Short Essays and musings about family, philosophy, death. Read online

THE VIETNAM SOLDIER AND THE ALL VOLUNTEER SOLDIER

  I am often asked or maybe I should say, think about it: What is the difference in being a soldier during Nam and now. At least now, everybody loves the soldier. During Vietnam, many Americans blamed the soldier for Vietnam. Two anecdotal examples. In her really good memoir, Home Before Morning, a nurse tells the story of coming home from Vietnam . She desperately needed a ride to SFO (San Francisco/Oakland Airport). She thought maybe she could catch a ride. In those days I guess you did that. Anyway, she is sitting on her suitcase in uniform, hoping to be picked up or maybe even waiting for the bus. No one stops but many catcalls, get out of Vietnam. Finally an older African American stops and takes her to the airport.  The second one is told by a Lieutenant crossing a street in Berkeley or as I call it Berzererly. He lost his arm to a booby trap in Nam. Some guy looks at the hook for his arm and says, Vietnam, He nods. The guy says, “serves you right.”

  IMMIGRANTS

  We are all  immigrants.  And, when we get these hardcore statements, I think, what the f..k; we are all immigrants. My ancestors fled the potato famine in Ireland, went to France for a bit and then came back to Ireland. In Ireland scores and scores died during the famine. The ironic thing, based on history, the English could have fed the Irish, thus saving thousands of starving women and children--rather than do something, they engaged in the same sort of bullshit that modern day Republicans in America do. They talk about  "a culture of dependence." Sorry MFers. Before I die I want to spend a few months in Ireland and hang out. I am really appreciative that my folks made their way eventually to these shores, even if it was tough sledding for awhile. Today, we tip one on St Patrick's Day and rejoice that in "Merica," on this day, everybody is an Irishman. 

  QUICKSAND

  Hearing the sad story of folks losing their homes to “mud,” reminds me of my own “mud” story and makes me very empathetic. Mud like this is like "quick sand." I had a "mud" experience that was more frightening after it was over than while it was going on. I was kayaking in the San Francisco Bay, paying no attention to the tide.  It went out in what seemed like milliseconds. I was about a hundred yards from Shore. It was an emerging experience without any awareness on my part of how dangerous it was. Here I am, surrounded by mud, the tide had gone out and I have two choices. Stay where I am and wait for it to return or try to walk and make it out. Laborious is not even close to the task. Here I am in mud, sometimes up to my elbows, I am pulling my kayak. About two hours later I dragged myself onto the shore. As I reflected for days on exactly the experience and told others about it, I came to realize the potential for disaster. I was lucky. Those poor folks in Southern CA, not so. God bless them. 

  YOU JUST HAD TO BE THERE

  Sometimes in life, the normal course of things happen which you can hardly believe and you can only say, "you just had to be there." What follows is one of those. 

  Jerry and I went to the Atlanta MCA (military chaplains Asso) Chapter meeting for Kermit Johnson (the boss) It was a "hoot." The meeting took place in the Grand Ballroom of the Officer's Club. There were maybe hundred of us. It was the November meeting. The leader announced that they were planning to invite someone from the Japanese Embassy to speak at the December meeting as they remembered Pearl Harbor. There was a kind of stunned silence as the audience absorbed the information. The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, essentially thrusting us into WWll. And, for our next meeting we were inviting the Japanese to share in our commemoration. I guess it could work but a little strange. What followed next was truly one of those, "You had to be there." The invited guest and speaker was Jewish who spoke about Israel and America's commitment to the Jews. To close out the meeting, the "song leader" had us sing some “washed in the blood” hymns after the Jewish talk. The best part was a retired chaplain sitting across from us who could rest his arms on his large stomach. During the speaker’s presentation, he went to sleep after eating several helpings from the buffet. Not only did he fall asleep, he began to snore. At that point, Jerry and I got the giggles and had to get up and leave.  TC

  THE POLICE

  We have got to end this cycle where cops use deadly force as a first resort and then get off scott free. Cops are citizens too and they need to be held accountable in courts of law. The message we're sending now to cops is do whatever you want and you won't go to jail; heck, we won't even take your badge. If we don't turn this thing around we'll end up like some third rate South American country. Guess they're tearing up Berkley. No surprise there and good for them. We have got to end this 

  Totally agree with you. Always amazes me that cops can't, if they have too, shoot a thug, thief, or whoever in the arm, leg; why chest or head. But, totally agree, cops have to get a different mentality. Don't know what to say about some place like Oakland/Berzerkley (use to call them this during Vietnam). Destroying property, etc. and, don't know in terms of police recruitment. We want to get away from all white but not sure of pool of African Americans.  Just heard of some survey: 80% of whites support cops. Forgot low percentage of blacks that support them. Of course, I don't know: as Meg (daughter who is a Doc) says, "Dad, want a study, I'll get you one on anything." 

  San Fran hasn't had much of a problem. Don't know where the large Hispanic community says. Traditionally, they don't care all that much for each other. I think, I fall on the side of "problem that can't be solved." Like immigration, income inequity. We have to keep trying but not in our lifetime. 

  MY DAD

  It is hard to describe my dad. He was about six feet or so. Always wore overalls. He chewed tobacco. Thin "apple," not literal the apple taste,  I don't think. It was a brand name. Get this, he never spit but swallowed the tobacco juice. Just thinking of it makes me nauseous. I never chewed or smoked or my brothers. My dad's thought. I am not letting you start this nasty habit. And, we were tobacco farmers. Go figure. 

  There are so many stories I could tell about my dad, it is hard to single out one. One thing I do know, he kept my Mom exasperated seemingly constantly. She would cry, scream, anything at him. He never raised his voice. More likely than not, he would grab me or one of my brothers or several if we were standing around and say, "let's take a ride." The worse he ever said about my mother was, "you know how she is." She would calm down and then not speak to him for days, sometimes weeks. What was so remarkable, he kept talking to her like everything was fine. He had the greatest laugh that was often presence. His best saying was, "you might as well laugh as cry." He practiced it. 

  Dad had a heart that literally was as big as the outdoors. He practiced the Augustinian principle and didn't even know it. Saint Augustine said some like, "you cannot help everyone but when you are confronted with one in need, if you can, you are obligated to help." Example, once Dad picked up a hitch hiker who stayed with us for several years until he joined the Navy. Get this: after he retired he came back and moved in beside us. 

  A memorable experience was my brother, George. He really wasn't my brother but he lived with us all my life. My dad got him from the Orphanage. He was to help us work during the tobacco season. We would pay the orphanage his wages. When Dad was readying to take him back, he ran away. The conditions at the Orphanage were awful Dad said. Kids sleeping on a cold floor. Never enough to eat, raggedy clothes. "This is something out of a Charles Dickins novel," he said.Noway is George going back. The orphanage tried to get him. My mom said "take him back." My dad refused. They had an awful fight. Mom entered her silent mode. The superintendent of the Orphanage came. No. She threatened. They send some strong armed type to physically snatch him. Dad was big into peace but suddenly, he was a different person. He loaded his shotgun and put it by the door. What brought the episode to a peaceable  close, however, was not my dad but my Uncle, a notorious bootlegger. He showed up out of the blue and talked to the man from the Orphanage who promptly departed the scene. George never left. We called him our brother. 

  A while back, several of my brothers were reca
lling the incident when my older brother Raz laughed and said, "Did you ever know what Uncle Craven said to the man from the Orphanage?" We didn't. He said, "My brother is determined the boy is not going back. I will pay you a reasonable amount for him." The man said, "No,  I want the boy." Uncle Craven to him. I will kill you then. The man left and George lived with us from that time on.

  HEAVEN

  Recently, I went to a Catholic Mass which was a Memorial Service. I always come away fairly reflective. For one thing, the Catholics are very athletic. Up and down, up and down. The service was steeped in what the Catholics do, I guess. Having been to several masses before, it was fairly familiar. 

  The Priest's  sermon was good. He talked about a longer journey, referring to Chris, who had been my wife's work colleague. She was on a longer, more important journey. Then he related a conversation he had with her about who might be waiting for her on this journey. I took it to mean heaven. 

  It did get me to thinking. First of all about Christian theology. And, I have to explain this often to these old guys I hang out with. What makes being Christianity different than other religions, which I don't know all that much about, but as to something; Islam, for example, you merely declare you are a Muslim but in Christianity, there is a "conversion" experience. You are suddenly heading in one direction and through many different circumstances  or however/whatever, you embrace Christianity and accept all Christ has done, died for you on the cross, taken your place, whatever, which produces a "new" you. This is very simple for a believer but profound too.  A MYSTERY!

  Heaven is another aspect. Almost impossible to explain but comforting. And, as Jackie says, regardless of status or wealth or whatever, in this aspect, we all end up at the same terminal. 

  And, then of course, we have the Catholics themselves. I have been accused a few times of being hostile to Catholics. Untrue, one of my faults, cannot stand what I consider religious BS. The Catholics have canon law which, in my way of thinking, is outside the Bible and issues like the priest as Jesus on earth, able to forgive sins; the Pope speaking as some sort of divine authority. Bullshit

  THANKSGIVING

  One Thanksgiving story comes to mind. When I was growing up, it was a big thing, Thanksgiving. We were farmers and always had plenty of food. My mom cooked this gigantic meal: Turkey, ham and mountains of other stuff. She and my Aunt Gertie (isn't it funny. My mom was named Bertie and my favorite Aunt, her sister, was Gertie); anyway, Thanksgiving was coming up. I was in my freshman year of college. These two foreign students lived just up the hall of my dorm. They didn't have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving. The school tried to find a place for them. My good friend, who was the student activities director, was so stressed. There were no takers for these guys. I finally said, "what the hay, they can go with me."

  (I think they were Irish). 

  The day before T'giving, we loaded into my old raggedy 49 Ford and took off. On the way home, about five hours away, we saw this guy hitch hiking. We picked him up. He was a college student too, from of all places, Bob Jones U (BJU was this fanatical right wing, very  conservative school with all these rules. I briefly had a sweetheart from there. You couldn't hold hands even. Well, that is one romance that ended early). The Bob Jones student was going to a friend because his folks had split up. "Go with us." What will your mom say? "She won't even know you're there." Mom prepared so much food, you could have fed the whole town. We had a great time. And, I was right, nobody even noticed the three extras I brought in.