Hearts and minds

I just heard a remarkable statistic: though armies marched through the city and bullets chipped a lot of downtown bricks, there was only one civilian casualty reported.

A young woman was killed by a bullet that is believed to have passed through two doors to reach her.

Millions of rifle shots were fired and tons of cannon balls launched.

---

By contrast, there 1,809 Iraqi civilians reportedly died in fighting LAST MONTH! That was up from July when the toll was 1,760.

The carnage here was just awful; but it apparently was limited to combatants.

Times change.

No place like home?

One day you'll look to see I've gone
For tomorrow may rain,
so I'll follow the sun

Some day you'll know I was the one
But tomorrow may rain,
so I'll follow the sun

        -- The Beatles

I’ve been looking at road signs all my life. A few are classics (Route 66 and California’s Highway 99, for example), but nothing resonates in me as the indicator, “West,” that often resides above the numeral.

After graduating from high school, I moved back and forth from California to points east (Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico and Michigan). I guess the notion of “going home again” made the sight of those designations seem to hold so much appeal.

I’m heading for Florida, which has always seemed to be south of Massachusetts. But it turns out that Miami is at about 80 degrees longitude while Boston is closer to 67. In other words, Florida is way farther west than New England.

And so, it can be said that I’ve already started back to California. I’ll be closer just about every week (except when I dip down into Florida in November) until I get home.

Speaking of “dipping,” I also noted with interest that the “South” back here in the eastern U.S. is a lot farther south than southern California. My southernmost destination (Sarasota, Florida) is more than 800 miles south of Merced (San Diego is less than 400).

I imagine most of the highways I’ll travel between now and then will be designated as “East.” But the trip from Connecticutt to Pennsylvania was definitely a journey west.

And that felt pretty good.

I’m not homesick, but it will be good to get back home.

Who needs a hug?

I love you, a bushel and a peck!
A bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck!
A hug around the neck, and a barrel and a heap
A barrel and a heap, and I'm talkin' in my sleep.
About you.

        -- Guys and Dolls, 1950

Young children love physical contact. This seems to be the case no matter how much hugging and kissing they get from their parents, and regardless of how recently they received their last dose.

This became clear to me when I was a new playground leader. I was about 22 years old and already had a toddler of my own at home whom I had observed to be a big fan of being held, swung around, tossed into the air, hung by her feet and otherwise being in contact with me – or any other available adult, doll, animal, pillow or pretty much anything warm and cuddly.

At home, the entreaty: “Swing me around,” followed by unending repetitions of, “Do that again!” seemed to be part of the Daddy Deal. It was as much fun for me as for her – at least for the first 15 or 20 minutes.

The bulk of my time as an elementary school playground leader was devoted to sports and games – and to kids aged 8 to 12.

Oh, there were plenty of other activities (arts and crafts, drama, music, trips and special events) and there were quite a few children younger than 8 and older than 12; but my main customer base was kids in grades 3 to 6 who attended the school that housed my playground.

Younger participants – often referred to as “rug rats,” “pee wees,” “Lilliputians,” “Munchkins” or otherwise in terms making reference to their size – tended to be self-directed. They might be interested in checking out a ball or Frisbee, but weren’t necessarily interested in playing a formal game – they’d often play alone in the sandbox or on swings and other playground equipment.

Despite the fact that I nearly ignored the 5 and 6 year-olds, they never seemed to get enough of me. As I walked across the grounds, a tiny hand would often slide into mine.

The most memorable phenomenon, though, took place when I knelt to tie my shoes or sat down on a bench or chair. If one or more little people were in range at the time, their “lap radar” alerted them to the fact that a grown-up was available and configured nearer the ground than usual – within reach.

The most common experience was to have a child (or two, or more) step between my feet and slide into my lap. Others might approach from the rear and simply drape their bodies over my shoulders. Some, perhaps more reticent, kids would take a seat beside me and grab my arm while resting their heads against me.

Back then, 35 or 40 years ago – before we became sensitive to the horrible realities that confront some children, holding and hugging kids was viewed as innocent play, a positive and harmless show of affection. In the 80s, widely publicized court cases put uncomfortable images in our minds – and changed the relationship between young children and adults.

Today, parents warn their children to be suspicious of adults. And, to avoid being suspected of wrongdoing, caregivers – including playground leaders – now usually keep their distance for fear of being accused of improper contact.

Playground leaders and other care providers – including teachers – are warned not to touch children, not to be alone with them; they are required to remain distant.

I have mixed feelings about these changes.

On one hand, I hate the fact that a barrier has been built between adults and children. My personal experience with hundreds of kids tells me that disallowing shows of affection robs kids of something they crave, perhaps need.

But I’ve also seen the effects of child abuse from close range and nothing disturbs me more. Protecting kids from predators must be a top priority; and erring on the side of keeping them safe is the only sensible course of action.

Time I spent last weekend with family (including four young girls) reminded me of the good old days when there were no inhibitions and no fears. I was reminded of all the times one of those little hands forced its way into one of mine or when arms wrapped around my neck.

Childhood is a magical time – for children AND those lucky enough to have children in their lives.

I won’t advocate a return to an age of innocence that should probably be called an age of ignorance – children were hurt when trust was placed in untrustworthy grown-ups.

But I do advocate that parents and grandparents (and folks like me who are lucky to be aunts or uncles) fill the void and share lots of hugs and kisses with the rug rats in their families.

XXXOOOOXXX

Simply wonderful

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
        -- Henry David Thoreau

The only thing I’ve used from the trunk of my Saturn in the past 10 weeks is a light jacket. Everything I need for day-to-day life on the road is contained in the back seat, inside one of two suitcases or my backpack.

One case holds my clothes, the other my technology and the backpack is a bit of a catch-all with maps, brochures and miscellaneous.

Upon arrival at each destination, I strap on the backpack and grab each suitcase by its puller (both are on wheels) and take everything I’ll need for the succeeding five days inside – one trip.

In 1968, at the conclusion of my service as a Vista Volunteer, I sold or discarded furniture and other non-essential possessions and loaded the remainder in the back of my Jeep. It was a CJ5, the “standard” model that was 21 inches shorter than the CJ6 – not much cargo space and very cramped legroom for passengers.

I well remember my sense of freedom on the drive from Colorado back to San Diego. Knowing that I had all of my worldly possessions with me, I realized that I was “footloose,” that I had no roots, no burdens, and no responsibilities.

That’s a feeling I never had since – and, most likely, never will.

I know that possessions add to the quality of life – I’ve learned to really appreciate a comfortable chair; and I don’t know what I’d do without a computer – but, I’ve always felt burdened by the things in my life.

I suppose the only real exception was that Jeep – when it was capable of carrying me and all that I owned anywhere I wanted to go.

O.K. back to the topic – which, by the way, is Henry David Thoreau and Walden Pond…

I had heard grim reports about the pond and expected to see a trash-lined puddle with shores and surrounding land trampled by the feet of thousands who don’t get what HDT was saying.

To my surprise, the “pond” is a wonderful lake. It is largely in what appears to be pristine condition, with only small concessions to the desires of pilgrims. Trails are invisible among the heavy growth of trees and other plant life; and the woods remain deep, providing opportunities for solitude and for communing with the spirit of the great Thoreau.


Our life is frittered away by detail. An honest man has hardly need to count more than his ten fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten toes, and lump the rest. Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity! I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand.
        -- Henry David Thoreau

I stood on the shore of Walden Pond for a good long time. I contemplated what had apparently not changed in 160 years and what had not. The dozen or so humans whose presence was obvious to me were different – Thoreau rarely had visitors. The stone wall that prevented erosion on the beach near a sandy boat ramp was new – and the three human-powered watercraft, each silently patrolling a patch of water, were clearly not of 19th-century design.

The water was not just clear, it was surprisingly clear. Smooth pebbles were very visible through several inches of water; unsullied, as it has been in recent years, by motorboats, the water of Walden Pond looks suitable for human consumption – though it likely is not.

With only a slight effort, I could incorporate my fellow visitors into the larger picture and might have been able to conjure up the past – except for incessant interruptions by passing cars, trains and aircraft.

Alas! It may be impossible to lose oneself in the past and to pretend that old Henry is just around the bend, tending to his beans or making repairs to his cottage. These are but shadows of the world as it was.

On the other hand, we have idealized the experiences of those like Thoreau and Native Americans and others who appear, in retrospect, to have lived closer than we to nature. Our sense of what live must have been “back then” is certainly far different from the reality.

The enduring aspect of human experience, it seems to me, is the manner in which it causes a resonation in a person’s mind, or consciousness. And it seems quite reasonable to me to imagine that the sense or feeling I get while observing the pond in my time and through my filters has much in common with that obtained by Thoreau.

We are, I believe, kindred spirits. His writing, along with other inputs I’ve received in my life, makes it possible, I hope, for me to “get it.”

I expected to be disappointed by man’s inhumanity to nature at Walden Pond. But I was uplifted, rather. And in the context of new realities, I maintain hope that enough of us will take enough action to make it possible not only for humans to survive another 160 years but for places like Walden Pond to also survive, and thrive.

When I leave the road in a few months, I am committed to continue efforts to simplify as well as to purify my personal environment and to be part of the solution, as is possible, through positive encouragement of others.

I will strive for economy and good sense in decisions I make as a consumer and will support leaders who attempt to lead our country and the world on a similar path.

Walden Pond survives! There must be hope for the rest of the world.

Privacy? What's that?

“Hey! Rafe Rackstraw … Birdy!”

My cell phone sometimes reveals that I have missed a call – usually also providing a callback number. About half the time, I’m also alerted to new voicemail. Every caller is invited to leave voicemail; those who know me or who have something actually important to say tend to leave messages – I’m just as glad to have missed (or filtered out) the rest.

A “619” message (San Diego area code) had been received; I was intrigued. I’ve been getting some attention among former classmates from Hoover High – mostly thanks to a couple of fellows who are active online and are trying to keep us aging Cardinals connected.

The voice from my cell phone didn’t sound a bit familiar. This wasn’t one of the three people with whom I’ve spoken during the past twenty years or so…

“.... I’m throwing you a few niblets from the past,” the voice continued.

It was clearly a male voice and definitely went back farther than high school. “Birdy” was a nickname used for just three years to identify me. One Larry Mercer mispronounced my last name (“Burk-ey”) and immediately transformed it into the avian moniker.

Convinced that such a cognomen is literally for the birds – and not for a man of the world such as myself who was entering junior high school – I convinced all who attempted to reinstate the offending appellation to return my label to it’s original status.

The Rackstraw reference also pointed toward my pre-teen period, specifically to sixth grade where I assumed the personage of one Ralph (pronounced “RAFE” according to Mrs. Davis, our teacher and the director of H.M.S. Pinafore – my one and only experience as a thespian).

I got the lead in this production, I’m sure, because I was a bit of a teacher’s pet. Mrs. Davis liked me and must have been nervous about finding a student who could learn all of the lines. I was pretty much a nerd at the time – and, I suppose all through school (maybe all my life, who can say) – and I only tried out for the part to compete with Richard Burstein, my nemesis.

Richard was about a magnitude above me, in terms of I.Q. and, worse yet, worked a lot harder. He generally scored above me and got most of the nerd, or “smart kid” perquisites. I only remember winning the day three times: I was elected president of the Safety Patrol, I got the lead in Pinafore, and I got to give the “Farewell to Franklin” speech at graduation.

Anyway, I was pretty sure the phone call was from someone from Room 6 at Franklin Elementary in East San Diego. There were just 15 or 20 males in that group and I think I remember more than half – and would likely recognize the names of others.

Fortunately, as a male, it was unlikely that the caller’s name had changed, so I had a pretty high level of confidence that I’d be able to crack this nut. And I did, in fact, with just two quick detective moves.

First, I called the number that my phone had captured. There was nobody home, but it turns out that Kim – that’s right, the mystery caller was Kim Ward – has voicemail, too, and his greeting message listed first names for Kim, a wife and a couple of kids.

I then used a “reverse directory” search online and received confirmation. For some cash, I could have ordered all kinds of information – probably at least a couple of things that might make Kim feel suspect that I’m a psychic or big-time private eye.

But I settled for what I had found in just a few minutes and without any expense.

When the phone rang a couple of hours later, the display flashed his name and I coolly answered…

“Hello Kim Ward! It has been a long time.”

She’s not only merely dead; she’s really most sincerely dead

Attention seniors. Before the merriment of commencement commences, I hope that your years with us here at Rydell have prepared you for the challenges you face. Who knows? Among you there may be a future Eleanor Roosevelt or a Rosemary Clooney, and among you young men, there may be a Joe DiMaggio, a President Eisenhower, or a Vice-President Nixon. But you will always the glorious memories of Rydell High. Rydell forever. Bon voyage.

        -- Rydell Principal McGee

It was a blast from the past; I received a flurry of email messages from folks I hadn’t heard from … well, ever -- or at least since before the Internet and email were invented. It seems that several of my classmates from Herbert Hoover Senior High School in San Diego have taken the pledge, “Be true to your school,” to heart and are trying to keep in touch with as many alumni from the class of ’66 as possible.

The piece de resistance came yesterday (on my birthday) from a former fellow bandsman, John Buono. The message was titled, “Hope you remember me.”

John served all of us in the U.S. Army for 20 years, rising to the rank of Major before joining a (that’s right) defense contractor (can you all spell M-I-L-I-T-A-R-Y I-N-D-U-S-T-R-I-A-L C-O-M-P-L-E-X??) for another 10 years.

While former V.P. Al Gore was inventing the Internet, Hoover’s own John Buono was inventing email – he says it’s part of Communications Interoperability and who am I to doubt him?

Anyway, in retirement, John has volunteered to set up a web site for us Cardinals: here it is

The best thing about the site (to be totally immodest) is the fact that Wandering Dave is currently featured on the splash page. The alumni grapevine not only alerted John to my current status, but also sent along a set of URLS or links that led him to this site. Score one more for the internet (and, email, of course).

High school memories have faded quite a bit. I have a few Hoover stories in my repertoire, but like the vacuum cleaner of the same name, they kind of suck (kidding).

I definitely remember John as an earnest band member, serious about his trumpet playing and serious in his approach to life in general. I remember him being involved with ROTC and the military career makes sense. In band, he was brass and I woodwind, so we weren’t within horseplay range; but I do remember him well.

I don’t know if most classmates knew the words to our school’s alma mater. As a bandsman, I was on fairly intimate terms with them:

Hail, Herbert Hoover High,
This is our pledge to thee
Long may your banners be
Crowned with victory

We pledge our loyalty
And our sincerity
We will be true to thee
Hail Hoover High

I’m pretty sure the music and lyrics are unique to our school. Many high schools, even colleges “borrow” melodies from other schools. When I attended Adams State College in Colorado I was amused to discover that school had adapted the Canadian national anthem (“Oh, Canada!) to school spirit purposes, titling the purloined melody, “Oh, Adams State!”

My favorite school song combo, though is from another alma mater – San Diego State. The school anthem is “Hail Montezuma,” another original composition. And the fight song, titled “Fight on” actually contains a couple of bars from the alma mater in the bridge. For me, sounding that foreshadowing refrain after every home touchdown and at other critical moments in the game made the post-game performance of the full version more powerful.

After reflection, I realize that I DO have great memories of both high school and college. Though I tend to focus on how innocent (read: naive, stupid, clueless, unbelievably shy) I was, there are sources of some pride and considerable joy.

Unlike many others in my age group. I would gladly “go back and do it again.”

Sincerely.

Cogito ergo sum

There's got to be a morning after

We're moving closer to the shore

I know we'll be there by tomorrow

And we'll escape the darkness

We won't be searching any more

-- Joel Hirschhorn and Al Kasha, 1972

About 26 hours ago, at 1:03 a.m. MDT, I began my 60th year on this planet – outside the womb, that is. I took my first breath of mile-high Rocky Mountain air 59 years and 26 hours ago in Denver, Colorado.

My 59th birthday was swell. I received just the right number of messages and phone calls and dwelled on my chronological position in life for just the right amount of time and with a positive attitude and outlook.

I began the day in Maine and enjoyed a leisurely drive along the south coast – stopping to take pictures and a nap. I spent a short time in New Hampshire (all of the presidential candidates were in Iowa) before entering Massachusetts, where I spent a quiet afternoon and evening.

There was no birthday party, but a local scientist-cum-artist, was having a show here in the building and I helped myself to snacks (having missed dinner while on the road). I opted for soda pop instead of wine, but don’t feel at all deprived.

Every birthday, but most particularly those on which we can hang labels like “my 60th year,” presents the opportunity to address THE question: “Am I doing what I should with my life?”

Having had conversations with more than 1,000 people, all of whom are way past their 60th years, I’ve taken note of many whom I’d like to emulate – and many others I would not.

Though I’ve come to accept the likelihood that Bingo, crosswords, jigsaw puzzles, knitting and other repetitive and predictable activities do have a value in terms of keeping one’s mind active, they are not for me.

All of us fall into routines. This may help maintain sanity; it may anchor our lives and give us a sense of who we are and how we fit into the circumstances in which we find ourselves. But a life that is nearly all routine reminds me of Socrates’ conclusion that “the unexamined life is not worth living.”

I have a fairly strong hope – perhaps more of an expectation – that there is an afterlife. My basis for this is partly Descartes, partly Maureen McGovern and partly other notions that I won’t go into here.

Descartes is famous for, “I think, therefore I am.” I have failed at all attempts at meditation because I have been unable to focus. My mind has a life of its own and is in control. I can’t turn it off; and I can’t force it to focus only on one thing, or on nothing.

“Gail Sheehy, the author, who, at 68, is still guiding readers through life's passages, said today's 64-year-olds have a "360-degree view of life." They may believe in yesterday, but they also can't stop thinking about tomorrow.”

        -- Sam Roberts, NY Times, 2006
        -- Read article

Like most art, 1972’s “Poseidon Adventure” can be viewed as a metaphor. The characters struggle up to the bottom of the overturned ship defied logic and turned out to be the only strategy with a chance of success. Combining faith in their leader with enormous effort (including dealing with great loss and many setbacks) they make it through the night and discover that there is a morning after.

It’s not impossible to view life as not entirely unlike being trapped in an overturned ocean liner. Many others in their 60th year and beyond make endless circuits from their staterooms to the dining room and back – stopping only for bingo, card games, a visit to the beauty salon and to pick up a copy of today’s obituaries.

As for me, I’m going to take a few turns around the deck, hopefully meeting some interesting fellow travelers. I’m going to learn about how the ship operates and try to understand how it is navigated.

And during those times the ship is turned upside down, I’m planning to join the party that recognizes that sometimes “down” is “up” and we must defy logic and tradition if we hope to make it through the night.

B - I - N - G - O

“Eye twenty-five,” she shouted. “Two, FIVE”

Fifteen pairs of eyes scanned thirty game cards arrayed in front of an intense group of players gathered around 8-foot tables.

“Eye, twenty-nine. Two, NINE”

No conversation interrupted the rhythmic cadence of calls. Players were focused on the three-step process that would be repeated until one of their number shouted “BINGO!”

Gee, fifty-three,” came the call. “Five, THREE.”

STEP ONE: Each player must decode the announcement. Seventy-five small wooden balls contain letter-number combinations. The balls are numbered one through 75 and are divided, consecutively into groups of 15.

Balls numbered one through 15 are all “Bee” balls; 16 to 30 are “Eyes;” 31 to 45 are labeled “Enn;” and so on. The unique value – the number – is repeated in sign-song fashion, giving players two chances to get it.

STEP TWO: With adrenaline pumping, players frantically search both cards for the current number. Though the five columns are consistent on each card, the order of the numbers below each column heading is random. Players must scan up and down each of two columns – most then re-scan to double-check.

STEP THREE: The third step is only performed later in the game. Players who are one square away from “Bingo” must determine whether they have won. This isn’t always a simple task as the winning configuration varies from a simple five-in-a-row to the time-consuming “black-our bingo” game.

Variations include the “Big Exx” and the “Border.”

Bingo isn’t my favorite pastime. In fact, I have played only once in the past thirty or forty years. I confess to having looked down a bit on those apparently simple-minded folks who play with such enthusiasm. But I now have a new respect for the game.

Like those addicted to crosswords or jigsaw puzzles, Bingo players use the game to keep their minds in tune. The process of accepting and processing input, taking appropriate action and communicating success is healthy. Bingo is problem-solving and requires alertness and attention to detail.

Whether playing for cash, prizes or fun, there is a reward for winners and the ever-present prospect of having “better luck next time” for the losers.

Bingo is OK with me.

But I do wish there was some way to put that dreary pattern of calls to music or to otherwise pep it up a bit.

        “EYE get tired of the repeated beat of numbers.”
        “GEE, is it ever tiresome. The rhythm stays with me for hours after the game has ended”
        “OH, I wish there were a way to vary that pattern.”
        “BEE careful, though, the ‘Bingo Vigilantes’ may attack if you mess with their game.”
        “ENN this lifetime, I doubt that things will change much, as far as Bingo is concerned.”

Moving Picture from Maine

That's right!

I've learned how to post videos at You-Tube!

This could be the start of something...

Apart from the Main

Having never before been in the state of Maine and not having done any research about the place, I’m definitely unqualified to offer any conclusions or even educated comments about the place.

My reaction, after a few days “in country,” is positive. I like the people and the landscape appears largely untouched.

My next destination is Portland, Maine. It’s the states most populous city, but is smaller than Merced, California (less than 75,000 people). There are only a half-dozen or so cities with more than 20,000 souls. Maine is the least densely populated state east of the Mississippi and may well have the friendliest folks.

This is not what I expected. The word on the street has always been that Main residents are reserved and rather UN-friendly. I have found the opposite to be the case, particularly in the retirement community I’ve occupied most of the time I’ve been here.

Most of the people I’ve met speak with a delightful Maine accent – some more so than others. They seem to be quite curious and interested in my adventures and very eager to help me make plans for my time here.

Homes tend to be quite large – and they all have basements. California-style homes wouldn’t stand the harsh weather conditions, which not only include plenty of snow and cold temperatures, but powerful storms influenced by hurricanes and “nor’easterners.”

Large lots and detached garages (without basements) are common. In fact, many homes have multiple out buildings, some are quite large, perhaps dating back to farming days.

Maine is a long, long way from California and I know that it’s not likely that I’ll ever return. But I’d like to.

Family ties

No I would not give you false hope
On this strange and mournful day
But the mother and child reunion
Is only a motion away.

        -- Paul Simon, 1972

One item on my short agenda for this trek around the continent was to search for possible new landing zones. I’ve already lived in five states and 20 or so different cities.

Over the years, I’ve developed some criteria for the “perfect” home town; and it only made sense to keep my eyes open as I spend five days in each of about 70 communities and pass through literally hundreds more.

Having the opportunity to break bread with about 1,000 retirees, so far, has led me to a whole new perspective on my future, though – at least in terms of where I’ll most likely settle in my golden years.

A compelling number of folks I’ve met – perhaps more than 90 percent – are living within a short distance of one or more of their children and/or grandchildren. Many have been transplanted by their offspring, others have moved on their own volition – but the trend is nearly universal: older people definitely regress in the direction of their heirs.

Upon reflection, I’ve come to realize that this apparently natural desire to remain connected to family is a powerful force in my own being. I’m pretty sure, after giving the matter considerable thought, that I’m almost certain to settle near my son – and probably to move if and whenever he moves.

Over the past ten years or so, I’ve made a few attempts to engender a consensus among family members that would have resulted in a mass migration to a location of my choosing. I believe I’m nearly ready to give up such efforts and to become a follower.

In any event, the results of my informal, but rather extensive, survey have convinced me that, for most people, blood actually is thicker than water.

So, it seems likely that not too long after I stop wandering, I’ll be looking for new digs in the general vicinity of my beamish boy. That’s a prospect that makes me feel pretty good about the future.

Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.

        -- Ruth, to her mother-in-law

My Maine Man

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, it seems to me most strange that men should fear – seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.

        -- Julius Caesar (Shakespeare)

As much as I hate war, few human enterprises offer a context that can match its life-and-death struggle in pursuit of a goal – be it good or evil.

When Shakespeare’s Henry V addresses his troops and declares, “gentlemen in England now-a-bed shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us,” something within me is stirred and I do, on some level, wish that sometime in my life I could be a part of an epic battle where everything is on the line.

Today, in his hometown of Brewer, Maine, I stood beside a statue of Joshua Chamberlain atop a hill landscaped to represent Little Round Top – the position his Maine Volunteers held in early July of 1863 near Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

Many historians believe that the actions of those Maine soldiers on that day turned the tide in a battle which arguably turned the tide in the war.

I’ve given a good deal of thought to Chamberlain. Perhaps I identify with him in a few regards – not because of shared heroism, for sure, or because I consider myself his equal intellectually or in any other way; I see him as a thoughtful person who must have been torn inconsistencies and impossible contradictions and compelled to sacrificing some of his principles to achieve noble ends.

My own far less dramatic search for meaning in the context of chaos has been aided by three scenes from the 1993 made-for-television movie, Gettysburg.

Chamberlain, portrayed by Jeff Daniels, faces three difficult challenges on that summer day. His reaction to each of the three seems, to me, to reflect his intellect and nobility. He responds to challenges with his head and heart; and his willingness to see past apparently impossible obstacles has affected me.

First, during a forced march toward the battleground, Chamberlain is handed responsibility for a group of deserters from his home state. Though authorized to summarily execute these men, Chamberlain knows he will not do so – and he knows he must deal with the situation immediately, without slowing his unit’s progress toward the front line.

Preoccupied, the officer initially addresses the mutinous soldiers informally. But he soon launches a passionate argument for the Union cause.

Realizing that he’s displayed his heart on his sleeve, Chamberlain ends his remarks rather awkwardly, offering the men the option to take up arms or remain prisoners. A few minutes later, he’s surprised to learn that most of the deserters were inspired by his speech and decided to rededicate themselves to the cause.

Later, despite the fact that they had just arrived on the scene and were weary from their march, Chamberlain’s troops were given a demanding and critical assignment: to anchor the end of the Union line – on a hill called Little Round Top.

In the movie, Chamberlain explains their challenge to his troops: “If you look to our left, you will see that there is no one there. It's because we're the end of the line. The Union army stops here. We are the flank. Do you understand, gentlemen? We cannot retreat. We cannot withdraw. We are going to have to be stubborn today.”

Hours later, after having repulsed several Rebel charges, having lost a number of soldiers and having expended most of their ammunition, the men from Maine were near exhaustion. It seemed likely that they would be overrun by the next Rebel advance.

In command, Chamberlain considered the situation. With only a few minutes to make a decision, he must have been near panic. Without sufficient ammunition, the position was indefensible – but retreat was not an option.

I’ve watched Daniels’ reenactment of that moment of decision many times. For me, that brief interval between hopelessness and the decision to act is magic. Charging the enemy now seems to be an almost obvious choice; but in the context of actual battle conditions, it represented an amazing combination of courage and confidence – confidence both in himself and his troops.

The third scene follows hard on the second. As Chamberlain plunged down the slope alongside his men, he encountered many enemy soldiers. In his own recollection of the event he recalls often being surrounded by more Rebels than comrades.

Among these adversaries was an officer who interrupted Chamberlain’s advance by brandishing a huge revolver. It was point-blank range and looked like the end for this heroic Union officer.

Perhaps two seconds elapsed while the hammer was pulled back. Who knows what anyone may be likely to think during such an interval? But Chamberlain’s overt response to almost certain death seemed to me to be acceptance.

The colonel released a burst of air that bristled his whiskers as he looked directly into the eyes of the man who was about to take his life. He seemed to me to be a man who had already accepted the possibility of such an outcome – not eager for an ending, but as prepared as is possible.

The pistol misfired and Chamberlain’s sword now gave him the upper hand. He calmly demanded that his adversary surrender – nothing personal, just another day at the war.

The Maine troops took the day with their charge down Little Round Top. Joshua Chamberlain earned the Congressional Medal of Honor and has served as a role model for thousands, perhaps millions of people.

In three scenes, a talented actor managed to establish the Colonel’s motivation, display his judgment and courage, confirm his compassion and define him as a man of honor and commitment.

To see these scenes for yourself:

http://www.americanrhetoric.com/MovieSpeeches/moviespeechgettysburg.html and


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wYDhAmjmxYk

Farewell to Canada

                    First Fall color -- north of Fredericton

Tomorrow I will cross the border for the last time and make my first visit to the state of Maine. I'm looking forward to making a "triumphant" return to my native land, but I'll never forget the friendly reception I've received north of the border. Canadians are much like Americans, but the differences are refreshing. I've learned a lot about being a better neighbor from my neighbors.

Typically, for me, the virus that struck a week or so ago is taking its time passing completely through my system. My lungs remain congested and I am forced to deal with a nagging cough. But my sore throat has healed and I have little trouble sleeping -- in fact, I've slept and slept and slept. Fortunately, I'm in an environment that provides quite and comfortable space for rest and recuperation.

The mornings and evenings are beginning to feel more and more like autumn and I'm excited about prospects of Fall colors during the next two weeks in New England. I may be two or three weeks ahead of the ideal time for a visit, but I'm counting on good fortune and am certain to have plenty of great photo ops as I make my way south through the eastern U.S.

I will not get any further from home than I am here in St John. I'm 2,821 miles from Merced, as the crow flies -- that's just over 3,500 highway miles. I've actually driven 9,623 miles since February 15 and will cover nearly as many more before I return home in January or February.

Some trip!

I have at least a half-dozen topics about which to write and hope that when I spend a bit less time sleeping, I'll do more writing.

Meanwhile, I've shipped quite a few new photos back from New Brunswick and Jesse should have them posted soon.

On to Maine in the morning!