The Unkindest Cut Of All

There exists in 2008 America a quiet quandary, a presence far beyond the "elephant-in-the-room" phenomenon. A recent story told of a missing Iraq War veteran, who, suffering from post-combat trauma, was found decomposing in a drainage pipe. A Hollywood horror film could not have created a more gruesome image. The sadness is explosive; the quandary is far less visible, far more critical.



The reaction to his having gone missing was typically contemporary American: the volunteers, the search parties, the understanding former servicemen who grasped the situation with ready empathy, and, most of all, the distraught family. The story told of a grouping of people of wide political convictions but united in one thought: this young man and his family need our help. The eventual discovery, perhaps inevitable, brought the story to a close.



But the quandary continues: it is difficult to describe, and will never fit every case identically, but it is there, and it is troublesome. Consider: whoever are the category, or demographic, of those who join the service or the National Guard these days, just place one of them before your vision. For the most part, they have very little idea of what they are in for. They have not experienced combat. They think there are rules governing their combat exposure. They believe something good will come from their time in the service. From this point on, things happen that are not voluntary, but are forced on them and their families.



The enlistee bocomes part of a thinking pattern, at least partly necessary, that is forced on him by the military-political complex. To wit: "you are engaged in the defense of your

country." How is that? Well, "your President" has said so. Because "your President" has said so, the DOD has not only said so, but written it into all the orientation materials that that he will experience throughout his training and all the morale material he will hear throughout your time "in country." His officers and NCOs will all speak the same language on this subject: you are engaged in the defense of your country. The enlistee has no choice at this point as to believing the "party line," because his survival depends on it. He has to be a team player to survive. So, if there was any inclination to examine carefully the "party line," it will tend to disappear. So he has now become our defender.



Now, what of his family? Some of them might have had no strong opinion on the war, though that is no longer likely; you are either with it, or against it. Some families have actually gladly sent the enlistee off to war, because they didn't need any convincing that the Iraq War was being fought in defense of our country. Note the U.S Army TV recruitment ads that feature a father proudly standing with his son in uniform. No question that, to them, this is clearly a patriotic matter. But now comes the tough part, and the quandary emerges.



Suppose this war never was for the defense of the United States; suppose this war was mistakenly gotten into by ideologues who wanted it, and Congressmen who failed miserably to represent the Constitutional system of "checks and balances." How then shall we view the disappearing, eventually decomposing veteran of this war? Further, how shall we approach his family? Shall we arrive at the funeral home, to compassionately tell his survivors that we are truly sorry their loved one got caught up as a victim in a political tug-of-war by a passel of politicians who never knew what it was like to face death, dismemberment, and trauma to the psyche in a war zone? That would be the most unkind cut. We have seen some of that from people who use military funerals as a venue for protest: it doesn't matter what the protest, it's just totally unthinking.



It is too late for the lost one and his family. But it is not too late for others outside the immediate situation. What not to have ever happen again?



This war was a "half-war." We have in our Constitution, both explicit and implicit, the principle that major decisions should not be arrived at by a majority of one: that's why efforts to amend the Constitution require a two-thirds or a three-fourths vote. It has, further,always been the conventional wisdom that we should never, never, never, commit our service people to being in harm's way without a strong vote of support from the representatives of the people. Note that: a STRONG vote. Never mind the fraction: a clearly, unequivocally STRONG vote. There has never been strong support for this war, and now there is practically no support. This war is a "half-war" if ever there was one.



Consider the implication for that enlistee. he suffered his pain without ever knowing his country was behind him. In his final loneliness in that drainpipe, think of what this "half-war" and its driving forces have done to him. It will do him or us no good to think that the "warhawks" of 2003 will burn in hell. The monument we can erect in his memory is a committed populace that can leave its comfort long enough to vote for candidates who will truly "keep the peace."

Unique Characteristics

Long Time:
Phil Rizzuto gone!
Well, the great ones of the fifties are disappearing for certain. Passing away of elder icons is not what is new; the loss of an attitude is truly a sorrowful loss. Phil actually did not believe he belonged in the Baseball Hall of Fame. He thought it was for the "sluggers" and the 20-game winners.
But his type of contribution was what made teams successful: determination, dedication, and respect for the game he played, the life he lived. Too bad this is too readily identified as "old-fashioned."
Holy Cow!, Phil. Movin' on. There is, indeed, a great ballgame in the sky: all hits, all runs, no errors.
Fight the good fight!
Hedlinoos

Ash Wednesday; Bah, humbug!

Or is that Christmas?

"Dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return." As a kid, I cringed at those words. What kind of a thing is that to say to a child? It's a damned mean religion that sets out to scare its children. Scared everybody, as a matter of fact. They should have called it the House of Fright and Shame instead of a religion.

But it's Lent. Call it anything you like, repentance and atonement are good for everybody, administered in proper doses. It has a way of reducing ego, and any number of other afflictions. Better still, it leads one to the joyousness of Easter, or Spring, or elevated temperatures, whatever.

"Ashes to ashes........" Well, being reminded of our mortality can help us to better appreciate the life we have. Like the man said as to "....it's not the fall that hurts you, it's the sudden stop,"......... well, we might as well consider ourselves immortal: it will be true until it is no longer true, and then who will know?

Here at this colder parallel, the croci shot up in the December/January quasi-Spring, and they paid the price. Now the big mystery is, will they live again?

Stay tuned!

That's the rumination for today; stay the course, fight the good fight!
12:11AM, 22 February, 2007. Happy Birthday, George! Sorry you got caught in all those car sales on the ill-titled Presidents Weekend.

Someone is gone

occasional rumination # ?

It began with a casual scanning of the obits by my wife about a week ago. Kenny Davern had died at 71. That's too early for anyone, let alone a man with so much to contribute.

Kenny was a clarinetist in the traditional jazz style, and he was as good as they come. During the 1950's to the present, there was a cadre of musicians who held the fort for trad jazz, very strongly in the New Jersey area, including the Pianist Dick Wellstood, the best of his kind in his time. Dick also came to an early demise while on tour in the West. These guys were alive and well, and stomping with the best in Jazz history. They truly held the essence of traditional jazz together for all of us lucky enough to have attached to it.

My wife and I went to any place within reach to here Kenny play, and always came away uplifted. I hear a lot of music, and I believe that in his genre, Kenny had no equal in his era. Just wonderful; so good, you could take it for granted after a while.

That accounts for the obvious. Less obvious, I began to cry when I heard the news. Being approriately manly, I hid it from my wife. (I think.) .I was not a personal aquaintance of his, and though I had met him several times, (the trad jazz crowd in NJ tends to show up at all the same places,) my reaction was that of a person suffering personal loss.I began to wonder why, and the answer became clear. Though a teacher, my second job for decades was playing trad piano in restaurants, taverns, lounges, etc. On one occasion, Kenny was having dinner at a place I was playing at, and came up on his way out to offer a tip and a complement. He noted how I was playing "the good tunes." He did not mention how brilliant my playing was, and that was a kindness of one musician to another, though I could never have held a candle to his playing. He made a point of saying something complimentary, and that was great. Even including a one-time eccentric who tipped me $100, I held Kenny's tip as the most important I ever got.

Beyond that, I realized that Kenny's music, and that of his cohorts, had filled a major slot in my life. It provided tremendous enjoyment , plus a connection to the great music that was early jazz, the music of Armstrong, Teagarden, McPartland, Eddie Condon the host, raconteur, and occasional guitarist. As a kid, I had seen the best of them gathered at Carnegie Hall, and at Jimmy Ryan's and Eddied Condon's in Manhattan.Dick Wellstood, Kenny, and others kept that strain alive.

To me, Kenny was music, he was history, and he was the gracious musician who found something nice to say to a weekend musician.

No wonder I cried.

End of today's ruminations. Keep the faith, and fight the good fight.

Joe Grogan

Writers' Block

They say the best solution for writers' block is to write; so I write.

Allow me to share a really great experience: I spent the weekend with three generations of family surrounding me. The variety of experiences and emotions is just wonderful.

Elders gathered around a 110-year old piano to recall songs from just that long ago, taught to us by our folks and passed on down through generations; children from 3-weeks-old to 14 renewing and, in some cases, initiating connections too long dormant; brothers and sisters of the present parent generation, on the one hand continuing relationships long developed at home, and on the other hand caring for each others' children as if they were there own, establishing a whole new family tree: all this coming and going over 72 hours, coming in and going back out like the tide, until it all returns to the way it was, like an empty beach at twilight.

This is the fabric of family. Sometimes it's hard to see or to keep track of, but it's there. The lesson of this weekend is that, like anything else that grows, it must be nurtured. When you do, it flourishes; if you don't, it withers.

So simple.

End of ruminations for today, Sunday, 8/20/06 Stay the course; fight the good fight.

Something Lost

There is a mantra that fans of St. Anthony use:
"St. Anthony, St. Anthony, please come around,
Something's been lost and must be found."

I was listening to a CD of some great sounds by Pete Seeger, and some of those old labor union songs came on, like "Which Side Are You On?" out of the coalminers struggles, and "You can't fool me, I'm sticking with the union," one of many union songs that used earlier folk tune melodies, in this case replacing the words from "Red Wing," "There once was an indian maid," with "There once was a union maid." Simple, but very effective. I felt a great sense of nostalgia, and perused my memory to explain why.

I had been a union member, once in a factory before I joined te ranks of professionals, and once as a teacher. The feelings were the same in both instances. Being on strike at the risk of loosing your job is a bit scary. It's scary when you're single, and much more scary when you are married and are responsible for others besides yourself. Both occasions came to a successful conclusion. I learned a lot more about unions, however, at first when I studied them, and later, as a teacher, when I taught that aspect of American History. Union history is full of guys and gals who took the big step, willing to be the first ones out front to be harassed, or beaten, or sometimes, to be killed. Those people are American heroes, but most often are not given that acclaim in our history texts. They understood one idea: when someone seeks to use you, there is no choice but to prevent it.

What brings on my nostalgia most is the memory of what strength of character it took for those early leaders of unions to put themselves at risk for the benefit of others. We have lost sight of that kind of struggle. The "interests," as Dos Passos used to call them, are not as clearly visible. They're bigger, but less visible. How so? Well, in many cases, the interests of working people have become entwined in the interests of the "interests." The middle classes have seen themselves too much as potential capitalists, and less as members of the work force. In addition, the "interests" have become much more adept at pulling the wool over everyones eyes so as to have us all thoroughly bamboozled.

"Something's been lost and must be found." I think something truly must be found that has been lost: a sense of fighting the battle in behalf of the ordinary working people of this world. We need to be aware that the pols, the "interests," the sellers of everything from pills to perfection, must be reduced in their power, and the "people" regain a sense of their people-ness.

End of ruminations for today, 7/25/06. Stay the course.

Mustn't Talk With Food In Your Mouth

Did the whole world miss it?

I guess because of the media's puritan-potty-training angst, when the President said "shit," like the whole word took a bounce. That alone is ridiculous ; the big issue, however, was totally spaced.

Consider: here sits this guy, by the greatest political accident of all, conversing with the at-least-duly-elected Prime Minister of the Brits, looking like he's at a ballgame leaning over the back of his seat to discuss strikes and ballgirls with a mouthful of peanuts all of which have not been properly shelled, TALKING WITH HIS MOUTH FULL!

I don't doubt he is not the first to do so, but none of the others got photographed while doing so, the while saying SHIT! Try this at home. You can't possibly complete the exercise without spitting nuts and shells all over the room.

Land o' goshen, and howdydoo! What lies in wait for us next?