Eine kleine Nachtmusik

Henry moves downstage center. He’s a big man of about 85, wearing a coat and an outlandish tie. His voice is high-pitched, particularly when he launches into an enthusiastic rendition of “Ain’t she sweet.”

Henryk – that’s Henry’s real first name – speaks and sings with a strong German accent. He’s Polish, by birth, but grew up speaking both languages.

Despite his size and age and his ability to sing on pitch, he’s nervous. His big hands roll, then fold and unfold the script, fingers trembling.

The performance is the fifth in a series of annual productions at a North Carolina retirement complex, but it’s Henry’s first. Until he signed up for the show, the recent newcomer felt like an outsider; now, he’s part of a group and feels good about making a contribution.

The script was written by one of the actors’ daughters, who also directs the show, she also plays piano and is chief prompter for those who forget their lines.

The performers portray a room full of “eighty-somethings” celebrating their 65th year high school class reunion.

The songs and stories obviously bring back sweet memories for many cast and audience members. Common experiences abound among Americans regardless of which part of the country they hail from or whether they graduated in 1942 or a decade earlier or later.

But Henryk’s history is very different. He never attended high school and while fellow cast members were finding sweethearts and preparing for service in the United States military, he was an unwilling participant in Adolph Hitler’s war effort. Henryk was on the other side: he was part of the Nazi war machine that menaced the world.

Two years before the German Blitzkrieg struck, Henryk’s family was a thriving part of the Polish middle class. His father owned a tavern and was a well-respected member of the community before he died suddenly, leaving a wife and four children to fend for themselves.

The invading Germans commandeered the tavern and exiled the family to eastern Poland where, one after the other, each of three sons was inducted into the German army. Henryk was forced to spend three years in the infamous Hitler Youth before being drafted.

The oldest son died in Leningrad and the winds of war separated the rest; Henryk didn’t see his mother for decades – long after he had resettled first in England and then in the U.S.

Though he never really participated in combat, Henryk was a member of a Polish unit assigned to help resist the American advance through Italy. In photographs from that time, he looks like any other member of the German army, posing with fellow uniformed soldiers.

At the end of the musical production, cast members sing anthems from each of the branches of the U.S. military. Henryk is seated in the back row, lending his high, clear voice to the choir.

One has to wonder what’s going through his mind when, in turn, other cast members rise with pride as each U.S. service song is presented. Does he recall songs from his youth – battle songs of the “other side?”

Looking back over the years that comprise a lifetime, each of us finds plenty of cause for celebration and for regret. We have acted for a variety of motives and have been influenced by a range of factors.

Raised during the aftermath of World War II, I grew up hating young men dressed in the uniform Henryk wears in those fifty-plus-year-old photos. I learned to feel suspicious of those who speak with an accent like his. And I despised all of those young people who joined the Hitler Youth.

But spending a few hours with Henry made me realize that the tides and winds and currents of major human events can overwhelm people caught up in their power and fury. It’s becoming more difficult to sort out victims and victimizers – one can’t always tell just by looking at the uniforms.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

and never brought to mind ?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

and auld lang syne ?

CHORUS:

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup !

And surely I’ll be mine !

And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,

for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae run about the braes,

and pou’d the gowans fine;

But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,

sin’ auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,

frae morning sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roar’d

sin’ auld lang syne.

CHORUS

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!

And gies a hand o’ thine !

And we’ll tak a right gude-willie-waught,

for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

        -- Robert Burns (1759-96)

I love the smell of marshmallows in the morning

The West Coast has the sunshine
and the girls all get so tanned.
        -- The Beach Boys

The east coast has several disadvantages compared to the west, if you ask me. Though millions of tourists flock to beachside resort communities like South Carolina’s Myrtle Beach, they have to settle for an experience that just can’t compare with what I basically took for granted growing up in Southern California.

For one thing, there’s the water.

No, I’m not talking about seawater, I suppose that’s pretty standard from ocean to ocean. I’m referring, now, to the water in the air. On a clear day in So-Cal – and that’s just about every day, thank you very much – the air is light as a feather, the post-dawn dew point is at sub-zero temperatures.

Not only does this mean that the chance of rain is pretty much zero most days, but it also means there’s very little humidity. And, as everyone knows, when we suffer from summer heat it’s not the heat, but the humidity that makes outdoor activity unbearable.

On any given day here in the southeast, the air is laden with moisture. And that dampness seems eager to jump from the atmosphere to human beings – forming beads of sweat, turning dry clothes into soggy ones and making folks feel generally sticky, clammy, and otherwise miserable.

Southern ladies refer to the result of this phenomenon in endearing terms, like “glistening;” but it really feels like sweat and tends to accumulate most quickly in those embarrassing parts of the anatomy: armpits, the small of the back, and so on…

Rain provides a refreshing break from summer heat. In the west, it cleans the air, the streets and pretty much everything else. It drives the temperature down and is generally benevolent in all regards. In the east, however, rain sometimes comes on the back of hurricane winds. Even when the rain falls vertically, it tends to only make the humidity feel worse when the return of the sun means evaporating rain will add to the amount of water in the air.

I’m convinced that the tall hotels that line east coast beaches are placed so close to the shore because their tenants need to go inside every few minutes to escape the heat and humidity.

Building those hotels so near the water, however, creates another shortcoming for the right coast. Beaches are woefully narrow. Californians are used to broad expanses of sand between the nearest grass or parking area – and buildings are usually stationed even farther away.

Easterners have adapted to high-density sunbathing. With so little sand to go around, individuals are restricted to a few square feet of territory. In the west, sun worshippers lay down blankets and scatter their ice chests, boogie boards, lawn chairs and other equipment far and wide; there’s room for Frisbee tossing and for burying Dad in the sand. In the east, one must alert the neighbor before turning over to tan the other side.

The biggest problem facing eastern sun lovers is so big that it’s … well … astronomical.

It’s nobody’s fault, and nobody can do anything about it; but the fact of the matter is that the whole east coast simply faces the WRONG WAY!

This tragedy can best be illustrated by two scenarios, first one from the west and then another from the east.

West coast beachgoers typically travel to the shore in the afternoon, perhaps toting a lunch. They set up in a strategic location – not too far from the restrooms and showers, between the green “safe swimming zone” flags, above the high tide line and near a fire ring.

They enjoy a few hours of sunshine and frolicking in the frothy waves before settling near their base, wonderfully tired and appreciative of the cooling onshore breeze and diminishing sunshine as Old Sol heads for the horizon.

All eyes turn to the west as the sun sets into the sea. Every sunset is different and most are rather spectacular – particularly when viewed with friends and family near the end of a perfect day.

In the twilight, fires are lit; and, as darkness falls, hot dogs and marshmallows are brought forth and the mood shifts again. Someone may break out a guitar and singing can continue for hours.

Hours earlier, on the east coast, a very different scenario played out. Struggling to be objective, I did identify one advantage resulting from being on the opposite side of the sunset: Parents and lifeguards no doubt have a better view of swimmers without the setting sun glaring off of the water.

Otherwise, late afternoon on the east coast has little to offer as compared with its counterpart out west.

For starters, high-rise hotels positioned so close to narrow beaches mean an artificial sunset arrives long before dark. Lengthening shadows crawl across the beach and into the water. Most people can’t even see the real sunset as it’s hidden behind their hotel; so, there’s on sense of community at sunset – no clear signal that afternoon is done and evening has arrived.

The only way for easterners to gain an appreciation for the California beach experience would be to arise early and go to the beach. If the fire can be started before dawn streaks above the horizon, the transition from dark to light can be enjoyed in the comfortable glow of that fire.

Roast a few marshmallows before the sun rises and then turn to face the east as the first flare of bright red or orange color peeks above the horizon. Surely sunrise can be just as beautiful as sunset; and early risers will probably have the beach to themselves.

Once the sun has cleared the horizon, there’s still time to go out for breakfast before the humidity drives them indoors for the next 21 hours.

When the wintry winds starts blowing

And the snow is starting in the fall

Then my eyes went westward knowing

That's the place that i love best of all

California I've been blue

Since I’ve been away from you

I can't wait 'till i get blowing

Even now I’m starting in a call



California, Here I Come

Right back where I started from

Where bowers of flowers

bloom in the spring

each morning at dawning

birdies sing at everything
        -- Buddy DeSylva & Joseph Meyer, 1924

Fun and Games

The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. Its been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But, baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and could be again.
        -- Terrance Mann (James Earl Jones)
            Field of Dreams

Matt Goyak wanted to be a professional baseball player but World War II intervened. He had been in position for a role with the Pittsburgh Pirates but ended up onboard a navy ship – where baseball was not among the list of recreational activities.

“Bobby Feller (future hall of fame pitcher) was on my ship and I did get to catch him a few times,” Goyak recalled. “Imagine trying to catch baseballs thrown on the deck of a shop rising and falling on the ocean.”

The only game Goyak got to play during his time in the service was on an island.

“We needed Marine guards in the out-of-bounds areas in case we were attacked,” he joked.

Though the Pirates offered him an opportunity to play in the minors after his return from service, Goyak realized his chances for making it in the majors was slim. He returned to Pittsburgh and gave alternate careers a try, including a week working in a steel mill.

“My brother got me the job and, after a few days, I asked him when payday was,” said Goyak. “He told me ‘Friday,” and I said, ‘O.K. Friday’s my last day.’”
He finally found a home in Georgetown, South Carolina where he spent 38 years as a recreation director.

Half a century ago, Goyak was caught up in events that reflect the times – and illustrate how much they’ve changed. In 1955 an all-black baseball team qualified for a playoff berth that could have led to participation in the Little League World Series.

As was happening throughout the South (and in the North) children became pawns in the struggle to integrate schools and other institutions – including youth baseball in South Carolina.

Goyak withdrew his all-white team from the tourney, leaving the black kids with no path to the championship.

He became a founder of the Dixie Youth Baseball program, which was formed to facilitate racial discrimination but now conducts leagues in 11 states.

Though that initial act reflected the racist values of the times, Goyak is proud of the growth of the league. For years, youth of all races have been welcome. The league points with pride to black players like football’s Bo Jackson and basketball superstar Michael Jordan who were part of the Dixie League.

On the other hand, the Confederate battle flag continued to fly over Dixie League fields until 1994.

I believe I had a meeting of the minds with Matt Goyak. I don’t know what kind of guy he was 52 years ago when he participated in an act that robbed both black and white kids of the chance to compete with each other – the winner going on toward the international Little League World Series; but the kind of guy he seems to me to be today is my kind of guy.

Goyak spent 38 years in the public recreation arena. Based on our discussion, he did plenty of good during those years – he seems to have affected a lot of people for the better, of all ages and all other categories we use to separate folks.

He was active in the leisure services profession, serving as president of the South Carolina Parks and Recreation Association and participating in many workshops and seminars that led to formation of new community recreation programs throughout the region.

It would be easy to judge Goyak for a single action; but who among us would stand up to such a standard? While it’s hard to miss the fact that many of the housekeeping and food services workers at the facilities I’ve visited in the South are black, it’s also worth noting that there are more minorities among the residents. This anecdotal information doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but it’s clear that we’re not in 1955 anymore.

Neither Washington, Jefferson nor even the Great Emancipator, Lincoln, bears scrutiny when past statements are scrutinized under modern microscopes. What we now refer to as political correctness may be particularly unfair when applied retroactively.

So I’m willing to give Goyak the benefit of the doubt and credit him for his years of public service and for being the fellow he appears to be today.

A member of the team that was denied the opportunity to participate in Little League post-season play is philosophical about the event and says he bears no grudge against his would-be opponents.

Leroy Mitchel was a pitcher and center fielder for the all-black team. He spoke to the Associated Press on the 50th anniversary of the forfeited game:

"We don't have any animosity toward them," he said. "It was an adult thing, not a kid thing. We all just wanted to play ball."

Nightlife

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning
Since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No we didn't light it
But we tried to fight it

        -- Billy Joel, 1989

Like most men of a certain age, I tend to rise to nature’s call once or twice each night. Usually, I perform this task in a semi-conscious state, taking little note of my surroundings – I’m probably not completely awake.

Some nights, like tonight, I’m preoccupied by something and my round-trips to the next room fit into a pattern of alternating sleep and mind-racing as my brain involuntarily attempts to “solve” one ill-defined problem or another.

The challenge facing my subconscious tonight has to do with raging fires back home in California. Hundreds of thousands of people are displaced tonight as Santa Ana winds are driving a half-dozen fires toward the sea, leaving scores of scorched houses in their wake.

The matter took on urgency when I received a post-midnight message from a friend announcing that he and his family are among those ordered to abandon their homes and flee to designated shelters, which, one might deduce, could later be threatened as well.

More than 10 thousand San Diegans reported to the football stadium in Mission Valley, raising memories of the fate that befell Katrina victims when they sought similar refuge not long ago in New Orleans.

And suspicions that some or most of the fires were deliberately set reminded me of the futility of efforts by our government to make our nation safe from the acts of those willing to do us harm.

As I crossed the room, I glanced out the window and was surprised to see stars. The forecast is for cloudy skies, thundershowers on Wednesday and Thursday.

The steady bright white body nearest the horizon was obviously the “morning star” – Venus. I suspected that the other three objects were also planets, but a little research revealed that they are Saturn and two bright stars from the constellation Leo.

In less than two hours, the sun will appear in the east and begin its inexorable journey from coast to coast. A few hours later, on the west coast, helicopters and airplanes assigned to California’s wildfires will take to the air and resume their bombardment of the flames.

The pilots of those aircraft, along with dozens of news choppers will assess the situation and those of us who have spent the night fighting the flames in our minds will discover how much good our overnight efforts accomplished.

Other People’s Memories -- A guide to non-linear living

Memory is like a door that allows entry into many wonderful places.

You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension - a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over,,,

Memories provide much more than static windows into the past; by tapping other people’s memories (OPM), we can fill in gaps and find new meaning for past events and answers to questions that our own life experiences just can’t provide.

My favorite discoveries while exploring OPM are new sources of joy. Joy has become my most valued emotion and I’ve seen it in the eyes of dozens of people whom I’ve met along the road – and joyful experiences are among the most meaningful to me.

Other valuable insights are gained, of course, when people share unpleasant memories. I have heard many tales of woe – from those who have lost loved ones, suffered through war and other privations and who have had to deal with incredible pain and discomfort – their own and that of loved ones.

What’s the point?

Well, this morning I had a rather unpleasant exchange with a fellow with whom I had breakfast. As usual, I was responsible for at least half of the problem.

I had attempted to engage three men in conversation, as has been my custom on this trip. One of the three seemed to want to sort of dominate the situation. Even when I directed questions to the others, he interrupted and interjected his own answers – which were curt and rather condescending.

When he finally challenged my ability to comprehend – asking, “How old are you?” – I struck back. My counterattack was fairly mild – along the lines of, “You are being rude.”

Later, after this domineering fellow left, both of the others were quite friendly – perhaps not wishing to dispute their colleague in his presence, but wishing to make amends after he left.

And the point is…

It’s often difficult to break through barriers that most people construct to protect their privacy. Occasionally, the process is unpleasant enough to make one wonder whether it’s worth the effort. But my experience – which has involved invading the dinner tables of hundreds of folks who rather like things to be predictable – makes me a strong advocate of taking that kind of chance.

Most of the time, I’m made to feel quite welcome; and most of the rest of the time, I win the others over and we end up making some kind of meeting of the minds.

So, despite the fact that it occastionally gets bitten, sticking your nose into other people’s business usually opens doors…

Time out for family

Entries here have been few and far between for the past several weeks. Apologies are due to those who visit often and have not been given regular updates – which were promised at the start of this adventure.

A long-awaited rendezvous with son Jesse ended yesterday in North Carolina. I’m not in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina – missing him a bit already. Having him around (though not to myself enough of the time) was great and I’d like a bit more…

I’ve also met two more representatives of the generation after Jesse’s. Though he’s not showing any signs of adding to the mix, some of his cousins have started the ball rolling. I had lots of fun with a pair of grandnephews in North Carolina.

It’s fun to observe and compare the siblings. The girls in Connecticut and these little Southerners are obviously from the same family, but have many different characteristics. The interaction between sisters and brothers is fun to watch.

I could go on and on about the kids and other relatives, but it’s clearly time to regain focus on the trip. So, I’ll put aside the urge to write about family and attempt to bring folks up to date on the trip.

Today, for example, I made my biggest navigation error. Because the facsimile copy of my itinerary was printed off center, the entry for Myrtle Beach was cut off. Then I failed to double check and ended up bypassing my actual stop and driving all the way to Charleston. The error wasn’t uncovered until I actually tried to check in at the wrong building.

The only good news was that there’s just 100 miles between the two stops. So, I had to backtrack a hundred miles – which means it was a 200-mile error, total. I managed to get back to Myrtle Beach just before it became too dark to read the map.

All’s well that ends well. And the drive during sunset and early dusk was very pleasant.

To those of you who have been patiently waiting for an update: I apologize. For those who weren’t quite so patient (and told me so): thanks for the kick in the seat of the pants. I needed that.

Though time is sure to pass more and more quickly, the pace will slow as I take a full month to travel down and then back up the state of Florida. Perhaps that month will present an opportunity to begin analyzing this experience.

Since Jesse’s been (and remains) on the road, too, updated photos may take a while. I will continue to shoot, though, and that body of information should begin to grow again, too.

Days are getting shorter and many places I’ve been earlier in the trip are now too cold for my customary short sleeves and pants. I’ll stay in the comfort zone, in the southern latitudes, though, and may re-encounter a few of my Canadian and New England friends as they fly south for the winter…

That’s my report for tonight. I will not make you wait so long for the next one.

Hoops

Straddling mid-court, about five feet inside the line, I tried to widen my focus to include all ten players. My partner was concentrating on the jumpers only; and even more so on the toss. He needed to put the ball higher than either player could reach, but not so high as to ruin the timing of a fair jump.

“White to the right. White to the right, White to the right.”

I had a lot on my mind. Did each player wait for the ball to be touched before contacting an opponent? Who was the last to touch the ball? Did one jumper foul the other with his or her body?

I was even responsible for deciding whether my colleague’s toss was acceptable. If I felt one player gained an advantage because of a lopsided toss, it was my duty to blow my whistle and order a re-toss.

Though I gripped my own whistle between my teeth, my partner’s was hanging from its lanyard. One never knew when an errant elbow or other body part might come in contact with the official. Teeth were most definitely at risk. Some refs try to protect their mouth with the upraised tossing arm; but most of us opted to let the whistle dangle, or to hold it in the free hand.

My partner would be caught in traffic following the toss, so it was my job to get out in front of the team that gained possession. There was no time to figure things out after the ball was in play, so I always locked one alternative in my mind. If the white team didn’t control the ball, I simply ran left; otherwise, it was “White to the right.”

Administering time outs, fouls and free throws, out of bounds plays and other game circumstances each had their own choreography for us “zebras.” Players quickly recognize the skill level of their opponents; basketball officials immediately know whether their colleagues know their job.

Though I never played interscholastic basketball – I was a poor player even in gym class, I was a pretty good official. I worked hard at it and by the end of the game I was as tired as most of the players.

Over about a fifteen year period, I officiated hundreds of basketball games and many dozens of football contests. I also enforced baseball, softball, volleyball, and track and field rules along with many contests and competitions in a range of activities.

In memory, basketball remains my favorite. It was the first; I made more money doing basketball; it is quite personal – the players, coaches and crowd members are all very nearby; the action is continuous and often rather frantic.

The role of the officials is rather paradoxical: if they do their job well, they’ll have no impact on the outcome (other than by enforcing rules designed to keep either team from gaining an unfair advantage).

It takes a thick skin to be a sports official. I believe baseball umpires have it worst as there is a tradition of open antagonism – including screaming in one’s face, kicking dirt and otherwise demonstrating disapproval in dramatic fashion.

Basketball rules are more specific – players, coaches and others are prohibited from disrespectfully addressing officials, from attempting to influence their decisions and from displaying disapproval or disagreement to an official’s decision.

Much of my experience was with men’s leagues. In that setting, I loved calling the “T” (technical foul); but I usually limited its use to early in the game. A well-placed sportsmanship penalty in the first few minutes of play usually established the fact that my decisions were not subject to approval by the players.

“I promise not to take any shots, make any rebounds or give advice to the players; and I expect you to leave the officiating to me and my colleague,” I announced during the pre-game meeting with team captains.

When a disagreement arose, I listened attentively to any complaints that were presented politely and when the ball wasn’t in play. My most frequent response was, “if it happened the way you say it did, I made a mistake. But I didn’t see it that way. Let’s play basketball.”

I have dozens of basketball stories to tell. I love the game and and there’s no seat in the arena that comes close to offering the view enjoyed by the officials. Sportsmanship didn’t always prevail; but there are few human enterprises that I’ve enjoyed more than being part of a well-played and well-officiated basketball game.

“[TWEEET! TWEET! TWEEET! TWEET!]

Oh! No, three four! You got him, right on the arm.

[I turn to face the scorer’s table]

“I’ve got THREE, FOUR red … on the arm. We’re shooting TWO!”

The best laid plans…

I imagine that every major undertaking turns out to be quite different from what those involved had originally planned or expected. That is certainly the case for this year-long adventure of mine.

I envisioned a growing audience – actually multiple audiences – who would monitor my travels by way of one or more media channels. I expected to become a mobile media mogul whose empire would.

In retrospect, it’s clear that I had become caught up in McLuhan’s theory that “the medium is the message.” Of course, he was exaggerating and having a compelling story is still a prerequisite for gathering and maintaining an audience.

I also failed to recognize that the folks I would be contacting most often (senior citizens) tend to not be regular users of the internet.

I had envisioned making visits to colleges and local media outlets, but discovered that my story was only compelling while I still believed in the “growing-audience” theory. When the audience showed no signs of growing over the long term, I became less comfortable promoting the web site.

During the first month or so online participation grew rapidly. But it declined rather precipitously after that initial surge. It rose to new heights in the third month only to fall again – even lower than before.

Ups and downs over the past few months seem to indicate that folks visit the site but quickly lose interest. There are very few “regulars.”

The best indicator that the technology is beyond my target audience is the nearly complete lack of participation in the forum – which I thought would be the most interesting, dynamic and useful media channel.

Even the travel partner messages – sent to 45 people – haven’t seemed to result in a bounce in the Wandering Dave ratings.

But good news has diminished any sense of failure on my part. The trip has morphed into a wonderful experience that still has to do with communication – INTERPERSONAL communication.

I have had a chance to spend time with about 1,200 members of my parent’s generation – the folks Tom Brokaw calls “the greatest generation.”

At least an hour-long conversation with groups of three of fewer – not in-depth, but often enough for me to gain insights and to make observations that have been revealing and instructive.

I’ve had hours-long one-on-one conversations with a number of people. On more than one occasion I’ve been told stories they say they haven’t ever shared before.

I’ve seen a lot of sights; but sight-seeing hasn’t been my major source of satisfaction. I’ve written over 100 blog entries, but I don’t think my writing to date has done justice to the experience. I’ve learned a lot about history and very much enjoy exploring the past…

But the most rich part of this adventure has been my encounters with people. I have often changed my plans for the morning or afternoon because a breakfast of lunch companion was willing to extend our conversation – sometimes by hours. I rarely get out of the dining room before the kitchen staff arrive to clear the table. And once in a while, I meet someone whom I know could become a very good friend – like my best buddy, Frank, back in Merced – if I were moving in rather than passing through.

So, I have a message for those who have noticed that I’ve abandoned some of the media channels on the Wandering Dave menu or who note that my blog and photo entries are often spaced rather far apart: my adventure has shifted focus a bit, but I’m doing fine. I am unconcerned about what’s been abandoned along the way and am very pleased with what’s been found that wasn’t expected.

And, despite my having admitted a change in focus, you are STILL invited to ride along with me as I continue this great adventure.

General Jekyll and Private Hyde

It is good that war is so terrible for otherwise we should love it too much.
        -- Robert E. Lee

We Baby Boomers were exposed to hundreds of movies and other accounts of heroic acts performed by our servicemen during World War II. And more portraying those who fought, died and killed in conflicts ranging all the way back to the French and Indian Wars before we even became a nation.

By the time I learned that some people are opposed to war, I had already been brainwashed; I was convinced that at times we have to fight for what we believe in.

Each school day began with the Pledge of Allegiance, often followed by a patriotic song. In Ohio, we said the Lord’s Prayer.

One nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

Events intervened, as I grew older. Today, I no longer enjoy the comfort that accompanies believing absolutely that my country has (and is) always right. And I definitely no longer believe that fighting, in the physical sense of the word, is an effective method for problem solving.

During my visit to Gettysburg, part of me just wanted to bask in the glory of … well, glory. I wanted to connect with the vestiges of chivalry and honor that are so often attached to the Civil War in general, but Gettysburg (and Pickett’s futile, but brave, charge) in particular.

But conflicting emotions intervened, spoiling my visit, in a manner of speaking. I just couldn’t suspend belief and allow myself to become immersed in the scale of events and the pageantry with which it is commemorated.

Two sidebar stories gave me pause after I reflected on them a bit. Maybe it’s just my frame of mind, but it feels like I’m being sold something – as if someone is trying to make warfare more palatable by focusing on random acts of civility.

The first is an account of a general who came across an enemy general who was wounded and in a bad way. The good Samaritan general got down off his horse and tended to his adversary, ordering his own physician to take the wounded officer to the hospital and attend to him.

The story wraps up by noting that both men survived the war and became good friends in later years.

After reflection, I was assaulted by the distinction between generals and privates. What it it were considered “noble” or “chivalrous” to drop one’s weapon to offer succor to a fallen enemy of low rank?

I was left with a bad taste in my mouth: generals welfare is of more consequence and importance than that of enlisted soldiers and abandoning the fight to care for a general is considered to be good form, while diverting attention from the battle to care for a wounded private is not.

The second example is the story of a Confederate officer who ensures a woman that his soldiers would not plunder her home or harm her or her children.

It occurred to me that a more complete statement might approximate the following:

“Madam, my boys won’t harm you or your children and will stay off of your property. On the other hand, if your husband, son or neighbor takes arms against us to defend you, we’ll kill them if we get a chance.”

Knights believed in the code of chivalry. They promised to defend the weak, be courteous to all women, be loyal to their king, and serve God at all times. They also wielded horrible weapons designed to maim their adversaries.

Life and death; silver and gold

Forward, the Light Brigade! 

Was there a man dismay'd? 

Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd. 

Theirs not to make reply, 

Theirs not to reason why, 

Theirs but to do and die. 

Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 


When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made! 

All the world wonder'd. 

Honour the charge they made! 

Honour the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred!

        -- Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1854

Gold, according to my college art instructor, commands respect.

Our assignment was to create an object of art using jeweler’s tools and techniques. We were allowed leeway in terms of design and materials; but it was clear that those who opted to create their work using gold would have a bit of an edge.

I ended up making a silver pickle fork and my grade reflected a lack of respect on the part of my teacher for both my choice of materials and my level of ability.

I can’t claim to have learned much about art, but my instructor’s prejudice taught me that some objects or enterprises gain gravitas, or extra importance, by virtue of their makeup or nature.

For example, oversize objects are often valued more than those with average specifications; older – particularly ancient artifacts increase in worth with time; items once owned by famous people are prized and goods imported from farther away tend to be considered more precious than those found nearby.

When I studied news writing, I was told to consider qualities including timeliness, proximity, prominence and novelty, but to always keep in mind that the impact, or consequences resulting from events create the most powerful news values.

Among possible impacts, death is trump. Loss of life is the ultimate impact and must nearly always be ranked above all others.

It turns out that war – and terrorism – is prolific providers of wholesale death. Attention, therefore, must be paid. Like gold in the eyes of my professor, death commands respect.

Combine death with prominence (Princess Di, JFK, Lincoln) and you’ve got a story with incredible appeal; multiply the number of deaths (World Trade Center, Hurricane Katrina, Gettysburg) and you have a story that commands much more than attention in the news media, it becomes part of the culture.

And, it occurs to me, that transformation sometimes warps our values. What seems acceptable – even desirable – in the context of war would be considered immoral in nearly any other context.

Since my recent visit to Gettysburg, I’ve had trouble writing. It’s impossible to spend time on that battlefield without experiencing powerful emotions. And, I’ve taken a special interest in this battle – partially because of a video game that reenacts the basic elements, a book (“Killer Angels”) and a movie on the subject. The resulting sense of familiarity added to that mix of emotions.

The fields that contained thousands of bodies in July of 1863 now house hundreds of statues, monuments and other markers. Tons of stone memorialize thousands of dead soldiers.

we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.

Oh, yes. When the stakes are life and death, logic and reason go out the window. If so many died, this event had to be important … significant … useful … necessary.

Understanding how it was possible for men to march a mile across open fields while being bombarded by exploding shells and then subjected to thousands of rounds of aimed rifle fire is difficult for 21st century people – at least it’s difficult for me.

It may not be much of a leap from Gettysburg to Baghdad. The random threat of Improvised Explosive Devices isn’t really much different. The horrible carnage experienced in 1863 is matched, at the end of the day, by that going on today in Iraq.

Theirs not to reason why.