallon and a collapse of the housing market that will remove the possibility of the “American way of life” for millions of Americans whether they live in large cities or rural communities.
Nero fiddled while Rome burned because he was insane. Our candidates fiddle while America falls because we the people insist on it.
— Posted by Greg
14.April 17th,
2008
6:45 am Compelling insights to the real condition of small town America. Bruce Springstein has endorsed Obama. That is a telling analysis
RDF
— Posted by Richard Fortner
15.April 17th,
2008
7:15 am I sure that, given the chance, Hilary would do just as much for the small towns around the country as she has done for upstate New York; nothing.
I am equally sure that Obama would find spending a weekend in my small town completly beyond him. we have one traffic light, but no starbucks.
— Posted by John Torgersen
16.April 17th,
2008
7:25 am We’re all props for the politicians. Energy independence has the greatest potential to bring jobs back, but it all boils down to corporate greed.
Corporations owe their loyalty to shareholders, not employees. Their job is to provide the biggest return on the dollar. All other things being equal, they go where they can pay the least.
Small towns all over the world are drying up.
— Posted by Robert59
17.April 17th,
2008
7:48 am Mr. Egan,
How, exactly, does the 2nd largest city in the state of Washington qualify as a small town? If you want to talk about Republic, or Metalline Falls, or some other NE Washington small town that’s lost industry, then the analogies presented in your opinion piece might fit, but a city with a quarter million people is not a small town.
— Posted by Sean
April 16, 2008
April 14, 2008
April 12, 2008
Once upon a time two young kids started to hang out together,
so much so that they got a whole lot used to it and each other.
The boy graduated and left for the military, but became worried
that the girl might get used to him being gone and might decide that she liked it.
What to do, what to do? He knew he loved her, but wasn't so sure of her feelings toward him.
He was brave enough or dumb enough to volunteer and let them send him wherever they wanted, certainly he was brave enough to ask the girl to at least wait for him.
Elaborate schemes ran through his head on how to pop the question, but elequance was not his game. He studdered, he stammered, he cleared his throat and she said yes.
Years passed by and the boy and girl became as one. They discovered each was the others best audience. They finished each others sentences so familiar each was with the others thoughts.
Where once they could run free and wrestle with the kids, and walk miles on end for the pure joy of it, they now discovered aches and little discomforts.
As life is designed where once they were two, plus three, time moves on and kids move on. Now they were two again.
Fifty plus years have gone by now and the two kids that were once young are not so young anymore. But time compensates us in some ways.
The boy is no longer afraid the girl will think the grass is greener and the other boys cuter. They are content now sitting side by side chattering and cramming as much life as they can into whatever is remaining.
They seem to hold hands more now as they've gotten older, but about
equally it seems to steady the other and steer a straight course, and of course,the hands that have been useful are now a means of touching, a wordless email, that speaks a message of reassurance and fidelity together.
April 11, 2008
I use both windows and firefox as browsers. One of the things I missed when using firefox was the inability to 'create shortcuts'. Well Firefox has added an extension that fixed that. It's called Desk Cut. Download that, then right click and there it is, your ability to create a shortcut on the desktop.
I'm probably the last guy on the planet to discover that. Oh well.
I'm probably the last guy on the planet to discover that. Oh well.
April 9, 2008
When I was about fifteen events occurred that I remember to this day. Earth shattering events, heck no, but to me they were memorable. One of which happened whenever my aunt would come visit my mom. They would chat and catch up on family or local gossip.
Why do I mention this or why do I remember this? Well I was at the cusp of sixteen that age when a drivers license seemed the most important milesone I would ever reach. My aunt who drove a Studebaker for some reason I can't remember would allow me to take her car for a spin around the block while she drank her coffee and helped change my moms picture arrangements.
I don't know why she allowed me to do that, except she had two boys, my cousins, who were older than me so maybe she had been through the 'can I drive the car?' question so many times she never gave it a second thought when I asked her, 'can I drive the car?'.
I have always had a soft spot in my heart for Studebakers since then, so when I saw this poem I had to include it as a post.
Studebaker
Gerald Stern
Try a small black radio from any year
and listen to the voices you get, they were
much faster then, they raced ahead of us
and rushed the music; love was in a rocking chair,
the floor was crooked, the moon was already in
the sky, though it was daylight still; or love
was in a Studebaker, we were driving east
and we had no idea how long the corporation
would last, or if there was a corporation, how could we?
And did it have its headquarters in Delaware
for taxes and connections, though the doors
were heavy and solid, what was the year? '55?
The Lark appeared in 1958 or
'59—it was their last attempt,
though I remember the Wagoneer, it was 19-
66 and something called the Cruiser, we had
Nat King Cole on the radio though static
was bad in Pennsylvania, given the mountains,
and there was a lever you pushed to make a bed—
I hope I'm getting it right—the leaves on the windshield
were large and wet, the song was Unforgettable,
the tree was either a swamp maple or a sycamore.
Why do I mention this or why do I remember this? Well I was at the cusp of sixteen that age when a drivers license seemed the most important milesone I would ever reach. My aunt who drove a Studebaker for some reason I can't remember would allow me to take her car for a spin around the block while she drank her coffee and helped change my moms picture arrangements.
I don't know why she allowed me to do that, except she had two boys, my cousins, who were older than me so maybe she had been through the 'can I drive the car?' question so many times she never gave it a second thought when I asked her, 'can I drive the car?'.
I have always had a soft spot in my heart for Studebakers since then, so when I saw this poem I had to include it as a post.
Studebaker
Gerald Stern
Try a small black radio from any year
and listen to the voices you get, they were
much faster then, they raced ahead of us
and rushed the music; love was in a rocking chair,
the floor was crooked, the moon was already in
the sky, though it was daylight still; or love
was in a Studebaker, we were driving east
and we had no idea how long the corporation
would last, or if there was a corporation, how could we?
And did it have its headquarters in Delaware
for taxes and connections, though the doors
were heavy and solid, what was the year? '55?
The Lark appeared in 1958 or
'59—it was their last attempt,
though I remember the Wagoneer, it was 19-
66 and something called the Cruiser, we had
Nat King Cole on the radio though static
was bad in Pennsylvania, given the mountains,
and there was a lever you pushed to make a bed—
I hope I'm getting it right—the leaves on the windshield
were large and wet, the song was Unforgettable,
the tree was either a swamp maple or a sycamore.
April 8, 2008
A clever collection of verbal comebacks has been published by Mardy Grothe and it's titled: Viva La Repartee. Very funny stuff. Here is one:
W. C. Fields
W. C. Fields died at age sixty-seven on December 25, 1946, his life cut short by his notorious alcohol consumption (by some accounts, he drank as much as two quarts of gin a day). Some wags thought it was a fitting irony that Fields died on Christmas, the one holiday he despised the most. As he lay in his hospital bed shortly before his death, Fields was visited by the actor Thomas Mitchell, a good friend. When Mitchell entered Fields' room, he was shocked to find the irreligious Fields paging through a Bible. Fields was a lifelong agnostic, and fervently anti-religious (he once said that he had skimmed the Bible while looking for movie plots, but found only "a pack of wild lies"). "What are you doing reading a Bible?" asked the astonished Mitchell. A wiseacre to the end, Fields replied:
"I'm looking for loopholes."
and speaking of clever repartees, here is a great one from the movie DINNER AT EIGHT. The two ladies in case you don't know are Marie Dressler and Jean Harlow.
W. C. Fields
W. C. Fields died at age sixty-seven on December 25, 1946, his life cut short by his notorious alcohol consumption (by some accounts, he drank as much as two quarts of gin a day). Some wags thought it was a fitting irony that Fields died on Christmas, the one holiday he despised the most. As he lay in his hospital bed shortly before his death, Fields was visited by the actor Thomas Mitchell, a good friend. When Mitchell entered Fields' room, he was shocked to find the irreligious Fields paging through a Bible. Fields was a lifelong agnostic, and fervently anti-religious (he once said that he had skimmed the Bible while looking for movie plots, but found only "a pack of wild lies"). "What are you doing reading a Bible?" asked the astonished Mitchell. A wiseacre to the end, Fields replied:
"I'm looking for loopholes."
and speaking of clever repartees, here is a great one from the movie DINNER AT EIGHT. The two ladies in case you don't know are Marie Dressler and Jean Harlow.
April 7, 2008
BAD DREAMS
I don't usually have bad dreams, but last night I did.
If I do have a bad dream, and I'm sure everyone does, it dosen't carry over into consciousness. I only remember that I had one. But last night was an exception.
I don't believe that dreams are precursors of things to come, or precognitions, but they seem so real.
As I write this I am still hung over with the thoughts of my journey through dark thoughts.
I think I understand that dreams are dramatizations of our worst fears, ignited by I don't know what. If I did I would be sure not to consume whatever it is or not think such thoughts again just before bed.
My dreams have changed through the years as I have aged, as my life circumstances have changed, as my greatest fears have rearranged themselves. One of the prevailing themes of my night trips is that I am lost and spend the whole night, it seems, traveling to nowhere or in circles.
Another is that I am at work among someone I remember from my real working days, but just kind of hanging around because I did not know what to do or that I was a pretender that had not yet been caught in my ineptness.
Last nights dream sent a chill up my spine literally and woke me up at a too early to stay-up hour, but I got up, stayed up for a short time and then returned to my bed, and darn if the dream didn't start right back up again.
This time my dream has a little twist to it, but God it was scary to me. I was lost again, but this time I was driving and it was of course dark and dreary, and I turned up a road I did not know of course and it turned out to be railroad tracks that I was driving on. The roadbed got steeper and steeper and my wheels started slipping on the slippery tracks until I became more and more panicky. I finally in desperation turned the steering wheel and the car came off the tracks and started to plunge downward. I woke up remembering it all.
I wish I hadn't.
I don't usually have bad dreams, but last night I did.
If I do have a bad dream, and I'm sure everyone does, it dosen't carry over into consciousness. I only remember that I had one. But last night was an exception.
I don't believe that dreams are precursors of things to come, or precognitions, but they seem so real.
As I write this I am still hung over with the thoughts of my journey through dark thoughts.
I think I understand that dreams are dramatizations of our worst fears, ignited by I don't know what. If I did I would be sure not to consume whatever it is or not think such thoughts again just before bed.
My dreams have changed through the years as I have aged, as my life circumstances have changed, as my greatest fears have rearranged themselves. One of the prevailing themes of my night trips is that I am lost and spend the whole night, it seems, traveling to nowhere or in circles.
Another is that I am at work among someone I remember from my real working days, but just kind of hanging around because I did not know what to do or that I was a pretender that had not yet been caught in my ineptness.
Last nights dream sent a chill up my spine literally and woke me up at a too early to stay-up hour, but I got up, stayed up for a short time and then returned to my bed, and darn if the dream didn't start right back up again.
This time my dream has a little twist to it, but God it was scary to me. I was lost again, but this time I was driving and it was of course dark and dreary, and I turned up a road I did not know of course and it turned out to be railroad tracks that I was driving on. The roadbed got steeper and steeper and my wheels started slipping on the slippery tracks until I became more and more panicky. I finally in desperation turned the steering wheel and the car came off the tracks and started to plunge downward. I woke up remembering it all.
I wish I hadn't.
April 6, 2008
April 4, 2008
the cow has jumped over the equinox
or something
and spring is here.
like every spring the weather is
nicely put, unsettled.
today as I look out my window at
my expected location of sweat and toil
I see clouds swollen with rain preparing
a new unloading of same.
the same ground that yesterday was receptive
to my initial ministrations and promises
that I would preen it and feed it and bring
it back to an appearance it could be proud of
today is water laden, akin to dry skin
sucking up skin lotion it will emerge from the rain
a little greener, a little more prepared for the human
toilers excavations, and scratching of the earth,
planting this and that, rearranging and sowing
rituals from time immemorial repeated, only
differing in size and scope, and purpose.
oh yes, purpose. The land, a gift from God.
Land, the soil answers the call with
bounties to fill each persons needs, returning
in kind the diligence of the landowner.
so sit back while it rains and feeds the land
and dream of fields of flowers or vegetables
yet to be sowed, be content. You haven't come
across that huge bolder yet to be uncovered, or
those forgotten roots that eminate from China.
but that's for tomorrow, today smile, dream and
have another cup of coffee.
jim kittelberger
2008
or something
and spring is here.
like every spring the weather is
nicely put, unsettled.
today as I look out my window at
my expected location of sweat and toil
I see clouds swollen with rain preparing
a new unloading of same.
the same ground that yesterday was receptive
to my initial ministrations and promises
that I would preen it and feed it and bring
it back to an appearance it could be proud of
today is water laden, akin to dry skin
sucking up skin lotion it will emerge from the rain
a little greener, a little more prepared for the human
toilers excavations, and scratching of the earth,
planting this and that, rearranging and sowing
rituals from time immemorial repeated, only
differing in size and scope, and purpose.
oh yes, purpose. The land, a gift from God.
Land, the soil answers the call with
bounties to fill each persons needs, returning
in kind the diligence of the landowner.
so sit back while it rains and feeds the land
and dream of fields of flowers or vegetables
yet to be sowed, be content. You haven't come
across that huge bolder yet to be uncovered, or
those forgotten roots that eminate from China.
but that's for tomorrow, today smile, dream and
have another cup of coffee.
jim kittelberger
2008
April 3, 2008
April 2, 2008
WOOLGATHERING
Why do I want to write?
Do I have anything important to get off my chest? Do I have anything I think is of value to the world, good lord no, then why spend time punching keys, spending time putting words on paper that no one will read? During moments of fancy I visualize my hand dipping a pen into an inkwell and like magic flowing words appear in a beautiful hand onto wonderfully thick paper stock. The ink running smoothly over the paper, the pen feeling like a machine built for speed and agility, moving in glorious loops forming words that are beautiful to look at. Perhaps it's not words that I yearn for, but maybe the art and flow of a highly trained calligrapher.
Yet the words in magnificent formation like a schooled marching band seem somehow incomplete and unalive, a creation that is waiting for its life blood that will lift it up and make it soar. Color, the cornacopia of the rainbow, the wild not quite sane mind of Van Gogh creating colors that rival the sunlit fields of sunflowers and yellow wheat swaying in the breeze; color, taken from Gauguins wildly splattered pallet of hurriedly applied deep and bright hues to heighten his images of the Tahati in his mind, more than in fact. These colors added to the black and white flowing words create in my mind what I desire.
Yet and alas, God has regretfully left me to only image how great it must be to be able to merge the beauty imagined in your brain and the hands obedience giving it life on the canvas. Alas.
jim kittelberger
2008
Do I have anything important to get off my chest? Do I have anything I think is of value to the world, good lord no, then why spend time punching keys, spending time putting words on paper that no one will read? During moments of fancy I visualize my hand dipping a pen into an inkwell and like magic flowing words appear in a beautiful hand onto wonderfully thick paper stock. The ink running smoothly over the paper, the pen feeling like a machine built for speed and agility, moving in glorious loops forming words that are beautiful to look at. Perhaps it's not words that I yearn for, but maybe the art and flow of a highly trained calligrapher.
Yet the words in magnificent formation like a schooled marching band seem somehow incomplete and unalive, a creation that is waiting for its life blood that will lift it up and make it soar. Color, the cornacopia of the rainbow, the wild not quite sane mind of Van Gogh creating colors that rival the sunlit fields of sunflowers and yellow wheat swaying in the breeze; color, taken from Gauguins wildly splattered pallet of hurriedly applied deep and bright hues to heighten his images of the Tahati in his mind, more than in fact. These colors added to the black and white flowing words create in my mind what I desire.
Yet and alas, God has regretfully left me to only image how great it must be to be able to merge the beauty imagined in your brain and the hands obedience giving it life on the canvas. Alas.
jim kittelberger
2008
April 1, 2008
HOMETOWN ABSTRACTS
Second Edition
The Run-Aways (shown above with Trixie the wonder dog)
The early years in Mansfield, circa 1943-44, were not without stress for two sisters who lived modestly on Cherry street, in a house of unpretentious size close to their fathers employment. At the early age of five and seven they had decided that they could take no more of ultimatums as they were newly emerging women of wartime America and should be allowed the independence they deserved. Of course the issue was of such a nature that the course was clear. The issue that caused the revolt was the demand made by their mother that they would be required to tidy up their rooms on a daily basis, which amounted to making their beds.
The remedy seemed clear, a clean break and a new start. The plan was implemented, but only essentials to life were to accompany them on their fresh start. To travel light was the method of choice of these world-wise new mid twentieth century women. Light traveling meant to take along only their newly acquired, last Christmas acquisitions, piggy banks and of course in their break-out for freedom a fellow traveler with a string around her neck, Trixie the fox terrier.
So off they went, the two sisters and Trixie on the road. The distance they traveled was actually quite impressive, three miles as the crow flies. Sisters and dog trudged with the sun bearing down on them, perhaps eroding their desire to be free and independent, but they continued on.
Their destination was in sight and perhaps not a moment too soon. Tired and sweaty they climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door. No answer. They knocked again, still no answer. The travelers had just assumed that their Aunt, where they were planning on a safe haven, would of course, be home.
They sat down on the steps, the two sisters and dog Trixie and tried to come to grips with this flaw in the plan. Perhaps also to start thinking about the fear of the unknown, always a big issue with women of the world of age five and seven, when pulling up in front of the Aunts house was Mom and Dad in the wonderful old car. Mom opened the door and invited/a little more than invited, maybe ordered the wayfarers to enter the car.
I never have heard, the sisters have forgotten? the next chapter in the saga, but they grew up to be fine women doing well into the twenty-first century.
The difference with then and now in early Mansfield, as in most of the country I venture to say, the little travelers were more than fairly safe walking the sidewalks in those days, where I'm sorry to say, today they would not be.
Second Edition
The Run-Aways (shown above with Trixie the wonder dog)
The early years in Mansfield, circa 1943-44, were not without stress for two sisters who lived modestly on Cherry street, in a house of unpretentious size close to their fathers employment. At the early age of five and seven they had decided that they could take no more of ultimatums as they were newly emerging women of wartime America and should be allowed the independence they deserved. Of course the issue was of such a nature that the course was clear. The issue that caused the revolt was the demand made by their mother that they would be required to tidy up their rooms on a daily basis, which amounted to making their beds.
The remedy seemed clear, a clean break and a new start. The plan was implemented, but only essentials to life were to accompany them on their fresh start. To travel light was the method of choice of these world-wise new mid twentieth century women. Light traveling meant to take along only their newly acquired, last Christmas acquisitions, piggy banks and of course in their break-out for freedom a fellow traveler with a string around her neck, Trixie the fox terrier.
So off they went, the two sisters and Trixie on the road. The distance they traveled was actually quite impressive, three miles as the crow flies. Sisters and dog trudged with the sun bearing down on them, perhaps eroding their desire to be free and independent, but they continued on.
Their destination was in sight and perhaps not a moment too soon. Tired and sweaty they climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door. No answer. They knocked again, still no answer. The travelers had just assumed that their Aunt, where they were planning on a safe haven, would of course, be home.
They sat down on the steps, the two sisters and dog Trixie and tried to come to grips with this flaw in the plan. Perhaps also to start thinking about the fear of the unknown, always a big issue with women of the world of age five and seven, when pulling up in front of the Aunts house was Mom and Dad in the wonderful old car. Mom opened the door and invited/a little more than invited, maybe ordered the wayfarers to enter the car.
I never have heard, the sisters have forgotten? the next chapter in the saga, but they grew up to be fine women doing well into the twenty-first century.
The difference with then and now in early Mansfield, as in most of the country I venture to say, the little travelers were more than fairly safe walking the sidewalks in those days, where I'm sorry to say, today they would not be.
March 31, 2008
TO MY SONS
A tribute to my two sons who stood up and served their time in the U.S. military. I thank them for doing what they saw as their duty to all of us by giving a portion of their lifes to the necessary work of defending our good country.
I am eternally grateful to God that I was able to see them come home again all in one piece and be able to tell them Thank you for going and more importantly, to a lot of concerned people, coming back. My first son served ten years in the U.S Air Force and my second son retired from the U.S Army, after two tours in Iraq. Both had done their duty and a whole lot more.
They both made up for their fathers less than illustrious career in the military. I was rated somewhere between Sad Sack, the lifetime private, and Beetle Baily, the sargents all the time nemesis. I sometimes enjoyed my lackluster military career, but no one stood in my way trying to get me to re-enlist, try to figure.
My sons though did themselves proud and their mother and I applaud them for it.
With Love,
Your parents
For your enjoyment we arranged a little musical concert in your honor....they're a little late, but I think I hear them coming...Enjoy.
A tribute to my two sons who stood up and served their time in the U.S. military. I thank them for doing what they saw as their duty to all of us by giving a portion of their lifes to the necessary work of defending our good country.
I am eternally grateful to God that I was able to see them come home again all in one piece and be able to tell them Thank you for going and more importantly, to a lot of concerned people, coming back. My first son served ten years in the U.S Air Force and my second son retired from the U.S Army, after two tours in Iraq. Both had done their duty and a whole lot more.
They both made up for their fathers less than illustrious career in the military. I was rated somewhere between Sad Sack, the lifetime private, and Beetle Baily, the sargents all the time nemesis. I sometimes enjoyed my lackluster military career, but no one stood in my way trying to get me to re-enlist, try to figure.
My sons though did themselves proud and their mother and I applaud them for it.
With Love,
Your parents
For your enjoyment we arranged a little musical concert in your honor....they're a little late, but I think I hear them coming...Enjoy.
March 30, 2008
Listening to the WRITERS ALMANAC with Garrison Keillor, I was treated with this poem by Kate Dicamillo. I really like it because it's touching number one, and secondly, and sorta secretly (from whom I don't know) I would like to have a dog like Aldo that could be a friend. Truth be known, I'm too old and getting too fussy to have to tend to a dog anymore I am sorry to say.
Snow, Aldo
Once, I was in New York,
in Central Park, and I saw
an old man in a black overcoat walking
a black dog. This was springtime
and the trees were still
bare and the sky was
gray and low and it began, suddenly,
to snow:
big fat flakes
that twirled and landed on the
black of the man's overcoat and
the black dog's fur. The dog
lifted his face and stared
up at the sky. The man looked
up, too. "Snow, Aldo," he said to the dog,
"snow." And he laughed.
The dog looked
at him and wagged his tail.
If I was in charge of making
snow globes, this is what I would put inside:
the old man in the black overcoat,
the black dog,
two friends with their faces turned up to the sky
as if they were receiving a blessing,
as if they were being blessed together
by something
as simple as snow
in March.
Snow, Aldo
Once, I was in New York,
in Central Park, and I saw
an old man in a black overcoat walking
a black dog. This was springtime
and the trees were still
bare and the sky was
gray and low and it began, suddenly,
to snow:
big fat flakes
that twirled and landed on the
black of the man's overcoat and
the black dog's fur. The dog
lifted his face and stared
up at the sky. The man looked
up, too. "Snow, Aldo," he said to the dog,
"snow." And he laughed.
The dog looked
at him and wagged his tail.
If I was in charge of making
snow globes, this is what I would put inside:
the old man in the black overcoat,
the black dog,
two friends with their faces turned up to the sky
as if they were receiving a blessing,
as if they were being blessed together
by something
as simple as snow
in March.
March 28, 2008
WII put out by Nintendo has found an unexpected market in senior citizens. Nursing homes and the like have found they are very popular taking the place of standard exercising and making it fun. Here is a small video showing it in action and you can see the amount of movement they use and how good it would be for the elderly. They include five sports: tennis, baseball, bowling, golf, and boxing.
March 27, 2008
HOMETOWN ABSTRACTS
First Edition
My hometown is a medium sized town of approximately 55,000 people, located in the north central section of Ohio. The name of the town is Mansfield, named after Jared Mansfield, the surveyor general in 1808. It is located geographically in the western foothills of the Allegheny Plateau in the county of Richland, named literally because of it rich fertile soil.
When I arrived on the scene in the thirties, Mansfield was a manufacturing center with many heavy industries thriving, the biggest being Westinghouse corporation and Tappan Stove company among many others. The town thrived until sometime in the seventies when the steel recession caused many of the industries to move to other countries or to the south because of cost incentives. They never returned and Mansfielders had to become somewhat innovative and change from a manufacturing base to a service based economy.
I too left my hometown in the fifties, but returned in the early seventies. We may leave our hometowns for economic gain, but that feeling for the place of our birth and the simple life instilled right or wrong in our brains seems somehow to draw us back. The moves back are highly personal in each case and sometimes it works out, and sometimes it doesn't. In my case it was a right move.
First Edition
My hometown is a medium sized town of approximately 55,000 people, located in the north central section of Ohio. The name of the town is Mansfield, named after Jared Mansfield, the surveyor general in 1808. It is located geographically in the western foothills of the Allegheny Plateau in the county of Richland, named literally because of it rich fertile soil.
When I arrived on the scene in the thirties, Mansfield was a manufacturing center with many heavy industries thriving, the biggest being Westinghouse corporation and Tappan Stove company among many others. The town thrived until sometime in the seventies when the steel recession caused many of the industries to move to other countries or to the south because of cost incentives. They never returned and Mansfielders had to become somewhat innovative and change from a manufacturing base to a service based economy.
I too left my hometown in the fifties, but returned in the early seventies. We may leave our hometowns for economic gain, but that feeling for the place of our birth and the simple life instilled right or wrong in our brains seems somehow to draw us back. The moves back are highly personal in each case and sometimes it works out, and sometimes it doesn't. In my case it was a right move.
March 25, 2008
Now that Spring is officially here even though it doesn't look like it just yet, the school kids are looking at having to pay back for all those snow days off school they accumulated during the past winter. They will have to go a little longer into the Spring so everything comes out even for school accountibility.
But as I remember it was all worth it. I wrote this a while ago while I was remembering those good old snow days.
SNOW DAYS
I was not then, nor am I now an avid fan of winter.
Except, ahh, except for the exhilaration of joy I often felt upon awakening after a crisp coldness had descended upon us overnight.
The morning sun breaking through the gray snow sky revealing an unscarred layer of whiteness covering earth’s imperfections was almost my first awareness of what beauty is. The crisp coldness caused the newly fallen snow to sparkle like diamonds, free for the picking. A stirring from deep inside made me spring out of my warm cozy bed onto the cold morning floor immune to the discomfort, and fully aware of what could lie ahead as a result of Mother Nature’s overnight gift to a boy of ten years. Young yes; a scholar, no; a snow day? Yes! Yes! Maybe.
The furnace’s morning stoking and poking and fueling with an ample supply of coal was returning the favor by filling my moms kitchen with its unforgettable and pleasant aroma and heat. The smell of perking coffee, and the sight of the newly buttered toast enhanced those aromatic pleasures. On mornings like these, my mother, a true believer in the medicinal values of food would also prepare oatmeal for me. A properly nourished body, she would always say, is the proper way to begin a day. Oh God, What a great day this is going to be, the word had just come over the radio, “SCHOOL WAS CANCELLED BECAUSE OF THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW”.
On mornings such as these, when the fates had smiled on us and piled drifts of snow in our driveways and against our backdoors, I could not wait to get out into it. Of course, my moms job would not be done until she made sure I was covered with seventeen layers of protective clothing, or at least it seemed that many. Then I was sprung loose into a world of boys and sleds and imagination.
Boys, little boys, young boys, evidently don’t have a built in device running from their bodies to their brains telling them they were getting mighty cold now. They just continued on and on and on, like the energizer bunny until, in the method of the day, their mothers would open the door and yell for them to come home for lunch. How I wonder, no matter how far away we were, we always seemed to hear them.
I would arrive at the back door which led into the kitchen, and after working to remove my frozen boots from my frozen feet with my frozen hands, I would stand on the floor register, and let the glorious coal heat cover my body with its thawing, life restoring warmth. How I and my boyhood chums did not lose fingers or toes from frostbite, I’ll never know, because after a short time standing on the register, my feet would begin to hurt and sting.
But soon a bowl of soup and maybe a sandwich would appear, the radio would be broadcasting a soap opera, and everything would be right. In my mind today, almost sixty years later, I can still feel the discomfort of the snow, but the comfort I feel from remembering those days and that kitchen and that time diminishes mere physical pain.
I will always have that kitchen, and those glorious snow days, and that caring mom with me as comfort and remembrance to call upon when age begins to lay heavily on me.
But as I remember it was all worth it. I wrote this a while ago while I was remembering those good old snow days.
SNOW DAYS
I was not then, nor am I now an avid fan of winter.
Except, ahh, except for the exhilaration of joy I often felt upon awakening after a crisp coldness had descended upon us overnight.
The morning sun breaking through the gray snow sky revealing an unscarred layer of whiteness covering earth’s imperfections was almost my first awareness of what beauty is. The crisp coldness caused the newly fallen snow to sparkle like diamonds, free for the picking. A stirring from deep inside made me spring out of my warm cozy bed onto the cold morning floor immune to the discomfort, and fully aware of what could lie ahead as a result of Mother Nature’s overnight gift to a boy of ten years. Young yes; a scholar, no; a snow day? Yes! Yes! Maybe.
The furnace’s morning stoking and poking and fueling with an ample supply of coal was returning the favor by filling my moms kitchen with its unforgettable and pleasant aroma and heat. The smell of perking coffee, and the sight of the newly buttered toast enhanced those aromatic pleasures. On mornings like these, my mother, a true believer in the medicinal values of food would also prepare oatmeal for me. A properly nourished body, she would always say, is the proper way to begin a day. Oh God, What a great day this is going to be, the word had just come over the radio, “SCHOOL WAS CANCELLED BECAUSE OF THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW”.
On mornings such as these, when the fates had smiled on us and piled drifts of snow in our driveways and against our backdoors, I could not wait to get out into it. Of course, my moms job would not be done until she made sure I was covered with seventeen layers of protective clothing, or at least it seemed that many. Then I was sprung loose into a world of boys and sleds and imagination.
Boys, little boys, young boys, evidently don’t have a built in device running from their bodies to their brains telling them they were getting mighty cold now. They just continued on and on and on, like the energizer bunny until, in the method of the day, their mothers would open the door and yell for them to come home for lunch. How I wonder, no matter how far away we were, we always seemed to hear them.
I would arrive at the back door which led into the kitchen, and after working to remove my frozen boots from my frozen feet with my frozen hands, I would stand on the floor register, and let the glorious coal heat cover my body with its thawing, life restoring warmth. How I and my boyhood chums did not lose fingers or toes from frostbite, I’ll never know, because after a short time standing on the register, my feet would begin to hurt and sting.
But soon a bowl of soup and maybe a sandwich would appear, the radio would be broadcasting a soap opera, and everything would be right. In my mind today, almost sixty years later, I can still feel the discomfort of the snow, but the comfort I feel from remembering those days and that kitchen and that time diminishes mere physical pain.
I will always have that kitchen, and those glorious snow days, and that caring mom with me as comfort and remembrance to call upon when age begins to lay heavily on me.
Re-watched a 1941 movie titled: THE DEVIL AND DANIEL WEBSTER starring Edward Arnold, Walter Huston, James Craig, Ann Harding and the actress who made a very good living playing mothers in some very good movies, Jane Darwell. One of her more memorible mother roles was as Ma Joad in GRAPES OF WRATH.
I really enjoy this movie. It is a morality tale set in New England about a farmer who in a moment of despair says he would sell his soul to the devil for two cents. The devil, Huston, takes him up on it, and the rest of the movie is him enjoying the fruits of his unthinking bargain with the devil until it comes time to pay up.
A good movie in black and white with other character actors you may recognize. Simone Simon plays a woman who also has sold her soul to the devil and has been brought back from the depths to tempt James Craig in his downfall, as if he needed any help.
If I have a choice of a good colored film or a black and white film, I will always take the non-colored film. The finished product always seems more intimate and it seems to take the viewer deeper into the action. (Now that sounds really convuluted and bogus, but I know what I mean, I just can't seem to be able to spit it out). If you're a film fan I'm sure you know what I'm talking about.
March 24, 2008
Recently I viewed a recording of AFI (American Film Institutes) top 100 films of all time. Now I agreed with most of the picks. Most were just great films, and some were controversial at the time, but all were darn good. I'm not belaboring any of the picks, but I would like to add a few more rather elderly films which I think are as good now many years after their premiers as they were new.
The oldest film is METROPOLIS 1926. A really great silent film that has moments that are memorable. The picture is a look at the future where the rich live above ground and enjoy life in the sun; and the workers live below ground in their own world. One of the scenes I remember vividly is the shift change when the workers line up not unlike robots in formation and enter and exit elevators that take them to their homes and/or workplace. It is dramatic and unforgettable.
ON BORROWED TIME 1939, a film with the great actor Lionel Barrymore and a kid actor with the great name Bobs Watson who lives with his grandparents because his parents were killed in an accident. Sir Cedrick Hardwick who plays Mr. Death comes to take grandpa Lionel to heaven which would devistate Bobs the grandchild so they devise a plan to trap Mr. Death in a tree so his beloved grandpa will not have to go without him. I won't tell you anymore, but I loved the film and now have it on disk for another viewing when I'm in the mood.
THE SHOP AROUND THE CORNER 1940, another film that I think is absolutely great, stars James Stewart, Margaret Sullivan, Frank Morgan and an actor with an amusing voice William Tracy.
It takes place in a notions shop in Budapest and the main plot is about two people, Jimmy and Margaret who are lonely and are corresponding with people they have never seen. Of course they end up with each other, but it takes a while to get to that ending, and getting there is sheer joy, at least for me. The actors are great, the story is gentle, almost a fairy tale rendering. Of course Jimmy Stewart never did put on a bad performance that I can remember.
March 22, 2008
Some people are so clever. I found this site accidentally like I do a lot of sites. I couldn't resist sticking my ugly mug on one of those pages. The picture was taken at Malabar State park, a favorite place of my wife and I.
Computers are great company and can be a lot of fun.
Computers are great company and can be a lot of fun.
Create Fake Magazine Covers with your own picture at MagMyPic.com
Discount Magazine Subscriptions - Save big!
Spring arrived here in Ohio a couple days ago along with newly emerging daffodils. But Spring being Spring, especially in Ohio, we now have snow back on the ground. My wife assures me that even though it does not look like spring, the sun is higher in the sky and a little warmth eminates from it, so patience is the keyword for winter-weary Buckeyes. A little Cat Stevens music and a video of what we will see soon will have to suffice for now. Enjoy.
March 21, 2008
Do I love this story?
http://money.cnn.com/2008/03/07/pf/sivy_apr.moneymag/index.htm?section=money_topstories
You bet I do. It just seems too right though to be something that could actually come to pass.
But with Buffet buying up stock you have to know it might be a serious story. Read the article, it touches on all the reasons why it is the right thing to do. The number one thing that I immediately thought of was fuel efficiency. It's about time someone put their money where their mouth is.
The government for years has had a hand in our national transit system Amtrac and have done nothing more about it, while the oil cartels in the Mid-East gouge us more each week, and our pols (stated with a sneer) talk about us regaining our oil independence from OPEC with words that have not one lick of credibility.
Starting rail systems to handle some of our commuting would rid the street of a lot of traffic and conversely a lot of gas consumption. My state of Ohio governor Strickland has stated he would like to consider establishing a high-speed rail system throughout the state. Sounds fantastic to me on one hand, but being a political realist, I know this won't ever happen. What really ticks me is not so much that the weak link is money raising, but the sneaking suspicion that the pols don't mean a word of it.
It would help solve too many current problems to have any chance of succeeding.
http://money.cnn.com/2008/03/07/pf/sivy_apr.moneymag/index.htm?section=money_topstories
You bet I do. It just seems too right though to be something that could actually come to pass.
But with Buffet buying up stock you have to know it might be a serious story. Read the article, it touches on all the reasons why it is the right thing to do. The number one thing that I immediately thought of was fuel efficiency. It's about time someone put their money where their mouth is.
The government for years has had a hand in our national transit system Amtrac and have done nothing more about it, while the oil cartels in the Mid-East gouge us more each week, and our pols (stated with a sneer) talk about us regaining our oil independence from OPEC with words that have not one lick of credibility.
Starting rail systems to handle some of our commuting would rid the street of a lot of traffic and conversely a lot of gas consumption. My state of Ohio governor Strickland has stated he would like to consider establishing a high-speed rail system throughout the state. Sounds fantastic to me on one hand, but being a political realist, I know this won't ever happen. What really ticks me is not so much that the weak link is money raising, but the sneaking suspicion that the pols don't mean a word of it.
It would help solve too many current problems to have any chance of succeeding.
These two moments from two of America's best, where it seemed that they were thinking and talking on the same subjects in the 1950's. It seems rather prophetic about events that took place here in my country in the first decade of the twenty first century.
Along with that, Senator Hagel this week is coming to the conclusion that perhaps it is the time for a third party, a party for men and women of more independent thinking to be thought of more seriously than ever before. Here is the piece from Google video:
Along with that, Senator Hagel this week is coming to the conclusion that perhaps it is the time for a third party, a party for men and women of more independent thinking to be thought of more seriously than ever before. Here is the piece from Google video:
March 19, 2008
March 17, 2008
Weather-wise things are pretty much back to normal. The snow is still visible in patches in our yards. Here in my hometown the snow set a record at 19 inches. In my backyard and driveway the yardstick registered 21 inches. Way deep enough and way cold enough, to paraphrase our hippie friends, and way miserable enough to last me for a long time.
I was reminded of this little piece I wrote some years back:
ALMOST THERE
The door slams behind me, loud in the quiet night,
Winter moonlight bathes the tundra
Work boots crunch a frigid cadence
Diamonds in the snow sparkle its fools gold
Do not linger
Silent eternity awaits the foolish
The cold invades my clothing
Quicker the crunching sound
I must hurry; I must hurry
The wind arrives unexpected as death
Snow swirling, envelopes me in white sheets
I’ve lost my way, make a quick back track while I may
Tears spring unbidden from my eyes and turn to ice
I must hurry
My tracks are being covered, but I know it’s this way
Yes I know I’m right
Crunch; crunch
Quickly, the enemy panic arrives
Faster; faster
I can’t see, should I go ahead, or back or
Oh God, help me
I’m so tired
There, under that tree I’ll wait
I’ll wait and think
It has to stop soon
I’ll rest and wait
I hope my love will forgive me for being late
I’ll just close my eyes for a moment
I was reminded of this little piece I wrote some years back:
ALMOST THERE
The door slams behind me, loud in the quiet night,
Winter moonlight bathes the tundra
Work boots crunch a frigid cadence
Diamonds in the snow sparkle its fools gold
Do not linger
Silent eternity awaits the foolish
The cold invades my clothing
Quicker the crunching sound
I must hurry; I must hurry
The wind arrives unexpected as death
Snow swirling, envelopes me in white sheets
I’ve lost my way, make a quick back track while I may
Tears spring unbidden from my eyes and turn to ice
I must hurry
My tracks are being covered, but I know it’s this way
Yes I know I’m right
Crunch; crunch
Quickly, the enemy panic arrives
Faster; faster
I can’t see, should I go ahead, or back or
Oh God, help me
I’m so tired
There, under that tree I’ll wait
I’ll wait and think
It has to stop soon
I’ll rest and wait
I hope my love will forgive me for being late
I’ll just close my eyes for a moment
March 15, 2008
March 14, 2008
March 13, 2008
I tend to believe this snapshot of polled information. My reasoning for believing it is that kids today are born into the computer culture and don't have any thresholds to cross over before they become comfortable with the electronic wonder. They use it as soon as they can understand if you punch a button the following will happen in games. They use computers from kindergarten on.
We older folks at first had to understand that if we pushed the wrong button, the world would not explode, and then it's a slow transition to feeling comfortable with the whole concept. Not to say that older folks cannot become computer nerds, but for kids they're born into it and absorb it like sponges.
TAKE FIVE.
It's been a while since I've listened to this Dave Brubeck classic so todays the day. Here's a little history:
Dave Brubeck is one of the most well-known jazz pianists of all time. The classic Dave Brubeck Quartet featuring Paul Desmond's liquid saxophone lasted for 17 years, during which time they produced the first ever million-selling jazz tune (Take Five), toured the world many times, and introduced enormous numbers of people to the jazz sound. But Brubeck is not one to get stuck in a rut, and since the original quartet disbanded over thirty six years ago, he has continued to develop as a musician, exploring new avenues in composition and performance. He is still touring, and still releasing albums, at the age of 84.
It's been a while since I've listened to this Dave Brubeck classic so todays the day. Here's a little history:
Dave Brubeck is one of the most well-known jazz pianists of all time. The classic Dave Brubeck Quartet featuring Paul Desmond's liquid saxophone lasted for 17 years, during which time they produced the first ever million-selling jazz tune (Take Five), toured the world many times, and introduced enormous numbers of people to the jazz sound. But Brubeck is not one to get stuck in a rut, and since the original quartet disbanded over thirty six years ago, he has continued to develop as a musician, exploring new avenues in composition and performance. He is still touring, and still releasing albums, at the age of 84.
March 12, 2008
I received this from my friend Fred. What it proves to me is that we cannot take much credit for how we look to others, and more importantly snap judgements from strangers are usually wrong.
YOU JUST NEVER KNOW, DO YOU?
Captain Kangaroo passed away on January 23, 2004 at age 76 , which is odd, because he always looked to be 76. (DOB: 6/27/27 ) His death reminded me of the following story.
Some people have been a bit offended that the actor, Lee Marvin, is buried in a grave alongside 3 and 4 star generals at Arlington National Cemetery . His marker gives his name, rank (PVT) and service (USMC). Nothing else. Here's a guy who was only a famous movie star who served his time, why the heck does he rate burial with these guys? Well, following is the amazing answer:
I always liked Lee Marvin, but didn't know the extent of his Corps experiences.
In a time when many Hollywood stars served their country in the armed forces often in rear echelon posts where they were carefully protected, only to be trotted out to perform for the cameras in war bond promotions, Lee Marvin was a genuine hero. He won the Navy Cross at Iwo Jima There is only one higher Naval award... the Medal Of Honor
If that is a surprising comment on the true character of the man, he credits his sergeant with an even greater show of bravery.
Dialog from "The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson": His guest was Lee Marvin Johnny said, "Lee, I'll bet a lot of people are unaware that you were a Marine in the initial landing at Iwo Jima ..and that during the course of that action you earned the Navy Cross and were severely wounded."
"Yeah, yeah... I got shot square in the bottom and they gave me the Cross for securing a hot spot about halfway up Suribachi.
Bad thing about getting shot up on a mountain is guys getting' shot hauling you down. But,Johnny, at Iwo I served under the bravest man I ever knew... We both got the cross the same day, but what he did for his Cross made mine look cheap in comparison. That dumb guy actually stood up on Red beach and directed his troops to move forward and get the hell off the beach. Bullets flying by, with mortar rounds landing everywhere and he stood there as the main target of gunfire so that he could get his men to safety. He did this on more than one occasion because his men's safety was more important than his own life.
That Sergeant and I have been lifelong friends. When they brought me off Suribachi we passed the Sergeant and he lit a smoke and passed it to me, lying on my belly on the litter and said, where'd they get you Lee?' Well Bob... if you make it home be fore me, tell Mom to sell the outhouse!"
Johnny, I'm not lying, Sergeant Keeshan was the bravest man I ever knew.
The Sergeant's name is Bob Keeshan. You and the world know him as Captain Kangaroo."
On another note, there was this man (who just passed away) on PBS, a gentle and quiet man. Mr. Rogers is another of those you would least suspect of being anything but what he now portrays to our youth. But Mr. Rogers was a U.S. Navy Seal, combat-proven in Vietnam with over twenty-five confirmed kills to his name. He wore a long-sleeved sweater on TV, to cover the many tattoos on his forearm and biceps. He was a master in small arms and hand-to-hand combat, able to disarm or kill in a heartbeat
After the war Mr. Rogers became an ordained Presbyterian minister and therefore a pacifist. Vowing to never harm another human and also dedicating the rest of his life to trying to help lead children on the right path in life. He hid away the tattoos and his past life and won our hearts with his quiet wit and charm.
YOU JUST NEVER KNOW, DO YOU?
Captain Kangaroo passed away on January 23, 2004 at age 76 , which is odd, because he always looked to be 76. (DOB: 6/27/27 ) His death reminded me of the following story.
Some people have been a bit offended that the actor, Lee Marvin, is buried in a grave alongside 3 and 4 star generals at Arlington National Cemetery . His marker gives his name, rank (PVT) and service (USMC). Nothing else. Here's a guy who was only a famous movie star who served his time, why the heck does he rate burial with these guys? Well, following is the amazing answer:
I always liked Lee Marvin, but didn't know the extent of his Corps experiences.
In a time when many Hollywood stars served their country in the armed forces often in rear echelon posts where they were carefully protected, only to be trotted out to perform for the cameras in war bond promotions, Lee Marvin was a genuine hero. He won the Navy Cross at Iwo Jima There is only one higher Naval award... the Medal Of Honor
If that is a surprising comment on the true character of the man, he credits his sergeant with an even greater show of bravery.
Dialog from "The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson": His guest was Lee Marvin Johnny said, "Lee, I'll bet a lot of people are unaware that you were a Marine in the initial landing at Iwo Jima ..and that during the course of that action you earned the Navy Cross and were severely wounded."
"Yeah, yeah... I got shot square in the bottom and they gave me the Cross for securing a hot spot about halfway up Suribachi.
Bad thing about getting shot up on a mountain is guys getting' shot hauling you down. But,Johnny, at Iwo I served under the bravest man I ever knew... We both got the cross the same day, but what he did for his Cross made mine look cheap in comparison. That dumb guy actually stood up on Red beach and directed his troops to move forward and get the hell off the beach. Bullets flying by, with mortar rounds landing everywhere and he stood there as the main target of gunfire so that he could get his men to safety. He did this on more than one occasion because his men's safety was more important than his own life.
That Sergeant and I have been lifelong friends. When they brought me off Suribachi we passed the Sergeant and he lit a smoke and passed it to me, lying on my belly on the litter and said, where'd they get you Lee?' Well Bob... if you make it home be fore me, tell Mom to sell the outhouse!"
Johnny, I'm not lying, Sergeant Keeshan was the bravest man I ever knew.
The Sergeant's name is Bob Keeshan. You and the world know him as Captain Kangaroo."
On another note, there was this man (who just passed away) on PBS, a gentle and quiet man. Mr. Rogers is another of those you would least suspect of being anything but what he now portrays to our youth. But Mr. Rogers was a U.S. Navy Seal, combat-proven in Vietnam with over twenty-five confirmed kills to his name. He wore a long-sleeved sweater on TV, to cover the many tattoos on his forearm and biceps. He was a master in small arms and hand-to-hand combat, able to disarm or kill in a heartbeat
After the war Mr. Rogers became an ordained Presbyterian minister and therefore a pacifist. Vowing to never harm another human and also dedicating the rest of his life to trying to help lead children on the right path in life. He hid away the tattoos and his past life and won our hearts with his quiet wit and charm.
March 11, 2008
One of the many great things about being retired is you don't have to wait until lunch time to start snacking. One of the bad things about being retired is you don't have to wait until lunch time to start snacking.
Did I make my point?
That's me in the blue shirt. I cannot resist King Dons or Pinwheels, and when they still manufactured them, Mallomars.
March 10, 2008
March 9, 2008
Snow in the driveway update:
After spouting off about waiting until the snow was over and then doing one snowblowing action was the way to do it...wrong.
Holy Toledo I stuck the yardstick into the snow and it stopped at 21 inches deep. I confidently rammed the machine into the pile and whoa it went in about six inches, I pushed a little harder, another six. My pea brain went into action, this is going to be a big stinking job. I cleared out maybe one third, but probably that's wishful thinking and headed for the house, tired, in a foul mood and hungry. I am re-marshalling my confidence that I can do this job. As Obama says I can do it. Well realistically I will do it, but not after much time and many breaks. One note on my side, the sun is shining brightly. I don't know how much heat is coming out of it, but I'm sure it will help some.
Moral of the story. If a big snow is in progress, don't wait too long before you have a go at the job. A couple times, or three times is better than the job facing me. Well you live and learn even when you are a hundred years old like me.
After spouting off about waiting until the snow was over and then doing one snowblowing action was the way to do it...wrong.
Holy Toledo I stuck the yardstick into the snow and it stopped at 21 inches deep. I confidently rammed the machine into the pile and whoa it went in about six inches, I pushed a little harder, another six. My pea brain went into action, this is going to be a big stinking job. I cleared out maybe one third, but probably that's wishful thinking and headed for the house, tired, in a foul mood and hungry. I am re-marshalling my confidence that I can do this job. As Obama says I can do it. Well realistically I will do it, but not after much time and many breaks. One note on my side, the sun is shining brightly. I don't know how much heat is coming out of it, but I'm sure it will help some.
Moral of the story. If a big snow is in progress, don't wait too long before you have a go at the job. A couple times, or three times is better than the job facing me. Well you live and learn even when you are a hundred years old like me.
This is so true. My wife and I are crossword players of long standing and I can't tell you how many times I have tried to erase an incorrect answer and instead of erasing, it creates a great black smudge. As the cartoon suggests the answer must be that it is more profitable for the pencil company to stick that unidentified piece of whatever on the end of their pencils. I wish I could remember that latin phrase for consumers beware.
March 8, 2008
A sort of PS to the previous post, author unknown but certainly an Ohio resident in good standing.
Ohio Poem
It's winter in Ohio
And the gentle breezes blow
Seventy miles an hour
At twenty-five below.
Oh, how I love Ohio
When the snow's up to your butt
You take a breath of winter
And your nose gets frozen shut.
Yes, the weather here is wonderful
So I guess I'll hang around
I could never leave Ohio
'Cause I'm frozen to the ground
Ohio Poem
It's winter in Ohio
And the gentle breezes blow
Seventy miles an hour
At twenty-five below.
Oh, how I love Ohio
When the snow's up to your butt
You take a breath of winter
And your nose gets frozen shut.
Yes, the weather here is wonderful
So I guess I'll hang around
I could never leave Ohio
'Cause I'm frozen to the ground
Good morning from Ohio, the snow capital of the country this time around. It has been snowing non-stop since yesterday morning. It descends upon us in various styles, steady, or sometimes blowing, sometimes swirling, but always accumulating.
The weatherman says the real snow will come today with a blizzard as the topper.
The dictionary defines a blizzard as:
Quick definitions (blizzard)
noun: a storm with widespread snowfall accompanied by strong winds
noun: a series of unexpected and unpleasant occurrences
I have to smile at the last definition. Unexpected? not really, this is March and I live in Ohio. We always expect the worse kind of weather during this month. Unpleasant? Well certainly if I had to try and navigate somewhere, but we knew it was coming so we stocked up on things we would need such as desserts and other essentials.
The only essential thing I will have to do is when it finally decides to stop is: I and my immediate neighbors on either side of me will have to fire up the snow blowers and try to locate and clear our driveways. The seriousness of the snowfall is symbolized by the lack of the sound of snow blowers since it started. Usually we will blow the snow midway through a snow event and then again at the end, but this time the lack of snow blower engines struggling through the copious amounts piling up is kind of eerie. We are all of one mind I guess, wait it out and let it do it's worst and then we will fire them up and try our best to make a path to the street. Fortunately for my wife and I we don't have any place we have to be and as long as the power does not go off we are fine.
Actually as the wind which is still rather dormant, but every once in a while generates a good blow and whips the snow off the roofs and swirls it in great gusts and performs the magic of white outs, it begins to click in that this may be one of those snow events we will remember for years to come.
If the blizzard like winds do kick up and the snow starts blowing in four directions at once, I intend to make a short video (short because I'm not crazy yet and who wants to stay out in the middle of it for too long) which I will post here.
But until then, I will put on a fresh pot of coffee and watch my world turn completely white and know that soon, very soon although it seems crazy, all the snow will disappear to be replaced by new green growths and I can get to work laying more bricks down on my ever expanding patio. Later.....
The weatherman says the real snow will come today with a blizzard as the topper.
The dictionary defines a blizzard as:
Quick definitions (blizzard)
noun: a storm with widespread snowfall accompanied by strong winds
noun: a series of unexpected and unpleasant occurrences
I have to smile at the last definition. Unexpected? not really, this is March and I live in Ohio. We always expect the worse kind of weather during this month. Unpleasant? Well certainly if I had to try and navigate somewhere, but we knew it was coming so we stocked up on things we would need such as desserts and other essentials.
The only essential thing I will have to do is when it finally decides to stop is: I and my immediate neighbors on either side of me will have to fire up the snow blowers and try to locate and clear our driveways. The seriousness of the snowfall is symbolized by the lack of the sound of snow blowers since it started. Usually we will blow the snow midway through a snow event and then again at the end, but this time the lack of snow blower engines struggling through the copious amounts piling up is kind of eerie. We are all of one mind I guess, wait it out and let it do it's worst and then we will fire them up and try our best to make a path to the street. Fortunately for my wife and I we don't have any place we have to be and as long as the power does not go off we are fine.
Actually as the wind which is still rather dormant, but every once in a while generates a good blow and whips the snow off the roofs and swirls it in great gusts and performs the magic of white outs, it begins to click in that this may be one of those snow events we will remember for years to come.
If the blizzard like winds do kick up and the snow starts blowing in four directions at once, I intend to make a short video (short because I'm not crazy yet and who wants to stay out in the middle of it for too long) which I will post here.
But until then, I will put on a fresh pot of coffee and watch my world turn completely white and know that soon, very soon although it seems crazy, all the snow will disappear to be replaced by new green growths and I can get to work laying more bricks down on my ever expanding patio. Later.....
March 7, 2008
I saw a fill-in piece on my local news recently about illiterate adults. These illiterate adults though were soon to be, or already were now literate. The first step to becoming literate when you're an adult is of course admitting it to yourself and coming to the realization you live in an alien world. The feel good part of the piece was the teachers and the look on the faces of the former illiterate after reading from a book for the camera. I would think it would be the equivalent of fighting off alcoholism and seeing the world with clear eyes after being in a fog for a long time.
In my imagining I would think like anything new you would want to use it a lot, so they would avail themselves to a library. When they opened those doors for the first time a new world, millions of new worlds will be theirs to devour through their newfound abilities. I get excited thinking about all the worlds available, and the wonders they will experience. I have been using libraries for my whole life of seven decades now and haven't even touched the surface so to speak.
I remember some books I read sixty years ago, some very clearly. I was an only child, I'm not complaining, and I read all the books in a series about a teenager in high school named Chip Hilton. To me he was a big brother I could learn from. I remember him fondly.
I always have a couple books I am reading and always will I suppose. They are friends that live a much more active life than I do now, but that's what they're supposed to do. They spark our imaginations and transport us to land we will never visit, do things we will never do, make us think of good or terrible things. Books can put our minds into overdrive or act as a sedative and calm us down and mellow us out, to borrow a phrase from the sixties, which you can read about also.
Books are cool, they are great, they are a gift and a companion through all our lives.
March 6, 2008
March 5, 2008
I am not a ultra-conservative, I am not an admirer of ultra-conservatives just as I am not an admirer of the ultra lefties. Although I bet I believe a lot of what both lefties and righties believe in. Me, being rather shallow in the sense that I am a headline reader versus the in-depth discussion pieces that I probably should read indicates that I am at the mercy of commentators who, of course, have their own personal political axes they like to grind. The right has the best of the bunch. They are the ones we love to hate, but boy are they good at what they do. Which brings me to what I wanted to say in the first place.
William F. Buckley, as we all know by now died this week. He was the godfather of conservatism. He was its voice, a voice who spouted words that would send me scurrying to find a dictionary. I loved to watch his television show and watch him refer to his clipboard and with his nose in the air throw out some words that I was always surprised that the interviewed person seemed to understand, or did he?
I read today's George Will's, another conservative, very moving good-bye to someone he obviously liked and admired. In the piece Mr. Will quotes one of Mr. Buckley's favorite quotes from Harold Nicolson that I had never heard before but which I will repeat here:
"Only one person in a thousand is a bore, and he is interesting because he is one person in a thousand."
That he liked and repeated the quote tells me a lot about his character.
He wrote many books, some of which were a series of spy novels. I figure if he could write spy novels in between his more erudite writings he had to be a good guy. I think he was.
William F. Buckley, as we all know by now died this week. He was the godfather of conservatism. He was its voice, a voice who spouted words that would send me scurrying to find a dictionary. I loved to watch his television show and watch him refer to his clipboard and with his nose in the air throw out some words that I was always surprised that the interviewed person seemed to understand, or did he?
I read today's George Will's, another conservative, very moving good-bye to someone he obviously liked and admired. In the piece Mr. Will quotes one of Mr. Buckley's favorite quotes from Harold Nicolson that I had never heard before but which I will repeat here:
"Only one person in a thousand is a bore, and he is interesting because he is one person in a thousand."
That he liked and repeated the quote tells me a lot about his character.
He wrote many books, some of which were a series of spy novels. I figure if he could write spy novels in between his more erudite writings he had to be a good guy. I think he was.
March 3, 2008
The picture above is Niagara Falls frozen solid in 1932, the only time that ever happened.
We visited the falls a while ago and were much impressed. It's one of those places storied for a honeymoon destination and also as a setting for a Marilyn Monroe movie called strangely enough, Niagara.
If you ever have the opportunity to visit the falls, do it. I would even like someday to revisit.
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