Choose your words

INT. FUNERAL HOME - BACK CORRIDOR - DAY

A young deputy, several state troopers, and a SHERIFF are all waiting, as Crawford and Clarice enter. The dim, cluttered corridor doubles as storage space - there's a treadle sewing machine, a soft-drink machine, a tricycle. The MUSIC is closer. Crawford shakes hands with the sheriff.

CRAWFORD
Sheriff Perkins? Jack Crawford, FBI...
This is Officer Starling. We appre-
ciate your phoning us.

SHERIFF
(grim, unsociable)
I didn't call you. That was somebody
from the state attorney's office...
'For you do anything else, I'm gon' find
out if this girl's local. It could
just be somethin' that outside elements
has dumped on us.

He casts a sidelong, unhappy glance at Clarice.

CRAWFORD
Well, sir, that's where we can help. If -

SHERIFF
I don't even know you, Mister... Now
we'll extend you ever courtesy, just
soon as we can, but for right now -

CRAWFORD
Sheriff, this, ah - this type of sex crime
has some aspects I'd rather discuss just
between the two of us. Know what I mean?

He indicates Clarice with his eyes. The sheriff hesitates, nods, then lets Crawford guide him into a small office, closing the door behind them. Muffled WORDS from there.

CLARICE - burning at this slight, is left alone with the troopers, who peek at her with shy curiosity. She pulls her blazer a bit tighter, self-conscious about her bulging shoulder holster.

…[LATER]…

EXT. BACK STEPS OF THE FUNERAL HOME - DAY

CRAWFORD
When I told that sheriff we shouldn't
talk in front of a woman, that really
burned you, didn't it?
(She is silent)
That was just smoke, Starling, I had to
get rid of him. You did well in there.

CLARICE
It matters, Mr. Crawford... Other cops
know who you are. They look at you to
see how to act... It matters.

CRAWFORD
(beat)
Point taken.

        -- Silence of the Lambs, 1991

Writers have a way with words. Sometimes they flow like cool, clear water, creating a crystal path from the brain of the scribe to that of the reader – near perfect communication.

Well… Not really. The fact is that words – even the most powerful or impressive sounding ones – are merely symbols and can’t possibly reveal the actual objects, acts or ideas they purport to describe. It’s all approximate.

And written communication makes the coding even chancier. Without feedback from the message receiver, writers have to take extra care to avoid ambiguity, misdirection, fuzzy thinking and all kinds of semantic noise and pitfalls that impede communication.

That said, I think all wordsmiths (and most readers) love the well-turned phrase. Journeyman writers (and I hope I qualify for that intermediate rank) envy the master craftsmen who put their prose (and poetry) together with profound precision and generate art in the guise of text.

Once in a while a writer of my caliber wields words with just enough aplomb to make him painfully aware of the fact that he more often fails to rise above mediocrity. I’m sure others allow themselves to use my excuse: I tell myself that I’m willingly sacrificing a degree of quality in order to create a larger body of work.

I allow myself to believe that I don’t take time to polish my prose because I favor quantity over quality and can always go back and revise later. Somehow, “later” seldom arrives; in truth, I guess I realize that the distance between my rather ordinary level of discourse and that to which I’d like to ascend is probably greater than my reach.

Oh, I’m not feeling sorry for myself – not too much, anyway. My writing, such as it is, does come easily; and, through writing, I’ve learned a great deal about myself. Others can paint or sing or dance expressively; my artistic outlet is through words, such as they are.

Almost every day for the past year, as I’ve met new people along the way, I’ve been asked if I plan to write a book. I usually respond that books are hard to write and harder to market and that I think I could reach a larger audience with newspaper or magazine articles.

But my fear that any book of mine – once written – would be average, at best, is probably a more powerful deterrent than I’ve been willing to admit.

I believe I may have a book in me – and I think a road-trip book along the lines of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road or John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charlie: In search of America might be rather timely about now – particularly one written by a Baby Boomer who is reacting to a year spent among members of the Greatest Generation.

I even have a subtitle: In Search of the American Dream.

I’m rather embarrassed to admit that I’ve never read On the Road. It’s one of many holes in my literary background. I think I’ll get a copy and see if it inspires me…

… one way or the other.

Gimme an “A”

LBJ took the IRT

Down to 4th Street USA

When he got there

What did he see?

The youth of America on LSD

        -- Hair, 1967

The lecture was “Alphabet Soup.” We met on the mezzanine of the Oxford Hotel, a block from Union Station in downtown Denver. As Vista Volunteers, we were to serve as liaisons between people needing help and government agencies. The agencies and programs were usually identified by acronyms. By lecture’s end, I was up to my ears in letters.

VISTA itself is an acronym for Volunteers in Service to America. We were under the OEO (Office of Economic Opportunity) and I was eventually assigned to a CAA (Community Action Agency) in southern Colorado. My most valuable resource was the “Catalog of Domestic Assistance Programs” – a thick book listing all kinds of funding sources controlled by many different agencies.

Ten years later, I was still immersed in acronyms. I encountered more of them each year as I completed my training and began work in community recreation. I became familiar with the NRPA (National Recreation and Park Association), CPRS (California Parks and Recreation Association AND Colorado Parks and Recreation Association). And I learned about the BOR (Bureau of Outdoor Recreation) and the LWCF (Land and Water Conservation Fund).

The latter was a federal program that provided money for a host of recreation projects, including parks, playgrounds and amenities such as lighting, restrooms and parking. I inherited a LCWF project when I began my first job as a recreation director in Colorado.

It’s about 270 miles from Page, Arizona to Phoenix. I drove the first 135 and hitched a ride with a couple of other fellows from Flagstaff. When we arrived in Phoenix at mid-day, it was well over 100 degrees and the car we took from the airport to our meeting was like an oven. Seated in the back, I wondered whether the A/C (acronym for Air Conditioning) would kick in before I expired from the heat.

Two new acronyms came to my attention in Arizona. Like VISTA and some others, these were pronounced – even though they weren’t real words. One was NACOG, pronounced NAY-cog, which was the Northern Arizona Council of Governments; the other was AORCC, or AY-ork, the Arizona Outdoor Recreation Coordinating Commission.

AORCC controlled the allocation of LWCF money in Arizona. My experience in Colorado, coupled with some research and advice from contacts at NACOG, convinced me that my community was likely to be approved for just about any reasonable project.

Since Page was a new city, it had never received LWCF funds before. My read of AORCC history and tradition convinced me to go for broke with an aggressive and ambitious proposal for funding.

I had everything with me on that trip to Phoenix and, despite the heat, felt unusually calm and confident. I was about to request $250,000 for construction of a tennis and basketball complex, including a large, fully equipped playground, with lighting, fencing restrooms and parking. And I was about 95 percent sure I would gain approval.

That kind of money was pretty darned impressive in those days. It was more than I would earn in a decade at my then-current rate of pay. And it represented more than $25 in “free money” for every resident of Page.

Obviously, it’s a good thing I learned my alphabet.

We are who we were when…

Through the door, there came familiar laughter
I saw your face and heard you call my name
Oh, my friend, we're older but no wiser
For in our hearts, the dreams are still the same

Those were the days, my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we'd choose
We'd fight and never lose
Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days
        -- Gene Raskin

Friendship, in fact culture itself, is mostly an outcome of shared experience. Some experiences – war, major disasters and high school, for example – are so powerful or occur during particularly critical stages in our lives that they tend to create correspondingly strong (or at least memorable) friendships.

To some extent, the bonds created while sharing space during such times can supercede a lot of other factors that otherwise might make friendship very unlikely.

Two former high school classmates drifted back into my life this week. Both were in band and orchestra with me – in fact, we all played percussion together in the marching band.

There is – at least was at the time I was involved – a special bond between drummers. We had a sense of being the critical element; we set the beat, we triggered the start of every song, we provided the steady, rhythmic heartbeat to which all of the others marched and played.

Bill walked through the door and into the lobby here in Tucson. He was heavier than the kid I had been struggling to remember, and the ramrod-straight posture was modified a bit by an uneven gait that results from hip surgery.

Then he flashed a smile and I recognized my former fellow bandsman. That seemed a bit strange because I remember him mostly as a more-serious-than-most kid. But that smile was familiar. Hmmmm.

There’s a tendency to focus on recollections. Having one’s memory jogged by input by another who was there and did that, from a different perspective, is stimulating and often revealing. Bill’s memory and sense of time and space is far superior to mine and he was able to not only recall events, but to locate them geographically and chronologically – a very helpful process.

Though I didn’t try to establish our differences in terms of values and beliefs, I’m certain we wouldn’t have agreed on many of the issues of the day not would our standards have dovetailed. The overlap in life experience – which includes all of what I consider my most critical childhood years – provided plenty of fodder for our conversation.

I did learn that Bill and Cindy – who is another Hoover grad and fellow percussionist from my class of ’66 – have five children and obviously spent many more years as parents of teens than they did as fellow teens in my world. Their life seems to have been much more “typical” compared with mine.

I enjoyed the time I had with Bill and then with both him and Cindy at dinner. I’m certain that I’d arrange to see them again if they were in range – mostly to continue tapping their reserves of memory regarding the old days. They seem like good and happy people who no doubt have a wonderful family and qualify as a Hoover High School success story.

A few days earlier I had a much different encounter with yet another drummer from Hoover. I have no memory of Pat’s participation in the marching band – I had her confused with a string bass player. But we had a great time talking about experiences we shared even if we were largely oblivious of each other.

Pat’s smile, though not familiar to me, was her most engaging feature. It was quick and open and friendly. She is one of those who frequently reach out and touch those with whom she’s conversing. It’s a violation of my “body bubble;” but I found it to be a very friendly behavior – it alerted me to statements she wishes to emphasize and ensured that I was paying attention.

The time we had available passed quickly; she reminded me, at last, that I had a schedule to keep – I could have continued the conversation much longer.

As with Bill and Cindy, our conversation focused mostly on the past. Pat has participated in some reunion activities and has maintained a few personal attitudes toward folks I only remember in vague generalities. It was fun to listen as she compared a few classmates from then and now – and noted that some things just don’t change.

Pat pursued a career in music, spending several years on the road. Though unable to make a living that way, she continues to perform and write music. Like Bill, she suffers from a leg injury – hers the result of a serious accident. The resulting disability cut off a career she had entered as a construction worker. She’s written a book about women in that line of work and maintains a very positive outlook despite some bad luck.

We met in the middle of the Arizona desert – within sight of the mountains used as a final point of defense by Cochise. The wind was fierce with waves of tumbleweed breaking loose and darting across the highway, many times snapping into fragments against the front of my Saturn.

The blowing dust and cold wind made the stark landscape seem even more desolate and I wondered how a San Diego girl could end up in this God forsaken land 40 years after high school.

Pat’s explanation was logical and reasonable and it was impossible to argue that she must be insane. But she did admit that some of the time she isn’t happy there.

Though I’ve steered clear of all class reunions in the past, the time I spent this week with Pat and Bill and Cindy made me realize that there is much to be gained from reconnecting.

With the exception of a few couples, like Bill and Cindy, the class of ’66 and others in that cadre have been tossed by many winds into many directions and through all kinds of storms and troubled waters. But there was that time when most of us were constrained by the walls and governed by the bells and rules and academic regimen of Herbert Hoover Senior High School.

We passed our classes and, at the same time, went through a number of rites of passage, culminating in graduation – also known as commencement.

Hail! Herbert Hoover High
This is our song to thee
Long may our banners be
Crowned with victory.

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

Been there; done that

Goin' down that long lonesome highway
bound for the mountains and the plains
Sure ain't nothin' here gonna tie me
and I got some friends I like to see again
One of these day I'm gonna settle down
but till I do I won't be hangin' round
Goin' down that long lonesome highway
gonna live life my way
        -- David Houston

Many travelers focus much of their attention on landmarks and artifacts. Many times, while stopped at scenic overlooks, I’ve watched with amusement as others arrive, screech to a stop, pile out of their vehicle and turn their backs to the view so one of their party or a volunteer can snap a photo proving that they were wherever they were.

I’ve wondered, facetiously, whether they get a chance to appreciate the natural wonders once their pictures were processed after the end of the trip. Now, of course, such travelers can see what they missed right away – reviewing digital images saved on their cameras while they drive to the next outlook.

Whether they are postcards, key chains, t-shirts or actual historical objects of art or daily enterprise, souvenirs are also in demand by many tourists. It often strikes me as odd when people willingly pay a premium for items in gift shops or along the roadside, buying items they wouldn’t look at twice in an urban retail outlet.

I wonder if these knick-knacks are important because, like the line-‘em-up-and-shoot-‘em photos, the provide tangible evidence that “I was there.” Or maybe the experience doesn’t quite seem real unless such travelers have something they can hold or wear. In any event, the souvenir industry is clearly a multi-billion dollar deal and the purchase of things can become a significant part of a traveler’s budget.

It’s certainly not for me to conclude that these practices are somehow wrong, foolish, inconsequential or wasteful. Each of us values things – both tangible and otherwise – in our own way; if a photo or physical object helps recapture magical moments from trips or other experiences, I say, “more power to you.”

Between 1967 and 1976, I alternated between San Diego and southwestern Colorado. If I had lived in Denver or along the Interstate 25 corridor, I probably would have done most of my traveling between states on freeways. But, living on the western slope of the Rocky Mountains, I took the “blue” highways – two-lane ribbons of asphalt that passed right through the middle of towns and that featured wildlife and cross-traffic.

My favorite may have been highway 160, a not-quite-transcontinental route that begins in Missouri and ends in Arizona. This highway is Main Street for the San Luis Valley, which was important to me during much of that period; and it’s a primary trail through the Navajo Nation, where I relocated, briefly, in 1976.


have entered Arizona many times by way of 160. The road dips very briefly (less than 10 miles) into New Mexico before passing into Arizona, a mile or so south of Four Corners, the intersection of those two states plus Colorado and Utah.

The first six or eight times I passed near that landmark, I turned off and drove less than a mile to the actual spot where four states collide. Somehow, those artificial lines – agreed to by politicians and fixed in space shortly after the Civil War, it’s a rather stark and lonely site.

I understand that there is a visitor’s center on site now. When I make my pilgrimages, it was little more than a large concrete slab with some plaques attached, surrounded by unmarked parking spaces and informal shelters apparently constructed by Native American artisans who were selling artifacts – largely turquoise and other jewelry.

I don’t recall restrooms, drinking fountains, snack bars or any other attractions or amenities; but, for some reason, I felt compelled to take the detour and stand in that spot.

If my route took me there on this trip, I certainly would stop again. I’d stop because my previous visits have created a nostalgic value. I’d stop to see what memories and insights retracing somewhat compulsive footsteps from my past would prompt.

But, for the most part, I’ve eschewed such opportunities during my 17,000-mile-long current trek. I have a much more muted need to create a tally of touchstones and don’t mind missing some of the “not-to-be-missed” attractions along the way.

I’ll gladly make a detour and give up as many hours as I can to touch base with a person. Conversation has been the most rewarding part of this particular adventure. I don’t regret any of the times I decided to forego an excursion because someone in the building was willing to sit and talk about his or her life and times.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m traveling with my eyes open. I’m thoroughly enjoying the changes in landscape and often stop for a closer look at something along the way. This experience has been greatly enriched by the ever-changing context. New places, things and faces have provided continuous stimuli.

Rock rap

The park ranger strode silently onto the small stage in the front of a room about half full of tourists. He carried a jagged piece of reddish rock – about the size of a football – in his hands.

A stool stood in center stage, behind a microphone. The ranger gently placed the hunk of rock on the seat and lowered the microphone to within a few inches. Then he walked off stage.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” A voice boomed over the public address system. “I come to you today from the wall of the Grand Canyon – about two thousand feet below the south rim.

“ But I wasn’t always on the side of the cliff. For millions of years, I was buried – at first a quarter of a mile from the Colorado River and thousands of feet below the surface of the earth.

“But, over the millennia, my brother and sister rocks slowly washed away and the canyon became deeper and wider until, a few hundred years ago, the surface finally came to me.

“My destiny is to erode – just as my ancestors have – and to flow down the river to the sea. The ranger brought me here today to tell my story to you…”

It was a clever and captivating lecture – ostensibly offered by an inanimate object, but filled with interesting information offered from a unique perspective.

Delighted, I sat beside my young fiancé, thoroughly enjoying the moment. The fantasy, laced with science and history, our proximity to the edge of the two-mile wide canyon, the excitement of our retreat to one of the world’s most romantic attractions, and the novelty of being at the Grand Canyon in winter all combined to make the moment unforgettable.

I’ve been to the Park many times. It never fails to captivate; but knowing how much it has changed over millions of years and how insignificant the span of my lifetime is in that context, leaves me wondering: How does my little life fit into the scheme of things.

Then, I remember that rock and all of its colleagues. After waiting, patiently, for millions of years, they finally enjoyed a brief time in the sunlight before the water and wind and weather tore them loose from the canyon wall and pounded them into tiny particles that were washed down the Colorado to the sea.

When I think about it, it sometimes seems more remarkable that I got to meet that rock during my brief span than that the rock had a chance to speak to me. I wonder whether that rock saw and learned more while clinging to the side of the cliff than I’ve ever known.

Look out for talking rocks.

A tour of duty on the planet of the apes

Whose woods these are I think I know. 

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.
        -- Robert FrostThey made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

It had been less than a year and a half since I was hired as executive director for the Montrose Recreation District. And that was quite a coup for a 25-year-old who had never held a fulltime, permanent job.

But I had worked hard, met all objectives and, to be frank, felt that I had earned more respect than I was being given. My board of directors had just turned down my request for a pay raise that would have brought me more in line with colleagues holding similar positions in neighboring communities, though they had given me a smaller raise.

I was earning $11,000 a year – more than I had ever expected back in the mid 1970s, but less than I came to believe was fair and appropriate. The job in Arizona was advertised at $18,000 and included some very intriguing attributes.

Page, Arizona, was one of the newest cities in the state. It had been built by the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation to house workers and others involved in construction of the Glen Canyon dam.

By 1975, the bureau was eager to pull up stakes and stop administering the town as well as the dam. The citizens of Page were offered ownership of all of the public works (water and sewer lines, streets, parks, administrative buildings and more) as well as start up money.

It was a sweet deal and put the new city in a position to offer services other communities couldn’t afford – including a year-around community recreation program.

And that’s where I came in; if hired, I would be the town’s first recreation director and would be in position to create a new program out of whole cloth.

One of my Montrose board members was an employee of the BOR; he told me about the opening in Page, and put in a good word for me. When I called to express interest, I was told to charter a small plane and fly over for a visit and initial interview.

If I had been only slightly interested before, this first-class treatment quickly moved me into a very enthusiastic mode. I met several local officials and got both a bird’s eye view and a ground-level tour of the city. I suppose I felt I was being given the kind of respect I deserved, and that was somewhat lacking back in Colorado.

In any event, the offer came and I asked for an emergency meeting of the Montrose board. I told the members that I wanted to stay, but that my career and family might benefit more by leaving. If, I suggested, the board would agree to give me the raise I had asked for a few months earlier and further agree to consider, in good faith, a second increase a year later, I’d stay and attempt to prove I was worth the kind of money being offered by the other agency.

By a narrow margin, the board denied my request – though they did make a fairly generous counter offer. In the end, I decided – for better or worse – to move to Arizona.

About 20 years later, I passed through Montrose and dropped by a softball field we had built while I was the director there. I spotted a familiar figure working on the site and approached him.

It was Cosme Cisneros. I had hired him out of the University of Colorado; he had stayed with the district for all of those years.

Leaving that first fulltime job established a pattern that continued through all of my work life. I never worked in the same position for more than six years and held many temporary and part-time jobs.

Regrets? I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention…

I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate,
A poet, a pawn and a king.
I've been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing:
Each time I find myself, flat on my face,
I pick myself up and get back in the race.

Good old New Mexico

After nearly a year on the eligible list – during which I moved very slowly from three-digit territory toward the top – I finally got a call and was invited, along with two others, to interview for a job as Student Worker I in the City of San Diego.

Soon thereafter, I was offered a job in Reservoir Recreation at Lake Murray, not far from San Diego State University where I was then a freshman majoring in social sciences.

Thousands of high school and college students applied for student worker status and just a few hundred landed jobs. Some, like me, waited months for positions to fill and for the list to grow shorter – hoping we’d reach the top of the list before it expired at the end of 12 months.

That job changed things for me. First, it gave me a cash flow that made it possible to buy my jeep – fulfilling a longtime dream. Second, it introduced me to the work world, including responsibility for some very “down and dirty” tasks such as cleaning outhouses, restrooms, fishing boats and the shoreline as well as performing some public relations duties with those who fished at the lake.

A third benefit was an increase in my self-confidence: driving city vehicles, using power tools (including a jackhammer), maintaining records, following orders and enduring periodic evaluations all made me feel part of the work world – part of the adult world. Finally, this “city job” beefed up my otherwise blank resume and made it possible to get other jobs – notably my position less than a year later as a VISTA volunteer.

The selection process for VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America) was even more rigorous and I was very impressed by the other young people in my training group – and pretty impressed by myself for being chosen at the end of such scrutiny.

When I returned to San Diego, I again applied for work with the city and was rewarded much more quickly with a position in the recreation department. My previous city experience and work I’d done in community recreation as a VISTA served me well and I was placed near the top of the list.

I’ve applied for hundreds of positions in my life and came to believe that when the process was fair, I usually made the first cut and often found myself in the final three or five candidates. I learned to appreciate what’s known as the “merit system” which dates back to the end of the 19th century when employers (governments in particular) began hiring based on applicants’ ability to perform duties rather than on their political connections.

By the time I arrived in New Mexico, I was overqualified for part-time employment in a recreation department. But I needed a job while attending graduate school at the University of New Mexico and, at 29, still had plenty of energy and a desire to work directly with participants on playgrounds or at other city facilities.

So, I went downtown and completed an application for a recreation leadership position. And then I waited. And waited. And waited.

Weeks passed and I never heard a word. I finally gave up on the idea of working for the city. I took a six-week job leading pre-schoolers in gymnastics at a Head Start Center and did a lot of basketball officiating, but I didn’t find any regular employment.

Then, one day I was meeting with my advisor at the University. He glanced at a note on his desk and asked, offhandedly, “You’re not interested in working for the city, are you?”

When I explained that I had applied for a job some months earlier, he smiled. Then he scribbled a name and phone number on a sheet of notepaper and said, “Call this fellow.”

I immediately went home and placed the call. I was invited to an office in the city recreation department for what I expected to be a job interview. I put on a suit and arrived early for my appointment.

The supervisor greeted me warmly and described the opening – a playground leader job that would provide the income my family needed to get through the summer. He asked me if I had any questions and – as an experienced interviewer – I offered a couple of queries that demonstrated my understanding of the challenge being presented.

At that point, the man thanked me and we shook hands.

“When will I find out about the job?” I asked.

“Find out what?” His reply caught me off balance.

“You know,” I stammered. “Whether I’m being offered the job or not.”

“You had the job before you came down here,” he said. “You had the job as soon as you told me Professor -------- had recommended you.”

He revealed to me that, at that time, politicians often sent him lists of names with the understanding that he would find positions for sons and daughters of those who supported the politician. It was patronage, plain and simple – and a violation of the Pendleton Act, also plain and simple.

During the 30 years that have elapsed since this eye-opening experience in the Land of Enchantment, I’ve seen plenty of wrongdoing in the workplace. I’ve experienced some cuts and bruises along the way because I found it hard to set aside what may be naive and unrealistic principles and I confronted issues I should probably have left alone.

Now that I think about it, my experiences in the work world became less joyful after that time in New Mexico. Perhaps that was just bad luck; but maybe it was also affected by a loss of innocence and a sense of sadness.

Tomorrow, I’m off to Arizona – another state that was briefly “home” for me. I’m curious to see what, if any, chords begin to resonate during my dozen days in the Grand Canyon State.

Retracing footsteps

I have been a rover
I have walked alone
Hiked a hundred highways
Never found a home
Still in all I'm happy
The reason is, you see
Once in a while along the way
Love's been good to me

        -- Rod McKuen

Sometimes, things work out so well in the aftermath of a mistake that I wonder whether planning is such a good idea. Maybe leaving things up to good old serendipity would lead to better outcomes.

Leaving El Paso two days early – I failed to check my actual itinerary and simply left town after the usual 5-day stay (failing to recognize that, for some reason or other, I was slated to stay two more days).

I pulled into to Las Cruces at about noon. This was to have been one of my shortest drives since day one when I traveled a mere 70 miles north to Lodi. I reported to the office and was greeted by confused looks – “I think you’re early.”

Well, a quick check in my notebook revealed my gaffe and I apologized for creating the confusion. I really didn’t want to backtrack to Las Cruces and mentioned the possibility of heading north to spend a couple of nights in Albuquerque.

In typical fashion, my not-yet-but-soon-to-be hosts looked out for my welfare and offered to call the corporate facility in the Duke City to see if I could hang out there for a couple of nights.

Sure enough, they said “come on up!” and I was on my way back in time.

I lived in Albuquerque three times. The first, I ended up with a son; the second, I got my first computer; and the third provided me with a new lease on life that most certainly shaped my future for the succeeding 20 years or so.

My little family of three first moved to Albuquerque in 1978. We had been living in Page, Arizona, where the overt prejudice against Native Americans was so unpleasant that it made staying there pretty impossible.

There were a number of other dynamics at play, of course. My marriage was failing – in part, because we had moved so often, in pursuit of my career. And, despite having made significant gains in earnings and having had some good success in building the programs I led, I was not very happy in my work.

After being rejected by a west coast university (I had too few years of work experience for their liking), I was accepted into the Ph.D. program at the University of New Mexico and we made our fourth major move in four years.

Albuquerque was closer to my wife’s roots. She actually lived there for a while as a child and most of her family was just 250 miles north, on the other side of the Raton Pass. Daughter Lisa was becoming involved in gymnastics and son Jesse was enroute.

When Jesse was born, early in 1978, I found myself in a rare state of contentment. It was fairly short-lived; we soon hit the road again – this time for Northern Michigan. But, a year later, we returned to Albuquerque so I could complete two last courses before beginning my dissertation.

Well, that schedule fell apart due to illness. I had to drop out of school and that led to a move back to California and a return to work. I lost my chance for a life in academia and soon lost my family – though we’ve managed to work together and hopefully have provided Lisa and Jesse with most of the benefits of having parents.

When my second-chance at marital happiness went into jeopardy about ten years later, I retreated alone to Albuquerque to clear my head and make decisions about the future.

My second wife, Carol, fought to save our marriage and literally came to Albuquerque to get me back on track. She brought Jesse along and the two of them convinced me that I was in danger of losing a very good thing; and that led to a decade of happiness that I almost missed.

Driving along Central Avenue yesterday reminded me of my three stints as a citizen. The city is filled with familiar sites and brought hundreds of memories to mind. Much has changed, of course, since I first arrived there in 1977; but most landmarks remain in place.

New Mexico is called the Land of Enchantment. It’s known by many people for the annual balloon festival. Like a hot air balloon, I have followed a path determined by the prevailing winds. I’ve been blown off course a number of times, usually leading to positive adventures that left me without regrets.

Albuquerque, like other landing spots, provided me with new experiences – some of which generated a bit of wisdom. My return visit this week – perhaps the most unlikely and spontaneous of all – allowed me to touch the past, inspect some roots, reconsider choices and, of course, get in touch with what I’ve had, lost, gained and may yet have.

This unplanned detour seems to have been a good thing.

The big game

They always call him Mr. Touchdown.

They always call him Mr. Team.

He can run, and kick and throw.

Give him the ball and just look at him go!

Hip, hip, hooray for Mr. Touchdown!

He's gonna beat ‘em today!

So give a great big cheer
for the hero of the year!

It's Mr. Touchdown, U.S.A.!

        -- traditional

The Rose Bowl was built in 1922. It cost $272,198. Two years earlier, officials decided the original stadium in Tournament Park wasn’t safe for the growing crowds. Some 210 fans put up $100 each to help cover the cost of construction.

Those contributions got the building project off the ground; it also guaranteed the donors prime box seats in the new stadium for ten years.

Of course, much more has been spent on upgrading from wooden bleachers and expanding to house over 100,000 fans; but it’s worth noting that even rich fans paid less than $10 for 50-yard-line seats in the good old days.

Tickets offered last week on E-Bay ranged in cost from $135 for a single seat high in the end-zone student section to $25,000 for a luxury skybox seating up to 16 people high above the 15-yardline.

Most Rose Bowl and many other college and pro athletic contest tickets are sold by brokers – at prices above those printed on the tickets.

Students are often an afterthought, placed in less desirable sections and offered a limited number of tickets. The emphasis is on high rollers who don’t see high ticket prices as a barrier and generally spend hundreds, if not thousands more on travel and other items that round out their bowl experience.

I drove by the Sun Bowl in El Paso on Sunday and saw some of the preparations underway for these wealthy fans.

Two huge tents had been erected and seating for several hundred people was set up for a pre- and/or post-game party or dinner. No doubt these folks were shuttled between hotels and the stadium and, no doubt, other venues by limo or bus so they weren’t delayed or otherwise affected by commoners from the cheap seats.

When I began attending San Diego State, the football program was in ascension. Still a level-two team, the Aztecs began winning just about every game.

Home contests were housed on campus in the Aztec Bowl – a facility that had been adequate to the demand for many years (I believe it was a WPA construction project back in the ‘30s).

But during my freshman year (1966), the Aztecs had a dream schedule that had them playing two or three other top-ranked Division II teams (Utah’s Weber State and North Dakota State).

After the red and black came from behind to win in Utah, officials moved the North Dakota contest from campus to the 35,000-seat stadium in Balboa Park – where the Chargers were then playing.

The joint filled to capacity and the Aztecs, by then ranked #3, defeated the top-ranked Bison, 35-0.

That win put wind in the Aztecs’ sails and when the new stadium opened in Mission Valley, all home games were held there. Aztec Bowl was relegated to high school football, soccer, rugby, band and cheerleading contests and other events until it was torn down to make room for a new basketball arena.

I was a member of the marching band. We had a reserved section in the Aztec Bowl – right on the 50 yard-line and in the middle of a huge student section that occupied the center of the home side of the stands.

When we moved to the Valley, our spot was in the end zone, under the scoreboard. A good place from the fans’ perspective, but we no longer a factor in cheering our team to victory and were isolated from our fellow students.

Those other students, by the way had a small section near field level and straddling the 50-yard-line, but were mostly relegated to upper levels and the end zone opposite their band.

Broken into separate seating areas, the students sort of melted into the crowd and became little more than part of the general crowd.

Were things better in the “good old days?”

I’m not sure. I do wish I could more easily afford to attend college sports (a women’s basketball game at UTEP cost $7 for a single ticket).

And I did feel that the band was a central part of the program when we were closer to the action and surrounded by other students.

On the other hand, I now sometimes get to see my alma mater on national television and most people are aware that my school exists.

Oops! I’ve got to go. Another bowl game is about to get underway on television…

On the Texas trail

The stars at night are big and bright
Deep in the heart of Texas
The prairie sky is wide and high
Deep in the heart of Texas
The sage in bloom is like perfume
Deep in the heart of Texas
Reminds me of the one that I love
Deep in the heart of Texas
        -- 1941, Hershey and Swander


Texas is a big state, nearly nine hundred miles wide. I’ve made four stops along the way, that’s hardly rushing along; but I feel as if I should have spent more time on dusty roads, maybe trailing a herd of longhorns. The transition from America’s east and southeast into the west is remarkable.

Now, I like trees – including the forest primeval where even sunshine struggles to penetrate the dense flora. My ideal is a mountain setting with abundant trees and some kind of body of water – lake, river, ocean or at least a substantial stream. I’m a big fan of things arboreal.

But, when I’m wandering, I definitely prefer plenty of open spaces. I like to know what’s around me; I’m uncomfortable without a sense of the lay of the land.

For weeks, I drove through endless forests. Even in towns and cities, it was difficult – often impossible – to see a block down the road. Even 15 or 20 feet of “forest” behind a building often obscured what was beyond and, for all I knew, I was always on the edge of wilderness. That’s a rather romantic notion; but it’s also sort of crazy making.

That changed when I entered Texas. As the foliage subsided and more and more of the landscape became visible, I began to feel better. Clearly, I prefer the agoraphobic influences of prairie and desert to the claustrophobic effect of dense growth areas.

Yep. Me and old Dan’l Boone just need plenty of elbowroom.

To be clear: I’m not saying I want to live in the desert or on the plains. I’m say that as a traveler, I feel more comfortable when I can see to the horizon and when landmarks (mountain ranges, even cloud formations) are visible from miles away.

I wonder why this is true?

Texans, on average, do actually seem to have a bit more ego than the average folks I’ve met. But they’re not so much more so to be unpleasant to be around – their self-confidence and broad, in-your-face, approach to social contact suits me just fine.

I’ve been made welcome in each of the Texas facilities I’ve visited and am happy to have spent a few weeks in the Lone Star State.

Not that I’d want to live down here. I’m still a Colorado kid at heart.

Tomorrow, I’ll drive by the Sun Bowl (on my way to Las Cruces) a few hours before the big game. I visited UTEP today – taking in a women’s basketball game (versus the U of New Mexico Lobos) – and did a drive-by of the stadium. There are tents set up for the muckety-mucks and the place looks about ready for an influx of fans.

I was tempted, a year ago, to add a loop through Colorado to this trip. I’m rather glad, now, to have resisted the temptation. All the way through Texas – and I suspect for the remainder of my trek west – I’ve been humming, “California, here I come!”

I can see forever

Oh, give me land,
lots of land under starry skies above,
Don't fence me in.
Let me ride
through the wide open country that I love,
Don't fence me in.
Let me be by myself
in the evenin' breeze,
listen to the murmur
of the cottonwood trees,
Send me off forever
but I ask you please,
Don't fence me in.

        -- Cole Porter, 1934

The first (and only other) time I crossed Texas by auto was in 1957, when my family moved from Ohio to California. We caravanned in two vehicles, a dodge passenger car my folks inherited from my grandfather and a 1951 Chevrolet carryall.

I loved that old Chevy – and, by all rights – it should have been my first car (it went to a Tijuana orphanage instead, but that’s another story).

We had a number of adventures in that vehicle, including a month-long trip into Mexico in 1963. The Chevy broke down more than once in somewhat desperate circumstances; but we were rescued by Mexican mechanics, who were coincidentally expert in repairing 15-year-old American cars, many of which had made their way across the border.

I remember a few incidents in particular. My sisters were riding in our towed trailer during that month-long excursion when they noticed that the rear bumper (onto which the trailer was attached) had begun breaking loose.

That kind of discovery generates a lot more concern by occupants of the trailer than those in the truck; but, we finally noticed their hysterical signals and pulled over before the two vehicles disconnected.

We crawled to the next city where a welder made things right – but none of us ever asked permission to ride in the trailer again.

On the deserts of Chihuahua, we had what must have been our second flat. In any event, we ended up rolling the tire a quarter of a mile or so to a “taller mecánico.”

This roadside operation was absent nearly everything that would indicate an ability to repair automobiles. But looks can be deceiving and we’d already learned that Mexican mechanics had automotive repair skills that emphasized innovation.

Our tire trouble turned out to be tube-related, specifically, with the valve. While stems for today’s tubeless tires are attached to the wheel, they were an integral part of the tube in days gone by. And, there are actually moving parts in a valve that can fail – which, in fact, they did on the Mexican desert.

The mechanism can be removed, with the proper tool, and a replacement installed. I have no doubt that our mechanic could have removed the valve with or without the proper tool; but he had a more serious problem: no replacement part.

Nonplussed, our man filled the tire with air as if the valve was functional. Watching him operate the hand-pump was amazing as he had to pump faster and faster to overcome the effect of escaping air. When the tire was full, he removed the pump and pressed a finger against the opening at the end of the valve stem.

With the other hand, he wrapped a wire twice around the stem – below the valve – and, pulling a pair of pliers from his pocket, twisted the ends until the wire had a tourniquet effect and blocked the passage for escaping air.

And we were on our way. The repair held until we could replace the valve. I don’t remember whether my father saved the wire, but I sure remember it.

The most dramatic motoring mishap occurred on a spring vacation trek to Mazatlán. We had taken a day-trip to San Blas – a tropical fishing village made famous by a Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem.

On our return trip, we experienced engine failure. The sounds coming from the Chevy’s engine signaled a serious problem. A party was dispatched to the nearest town and returned with bad news: we would have to wait until morning for a tow and rescue.

Most of the crew then abandoned ship, hitching a ride back to Mazatlán. Three of us (my parents and I) remained to guard the vehicle until morning. Despite the sounds of a few “hombres borachos” (drunken men) coming from around a nearby bonfire, we survived the night and were, in fact, taken into town by a local mechanic. The “tow truck” was a pickup with a rope attached, but that got the job done.

The man’s “shop” was the side yard of his house. We stayed with his family for much of the day while repairs were being complete. Plans to send me on to Mazatlán to provide an interim report proved unnecessary as our mechanic performed his miracles – including finding replacements for damaged rods and pistons – and got us back on the road before dark.

My Saturn has been running like a top. It’s only 12 or 13 years old and seems to be in very good shape; but I’m comforted knowing Mexico is just a few miles away. If I get in trouble, I might just head south in search of a taller mecánico

Rocket Chess

The chess-board is the world; the pieces are the phenomena of the universe; the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature. The player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is always fair, just, and patient. But also we know, to our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance.
        -- Thomas Huxley, 1868

(Some of my writing pals may remember this Christmas story, written last year for our class in Merced)

After the year Mom nearly got busted for Christmas tree theft, we forever abandoned what had been a long-standing family tradition of buying our tree on Christmas Eve.

It may have been then that a new tradition emerged: the last-minute shopping spree.

This yuletide event was prompted by a local drug store that launched a huge ad campaign touting super bargains and specials on Christmas Eve. They promised to remain open until at least midnight.

We three kids were on very tight budgets, so the discounts presented quite an attraction – along with the excitement of joining a mob of procrastinators at the eleventh hour on Dec. 24.

At the time, this outing seemed to be very complicated – requiring careful application of intricate logistics under unbelievable time constraints.

In retrospect, it was really all about just six transactions. We were three siblings, each needing to find one present apiece for the other two.

We pushed our way through the throng, keeping our eyes out not only for likely purchases, but also for each other. One important objective was to maintain secrecy.

I confess to having been guilty more than once of trying to discover the identity of Christmas gifts in advance of the great opening. I squeezed, shook and otherwise examined any packages I could find – and I did not obey orders to stay out of restricted areas.

One December, I ventured into our off-limits basement a few days before Christmas. I wasn’t bold enough to turn on the lights, so I could only look at faint shadows in the semi-darkness, seeing nothing, but imagining all sorts of wonderful things.

Back at the drugstore, I focused on finding suitable items for my two sisters. This was particularly difficult because I had done no research and didn’t have a clue as to what they might like. At the same time, I pursued my secondary objective: catching a glimpse of their selections.

I spotted my older sister near the checkout stand and made a surreptitious approach from her blind side.

Success! She held a small cardboard box in her hand with the label in clear view. It was “Rocket Chess!”

Rocket Chess! Rocket Chess! That had to be for me. The previous summer I had become obsessed with chess.

My passion had driven me to whittling and I carved a set of chessmen out of branches. After hours of work, I discovered that nobody else in the family shared my interest and I couldn’t get anyone to play with me.

It’s probably just as well, though. In truth, it was pretty hard even for me to distinguish between the various chess pieces I had carved.

Well, my interest in the Royal Game hadn’t diminished – it was just in hibernation. And now, I was certain that everyone in the family would want to learn how to play Rocket Chess.

A year or two earlier, the United States entered the space race and our family gathered on the deck outside my parents’ bedroom to watch the Explorer or some other early satellite meander through the heavens – appearing to be a faint star itself, but one on the move.

I imagined that Rocket Chess pieces must be in the shape of spacecraft – and I couldn’t wait to discover the details and to explore the ancient game of chess in the context of modern technology and the space age.

Thank goodness it was already Christmas Eve. Only hours remained before I could get my hands on my new Rocket Chess set.

After returning home, we each sought a private location and began wrapping gifts. Needing scissors, tape and other supplies provided an excuse for trying to sneak more peeks at what my sisters sought to conceal.

Finally, we gathered in the living room and placed our gifts under the tree. We knew that by morning, these offerings would be enhanced by the “big” presents and we gulped hot chocolate in eager – no, it was more than eager… we gulped hot chocolate in greedy anticipation of what was to come.

Even after I had grown and was on the parent end of the Christmas experience, I always had trouble falling asleep on Dec. 24.

It wasn’t visions of sugarplums dancing in my head that kept me awake. It was the possibilities. Despite my efforts to discover what was in store, I never really knew what was to be revealed on Christmas morning.

Knowing that something was coming, and that it could be just about anything imaginable, was magic.

That year, I knew that Rocket Chess was in my future, but I tossed and turned for hours wondering what else lay under our tree.

I can’t recall what the “big” presents were, but I’ll never forget opening the gift from my older sister.

“Rocket Chess!” I exclaimed. “Just what I wanted.”

My sister looked over at me rather quizzically and said, “It’s not ‘rocket chess,’ it’s pocket chess.”

Dumbfounded, I examined the box more closely.

The package had been torn in shipping or by a customer in the store and a narrow, jagged line of exposed cardboard extended diagonally from the “P” in “pocket” – creating the illusion of an “R”.

The gift I held in my hands, on that memorable Christmas morning, was a miniature chess set – designed for travelers.

Designed for regular, earthbound travelers, that is.

It wasn’t Rocket Chess after all. But it was a neat little chess set.

I still couldn’t get anyone to play against me; but I enjoyed a number of games played against myself.

Not long after that Christmas, President Kennedy decided to make the space race a top priority for our country.

To this day, I wonder why a nation that was able to put a man on the moon couldn’t also invent Rocket Chess.

Keep the old

Make new friends
But keep the old
One is silver
And the other, gold

        -- anon

I won’t be sharing gifts this year – I haven’t even received mail since leaving Merced last February – but I just got one of the best presents I could hope for.

My friend Bill Morgan from back home called with my 100-year-old buddy Frank Pelatowski standing by for a chat. Bill was instrumental in one of the first great adventures I had along the road. His introduction got me to meet Del Smith in McMinville, Oregon and to see his wonderful air museum (soon to be an air and space museum).

Bill has called a few times, but not lately, so it was particularly nice to hear from him during my lonely Christmas week.

Frank’s participation was very special. Bill was so thoughtful when he realized how much our friendship means to both Frank and me. We became friends almost immediately – despite the fact that we disagree on just about every political issue in the world – and our bond grew stronger every week as we got together to write and go to class where we share what we’ve created (Frank always got better reviews…go figure).

It was just great to hear Frank’s voice. We’ve had many heart-to-heart talks and, in the context of writing about our lives – know each other quite well, almost as if we’d been friends for years and years.

I’ve met hundreds of people during the past 10 months and have talked about my friendship with Frank with most of them. I have dozens of Frank stories to share; he’s a great icebreaker -- though not nearly as much as in person.

Though my motive for moving in with Frank and Bill and others who now occupy a place in my thoughts was rather impure – I joined the family in order to qualify for the corporation’s travel program and to take this trip – I’m really looking forward to returning to the “family.”

I won’t be staying long-term, but am looking forward to the reunion in February.

I don’t believe anyone from the facility has been tracking my progress by reading this blog, but I’ll still say, Merry Christmas to all of my friends on North R Street in Merced.

All I want…

So this is Christmas
And what have you done
Another year over
And a new one just begun
And so this is Christmas
I hope you have fun
The near and the dear one
The old and the young

A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear
And so this is Christmas
For weak and for strong
For rich and the poor ones
The world is so wrong
And so happy Christmas
For black and for white
For yellow and red ones
Let's stop all the fight
        -- John Lennon, 1971

Christmas is coming and I have a cold. It’s my second attack in five months; maybe life among the seniors isn’t as safe as I thought.

I’m a terrible, big baby when I’m sick. It’s just as well, I suppose, that I’m not around anyone who cares and, thus, not able to inflict my pain and suffering on others when the focus should be comfort and joy.

A blow by blow (forgive me) account of the onset of disease could go here, but I’ll not burden my readers with the details. Suffice it to say that it’s a rather mild case and I’m hopeful (perhaps not realistically so) for a recovery in time for Christmas Day.

I had hoped to attend some basketball games while here in Odessa. Maybe I’ll find a post-Christmas tournament in El Paso – I know basketball is very popular there.

Meanwhile, I’ve slept at least 30 of the 40 hours I’ve been in Odessa. I’m on the 7th floor, so I do get a sense of the city – at least the northern view from here – which is pretty much downtown. I enjoyed a tremendous sunrise yesterday. Today’s was a bit disappointing in comparison, but still featured bright orange skies.

The county library is across the street. When I saw it, I hoped I’d get over for a visit. Maybe they’ll be open on Christmas Eve and I’ll feel up to it.

Well, few topics are of less interest than the minor complaints of others. I’ve noticed that when the stubbed toe is on someone else’s foot, it never seems like much of a problem – in fact, it sometimes is an object of mirth.

Pulling heartstrings

My alone-on-the-road status has resulted in quite a bit of alone-in-the-room time; and though I’ve tried to do a lot of reading, I must confess to allowing too much of that time to television viewing.

An amazing number of Christmas movies – many of the made-for-television variety – began flooding the cable-ways after Thanksgiving. And I am a bit of a sucker for this fare.

I’ve been saving the blockbusters, Wonderful Life; Miracle; Christmas Carol; and Christmas Story (with little Ralphie), for this week before Christmas. But I’ve seen at least a dozen other seasonal offerings, including one tonight, The Christmas Shoes.

Most of the films get to me – at least a little. I think it’s partly because I’m pretty open to being affected by the Christmas spirit, in a sappy sort of way.

I can’t seem to resist any new twist on Dickens’ classic – there must be twenty variations on that theme with all kinds of occupation and gender switches for the major characters. Knowing exactly what’s coming next doesn’t seem to eliminate the appeal for me.

Many other yuletide flicks deal with characters who rediscover tidings of comfort and joy just in time to celebrate Christmas Day. It’s obvious that they’ll undergo the appropriate transition – if I just stay tuned to the last reel. And I generally do.

I found myself reacting to tonight’s offering with quite a bit more emotion than usual. My eyes were watering, my chest was tightening and a familiar sense of sorrow settled upon me.

I had a similar set of sensations a few years ago watching an unheralded romance titled Return to Me.

As usual, it took a while for me to sort things out and realize why these two movies hit me so hard. Both stories deal with the death of a young wife because of heart disease.

My own 37-year-old bride succumbed suddenly to undiagnosed heart disease in 1999.

Recognizing that my subconscious can be a lot quicker on the uptake and can initiate my emotional response to various stimuli is rather unsettling.

This is where I should tie up all of the loose ends in this entry; but I’m afraid I don’t have it figured out. Moviemakers always manage to find an ending; I’m still working on mine.

The Best Legacy Money Can Buy

I'll buy you a diamond ring my friend if it makes you feel alright
I'll get you anything my friend if it makes you feel alright
'Cause I don't care too much for money, money can't buy me love

I'll give you all I got to give if you say you love me too
I may not have a lot to give but what I got I'll give to you
I don't care too much for money, money can't buy me love

Say you don't need no diamond ring and I'll be satisfied
Tell me that you want the kind of thing that money just can't buy
I don't care too much for money, money can't buy me love

        -- The Beatles, 1964


How can one find fault with Andrew Carnegie’s decision to build libraries in just about any town or city that asked for one? During a half-century, he built more than 2,500 of them; by 1920, nearly half of all American libraries had been funded by the steel magnate (founder of U.S. Steel).

Of course Carnegie’s $2-per-capita expenditure in towns where he built libraries makes him a piker compared to Bill and Melinda Gates. The Washington state couple has teamed up with America’s other most wealthy individual, Warren Buffet, and created the largest charitable foundation in the world.

The worldwide scope of BMG doesn’t keep it from having scale. The current endowment is over $35 billion – or about $6 per capita, including everyone … everywhere.

When I was growing up, choosing a life of service to others was held up as a noble decision – serving as a low-paid, hard working, doer of good deeds was considered to be a high calling.

Today’s young people are being provided a very different model: first, get yours; then, once you have it all, share some of the excess with others.

While Buffet still lives in an Omaha house he bought for $31,500 and tends toward frugality, Bill and Melinda live in one of the most expensive homes in the world (about $125 million), surrounded by luxury and art items worth millions more.

Well, can an argument be made in opposition to having priorities set by Carnegie, Buffet and the Gateses? And how can devoting a lifetime (say, 100,000 hours) to one or more good causes be held in as high regard as endowing enough money to employ thousands of talented folks to do good works far into the future?

At the risk of being viewed as a socialist or just a plain wack-o, I will offer a fairly straightforward argument against philanthropy on the scale of Gates/Buffet, Carnegie or even those who give away mere millions of dollars:

That brand of charity is just plain undemocratic.

It’s a bit like the Sherwood Forest without Robin Hood. The rich “voluntarily” give to the poor – but with strings attached.

Bill Gates has been named (by Time magazine) one of the 100 most influential people of the 20th Century. Since establishing the BMG foundation, he’s been re-certified as one of the top 100 for each of the past four years, this despite business practices that have, on occasion been declared illegal by the courts.

The Beatles notwithstanding, money – it seems – actually can buy love.

Donors clearly influence the direction of major charities like the Red Cross, United Way and World Vision. And executives are often compensated so well that any argument that they are “giving their lives” to serve others seems rather ludicrous.

How many of us would send part of our hard-earned cash to a charity like Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation International, which turns more than three-quarters of a million dollars ($766,855) over to the current and past presidents each year when the Whittier Institute for Diabetes pays its director $170,090.

I believe arguments that charities “have” to compensate executives at “competitive” levels is an insult to hundreds of thousands of volunteers and others who work for low pay because they believe in a cause.

And elevating “charity workers” into the upper class seems … well … undemocratic, to me.

Is there a solution to a system that sometimes makes millionaires out of those who are ostensibly doing charity work?

Hmmmmm.

I think I know how to make decisions about who gets helped and how more democratic. But we’re so far from “there” that I won’t share my views for fear of being relegated to the lunatic fringe.

Suffice it to say that a lot of money that started as wages became profits that were put to use by owners/investors/entrepreneurs to fund projects they believe in – often utilizing expensive services provided by others made rich by the same arrangement.

Other money is welcomed – from generous wage earners, small businesspeople, retirees and others who find a way to share some of their modest means – but those donations don’t usually buy influence, let alone control.

Follow the money.

By the way, Carnegie refused to put his name on the libraries he gave away – a rather refreshing side note in a world now filled with programs and facilities bearing the names of those who provided money to causes of their own choosing. So much for giving being its own reward.

Bookworm

The Andy Hardy movies didn’t tell it “like it is.” They told it the way we’d like it to be, describing an ideal that needs constant reinvention.
        -- Mickey Rooney

I am who I am, in large part, because real people like Howard Pease, Ted Geisel, Robert Lawson, E.B. White, D.J. Watkins-Pitchford, Ann Weil, Madeleine L'Engle, Robert McCloskey, Ellen MacGregor and Beverly Cleary introduced me to fictional First Mate Tod Moran; Horton the Elephant; Amos the Mouse; Charlotte the Spider; British gnomes Dodder, Baldmoney, Cloudberry and Sneezewort; Michele Pagano from the Isle of Capri; Meg Murray; Homer Price; Miss Pickerell; sisters Beezus and Ramona; and a many more imaginary beings that influenced me between age 6 and 12.

I’ve wondered why my mind seems to be constantly filled with thoughts – why I’m never able to turn it off and think of … nothing. Perhaps it’s partly due to the way I started – with books, books and more books.

I was constantly in trouble, both at home and school, for reading at the wrong times. My main transgression at home was reading after bedtime. I had permission to read for a half hour, but chapters never seemed to end on that half hour – and the end of one chapter inexorably drew me on to the next.

At school, I either hid my current title inside a textbook, or tucked it in the cubby under my desktop. I kept up pretty well with schoolwork, but I discovered multi-tasking long before Bill Gates introduced Windows.

Though I have tended to shortchange classic literature, I did graduate into adult fiction and became an avid movie-watcher. Films produced during the golden age of movies included hundreds of “B” pictures and many of these found their way onto television just when I had free hours to take them in.

As I created the list of examples offered above, I was struck by how few details I can recall from all of that reading. I have only a basic sense of the general story line and of characters, but not many specific recollections.

It’s sort of a “love ‘em and leave ‘em” approach to literature, I guess. I wish I could quote chapter and verse from my favorites – or even give credit where it’s due more often when I’m stealing ideas from others.

I’m so happy to be living in the Internet age. I’m able to pull a few words out of my jumbled brain and punch them into Google™ Or YouTube™ and, presto!, I can find the source, sometimes full text or video clips.

The “real” world hasn’t escaped my attention. In fact, I may spend more time on current events than I should. Hopefully, those countless hours of reading and exploring have provided a counterbalance against reality.

Black and White

Superstition, bigotry and prejudice, ghosts though they are, cling tenaciously to life; they are shades armed with tooth and claw. They must be grappled with unceasingly, for it is a fateful part of human destiny that it is condemned to wage perpetual war against ghosts. A shade is not easily taken by the throat and destroyed..

        -- Victor Hugo

One of the people in the drawing was black. Students were asked, one after the other, to describe the scene; but not one mentioned the race of that person. Finally, Mr. Harris suggested that we were uncomfortable addressing race.

He was right. And it’s still true today.

I suspect that the same exercise, if conducted in 21st-century classrooms throughout the country, would elicit the same results today. I think student would describe, in detail, the scene, clothing, poses of the characters and their behavior. But I don’t think they’d identify any of those depicted by race.

After a few months in the south, I’m pretty convinced that race remains one of the more troubling of the unsettled issues in our democracy. Of course I knew this before I left Merced – I’ve known it since Mr. Harris pointed out how we ignore things that make us uncomfortable.

For some reason, the most troubling specific thing that I’m observing is the use of “sir” by black people. I’ve heard the word more times in the past several weeks than in years of living in California. But, speaking anecdotally, it always comes from black people.

I’m not only referring to those who are paid to serve – as in the buildings I’m occupying or gas stations and restaurants. Black people I’ve greeted in parking lots and other public areas seem typically to reply with greetings appended by the word, “sir.”

I suppose part of this may be a social difference here in the South. But on the other side of this coin are racist comments – albeit mild – made in passing by people I’ve met.

Again, I’m spending nearly all of my time interacting with people over 70 and there may be less of this in the younger generations. But it is clear that old attitudes die slowly.

A fellow I dined with recently was the most overtly bigoted person I’ve encountered. Three times he put forth a racist theory and each time I made a clear statement that rejected his notion. A retired professor from Louisiana State University was at the table. He chose to remain silent on all three occasions.

That’s about as close as I’ve come to sharing Steinbeck’s frustration, sorrow, disappointment and sense of futility that peaked when he visited Louisiana more than 45 years ago.

Though I didn’t confront this man overtly, I was diplomatic, deferential and direct. I didn’t ignore his remarks. I hope Mr. Harris would approve.

I'm just saying

You talk too much
You worry me to death
You talk too much
You even worry my pet

You talk about people
That you don't know
You talk about people
Wherever you go

You talk about people
That you've never seen
You talk about people
You can make me scream

You just talk
you talk too much

        -- Joe Jones and Reginald Hall


“Why don’t you just be quiet?”

The question was posed by Ellie, one of my regular tablemates back home in Merced. Four of us shared a table at noon and night just about every day of the week. I joined the other three because my best friend, Frank, occupied a third seat at the small, round table.

The fourth spot was occupied by Mary, whom I called “Queen Mary” or the “Ice Queen” because of her habit of asking for an extra glass full of ice during each meal. I got a kick out of watching her transfer the ice from glass to glass with a teaspoon. The idea was to keep both of her other glasses, each containing iced tea, fully iced.

We have a lot of fun at our table – at least in my opinion. I enjoy inviting Mary out on the town – and being rejected by that rather puritanical lady who I think still enjoys being invited – and kidding around with my 99-year-old pal. Frank and I became real friends during the months we shared at The Hampshire, spending many hours together.

Ellie, I believe, rather enjoyed her role as “disapprover.” She tolerated my shenanigans most of the time, but on at least one occasion they exceeded her limits and she uttered the exclamation offered above.

My reaction was a combination of joy and embarrassment. Ellie didn’t really seem to be particularly angry; and she was definitely not being damaged by my motor mouth. But her complaint was justified. I often talk too much.

I was reminded of my loquaciousness at breakfast this morning. At the end of what seemed to be a pretty good exchange of ideas, my tablemate – a retired professor – issued a convincing lecture on the topic of talking too much.

A bit fixated on what he considers the too-frequent use of the pronoun “I,” the prof made a compelling argument. He rather heavy-handedly concluded that my manner probably results in fewer friendships, that I discourage intimacy by dominating conversations.

He’s right.

Though I’ve heard many amazing stories – some of which I’ve documented here – and have learned a lot about people places and things along my route, I often wonder how much more I would gain if I did less of the talking.

I recognize that I have an aversion to “dead air.” That’s the term broadcasters use for extended periods of silence – a real problem for radio, because absent some kind of sound, radio is – well, radio doesn’t really even exist without sound.

As a journalism instructor, I’ve cautioned students about talking too much during interview sessions. And I’ve promoted the use of silence to allow the interviewee a chance to collect thoughts or expand on their comments.

Becoming a better listener and encouraging others to share more is a goal I’ve pursued for nearly 20 years. But it seems to involve a pretty significant personality change – something I’ve found to be nearly impossible both in my life and in my observation of other people.

I wish more people would remind me, as the good professor did this morning, that plenty of room exists for improvement in my behavior. It’s a goal that I may never achieve – there are competing values at play – but it’s definitely worthwhile to continue the effort.

Interviewing skills have rescued me from a number of socially uncomfortable situations. I’ve discovered that when conversation dies down, it’s usually possible to simply shift into interview mode and begin asking standard “who, what, where, when, why and how” questions. Most people respond readily to questions about themselves. The result: no dead air.

At the beginning of this trip I often attempted to break the ice with strangers by telling jokes. I still tell jokes – it’s fun – but I use them far less now. And I think the conversations have become richer as a result.

I still do a lot of the talking, though. And I definitely use the word “I” a lot.

I really do.


People who know little are usually great talkers, while men who know much say little.


        -- Jean Jacques Rousseau

Spirits of Christmas

For years, I’ve resented commercialization of the Holidays and the use of emotion to coerce people into buying more every year. During the Holy Season, I’ve been a holier-than-thou when it comes to giving in to the many ad pitches that are such a big part of this time of year.

I’ve felt above it all, unaffected by the hype. I must admit that I’ve felt superior to those who fall prey to commercial interests that distort the idea of Christmas in order to separate people from their money.

Recently, it occurred to me that I haven’t minded being manipulated by the dozens of Christmas-themed songs, movies and other programs that flood entertainment markets. These presentations are often used as the subtext for commercial messages; they’re intended to capture and hold our attention during the interludes of advertising.

Unfortunately for the marketers, the commercial messages fall on my deaf ears. Even when the ads are clever and memorable, I tend to forget the connection with a product. I don’t really have sales resistance as much as just a very low level of interest in most of the products that appeal to others.

There’s little variation in either the programming or advertising from year to year. A few new tunes and shows appear, but they usually remain true to form and take their place among the expanding panoply of seasonal offerings – or don’t, in the case of the relative few that totally bomb.

But by the time Thanksgiving rolls around, I’m ready for repeat performances of most offerings.

Even variations on themes fail to bore me. There must be 20 or 30 different iterations of Dickens’ “Christmas Carol,” and few new versions can match the classic impact of the 1951 black-and-white version with Alistair Sim in the title role, but I’m willing – even rather eager – to give an new adaptation a try.

I’ve particularly enjoyed “Scrooged,” with Bill Murray and the made-for-TV and modernized version “An American Christmas Carol” staring the somewhat unlikely Henry “The Fonz” Winkler.





Other versions, older and more recent are hard to resist each December, when the Christmas spirit comes upon me.

It occurs to me that I have been rather smug over the years when judging others who get caught up in gift giving and other costly traditions. The Christmas spirit drives many to the stores where materialism rules.

All these years, while belittling the lack of sale resistance exhibited by my materialistic friends and relatives, I’ve been consuming mass quantities of seasonal information. I’ve been as susceptical to seasonal offerings as have others; mine simply lack a physical residue.

Since my interests tend toward the non-material, which happen often to be free, I have felt comfortable on a sort of economic/moral high ground, belittling those who give up their hard-earned cash in the pursuit of an intangible thing called “spirit.”

I think most people would agree, particularly as they grow older, that time is a more precious resource than money. And I have certainly allocated vast amounts of time in my own pursuit of seasonal comfort and joy.

And I believe it has been time worth spending.

Those who believe their own paths to comfort and joy include things as well as thoughts are certainly within their rights when they spend money as well as time.

I’m still a bit skeptical about the quantities involved; but this year I’m feeling much less judgmental of those who “go all out” for Christmas.

Maybe, after more analysis, I have discovered that it really is the spirit that counts.

And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
        -- O.Henry, The Gift of the Magi